by Julie Cross
O’Reilly and Dad drone on about options for me and my destroyed future, but I can’t listen. All I can do is think about that stupid psych evaluation and getting my hands on it. Dr. Winifred James, Ph.D., what else did you write about me? I need to know where I went wrong. I need to know how to pass next time. But getting hold of it would be completely illegal and require a great deal of hacking—something I’m fortunately very capable of.
My devious and illegal planning is interrupted by O’Reilly’s secretary poking her head into the office. “Dr. Jenkins?”
“Yes?” Dad and I both say, twisting around in our chairs. I’m sure he’s replaying his patient list for today in his head like me, attempting to guess who might have taken a turn for the worse or be in need of further consultation.
“This Dr. Jenkins,” she says, pointing at me. “You have a speaking engagement in thirty minutes?”
I groan, remembering. “Fuck,” I mumble, but not low enough to avoid being heard. I stand up and wiggle my chair back into place. I’m only an intern for a few more weeks, so what will O’Reilly do if I skip out on this stupid task?
Dad looks like he wants to say something more, but I wave him off and bolt out of there. I don’t want to hear any patronizing speeches about everything turning out okay.
And to add an extra blow to my day, I have to face Justin and the smirk he’s wearing right now. He knows. How the hell does he know already?
I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment and take a deep breath before approaching him. Justin holds out a wad of twenty-dollar bills.
“Who told you?” I say, staring down at the money.
He shrugs. “Word gets around. And no, I’m not going to say I’m sorry you flunked your test, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“We both know you’re not sorry.” I glare at him. “Put your fucking money away. I don’t want it.”
He has to jog to keep up with my brisk pace. “What are you gonna do now? Where are you going to go?”
My fist pounds against the elevator button. “Somewhere you’re not.”
“Well, I’ll be here, so …” His grin broadens.
It’s hard to keep the shock from my face. As the elevator doors open, I reach over and snatch the money from his hand. “On second thought, I’ll take the cash.”
“You’re right.” He leans against the elevator wall. “I’m not sorry you failed, Izzy. And it’s quite possible I hope you fail in your next somewhere-that-isn’t-here location.”
I can’t freakin’ believe O’Reilly’s giving him a resident position in this hospital. My dad’s home base. My second home, practically. My stomach sinks, replaying every piece of the conversation I’ve just walked out on. My body has physical aches at the thought of this failure, of my lack of direction. What the hell am I supposed to do now?
I’ve been around this campus and university hospital since I was twelve years old. Leaving this and moving to Baltimore wouldn’t have been easy (though I’d gladly accept the challenge), especially not for someone like me, who places a lot of value on staying in the same spot for long periods of time. I’ve lived in Evanston with my parents since I was five, but there’s still that fear that something might happen and I might go back to not having a permanent home, like when I was with eight different foster families during the first five years of my life. It was so lonely it hurts to think about. In fact, I haven’t let myself think about this in years.
But right now I feel a hollow emptiness that comes with having my life thrown off track. It’s no different than when I was floating between foster homes—I wasn’t good enough for the last family, or the one before that. And now I’m not good enough to be allowed to practice medicine on my own.
Chapter 2
@IsabelJenkinsMD: Will be MIA from the Chicago area until December. Taking some downtime to do something completely new …
A few years from now, when I look back at this moment, I think I’m gonna be asking myself how the hell I went from eighteen-hour shifts at a top hospital, scrubbing in on heart surgeries and brain tumor removals, to living in a college dormitory at a subpar university, taking classes that begin with course numbers like 101 and 102.
It’s good to step out of your comfort zone. That’s what my mom said. She’s a high school biology teacher and therefore constantly using phrases like that, as well as others like acting out or making bad choices. When I told my dad my plan to have a normal college experience, he went on about his frat brothers and the parties they had. But he never really said whether he agrees with my choice or not. Oh well, too late now.
