Third Degree (6 page)

“And then there’s the presence of world-famous kissing,” I add.

He rolls on his side, propping himself up on an elbow and grinning at me. “That’s why you pissed off Kelsey. You wanted an excuse to get me alone so you could see for yourself if it’s true or not.”

I laugh really hard and shake my head, refusing to answer.

“Admit it,” Marshall presses. “You are dying to know.”

“I
am
a girl who likes to get answers,” I concede. He studies me carefully and then starts to lean in. My heart is racing now, my eyes preparing to close, and my hands … what do they want? Probably to touch Marshall’s hair, run my fingers through it. His mouth is so close to mine
when he freezes and pulls back.

His forehead wrinkles. “Now look who’s crossing lines. I suck at this RA thing.”

“Hey.” I touch his arm lightly. “It’s not your fault. I brought it up.”

He rolls back over and stares at the ceiling, and for several minutes all I do is lie there and listen to him breathe. “I’m gonna leave out a few details on that report. Just please don’t make me regret this, okay?”

My heart speeds up, this time from anxiety and fear of failure. “Okay. I promise to do better.”

It’s a silly little incident report to the residential life office, but it feels like the most important promise I’ve ever made. Letting Marshall down would prove that I’m truly a freak. A freak who can’t possibly be allowed to practice medicine without supervision. Like ever.

Chapter 5

Marshall’s alarm wakes both of us up at six-thirty in the morning. He stands up and slams his fist into it, cutting off the blaring beeps. “I have class, but you should probably sneak out now rather than later.”

Suddenly I remember my new schedule and bolt upright. “Shit. I have this seven o’clock boot camp class today.”

He grins at me, lifting an eyebrow. “You’re kidding me. I’m the TA.”

I rub the sleep from my eyes. “There’s a TA for the boot camp fitness program? Why? And you’re an undergrad student. You can’t be a TA.”

“Unofficial TA. I take roll and collect the bodies after Sergeant Holloway tortures you guys,” he says calmly. “Occasionally I clean up vomit if anyone is stupid enough to eat breakfast before class.”

Note to self—no breakfast on Monday, Wednesday, or Friday
.

Marshall looks me over, taking in my bare feet and pj’s, not to mention the lack of bra. “Want me to let you into your room so you can get some clothes and shoes?”

“Shoes? Does this mean
you’re
going to wear actual shoes?”

“Not by choice.” He plucks a pair of sneakers from his closet and holds them up for me to see. “The societal confines placed on feet are something I plan to fight once I’m in a position of power.”

“What position would that be? Head of the public footwear council?”

“Is that a real thing?” He sounds very hopeful, which causes me to crack up laughing.

Five minutes later, I’ve made it through the hall unseen by my floormates and in and out of my room without waking the angry sleeping bears. I’m also sporting appropriate footwear and workout clothing in addition to clean teeth, but I avoided my usual morning protein bar, per the no-breakfast rule.

All my classes last week were ten o’clock or later, so I’m surprised by the eerie quiet of campus at this hour. It’s a short walk to the rec center, where the class meets outside, at least until weather requires us to move the sessions indoors. I’m expecting to meet an older retired man in a full-out army uniform, but Sergeant Holloway is probably middle-aged and he’s wearing an NIU ROTC T-shirt with gym shorts. He does have a whistle around his neck, and he blows it the second he sees me.

“I don’t know you!” he shouts. “Did you party too hard last week and cut my class?
Unacceptable.”

“No, I didn’t—”

Marshall pokes me in the back and whispers, “Rule number one in this class—don’t argue with the drill sergeant.”

“Come on, he’s not a real drill sergeant.”

At least twenty students have gathered around the circle drive in front of the rec center, watching Sergeant Holloway lean in, right next to my face, and blow hard on the whistle again.

“Did I hear you right?” he says, his voice booming across a half-mile radius. “I’m not a real drill sergeant? Well, you’re not a real soldier. Just a stupid girl who can’t run fast or do a push-up.”

“I can do a push-up,” I argue, then clamp my mouth shut, remembering Marshall’s advice.

“Drop and give me twenty!” Holloway lifts his chin and addresses the entire class. “All of you. Now!”

