100 Days by Nicole McInnes

this flutter-kick sort of thing in my chest when I get even the slightest bit excited or upset. I know these things are to be expected. Kids like me deal with all the typical stuff old people do. We just do it sixty or seventy years early, when kids our actual, chronological age are cheerleading, skateboarding, and running track. I try not to let it get to me. Sometimes I even succeed.
    *   *   *
    Kitty’s the first person I see when we walk through the big double doors of the senior center. She’s a glamour queen in her dotage who used to be a foxy Chicago socialite. When Kitty moved here to be closer to her kids and grandkids, she refused to give up her makeup and diamonds and fancy clothes. Today, she’s decked out in a silk pantsuit, lounging on one of the sofas in the lobby.
    â€œDarling!” she cries, getting slowly to her feet when she spots me.
    I walk into her open arms for a Chanel No. 5–scented hug. “Hi, Kitty.”
    She winks at my dad. “And who is this handsome gentleman?”
    â€œI’m Tom,” he says, holding out his hand.
    â€œKitty doesn’t do handshakes,” she tells him. “Come here, you.”
    â€œOh,” he says, glancing at me for a terrified second as she grabs his forearm and pulls him into an embrace. “Okay.”
    I try my best to keep a straight face. My dad has never been too comfortable around old people. The older I’ve gotten, the more he’s treated me like an antique porcelain doll. We do less and less of the roughhousing I used to love when I was little and my parents were still together. Heck, even arm wrestling is out now. He’s afraid I might get a dislocated shoulder or a broken humerus.
    Kitty has released my dad. “Here for your checkup?” she asks, readjusting the elastic waistband of her suit.
    I nod.
    We check in at the front desk, and a pretty nurse who’s new at the center shows us to the usual exam room. She hands me a gown and tells me I can change in the bathroom down the hall. “It could be a bit of a wait,” she tells us. “The doctor’s a little behind schedule this afternoon.”
    â€œNo worries,” Dad says, smiling at her.
    When I get back from the bathroom (clutching the gown closed with both hands), he’s engrossed in one of the well-worn tabloid magazines from a rack next to his chair.
    Before too long, Dr. Caslow comes in and gives me a high five. I wonder if he does this with his chronologically old patients, too. “How is she doing with medications?” he asks my dad as they shake hands. “Any issues with the statins?”
    Dad looks at me and then back at Dr. Caslow. He knows I was put on statins in addition to the baby aspirin I was already taking to help keep my arteries from getting too hard and narrow, but the truth is he and I only see each other a few times a month, not enough for him to know much more than that. “I’m doing fine, mostly,” I say. “Sometimes my muscles get a little achy.”
    The doctor pulls a little flashlight from the pocket of his coat and looks inside my mouth. “Well, that’s to be expected, unfortunately,” he says. “While we don’t really know if that’s a medication issue or a progeria issue, we’ll have a better idea of whether or not the meds are helping when we do your next round of blood work and scans.” He pulls an otoscope from the front pocket of his lab coat and looks inside my ears. “Still doing your stretches at home?”
    â€œYeah,” I say, grimacing. Every night before I go to sleep, Mom comes into my room and says, “Time for the rack.” Then she proceeds to stretch my joints and limbs in different directions just a little farther than is comfortable. It’s supposed to limber me up and prevent injuries by keeping my muscles and tendons flexible, but I’m not sure it actually helps.
    The nurse comes