“Five more minutes,” Tracy announces.
I stare at the dead rat in front of me, trying to decipher what red-gray organ is being staked as number four. Everything looks the damn same, all blending together. Then I forget what the hell the function of the liver is.
Yep, I’m screwed.
For the remaining questions I don’t know the answers to, I write down random answers, taking a shot in the dark with the limited time we have left.
“Time’s up! Pencils down.” Tracy quickly walks around the room, collecting papers. I reluctantly hand her mine.
“That wasn’t bad,” Delilah says matter-of-factly.
Rat Boy agrees, arrogantly declaring that it was easy, and Olivia shrugs casually. I mirror Olivia’s action, trying to feign indifference and confidence even though I feel like I knew jack shit.
For the next hour and a half Tracy pulls out the model brains and we go over the different parts and hemispheres.
>> <<
“Fuck it’s hot out,” I say absentmindedly as Olivia and I walk out of the science building, the hot summer air smacking us in the face.
She lets out a small giggle at my blunt observation. “It is pretty hot out here,” she agrees, reaching back to tie her hair into a ponytail to get it off her neck.
I watch shamelessly as her slim, delicate fingers twist the hair band around to pull her hair back, exposing the lines of her long, smooth neck. The tendrils of hair that frame her face brush against her cheeks as a light breeze rolls through. I blatantly admire her subtle, self-undermined beauty.
I suddenly remember her last night, sitting in the hospital cafeteria with that woman listening to her heart, the pair of them wearing somber expressions. Slight worry knots my stomach, and I can’t help but let my eyes slowly rake her from head to toe. Not in a caveman-like, perverted way, but in a concerned manner, trying to detect if anything is wrong with her. Is she sick? She doesn’t look sick. But that’s how it always is; looks can be deceiving.
Her eyes meet mine, probably sensing my lingering gaze. Now it’s her looking at me with concern after catching me staring at her. “Bronx?” she asks when I don’t steer my gaze away.
“Are you okay?” I ask abruptly, unable to bite back my curiosity.
Her head jerks back in surprise and then she does that cute little head tilt thing she always does when she’s confused. “Huh?” she asks, looking down at her body to self-assess. When she doesn’t detect anything wrong, she swipes at her face self-consciously. “Is there something on my face?”
“No.” I can’t help but let out a small chuckle, but I sober up quickly, turning serious. “I—” How do I tell her without sounding like a creep? I let out a breath, my lips vibrating together before continuing. “I saw you at the hospital last night.”
“Oh.” Her eyes widen with surprise.
“I’m sorry. I promise I wasn’t spying on you or anything weird like that. Chase sprained his wrist at practice last night and I had to drive him there. When I was waiting for him, I took a trip to the cafeteria and saw you with some woman. She was listening to your heart and you both looked . . . it just had me worried, that’s all,” I admit, shoving my hands deep in my pockets.
Her eyes soften and then she looks away, almost embarrassed. She clears her throat before speaking. “Yeah, that was Cora. She’s a nurse at the hospital, and I shadowed with her in the OR over the past few summers. We became pretty close,” she says, lifting her shoulder in a casual shrug. “She doesn’t really have any family, so I have dinner with her on Tuesdays when she has to work the night shift. I can imagine how lonely it must be not having much family around, and she’s good company.”
“So you’re okay?” I confirm.
She lets out a small laugh. “Yeah, she was just checking her stethoscope. She thought it wasn’t working properly earlier and decided to try it on me.”
I mentally breathe out a sigh of relief. “Okay, you had me scared there for a minute,” I admit with a shaky laugh.
Her eyes soften with appreciation and a hint of affection. “No worries, I’m all good,” she assures me.
I nod, grabbing the door of the language arts building for her. “I wonder what crazy outfit Professor Hobb will be wearing today?” I ask, referring to our English teacher’s fondness for ’70s attire and chunky jewelry, which she tries her best to make look business casual.
Olivia’s mouth curves. “I feel like you pay more attention to her outfits than what she’s teaching.”
“You’re not wrong,” I admit honestly, earning me a melodic laugh. “What? You have to admit her outfits are a little distracting.”
Olivia shakes her head in amusement. “Maybe she’ll let us write our final paper on whatever we want, and you can critique her fashion choices over the semester.”
I laugh, flashing her a razor-sharp smile. “That’s actually a good idea, Finch. I’ll be sure to give you credit for it.”
She rolls her eyes at me good-naturedly, taking her seat. “Fiend,” she mutters.