I’m Izzy Jenkins, regular freshman, on move-in day. I repeat this several more times while navigating my way through this very corn-infested town. I’ve never been Izzy. Always Isabel. But I figured the new name might help shake off some of my old self.
And who knows? This could be fun and life-changing. I’ve spent the past month studying fashion trends and making sure I have a wardrobe that will help me blend in well with my peers. It wasn’t too difficult a task—it’s not like I’m a fashion failure to begin with. But being a medical intern for the previous school year meant I had clothing items that were more functional than cute.
I pull up to the circle drive of Lincoln Hall and take a deep breath, scanning for an open parking spot. Minivans and SUVs are jammed into every inch of available space, parents hustling around, carting boxes and things like underbed storage bins. It’s like ants flocking to a fallen french fry. Someone honks at me from behind and I’m forced to circle the building five times before a gray minivan finally pulls out and provides a space large enough for my compact car to slip into before anyone else can.
I put the car in park and grab my phone to call my mom. “I made it.”
“How is it? Have you met your roommate yet? Any cute boys?”
I glance out my window, taking in the chaotic atmosphere and the young people in matching T-shirts holding clipboards and attempting to direct students to the appropriate locations. “I’m sitting in my car in the circle drive. You told me to call you when I got here, so I did.”
Mom laughs. “You’re right, I did say that. You sound nervous. Are you nervous?”
My stomach is doing flip-flops, so I know the answer to this question is yes, but I’m afraid my parents will think I can’t handle this. I might have spent plenty of time in college already, but I’ve never lived in the dorms or done anything that fell into the “student life” category. I was still a kid then. But I’d rather have them worry about themselves than me and my weird plan to be normal.
“Yeah, Mom, I’m nervous.” I suck at lying. This whole normal-girl façade might be an epic fail. “I’m gonna go move in, okay?”
“Okay, hon, call me in a couple hours.”
After hanging up, I give one last glance at my phone like it’s my parents waving goodbye, which they did two hours ago before I drove from Evanston, Illinois, to DeKalb, Illinois.
I’m balancing two boxes I’ve just plucked from my trunk when a tall guy with dark wavy hair and bright orange flip-flops abandons the parents he was talking to and approaches me. “I’m not supposed to let you leave your car unattended. The circle drive is for loading and unloading only.”
Since he’s the epitome of physical attractiveness—impressive musculature, above-average height, good bone structure, attractive facial features—my defenses are already up. I drop the boxes onto the sidewalk with a loud thud. It’s noon, and the late August temperature is already causing sweat to pool between my boobs. I cross my arms and stare at the guy with the impractical footwear. “I’m here alone. What do you propose I do? Head back to Evanston and forget this whole college thing? Because we both know the assigned parking for students is a mile away and I can’t exactly make twenty trips back and forth before classes start tomorrow.”
His eyebrows shoot up and he looks me over carefully. “Isabel Jenkins, right?”
“You know my name?” My face heats up, my heart pounding. I reach
for the car keys in my pocket. “Okay, maybe I am going back home.” I pop the trunk and bend over to grab the boxes off the sidewalk, preparing to toss them back in. There’s no point in staying if I’ve been outed already. Maybe I could try Eastern Illinois University. They don’t start the fall semester until next week.
I glance at the guy’s shirt pronouncing his status as resident advisor. His name tag reads MARSHALL COLLINS.
“I have an Isabel Jenkins on the RA list for my floor and your license plate says I-JENKINS,” Marshall explains. There’s an urgency in his voice, like he’s going to be in trouble with the residential life office if I get in my car and drive away. After glancing over his shoulder at the line of parents and students obviously waiting to bug him with questions, he whips out a handicap placard from his back pocket, opens the passenger door, clips it on my rearview mirror, and turns to me with a big grin. “That should hold off the tow trucks.” He nods toward the door to the residence hall. “Let’s get you moved in, Isabel.”
