I mean, the man wears bowties. Enough said.
“Sit down, Dr. Howard,” Dr. Conlon says to me, a stern look on his face.
I don’t like it that he calls us all “doctor.” It’s patronizing, especially since a fair number of my classmates will never become doctors. But I’m not going to say anything. Anyway, I sit down in front of his desk.
“May I ask you a question?” Dr. Conlon says.
I nod, intrigued.
Dr. Conlon doesn’t just ask me one question but lets loose with a rapid fire of difficult anatomy questions. He asks about the gut anastomoses, the innervation of the muscles in the pelvic floor, and a bunch of stuff that’s ridiculously obscure. He doesn’t even tell me if I’m right or not. By the end, I have to admit, I’m struggling to keep my composure. These questions arehard.
Finally, after the fifteenth question in a row, I interrupt him: “Listen, what’s this about?”
Dr. Conlon reaches into his desk and pulls out some stapled papers that I recognize as my exam. He tosses it down on the table.
“I’ve never seen anyone get a perfect score on the practical exam before,” he says. “I had to make sure you weren’t cheating.”
“And?”
“You know your shit, Howard. I’m impressed.”
I smile.
“What field are you interested in?” he asks me.
“Plastics,” I reply without hesitation.
Dr. Conlon nods. “I have a good friend at UCSF in the plastics department. If you keep this up, I’d be happy to write him a letter on your behalf. Or even give him a call.”
I feign surprise. But of course, I knew about Conlon’s connections to plastics at UCSF. It’s one of the best programs in the country—makes me curse the fact that I’m not a California native. One of the reasons I’m here at DeWitt is because of Dr. Conlon and what he can do for me. I’ll rotate over there and impress the hell out of them, of course, but a letter would be gold.
“Thank you, sir,” I say.
Dr. Conlon smiles. “Keep up the good work.”
Everything is falling into place.
61
It’stwo a.m. on a Thursday night. And I’m at the library.
I got here a little late because I had to finally do my laundry. Buying new underwear was getting old. There was so much laundry, I had to use every available washer to get it done. I really hate doing laundry. The second I get married, I am done doing laundry.
Sasha is sitting across the table from me. She’s going through some flashcards she made for biochem. I watch her biting her lip as she tucks her short dark hair behind her tiny ear. That girl is dedicated, all right—it’s so sexy.
Sasha must have sensed me looking at her because she glances up expectantly. I’m going to brag here: we’ve had sex maybe a couple of dozen times now. We do it either in the locker room or the med student lounge. The lounge is more comfortable because it’s got a couch, but the risk of getting caught is higher, so we usually just go to the locker room.
We’ve got a whole system going—if we’re up for it, we tap a yellow highlighter on the table five times. I’ve initiated more than she has, but she’s done her fair share of highlighter tapping.It’s gotten so that every time someone taps their pen in class, I start to get excited.
The sex is usually fast. It’s a little embarrassing, to be honest, but Sasha hasn’t called me on it yet. Anyway, it’s good—really, really good. The truth is, I think about Sasha a lot. All the damn time. Right now, I’m trying to focus on the cranial nerves, but I keep looking up at her instead. I wonder if she’s up for a study break.
Sasha cranes her neck to look at the textbook I’m reading, which is Dr. Conlon’s book. She crinkles her nose.
“You highlight a lot,” she comments.
“Yeah. So?”
“You highlighted every sentence on that page,” she points out.
