Rush The Game

surgery, putting the rotting cherry on top of my rancid ice-cream sundae of a day.
    I feel like I’m going to jump out of my skin. But I still remember when I was little and Mrs. Gertner used to come out with cookies for Carly and me when we were playing out front. Every time I lost a tooth, she gave me a dollar. Every birthday until I was twelve, she gave me a little present wrapped in pretty paper with a big bow. So I don’t have the heart to make some excuse and duck away. Instead, I listen to every gory detail. The only thing that saves me is when her watch beeps, telling her it’s time for her medication.
    Grabbing my one shining chance, I mumble, “Hope you feel better soon,” and bolt. On my front porch, I pull back in the shadows and take my time looking up and down the street. The certainty that I’m being watched sinks its tiny hooks into me, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t see who’s doing the watching.
    What if it’s not Jackson? What if it’s a Drau? A shell?
    For a second, I have this horrific thought that Mrs. Gertner’s a shell. And the girl at the bookstore. Maylene. Any of the kids or even the teachers at school. Any of the neighbors on my street. The postman. The—
    They’re not. I’m being ridiculous. I need to keep a grip because if I don’t, I won’t survive this. And I mean to survive. It’s as simple as that.
    I ditch my shoes, drop my bag in my room, but I’m too edgy to sit. Instead, I run the vacuum through the house, taking my time, following my pattern, doing each room in small, rectangular sections.
    “Making chicken casserole tonight,” Dad says when he gets home. It’s his night to cook. Maybe he reads the hesitation on my face, because he offers a sarcastic smile. “Low-fat cheese, lots of broccoli, diced tomatoes, and mushrooms.”
    “Sounds great.” It’s still not the healthiest thing ever, but he’s trying.
    After I finish vacuuming, I throw together a salad to go along with the casserole. Dinner’s actually not half bad. We talk about a couple of movie trailers that interest us both, and I start to relax, the edge of my anxiety dulling. At least until Dad gets done talking about the trailers and starts on a new topic.
    “So, that boy . . . Luka, right?” Dad says. “You want to talk about him?”
    I fork in a mouthful of food to avoid saying anything. But Dad just keeps looking at me as I chew and swallow, and I finally say, “He’s just a guy I know from school.”
    “Do you, um . . .” Dad carefully sets his fork down on his plate. Then he reaches for his water glass and moves it a quarter inch to the right. He clears his throat. He moves his water glass a quarter inch to the left.
    I shovel in another forkful of casserole. If my mouth’s full, I won’t have to speak.
    “I was about your age when I . . . Well, there was this girl. She was a couple of years older, and she had these—”
    I hold up my hand, palm forward. “Don’t do it, Dad. Once you say it, you can never unsay it.” No matter how much I might wish he could.
    He purses his lips and nods. “Did you, um . . . Did Mom ever . . . I mean, do you have classes about, uh, health . . . in school? I think you’re too young to . . .”
    Oh no. No, no, no. My day has been bad, but this is worse.
    I lift my hands and dip my head down. “Yep. School. Classes. Health classes. Got it covered.”
    “Well, there are things you need to watch out for. Diseases and—”
    “Wow, I forgot to tell you I saw Mrs. Gertner today on the driveway. She told me all about her hemorrhoid surgery. Fascinating stuff.”
    Dad stares at me. His mouth twitches. “Preferable to what I’m trying to talk to you about?”
    “Pretty much.”
    He lifts his head and stares straight into my eyes. I want to crawl under the table and stay there. He takes a deep breath. “I think you should wait before you . . .” He gives a decisive nod. “I think you should wait until you’re fifty.”
    “Fifty.” I sigh. “Dad, we do not need to talk about this. I know the basics.”
    His expression darkens.
    “Not because I have any experience,” I hasten to reassure him. I don’t. Not really. When other girls were starting to date, I was mourning. Oh, I played spin the bottle in sixth grade. Didn’t everyone? I still remember my first French kiss. I spun. The bottle pointed to Roland Davis. I puckered up and put my lips to his and he unexpectedly put his fat tongue in my mouth. I squawked