Suicide Med (12 page)

I studied up on anatomy all summer. I wanted to be really solid when school finally started. I even had my father bring me home some suture material so that I could practice tying knots, because I heard sometimes they let you practice in the anatomy lab and I wanted to be the best from the onset. I couldn’t wait to get my hands on a scalpel and start cutting.

My lab partners were no big surprise.
On the first day of orientation, Abe nudged me after lunch and said, “You want to be partners for anatomy?”

“Sure,” I said.

“Also,” he said.
“I was thinking maybe we could request to Dr. Conlon that Heather McKinley could join our group…”

I had no clue who he was talking about.
He nodded his head in the direction of a pretty blond girl in the corner of lecture hall. Well, she would have been pretty if she had less junk in the trunk. I could tell Abe didn’t mind though—I took one look at his face and I got it.

“Sounds good,” I said.

Poor guy—I had already heard Heather yakking about her boyfriend.

In lab, Heather is a complete disaster. I mean, really bad. She’s trying hard, but she just doesn’t get it. And I have much better things to do than waste my time explaining every goddamn little thing to her five times. Good thing Abe has endless patience with her. With his help, maybe she has a snowball’s chance in hell of passing.

I prefer Rachel, Heather’s roommate.
Rachel doesn’t have a clue either, but she doesn’t care. Plus she has fantastic tits and she never, ever wears a bra. I think about her a
lot
when I’m alone in my room, if you get me. The best part is that she despises me. It’s really fun to try to get a rise out of her. The easiest trick is calling the cadaver “Frank.” Rachel absolutely hates that.

“Can’t you respect that he
is a real human being?” Rachel snaps at me. “He’s not some inanimate object that you can just give a name to.”

“He seems pretty inanimate to me,” I
say with a shrug and poke him in the arm.

Her brown eyes flash.
“It really blows me away that you’re going to be responsible for other people’s lives.”

Rachel does
n’t know what the hell she’s talking about. You can’t make it in medicine if you don’t learn to distance yourself from the patient.

My
fifth lab partner is Ginny. She’s at least a head shorter than me and was practically mute at first, but it soon becomes obvious that Ginny knows her stuff when it comes to anatomy. The first words we exchanged were when Ginny was looking at the tattoo on Frank’s arm. She had stretched out the skin taut, in an attempt to read the words. The dye had faded somehow in the embalming process and the words were barely legible.

“To protect and serve,” Ginny read.

“What the hell does that mean?” I asked.

“It’s the police force
motto,” she said.

I was sort of blown away.
What was a cop doing in an anatomy lab? It just seems… wrong. But whatever.

_____

My life is studying.
Okay, not entirely. I eat sometimes (while studying). I take a piss (sometimes while studying). I sleep a little. But mostly, I study.

I
go upstairs to the library every night and read through my textbooks until my eyelids are like lead. Then I head home, where I study some more. It’s hard. But my grades make it worth it.

Ginny
is often in the library as late as I am. At first, she sat at the far left corner of the library while I was on the far right. But then I moved to the right corner because it was closer to the anatomy textbooks in the library. I’m guessing that’s why she chose that corner too.

The medical student lounge has
free coffee and usually Ginny would go downstairs to get a cup every night at around eleven o’clock. Eventually, she started bringing me a cup too. Black, no sugar. I always take the coffee. I’d die without coffee.

“Don’t you ever go home?”
I ask her one Friday night in the library.

“Don’t you?” she retorts
.

I wink at her.
“I think it’s pretty obvious that I don’t.”

Ginny smiles
, “I just want to be a good doctor.”

She’
s holding the anatomy textbook in her hands. Her hands are so freaking tiny, it’s almost weird. The book is so heavy that I can see her fingers shaking. If Abe were here, he’d probably offer to carry the book for her, but that’s not my style. Still, the truth is, I’m pretty into Ginny. She’s not hot in an obvious way. But I like that about her. She’s been replacing Rachel in my fantasies lately.

“Why do you want to be a doctor anyway?” I
ask.

Ginny raises
an eyebrow. “Is your next question about how I’d change the health care system in America?”

I
laugh. “No, I’m serious. I don’t want your bullshit med school interview answer. I mean, everyone’s got a reason for being here, right?”

“What’s your reason?” Ginny asks.

“Money, power, and respect,” I reply without hesitation. “Not necessarily in that order. Although at the interview, I think I said something along the lines of ‘wanting to help people’ or some crap like that.” I smirk. “Okay, now your turn.”

“My father had Parkinson’s disease,” Ginny says.
“He got it young and died a year before I started medical school.”

I
frown, “I’m sorry.”

“
His care was completely mismanaged,” Ginny goes on. “It took him a long time to even get diagnosed and then it seemed like we were being shuffled from one rude doctor to another. I want to become the one doctor who could have helped him.”

I
take a long sip of my coffee. “God, Ginny… that’s a terrible story.”

