Read Online Rules for 50/50 Chances by Kate McGovern - Free Book Online

things—P.G. Tips tea and HobNobs and huge, crispy Lion Bars. She’d say “poor yoooou” whenever I’d complain about one dance injury or another, but she didn’t mean it sarcastically, the way an American would. She meant it for real: poor you.
    I told Dad we could deal on our own, take care of Mom; it’s a slow-moving beast, Huntington’s. But Dad didn’t want me to be the nurse. I was twelve when she was diagnosed; he saw adolescence looming, full of text messages and first boyfriends and AP classes. (In reality, of course, I’ve got the AP classes and the text messages—from Lena, anyway. Not so much the boyfriends. Of course, Dad couldn’t have known that I’d be too neurotic to ever go on a date.) Anyway, about a year after the guillotine fell on Mom’s head—I imagined her diagnosis like that—Dad called Gram, and she came, because that’s what mothers are supposed to do.
    I put another kettle on and wait for it to boil, standing guard by it so Mom won’t bother trying to fix it herself. Maybe it’s time to take the knobs off the stove after all.
    Mom sits at the kitchen table with a wet dishrag draped over her wrist. “How’s dance?” she asks after a moment—again, focused, her words almost clear.
    â€œFine. Usual.”
    â€œUsual?”
    I sigh. “Everyone’s a little weird right now because of next year, I guess. There are a couple companies some of the girls in my year are auditioning for, with like one spot for every bijillion dancers or whatever. So maybe that’s why they’re all acting a little cagey.”
    I say this to the tea kettle, more or less, and when I look up at Mom, I realize that I’d almost forgotten who I was really talking to. Every now and then I talk to Mom like she’s still the same person she used to be. It’s nice when it happens; I should do it more, that’s what Dr. Howard says—he’s always reminding me that she is the same person. I should keep acting as normal as I can with her, when I can. But it’s easier said than done.
    Mom’s working hard at listening to me and processing my words, ignoring the dishrag that has now slipped from her wrist to the kitchen floor. This is what she does now, focuses extra hard on the tasks she really wants to do right. I pick up the dishrag and rinse it with cold water, wringing out the excess before I place it back over her hand.
    â€œHow are your c-c-college a-a-applications?” she asks slowly, chewing each word carefully before spitting it out.
    We visited colleges last spring. One of them—Cunningham, in upstate New York—was sort of appealing. Their dance program is well known, at least for a liberal arts school without a conservatory program. Other than that, all the colleges blurred together. The truth is, there’s only one school I’ve ever really imagined myself at, even though I’ve never visited. But it seems pretty unrealistic at this point—if I could even get in.
    â€œNonexistent, so far,” I confess.
    â€œRose—don’t p-p-put this off.”
    â€œWell, I’m guessing Dad won’t like the idea of me doing a dance program. And I don’t know what else I want to do.”
    Mom contorts her face into a smile. She used to be a great dancer, too. She never danced professionally, but she probably could have if she’d wanted to. She took ballet for a long time growing up, and when I was ten, she started going back to class occasionally, just for fun. Of course, that didn’t last long.
    â€œYour dad has two left f-f-feet. He doesn’t get it.”
    I do a little impression of Dad’s dance moves, an offbeat collection of disconnected twists and kicks, and Mom snorts out a laugh. She’s right—I don’t think Dad understands having a real passion for something creative. He’s just more practical. He thinks I should