A groan erupts through the group as we all drop to the ground, gravel from the driveway digging into our palms. I glance at Marshall. He gives me his innocent I-told-you-so face, then he’s on the ground, whipping out his push-ups like it’s nothing.

“You can all thank our new student for inspiring me to give you the hardest workout of your lives today!” Holloway paces through the lines of students doing push-ups, stopping occasionally to press his foot on people’s backs or yell at them to suck in their gut.

I’m pretty sure he’s taking this drill sergeant role a little too seriously. I’m also pretty sure that my advisor must be as pissed off at me as Kelsey is, because she “highly recommended” this course as a wonderful and beneficial method of achieving physical fitness. She even said she’d heard great things about the instructor.

“One step out of line today and I’m flunking your asses!”

I guess technically you can flunk people in a pass/fail class, but typically that happens only if people don’t attend or participate. Not if they fall over from push-up exhaustion or their gut is too big to suck in.

By the end of the class, my knees and elbows are scraped from the army crawl section of the obstacle course and I’m so beat I can barely walk. Marshall did everything we did and stayed at the front of the group, but he appears to be fine, not near collapse like the rest of us.

Several students take a moment to glare at me and mumble a sarcastic thank-you before leaving. I rip off my T-shirt and use it to wipe sweat from my forehead so it won’t drip into my eyes. Marshall jogs to catch up with me after spending a few minutes chatting with our abusive instructor.

“I’m beginning to think you should listen to my advice more often,” he says.

“That’s probably a good idea.” I tug the bottom of my sports bra, making sure it stays in place and covers what it’s supposed to cover. “I feel like shit.”

“You need breakfast. That’ll get you going again.” He takes me by the shoulders and steers me toward the dining hall.

I pull out of his grip and angle myself toward our dorm. “No way. I can’t think about food. Must. Shower. Now.”

“I thought we were listening to my advice today,” Marshall says.

I glance around to see if anyone’s watching or listening. “Are you sure that’s allowed? You know, for RAs and residents …”

“Conversing and advising over a meal in a university dining hall is completely acceptable,” Marshall says. “In fact, it’s encouraged.”

Once inside, we both grab big glasses of water and start chugging, then I follow him through the line. Marshall told me to observe new things, but I can’t stop myself from watching him load his tray with food and analyzing the choices—three pancakes, passes up the butter but piles on syrup, two bananas, a bagel with cream cheese, a blueberry muffin, and a refill on his glass of water. Not exactly displaying the picky-eater label he gave himself last week.

My tray, on the other hand, contains a small serving of scrambled eggs, two big scoops of cut-up melon, a container of light yogurt, and a glass of orange juice.

Marshall finds us seats easily since it’s still before nine and the dining hall doesn’t get really crowded until closer to lunchtime. I sit down across from him, my eyes still glued to his tray.

“Don’t even think about commenting on my breakfast selection,” he warns.

I stuff a forkful of eggs into my mouth to keep from commenting, but still the words slip out: “Just thinking about those steroids you mentioned last week.”

His jaw freezes mid-chew. “I seriously can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”

Am I that hard to read? I shrug and suppress a smile. “If we really needed an answer, I could always ask you to drop your shorts and see if your testicles have atrophied.”

Okay, so that’s an Isabel Jenkins, M.D., thing to say, but since Marshall knows who I really am, I don’t feel like I have to ditch all of that part of me. Which is good considering that I’m here to figure out how to progress in the M.D. world.

“Atrophied?” he asks, his mind evidently on the testicular discussion.

“Shrank.”

He resumes chewing. “Still can’t tell if you’re serious.”

“You don’t use anabolic steroids.” I pop a slice of melon into my mouth and watch him inhale his pancakes. “Your moods are fine. You’re very even-tempered. I’ve only seen you shave about three times in the last week.”

He points a fork at me. “Yes, you are definitely observing the wrong things.”

“Maybe.” I sigh. “Probably.”

“Definitely.”

From the corner of my eye, I see two girls from the English 101 class that I had to drop last week after annoying the instructor by pointing out a copyright issue with his so-called original writing. Had he published it, he could have been sued. I thought it was the right thing to do. Now, however, I’m pretty sure that keeping my mouth shut would have been the better choice. The girls are glancing my way and then leaning in to whisper to each other.

