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

learn something marketable, something I can turn into a reliable career path, like, I don’t know, real estate . My father is a realtor. I like watching House Hunters with Mom, but I can’t really see myself selling houses for a living.
    â€œJust m-m-make a ch-ch-choice, Rose,” Mom says, suddenly serious again. “For n-n-next year. It’ll b-b-b-be okay.”
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    Back upstairs, I return to my laptop and open a new web page. The address comes up automatically after I type just a few letters, evidence of how many times I’ve visited this site. The University of the Visual and Performing Arts, San Francisco. One of the few—and certainly the best—combined ballet BFA/apprenticeship programs in the country. Here in Boston, I can dance or I can go to college, but there’s no school like UVPA, where I can get that level of professional ballet training and a college degree at the same time.
    I’ve had my eye on UVPA since probably sixth grade. As usual, I go to their admissions page and review the information one more time—not that anything has changed. They need all the standard stuff—transcripts, SAT scores, recommendations, a personal statement—plus you have to send them an audition video, or schedule an in-person audition. I haven’t done either. It costs almost $50,000 a year to go there, never mind the flights back and forth. And it’s on the other side of the country—from everything.
    Caleb Franklin might be right: I might be overthinking the Huntington’s test. Maybe my status shouldn’t matter so much, and I should just continue living my life the way I was before I knew the test was a real possibility. It’s just that now, when I consider how I want to spend the next years of my life—going to college, dancing, becoming a legitimate grown-up human being and whatever else that entails—I can’t help but think: What if I knew?

Five
    Caleb Franklin’s Facebook message a week later says, “Can I lure you out for coffee? In a public place, of course.” I can’t seem to shake the jittery, flushed feeling I have whenever his name pops up on my screen. Every time I remember sitting next to him on the Common, eating caramel popcorn and talking like we’d known each for years, I feel the same rush of warmth mixed with anxiety. It’s almost sickening, but I can’t help it. I want more.
    So I agree to meet him “for coffee”—even though I don’t really drink coffee—at the bookstore in Porter Square late the next Saturday afternoon. I’m rushing, of course, after a full day of dance classes, and my hair is still damp from the two-minute shower I jumped in and out of. Through the swirled purple and yellow lettering on the window advertising ginger lemonade, I spot a huge book called Information and Ethics in the Age of Genetic Medicine propped up, masking its reader’s face. I have to laugh.
    â€œA little light reading?” I ask, as soon as I walk through the door.
    He looks up from the book and shrugs. “I like to keep up with the latest research. You know.”
    â€œMmm-hmmm. Okay.” I fold my arms across my chest.
    â€œOr maybe I just find that oversize scientific textbooks with long titles impress the ladies.”
    I laugh. “Oh, I see. So that’s what this is. Do you really think that has the effect you’re going for? I suspect most girls don’t find genetics textbooks particularly impressive.”
    He flips the giant textbook closed and pushes it aside. “Indeed, you make a valid point. But you’re not most girls, are you, HD?”
    Color and heat rush to my cheeks, and I don’t know how to respond, so I just stand there, awkwardly. It’s nice to see Caleb again in person, but I’m only now realizing that in spite of the fact that we’ve chatted about some pretty personal stuff, we barely know each other. I look