But this is the moment of truth: Did anyone do better than me?
I scan the list of scores and find that nobody got a perfect hundred percent. One person got a ninety-five, and one got an impressive ninety-seven. But the good news is that neither ofthose people is Mason Howard, based on the ID number. Which means that for once, I beat Mason.
Victory! Ha, maybe I’ll go rub it in his face.
Just out of curiosity, I scan the list, searching for Mason’s number. I’m perplexed when at first, I can’t find his score. Then I see it, at the very bottom of the list: thirty-seven.
Mason failed the exam.
It must be some kind of mistake. There’s no way Mason could have failed. He’s the best student in the class. He’s the only person to ever get a perfect score on the practical. People like that don’t fail exams. That can’t be right.
Of course, I’ve noticed that Mason hasn’t been studying in the library anymore. But I just figured he was avoiding me after that awkward dinner. I did see him on the day of the exam, hunched in a corner, his hair wild, a week’s worth of stubble on his chin. He looked awful, especially for Mason, but I just assumed it was because of the marathon studying.
It can’t be because of the dopamine I was giving him, can it?
No. No way. It was just a few pills. Dad used to take like five of those a day, and at worst, I only gave Mason two a day. And besides, I haven’t given him any pills in weeks. No, it’s got to be something else. Maybe some personal issues he’s having.
I try to put Mason out of my mind as I go into the lab. Weirdly enough, the smell of formaldehyde doesn’t even bother me anymore. I almost enjoy it because it reminds me of how much I’ve learned in this short period of time. With every passing day, my dream of becoming a doctor is drawing closer and closer. My father would be so proud of me.
Rachel is already standing by the cadaver, dissecting near his left shoulder. I lean over the body to see what she’s doing, because in all honesty, she usually messes everything up. But instead, I see the perfectly dissected nerves running through the shoulder.
“Nice job on the brachial plexus,” I comment.
Rachel smiles. “Thanks,” she says, “although I can’t totally take credit. Matt was helping me with it earlier.”
Matt? Who’s Matt?
There’s nobody in the class named Matt. And there aren’t any teaching assistants named Matt. Who is this mysterious Matt who’s been helping Rachel suddenly turn into an anatomy genius?
Wait a minute…
Oh my God…
She’s talking aboutDr. Conlon.
Rachel is calling our professor by his first name. She’s somehow gotten to be on a first-name basis with the guy. I close my eyes for a moment and recall a couple of months ago when I caught Dr. Conlon staring at Rachel’s chest.
Holy shit, they’re sleeping together.
Dr. Conlon limps over to us at that moment. When he sees Rachel, he gets this big dopey grin on his face.
“How is everything going, Doctors?”
“I’m just about finished,” Rachel says.
Dr. Conlon leans over the cadaver slightly to get a better view of Rachel’s dissection. He nods in approval, “Very nice job.Verynice.”
Damn. No wonder Rachel never needs to study.
Dr. Conlon’s eyes rest on me. For a moment, I hold out a desperate hope that he’s going to quiz me or offer me assistance or praise or criticism or at leastremember my name, but instead, he asks, “Have you seen Mason recently?”
Of course he’s asking about Mason.
“No,” I say.
“Hmm,” Dr. Conlon murmurs.
There’s concern in his eyes, and I recall Mason’s failing score on the last exam. He cares more about Mason than me when he’s acing the exam, and now when he’s failing too. I can’t win.
