Blind Sight by Meg Howrey

while you’re in the shower and posting it on the Internet.”
    Exclusive or not, I think that people must still be nervous about this at my father’s gym because so far I’ve always had the entire changing room, shower, and steam room to myself.
    I was intimidated, the first time we went together. I’m an athlete, but I’m not a “jock.” At school, jocks are the guys who play lacrosse. I considered going out for lacrosse freshman year, but my sisters were against it.
    “Only two kinds of guys play lacrosse,” Pearl said. “Total douche bags and guys named Chad.”
    “So that leaves me out,” I said.
    “Well, you’re definitely not a total douche,” said Aurora. “But you should know that all Chads are not necessarily named Chad.”
    “Yeah,” said Pearl. “A Chad is basically a decent-seeming guy, not cruel or an asshole. Technically, he never really does anything bad. He’s usually pretty hot, too. But he actually has no soul. He is just imitating human behavior. He has no imagination. No real morality. I think you know what I’m talking about.”
    “Someone like Lee Wedman?” I asked.
    “Lee Wedman is a total Chad,” said Pearl.
    So I joined the cross-country team. I’m also in the Archery Club.
    We began our workout today by running side by side on the treadmills.
    “So I read your essay,” Mark said. “What a trip. I love all your descriptions. I love how your aunt has a fake English accent.”
    We talked about that for a little bit, and then just ran some more.
    “So you think your mom was expecting you to be a girl?” he asked.
    “Yeah.” I explained to him about Abigail Perkins and the legions of sisters, and Paul becoming Deepak.
    “What a trip,” he said again. “That’s a lot of women. What about your grandfather? Nana’s husband?”
    “Dead for a long time,” I said. “Blood clot.”
    Across the row of machines, I could see our reflections in the mirrors that line the gym walls. We don’t look that much alike, although he says he used to be skinny like me. We are both left-handed, though, which no one else in my family is. We both have curly hair, although his is darker. We have the long-second-toe thing. Right now at least, I’m my father’s son only at the extremities.
    “So you think your mom, uh, got together with me because she really wanted a third daughter?” Mark asked. “Like it was a plan?”
    “She’s never said that,” I told him. “I think it was more of a subconscious thing. But it makes sense if you put it all together.”
    “It wasn’t a sleazy thing, you know,” Mark said. “I really wasn’t that kind of guy. And she was definitely not that kind of … it wasn’t like some sort of seduction thing. I wanted to be with her. She wasn’t bullshitting you when she said it was special.”
    “No, I know,” I said. “She explained it all. Things just happen, you know?”
    “There’s usually more than one reason,” he agreed. “How come she never got married again? She was really beautiful.”
    “I don’t know. There’s not really a whole lot of people in Delaware on her level. But she always says that she’s happy in her friendships.”
    “Yeah, I get that. Hey, you’re a really good writer.”
    “Thanks.” I know I’m not a really good writer, but it was nice of him to say that. I wonder if anyone in the past seventeen years has said something to Mark like “You’d make a really good dad,” or “Do you want to have kids someday?” I wonder what he thought of when that happened, if it happened.
    “Hey Dad,” I said.
    “Yes, son.”
    Saying “dad” and “son” in funny voices is becoming a thing for us.
    “You came and saw me after I was born, right?”
    “Yeah,” he said. “I did.”
    “So … what was that like? I mean, do you remember it?”
    “Yeah, I remember it. Of course. To be honest, I was pretty freaked out.
    “It was sort of a weird time in my life,” he explained. “I didn’t know how to handle