He knows about me and Mason. He’s cleverer than I’ve given him credit for. I wonder who else in the class knows. Probably everyone.
“Do you know where he is?” I ask.
Abe glances at his watch.
“He’s usually back by now,” he says. “Do you want to wait?”
I look down at my own watch. It’s about eleven at night. Whereishe? I feel too antsy to go home, so I say, “Okay, I’ll wait.”
Abe steps back to let me in. I venture into the apartment, which is a total guys’ apartment. There’s food and laundry strewn everywhere, and the futon looks almost too dirty to sit on. I push aside some books and papers and make a small square of space to rest my behind. Abe at least has the decency to blush.
“Sorry the place is such a mess,” he says as he plops down next to me.
“It’s okay,” I say. “My sisters were kind of slobs, so I’m used to it.”
My stilted conversation with Abe makes me realize how little I know him. Or really, anyone in my class besides Mason. Abe is my lab partner, and we’ve had probably hundreds of verbal exchanges, but every single one of them has involved anatomy. Or at the very least, biochemistry.
“Are you feeling ready for the exam?” Abe asks me.
Back to familiar territory. I nod. “Sort of.”
He laughs. “If anyone is ready, it’s you.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
He shrugs. “You know it all, Sasha. Everyone knows that you’re the top student in the class.”
He’sgotto be messing with me. “No way.”
“Way,” he says. “I mean, Heather always says…” He stops mid-sentence, his words trailing off. He looks really sad again.
“Abe?”
He doesn’t answer. His green eyes seem very far away.
“Do you,” I venture carefully, “want to talk about Heather?”
It’s not like me to make an offer like that. I’m feeling so guilty lately. Maybe talking to Abe would be penance for some of the things I’ve done wrong. Or at least it would be a start.
“No,” he says. “I really don’t.”
Well, if he doesn’t want to talk about it, it’s not like I’ve got time to kill.
88
I’m workingon dissecting the right foot of the cadaver, one of the few parts that hasn’t been shredded to bits by a scalpel courtesy of Mason. I’m carefully separating the muscle bodies of the extensor digitorum longus. The rest of Frank’s limbs are too badly mangled to be tagged for the anatomy practical, but I’m hoping they might tag something in his right foot. I feel pride when Dr. Conlon finds one of my dissections to be worthy of an exam question.
“What are you working on, Dr. Zaleski?”
I look up, and my eyes meet Dr. Conlon’s. Up close, he has the brightest blue eyes I’ve ever seen in my life, even hidden behind his glasses. I’m glad he remembered my name for a change.
“Just separating the extensor muscles of the foot.”
Dr. Conlon makes his way around the table to get a closer look at my dissection. I watch a smile grow across his face.
“Excellentjob,” he comments. “Of course, what less could I expect from the best student in the class?”
I avert my eyes—I’m not used to compliments. It’s even more surprising to hear from him than it was to hear it from Abe yesterday.
