Following Dr. Conlon is a string of other professors: an elderly guy with a monotonic voice who will be teaching us biochemistry, a wild-haired female epidemiology professor, and a short, dapper man who will be jointly teaching physiology and histology. Lastly, a thin fortyish woman wearing a sharp blue dress suit steps up to the podium.
“My name is Dr. Patrice Winters,” she says. “But you can call me Patrice. I’ve been acting as the school’s wellness counselor for the last four years.”
Have you ever met a person who you just disliked instantly? For me, that’s Patrice Winters. I don’t know what it is about her exactly. Maybe it’s the way her makeup is applied so perfectly and not even a single hair in her blond-streaked pixie cut is out of place. Maybe it’s the way she talks to us like we’re a bunch of children who need to be told what to do. Maybe it’s her voice, which somehow grates on my very soul.
“Whatever happens to you,” she says, “I’m here for you. And I’d like each of you to make an appointment with me sometime in the next month.” She pauses meaningfully. “It’s not optional.”
Rachel leans in toward me now and whispers, “You know why we have to see her, don’t you?”
I’m afraid to hear the answer to this one. “Why?”
“They don’t want any more of us overdosing,” she says. “The drug problem is out of control here. Every year for the last three years, there’s been a student who OD’d and died.”
“That’s not really true.” I shift in my seat. “Is it?”
“Of course it is.” She says it like it’s common knowledge, which makes me wonder if it is. “Last year, the girl who OD’ddid it in the bathroom by the anatomy labs. You can still see the crack in the sink where her head smacked against it before she hit the floor—they never fixed it.”
And then she leans back in her seat, smiling at the way my mouth is hanging open.
As I waitin the slow-moving cafeteria line to get lunch during our break from orientation, I mull over what Rachel told me about the drug problem at DeWitt. I never heard about it, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true—med school is stressful, and it wouldn’t be surprising if some students turned to drugs in order to deal.
But not me. I wouldnever.
I’m so deep in thought that I haven’t noticed the line has moved forward but I have not. Before I have a chance to get moving, a horrible weight lands on my foot, crushing the delicate bones that Dr. Conlon has not yet had a chance to teach me about. I gasp in pain as I instinctively grab my foot.
What the hell wasthat?
That’s when I notice a frightening bearlike creature looming over me. Actually, it turns out to be a human being, but he’s roughly the size of a bear. The foot that he used to crush mine with is practically the size of a tennis racket. This guy is big in all directions.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” the bear cries. “Are you all right?”
No, I amnotall right. My foot is broken, you stupid bear. Well, maybe not broken. But definitely badly bruised.
Still, I manage to nod and look up at his face, which is nowhere near as scary as the rest of him. The bear has a shockof red hair that’s disheveled despite being very short and freckles pouring over either end of the bridge of his nose.
“I’m really sorry,” the bear says again. He looks like he means it. “I didn’t realize anyone was behind me.” He hesitates. “I’m Abe.”
“Heather,” I say. I release my broken foot just long enough to grab his outstretched hand. Thankfully, he doesn’t crush my hand in his when he shakes it. I hate it when men do that, and it’s pretty clear Abe could easily demolish my hand if he got the inclination to do so.
“You’re a first-year?” he asks.
Nope, I just hang out at med school orientations for kicks.
“Yep,” I say.
“Neat,” Abe says then appears to run out of things to say. He rubs his gigantic hands together, clears his throat, and awkwardly turns back to the lunch line to examine his food options. It’s going to be either arroz con pollo or fish. And the fish is scary looking. So chicken and rice it is.
2
Landon is supposedto call me tonight at nine p.m., and it’s now eight minutes after nine. With each passing minute, I’m getting more and more ticked off.
I don’t want to be that kind of girlfriend—the kind where he has to call at the exact time he said he would or else I get all pissy. But then again, how hard is it to call on time? Is it really so difficult to pick up the phone and call me at the time I asked him to? He knows it’s my first day of school and I’m all keyed up. Why is he doing this to me?
It doesn’t help that Rachel is driving me out of my mind. First, she was going on and on about how eighty percent of college relationships end during med school. I don’t know where she got that ridiculous statistic, but she wouldn’t shut up about it.
Then, she asked me what I wanted to specialize in when I graduated. When I told her I wanted to be a pediatrician, she looked at me with utter contempt for falling into the “traditional gender stereotypical role.” Apparently,shewants to be a surgeon.
The other weird thing is that Rachel hasn’t bought any books. Not even Dr. Conlon’s book,Anatomy: Inside Secrets. You’d think if she wanted to be a surgeon, she’d be studying her ass off right now in anticipation of our first anatomy lab tomorrow. Or at least half-heartedly trying to read the lab manual like I’m doing.