I
can see she’s tearing up. Shit, I hate it when girls cry. I never know what the hell to do.

So I kiss her.

Five minutes later, we’re ripping each other’s clothes off in the deserted medical student locker room. It’s been a freaking long time for me. I can’t get enough of Ginny’s bare skin and her tiny, sexy body shoved against me. She smells like flowers and coffee. For some reason, the smell of coffee is really turning me on—go figure. She’s so goddamn sexy. And from the way her fingers fumble with the button on my jeans, I can tell how bad she wants me too.

“Condom?”
Ginny whispers between kisses.

“Yeah, hang on…” I
mutter. I grab my abandoned jeans and retrieve my wallet from the back pocket. Ever since high school, I always carry an emergency condom. I’m careful to replace the condom after I use it—on the one occasion when I didn’t, I ended up accompanying a girl to the abortion clinic. That’s not a situation I ever want to experience again
ever
.

The
sex is quick, but (in my humble opinion) pretty damn good. With everything I put into my studying lately, I don’t have the stamina for a marathon. And especially not on the cold, hard floor of the locker room. When it’s over, I toss the condom in the garbage. If anyone sees it there, they’re going to be pretty amused.

Then we ge
t dressed in silence. I watch Ginny doing up the buttons on her blouse with her tiny little fingers and I start grinning like an idiot. I can’t help myself—that was so awesome.

But I know
that this is just sex to her. Nothing more. Just a release for two people who have done nothing but study for a full month. Or so she believes.

_____

So help me, I think smart girls are sexy.
I don’t know why. I just do.

This is a bad thing for me.
Smart girls hate me—they think I’m a huge asshole. Or more accurately, they
recognize
that I’m a huge asshole. In high school, I just dated pretty blond cheerleaders, which made my mother (a former cheerleader) very pleased. It was fun going out with popular girls like that, but they never did it for me.

Then
I met Janet Stewart in my pre-med physics class. Janet wasn’t pre-med—no way. She was the teaching assistant for that class, well on her way to a combination BS and MA in physics. Janet would stand at the front of the classroom, sprouting facts about electromagnetism as her wire-rimmed glasses slipped down the bridge of her nose, then she’d turn around to write something on the blackboard and I’d stare at her ass. All through class, I’d fantasize about kissing her. Okay, more than kissing her. It got kind of graphic sometimes. Once it involved a banana cream pie and a horse.

After the class ended and I got my A
, I camped out outside Janet’s dorm. I must have sat there watching the entrance for over an hour. When she finally came out, I fell into step beside her.

“Hey, there,” I said.

Janet didn’t even stop walking. She tucked her short brown hair behind her ear, and mumbled a hello.

“I’m Mason,” I said.

She narrowed her eyes at me. “I know. You were in my E&M section.”

“Right,” I confirmed.

Janet shook her head. “I can’t change your grade, you know. If that’s what you want.”

I already had my A.

“Actually,” I said.
“I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner with me sometime.”

Janet finally stopped walking.
She stared at me for a few seconds, then smirked. “Oh
no
.”

It wasn’t even a “no.”
It was an “oh no.”

“Why not?”
I pressed her.

“I’m not interested, Mason,” she said.
She added, “Sorry.”

Of course,
I was certain I could persuade her to change her mind. I bought her flowers, sent her chocolate, cute e-cards, etc. All those stupid things that girls like. I did everything short of standing outside her window with a boom box playing Peter Gabriel. But Janet seriously did not want to go out with me.

Finally, I gave up
, dejected, and asked out this pretty, airhead music major named Holly instead. I dated Holly for two years. She’d probably lose it if she knew how many times when I was having sex with her I was imagining Janet.

I’ve made it my goal for the year to always ask a question during lecture. I don’t think that’s so ridiculous. Asking questions shows that we’re interested in the lecture, that we’re
paying attention
.

And yes, I usually ask questions that I know the answer to.
After all, how do I know if it’s an intelligent question or not if I don’t know the answer?

I’ve noticed in the past that professors really get off on being asked about their research.
If you want to suck up to a professor, that’s a great start. The bad news is that doesn’t seem to work very well on Dr. Conlon, who is the professor I want to impress the most. Apparently, he’s not completely full of himself.

For example, I tried to ask him about a research study he’d published about a year ago, and he just smiled and said, “
I doubt the class is interested in hearing about an esoteric research study about liver volume. And I don’t think it’s really all that relevant.” Then he went right back to teaching us about the female pelvis.

Fine.
Dr. Conlon won’t take the bait. But everyone else will, especially our biochemistry professor, Dr. Wood.

Dr. Wood is ancient—he looks like
if you blow on him too hard, he might disintegrate into nothingness. Also, he doesn’t believe in PowerPoint. When he lectures, he usually stands at the podium and rambles on about metabolism or whatever. If he does use slides, it’s the kind that come in a carousel. I didn’t even know you could hook one of those things up anymore—he must’ve found one in a museum or something. But since his lectures aren’t available online, unlike Dr. Conlon’s and several of the other professors’, a large portion of the class feels obligated to attend.

