The Select (3 page)

WHERE ARE THEY
NOW?

"Jesus," Tim said over his shoulder.
"This place cranks out its share of dedicated docs, doesn't
it."

Matt read down the list. In any urban
area of any size across the country, Ingraham graduates manned
inner-city clinics. And never too far away was a Kleederman-owned
medical center or nursing home.

"That it does," Matt said, then
lowered his voice to a Ted-Baxterish baritone. "Wherever the health
of America is in need, the Ingraham graduate is ready to
serve."

"So where are the real medical
students?" Tim said as they turned and joined Quinn at a small
table in a corner of the cafeteria.

Cafeteria? Matt thought. To call this
a cafeteria was like calling the 21 Club an Automat.

Matt looked around at the white tables
of varying shapes and sizes, scattershot occupied by hopefuls, but
no medical students. The Ingraham's cafeteria was a large, open,
two-story affair. You could enter from the attached classroom
building, in which case you had to walk down a long, curved
stairway, or you could enter directly onto the floor from the
grounds outside. The three outer walls were all
glass—twenty-foot-high panes flanked with white curtains, offering
a panoramic view of the sky and the wooded hills rolling away to
the north. No expense had been spared in outfitting The Ingraham's
facilities, even the cafeteria. And the food...

They sipped Diet Pepsi or Mountain Dew
as they picked from a communal plate of french fries in the center
of the table. Not ordinary french fries. These were curly-cue
fries, perfectly crisp outside, soft and hot inside, salted with
some sort of crimson seasoning, tangy and peppery. A wedge of
camembert had been placed on the side. Matt had always figured caf
food was caf food everywhere. Not so at The Ingraham.

"They're home for Christmas break,"
Matt said. "Like we should be."

"Right," Tim said, his eyes unreadable
behind his shades. "But we want to go to The Ingraham so bad we
give up part of our vacation to come here and take their test. Are
we all that desperate?"

Matt glanced at Quinn and could almost
read her mind. The Ingraham was her only chance. His family could
send him to any med school that accepted him. His father could
probably take it out of petty cash. Tim's family could help him out
with the tuition and he'd get the rest. Tim was resourceful that
way. But Quinn's family, they were just getting by.

"I heard there was a group like this
on Monday and another coming in Friday," Matt said. "That's a lot
of applicants for fifty places."

Matt saw Quinn flinch and
wanted to kick himself. He wished he knew some back-door way to get
her in, but people said The Ingraham was influence proof. Only the
best and the brightest. Well, Quinn certainly qualified there. He'd
never known anyone who deserved more to be a doctor, who was
more
right
for
medicine. She was born for it. But she looked so scared. He could
all but see the anticipation of rejection in her eyes. He wanted to
tell her it would be okay, it would all work out. But he didn't
know that.

Tim drained his Pepsi and looked
around.

"They ought to serve draft beer here.
Might liven up the place."

Uh-oh, Matt thought. Tim's getting
bored.

And when he got bored he got strange.
He saw Quinn staring at Tim, probably wondering if he was for real.
The answer was yes—and no. Matt tried to change the
subject.

"How'd you do in A.C. last
night?"

"About a thousand."

"Blackjack?"

"That's my game."

Quinn's eyes were wide. "A
thousand
dollars
?
In one night? Just like that?"

Matt wondered how many weeks she'd
slaved at her two waitressing jobs during the summer to earn a
thousand.

"Yeah," Tim said, "but I can't do that
too often or else my name'll get around and they'll ban me." He
looked around again. "There's got to be some beer here."

"It's a medical school cafeteria,"
Quinn told him. Matt detected a hint of annoyance creeping into her
voice. "There's no beer here."

Tim smiled. "Wanna bet?"

"Are you serious?"

"Of course I'm serious. Ten bucks says
I can get us some beer."

"Real beer—not root beer?"

"Real beer. And I'll have it before
the interviews start."

"Okay," she said finally.
"Ten—"

Matt knew it was time to step in. He
couldn't let her throw away ten bucks. He laid a hand on her
arm.

"Uh-uh, Quinn."

"What? Why not?"

"Never bet against Tim."

"But—"

"Never." He patted her arm. "Trust me
on this one. I spent years learning that lesson—the hard
way."

Quinn sat back and crossed her arms
across her chest. Matt knew what she was thinking: She didn't have
ten bucks to throw away but this seemed like such a sure thing. And
besides, she wanted to take of the wind out of Mr. cocksure Timothy
Brown's sails.

"Oh, well," Tim said, rising. "Looks
like I'll have to get it anyway. It would appear my integrity is at
stake." He looked at Quinn. "I suppose you want a light of some
kind?"

"I don't want
any
kind," she said.
"I've got my interview in twenty minutes."

He grinned. "I'd better get you a
couple. You're awfully uptight. You'll do better if you're
relaxed."

As Tim wandered away toward the
kitchen, Quinn turned to him, eyes blazing.

"Do you actually
live
with
him?"

Matt tried but couldn't hide his
laughter.

"What's so funny?"

"You!" Matt said, gasping. "You should
have seen your face when he said you were uptight."

"I
am
uptight, Matt. This means the
world to me. You know that."

Matt sobered immediately. He reached
over and put a hand over hers, gave it a squeeze. He loved the feel
of her skin. There were times—and this was one of them—when he
wished they were more than just friends.

"Yeah, I do know. And I'm pulling for
you. If this place is half as discerning as it's supposed to be,
you're in, no sweat."

She seemed to take heart from that.
Good. He wanted her to believe that this time something would go
her way.