“Izzy,” I correct. The name shift has already become automatic.
I’m frozen for a long moment, sifting through my options and thinking how wrong it is to misuse a handicap placard, then I decide it must be the kind of thing normal eighteen-year-olds do. Plus I do have my own personal history of illegal behaviors. Finally I hold out my hand. “Thanks for helping, Marshall.”
He stares at my hand before deciding to shake it. “Marsh.”
“Your name tag says Marshall.”
He picks up a box, stacks another one on top, and starts walking toward the doors. “And your registration says Isabel.”
Good point.
I grab an armload of stuff from the trunk and follow him. Marsh leads me inside and into a jam-packed elevator. I’m silent on the ride up to the second floor, listening to Marshall recite names of other advisors on the third and fourth floors to everyone who asks for help but who isn’t listed on his clipboard. After we exit, he stops in front of a door right across from the elevator and then swings it open. There’s a full-sized bed in the center of the room, a wooden dresser, and a desk.
“Get comfortable with knocking on my door, because that’s what I’m here for.” His tone right now reminds me a little of the way professors and TAs spoke to me when I first started college. It definitely feels artificial, but at the same time it’s also genuine. Makes me wonder who he is when he’s not the RA.
“I just need to get your room keys,” Marshall adds.
I set my stuff on his bed while he sorts through a pile of keys lying on his desk. “So I guess it makes sense that you knew my name. You get a list of names in advance. How many could it be? I’m sure it’s not easy for you to memorize all of them.”
“I’m in charge of twelve rooms on this floor, so twenty-four students.” He turns to me, holding out a silver ring with two gold keys dangling from it. “And I’m sure it’s easy for you to memorize twenty-four names.”
Oh, shit, he does know me. My cheeks are hot again, and I’m already backing up toward the exit. “Was it Dr. Phil?” I ask. “You saw the show, right?”
A couple of years ago I reluctantly participated in a segment on highly gifted children who had skipped grades in school. I had headlined the episode since I pretty much skipped all the grades in school. I went to kindergarten for a week and drove my teacher nuts, then my mom home-schooled me for a couple of years until I started the Stanford University online high school. Then college at twelve. Dr. Phil had a field day with that.
Marshall grins and shakes his head. I watch as he pulls out his desk chair and takes a seat like there aren’t dozens of freshmen and their parents outside this room requiring his attention. “I had your mom for biology junior year of high school.”
And there’s my answer. My mom keeps a picture of me on her desk at school. I would have been much younger in whatever picture Marshall saw, but still recognizable. I lean my back against the wall beside the door and let my face drop into my hands. “God, this is impossible.”
“What’s impossible?” he asks. “I doubt anything this university can throw at you will be impossible. Aren’t you, like, a doctor already? What are you even doing here?”
Good question, Marshall Collins. Maybe you’re a genius, too.
“Being someone else, that’s what’s impossible,” I snap. “What are the odds that I’d get assigned to the one RA in this university of eighteen thousand four hundred and twelve students who is from my hometown and had my mom as a teacher?”
“Don’t know.” He shrugs. “I’m sure you could come up with better stats then me.”
I uncover my face. “Probably somewhere around one in four hundred thousand, factoring in the number of students who use campus housing and the population of Evanston—”
“Okay, okay,” Marshall says with a groan. “I didn’t actually mean for you to answer that.”
I bite my lip. “Right, I knew that.”
He pushes up to his feet again and places the keys in my hand. “Trust me when I say that no one here is going to recognize you from Dr. Phil or whatever.”
“But you know,” I point out. I also take note of the fact that his artificial RA tone has a tendency to fade in and out.
Marshall rolls his eyes. “Your secret is safe with me, Izzy Jenkins.”
I scoop my stuff up from the bed and let out a sigh of relief. “I’m trying to make up for missed experiences, you know? Think I’ll be able to blend in? Make some friends, maybe?”