This is elementary school all over again. And the dance classes Mom enrolled me in. The T-ball team Dad forced me to play on for half a season until we were both knee deep in parent and teammate conflicts. Then there was the Girl Scout troop and summer camp. The list goes on for miles.

“I like your mom a lot,” Marshall says, interrupting my thoughts. “I forgot to mention that last week. She was a pretty cool teacher. She made it fun, you know?”

No, I don’t know. Classes haven’t ever been not-fun for me. “I’ve never seen her teach.”

Marshall shrugs. “Well, you should sometime.”

I can’t stop looking at those girls and then looking away. They’re still talking about me. That much I know for sure.

“What’s up with them?” Marshall asks, nodding their way.

I stare down at my tray. “Don’t know. Probably just commenting on how weird I am.”

“Izzy—”

A guy I know as the third-floor RA for our dorm interrupts us before Marshall can say anything more. He claps Marsh on the back and leans down to whisper, “Thank you for handling the difficult chick on your floor. Kelsey nearly exploded on me a few days ago, and she just said hi to me in the hall. Seemed totally fine.”

Panic fills Marshall’s face, and he opens his mouth to interrupt, but the other guy won’t let him get a word in. “Whatever you did, man, keep it up. ’Cause that chick sounds like a complete nutcase.”

I put Marshall’s panic together with this guy’s words, and it all clicks into place.
He’s talking about me
. Except he doesn’t know I’m sitting here. I’m just a name on a stack of pink conflict resolution forms.

And then it occurs to me that Marshall is babysitting me. He’s made it his job to keep me out of trouble so that
he
stays out of trouble. Tears sting the corners of my eyes as I watch the other RA walk away. Marshall sighs and runs a hand through his hair. He knows that I know.

I’m not normal. I’m never going to be normal. I’m never going to pass that test and become a surgeon. There’s no fixing me. So what’s next? Shutting myself in a lab with rodents
for the rest of my life?

I stand up and pick up my tray. “I’ve got class later and … I need to shower and stuff.”

Marshall lifts his head, shame and pity filling his expression. “Izzy, wait …”

But I don’t wait. I can’t stand the thought of seeing that look of pity a second longer or having Marshall as my babysitter. This whole “normal college experience” was a terrible idea. I’m so done with this.

Chapter 6

I barely take anything with me.

I grab a clean T-shirt, my purse, and my keys, then head out to the student parking lot. I can’t stand the thought of running into Marshall, Kelsey, or anyone who’s come in contact with my incident reports over the last week. I’ll arrange to have my stuff sent home. Or I’ll send my mom to get it for me. She can make up an excuse for my departure: mononucleosis, maybe, or a death in the family. That should do the trick. It’s not like I’ll ever have to see any of these people again.

My guess is, my parents won’t be the least bit surprised that I couldn’t survive this plan. These are basically the only kinds of failures I’ve experienced in my life—getting along with others. Or belonging to anyone but them. They’re amazingly patient, tolerant, and accepting. I hit the adoptive parent lottery, and I’ve tried to never let myself forget that fact.

The whole two-hour drive, I’m restless, dying to walk through the front door of my house and smell the familiar scent. Stretch out across my larger, more comfortable bed and bury myself in some kind of medical research project. We’ve only gone on a handful of family vacations since my parents became my parents. And never for more than a week. I haven’t done any traveling beyond some short weekend trips on my own. I’ve never left the country. Already it feels like I’ve been away from home forever, and it’s not even been two weeks.

Turning onto my street already lifts some of the anxiety I was feeling. I park in an empty space across the street from my house, bolt out of the car, and head toward the front steps. I get halfway up the path and come to a dead stop.

A large white and red metal sign is pushed into the grass in our front yard, the words
FOR SALE
written in blue letters.

What the hell?

I fumble around for my house key, knots forming in the pit of my stomach. The first thing I notice after stepping through the doors of my house is the empty den. My dad’s office. The large L-shaped desk is gone, leaving behind imprints in the carpet where the legs have rested for years. The bookshelves are still there, but half empty. My heart is flying as I charge the stairs up to my room. I fling open the door but don’t even walk inside—nothing’s changed here. I jog down the hall and stop in front of one of the guest rooms. The queen bed and matching dresser are gone.