"Thanks," she said. "But what about
Tim? I thought you told me your roomie was a business major or
something. I can't believe he wants to be a doctor."

"I don't know if he really does. He's
an economics major but he squeezed in the required science courses
for med school last year to give him the option in case he wanted
it. I guess he decided he wanted it."

"Great!" she said, leaning back. "I
spend three and a half years breaking my back as a pre-med bio
major so I can nail the MCATs; he 'squeezes in' a few science
courses and gets invited to sit for The Ingraham's. How does that
happen?"

Matt grinned. This was familiar
territory for him.

"Tim's not like the rest of us
mortals. He has an eidetic memory. Never forgets a thing. That's
how he wins at blackjack—remembers every card that's been
played."

"All fine and good but that's not
enough to—"

"
Plus
he has a keen analytical mind.
You remember calculus—all the binary equations you had to memorize?
Tim never bothered. He'd go into the test
and figure them out
."

Quinn glanced toward the kitchen door
where Tim was in deep conversation with a heavy-set black man in a
white apron, then turned back to Matt.

"You could hate a guy like
that."

Matt sighed. "Sometimes I do. Not easy
to be friends with a guy who can ace every test without breaking a
sweat."

"You're no slouch in the grade-point
department yourself."

"I've done all right." Matt had
calculated that by this semester's end his overall GPA at Dartmouth
would be 3.75. "But I've had to crunch for those grades. Yet here's
Tim who spends his time gambling, drinking, and polishing his car,
whose idea of studying is pulling one all-nighter before an exam,
and he's going to graduate Phi Beta Kappa. If he weren't such a
nice guy—"

"Nice guy?" Quinn said, her voice
rising half an octave. "Matt, he's got to be one of the most
irresponsible, self-centered, inconsiderate,
egotistical—"

"He's just testing you," Matt said.
"It's a game he plays, but only with people he likes. Likes to see
how far he can push them, how much they can take. Once he finds
out, he backs off. He's pushing you, Quinn—gently. He must like
you."

He saw her cheeks begin to redden and
hid a smile. She blushed so easily.

"That kind of like I can do
without."

"Go with it. Once you get to know him
he's a lot of fun. And believe me, he—" Matt glanced up. "Speak of
the devil, here he comes now."

Tim glided up and set three 16-ounce
paper cups on the table.

"Rolling Rock for the men, and—" he
pushed one of the cups toward Quinn "—a Coors Light for the pretty
lady."

Quinn glanced down at the white foam
riding an inch below the rim, sniffed—

"How on earth—?"

"Nothing to it, my dear. I used to
work in a kitchen. The help always has a corner of one of the
coolers reserved for their own private stock, three cans of which
these folks were more than happy to part with for a mere ten
dollars." He lifted his cup. "Cheers."

"No, thanks," Quinn said. She pushed
hers across toward Tim. "But please don't let this go to waste. As
Matt said, there's a lot of people vying for The Ingraham's fifty
places. I need all the edge I can get. Do drink up." Quinn rose
from her seat. "Excuse me. I've got my interview."

Matt was startled—this wasn't the
Quinn he knew—but as she turned to leave, she winked and gave him a
little smile. Matt relaxed. So that was it. Tim had started pushing
Quinn, so Quinn was pushing right back.

Good for her.

Matt glanced at Tim and saw that he
was staring after Quinn. He turned to Matt and grinned.

"I
like
her. Where'd you find her and
are there any more like her where she came from?"

"Known her since we were
toddlers and she's one of a kind. But not
your
kind."

Tim's eyebrows rose above the frame of
his aviator shades. "Oh, really? You staking out that territory for
yourself? Because if you are, just say the word and
I'll—"

"Nah," Matt said. "We've known each
other too long and too well to be anything more than good friends."
At least that's the way Quinn sees it, he thought.

"Good," Tim said, watching her
retreating figure. "Because I think I like being around
her."

Matt wasn't sure how he felt about
that, but Quinn was quite capable of taking care of herself. She
had her sights set and wouldn't let Tim Brown or him or anyone
distract her from becoming a doctor.

He watched the door close behind her
and silently wished her well on her interview. She'd need all the
help she could get. The Ingraham was known—and widely
criticized—for peopling its student body with mostly males. He
hoped she got somebody with enough perception to recognize what a
prize The Ingraham would have in Quinn Cleary.

*

Dr. Walter Emerson rubbed his eyes and
waited for the next applicant to arrive. These interviews were
tiring but a necessary evil. Current wisdom ran that you could tell
only so much from test scores and application data. You had to meet
these people face to face, see how they presented themselves, and
look them in the eye to decide whether they would make the kind of
doctor worthy of the enormous amount of time and treasure invested
in each one of them, who'd go out into the world and practice
front-line medicine.

But it pained him to know that so few
of the hopeful, eager faces he'd seen this week were going to be
asked to return to The Ingraham in September.

He yawned. He always got sleepy this
time of the afternoon. He hoped didn't doze off during the next
interview.

A soft knock.

"Come in."

He immediately recognized the slim,
strawberry blonde who entered as the girl he'd seen on Fifth
Science this afternoon. He remembered her staring at Ward C through
the window, the high color in her cheeks, the wide blue eyes so
filled with wonder and empathy. He glanced down at her file: Quinn
Cleary, 21, Connecticut, full academic scholarship to the
University of Connecticut, pre-med Biology major; president of the
Biology club, stringer for the school paper; excellent GPA, high
MCATs. A fine catch for any medical school. Too bad she was lacking
a critical factor: a Y chromosome.