“I’m not… I mean, I don’t have the highest grades or…”
“Nobody else in the class has had such a consistently superb performance on all the exams and quizzes,” he says. He looks at Frank’s foot again. “As well as superior skills on the dissections. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
I don’t know what to say. All this time, I thought Dr. Conlon barely knew who I was.
“Um… thank you…”
He smiles again. “And if you want that teaching assistant job for next year, it’s yours.”
My heart soars. “Are you serious?”
“Absolutely,” he says. “I hope you’re interested. I’d be disappointed if you said no.”
“I’m interested!” I almost yell. I clear my throat, suddenly embarrassed. “I mean, of course I’d like to do it.”
He folds his arms across his scrub top, “You know, after teaching this class so long, I can tell exactly what kind of doctor each student will become, just from watching them in the lab.”
“Really?”
He nods. “This class brings out a lot of qualities in people, both good and bad.”
I stare up at Dr. Conlon’s face, trying to read his expression. Does he know it was me who left that letter in Rachel’s locker? Is this all his way of toying with me?
No. There’s no way.
“So what kind of doctor am I going to be?” I ask him.
Dr. Conlon hesitates for a long time then finally smiles again. “Well, I don’t want to give away the surprise. You’ll know soon enough.”
What the hell does that mean?
“By the way.” He clears his throat. “Have you… Have you seen Rachel around?”
I shake my head, not meeting his eyes.
He coughs and lowers his eyes.
“The two of you have spent a lot of time in the lab together,” he observes. “Would you say that she… has a good grasp of the material?”
Now, why would he ask that?I can tell by the tone of my professor’s voice how smitten he is with Rachel. Doesn’t he realize that she’s getting good grades only because of him? Is it possible that Rachel is using him to cheat without his knowledge?
Poor Dr. Conlon.
“Honestly?” I ask.
“Yes, honestly. Does she know the material or not?”
“She doesn’t.”
Dr. Conlon’s shoulders sag. “Okay, thanks, Sasha.”
89
My mother callsme on the Friday evening before our final exam. I’m on my way out to the library, and I get irritated when her name pops up on my phone, but I answer anyway. I realize that I’ve only been home to visit her twice since the year started, but I don’t feel guilty. Honestly, she’s lucky that I visit her at all.
“How are you doing, Sasha?” Mom asks me. “Do you have time to visit this weekend?”
“My final exam in anatomy is on Monday,” I explain, the irritation seeping through my voice.