Also, Dr. Wood
loves
being asked about his research.

With five minutes left in the lecture time, I raise my hand in the air.
Dr. Wood takes a minute to notice me, even though I’m in the first row, because he’s half-blind as well. “Yes, Mason?”

Obviously, he knows me by name by now.

“I was wondering if you could tell us more about the mechanistic implications of persulfate binding on the active site of cysteine dioxygenase?” I say.

Dr. Wood beams.
“You know, I published an article on that very topic!”

You don’t say.

He also doesn’t happen to notice that it really has very little to do with his current lecture topic, the inborn errors of metabolism.

Since the next thing on our schedule is lunch, Dr. Wood is able to spend a full twenty minutes droning on about his research. I can hear my classmates groaning about being hungry, but I don’t really care. Dr. Wood loves me.

_____

I’m sitting on my bed studying (what else?) when Abe stomps into our shared bedroom.
The first thing he does is accidentally knock over the stack of books next to the bed, and the texts go flying all over the floor. Typical.

“Hulk smash,” I say.

Abe doesn’t crack a smile like he usually does when I make that joke. He sighs loudly and flops down on his bed. Then he stares up at the ceiling like a hormonal teenager. “It’s hopeless,” he mutters.

“Heather?” I ask.

He nods. “I can’t take it anymore. Seriously.”

I don’t get it.
“What’s so great about her anyway?”

Abe rolls onto his side and
frowns at me. “What’s so great about Ginny?”

Shit, I didn’t know he knew about me and Ginny.
He’s more observant than I gave him credit for.

“That’s nothing,” I say, which is the truth.
Ginny would never let it be any more than that.

He sighs and rolls back the other way.
“I just think she’s really great, that’s all. And her boyfriend is a total asshole who doesn’t appreciate her.”

I hate to see my roommate suffering this way.

“Okay,” I say.
“You know what you do?”

Abe sits up, all eager for my advice.
I get the sense he doesn’t have a whole lot of experience with girls.

“You kiss her,” I say.

His eyes widen. “I can’t do that, Mason!”

“Why not?”

“It’s a violation of her space,” he says.

Oh
, Christ.

“Abe,” I say.
“You have to be aggressive. Nice guys finish last. Don’t be a nice guy.”

“Maybe,” he says thoughtfully, “I can be a slightly less nice guy who finishes a little better than last.”

“Just kiss her, dude!”

Abe shakes his head.
“She’d probably just slap me.”

That’s actually a distinct possibility.

“It’s worth the risk,” I say.

Abe looks dubious.

“Ab
e,” I say. “You have been her friend
way
too long. If you don’t make a move fast, soon you’re going to be painting each other’s toenails and putting her hair in curlers.”

He looks like he’s considering what I’m saying, but I doubt he’ll do it.
For a big guy, Abe is really just a huge wuss.

_____

A week
before our first anatomy exam, my classmate Julie Scott approaches me in the hospital after the class we just took together.

I’ve been avoiding Julie like the plague lately.
I get the sense she’s interested in me, and that’s just not what I want on any level. Yeah, Julie is hot as holy hell, but so what? She just doesn’t do it for me.

Is Julie a smart girl?
I guess she’s not a complete idiot if she made it to med school. Southside may not be Yale, but the school definitely has pretty stringent standards. But she doesn’t have that quality that Janet had—and that Ginny has. Plus I’m willing to bet she’s super high maintenance.

“Mason,” Julie says in a sing-song voice.
She puts her hand on my arm for good measure. “Where have you been hiding yourself?”

I smile tightly.
“What’s up, Julie?”

“We’re having a party the night of the
anatomy exam at my house,” Julie says. She’s renting a house with a couple of other girls in the class, none of whom are girls I’d like to spend an evening with. “You
must
come.”

I suppress a groan.
Alcohol + Party + Julie = Big Mistake. And even if I manage to avoid Julie, I can’t imagine the party being that much fun if her annoying, stuck-up friends are there. Then I get an idea for something that might make the party tolerable.

“Listen,” I say.
“Can I bring Ginny?”

“Who?”
Julie asks.

“Ginny
Zaleski. My lab partner.”

Ju
lie makes a face. “I’d rather not, Mason. I don’t want more girls there. The ratios are already way off.”

Is she joking?
Is this freaking junior high school, where she’s counting girls and boys in the room?

“Then forget it,” I say.

Julie pouts at me. I bet that works on most guys, but not this guy. I just have no interest in her. If I can’t hang out with Ginny, then I don’t want to go to the party.

“There just isn’t
room
,” Julie insists.

Yeah, I’m sure she can’t squeeze tiny Ginny into her huge house.
She sighs loudly and crosses her arms.

“Listen, Mason, if you change your mind, you’re welcome to come.
But just you.”

I’m pretty sure I won’t be changing my mind.