God, why am I asking him this? I might as well plaster INSECURE GEEK to my forehead. Before he can answer I add, “Ignore me. I’m not good at this small-talk stuff. Give me a lab coat and sit on an exam table and I’ll know exactly what to say.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “You’re about ten seconds from asking me to drop my pants, aren’t you?”
Shit. That statement was full of innuendos. I squeeze my eyes shut for a second and inhale. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Neither did I,” he says. “I was fully prepared to keep this relationship professional, considering my position of authority. Now you’ve gone and made it all NC-17.”
I give him a smack on the arm, but I can’t stop myself from laughing.
“And to answer your question about your potential for finding companionship at this fine university, I’d say the odds are in your favor,” Marshall says. “Pretty, and smart enough to commit crimes without leaving any forensic evidence—you’re like a lethal weapon. We should warn all the males on this floor.”
What an ass-kisser. I roll my eyes and try to hide the fact that I’m blushing while Marshall leads me back out into the hallway.
We walk past three other doors before stopping in front of my room. “If you’re an RA, then I’m guessing you’re not a freshman.”
“Smart girl.” He grins while opening the door for me. “Junior.”
“What’s your major?”
“Pre-med,” he says with a perfectly straight face, then his mouth twitches again, forming a crooked smile. “Kidding. Physical education major.”
“Me too! Well, not like in the teacher sense. I’m working on my physical fitness and my hand-eye coordination. My left side is seven percent more efficient than my right.…” The room distracts me from elaborating further. It’s tiny. A twin-sized bed on each side, with a dresser and a desk crammed at the end of each bed. Everything is clean and empty. “Guess my roommate’s not here yet?”
“Correct.” Marshall drops the boxes onto the floor. “That means you get first pick of beds.”
I immediately point to the left side. “Do you know who she is? My roommate?”
“Kelsey Long, cheerleader, psych major, African American,” he rattles off.
My eyebrows shoot up. “You can’t memorize twenty-four names but you can remember that?”
He laughs. “She’s a sophomore. We both lived here last year.”
I open my mouth to ask more questions about this mysterious girl I’ll be living wi
th all semester, but Marshall nods toward the door. “I better get back out there to direct traffic before someone turns me in. Let me know if you need any more help.” He winks at me and then adds, “Student relations is a specialty of mine.”
Oh, I bet it is. “Thanks, Marshall—I mean Marsh.”
“You’re welcome, Izzy-who’s-never-been-to-college-and-can’t-do-really-complicated-mathematical-equations.”
“So you did see Dr. Phil!” I accuse, shouting at his back as he jogs out of the room. When he’s out of sight, I retrieve my phone from the pocket of my jean shorts and call my mom again—I want to pick her brain for information.
“What’s wrong, honey? Did you find your room okay?”
“Yes, that’s all fine,” I say. “Do you remember Marshall Collins? He was a student of yours.”
“Cute kid, wavy hair … always cool, casual, and rumpled, like he just rolled out of bed, threw on a T-shirt and flip-flops, and walked out the door?”
“Yep, that sounds about right. Only cute has evolved into insanely hot, probably as a result of the final stage of puberty, which in males often happens between the ages of seventeen and nineteen. I’d guess he’s about twenty now.”
“Leave it to my Isabel to insert the phrase final stage of puberty into what could have been a great cute-boy gossip session,” Mom says. “So why are we talking about him? Is he a student?”
“He’s my RA. And I’m not sure insanely hot is right for me anyway. Looks are highly overrated. I did a six-week geriatric rotation, remember? I’ve seen what we all become eventually—wrinkled with saggy boobs and permanently flaccid male anatomy.”
“Oh boy, your RA, huh?” Mom says, ignoring the last part of my comment. “Does that ruin your little plan?”
“My little plan? You make it sound like I’m having a tea party with my stuffed animals. But no, it doesn’t ruin my plan. He’s just one person.” I relay the conversation to her word for word.
