Except maybe I do care after all.
Damn it.
After the “tour” of the house is over, I find Mason sitting at the dining room table. He’s staring down at the placemat, a glazed look in his eyes. For a moment, I remember all those Sinemet tablets I’ve been slipping him and wonder if they could be having any effect. Probably not. He’s probably just tired from lack of sleep.
“Hey,” I say, sliding into the seat next to him.
He startles, even though I’m sure he must have heard me come into the room. For a moment, he looks at me like he has no idea who I am. Then he shakes his head as if to clear it and offers me a crooked smile.
“Hi,” he says.
“I saw your old room,” I say.
“Yeah?” Mason grins. “God, I haven’t been in there in… a while, I guess. Hey, did you see if my Green Day poster is still on the wall?”
“Um, I don’t remember,” I say, “but I did see the picture of Holly.”
Why did I say that? Oh well, too late to take it back now.
“Who?”
Okay, he doesn’t know who she is. That’s a good sign.
“That girl in the picture from Switzerland,” I remind him.
“Oh, her.” He rolls his eyes. “Christ, is that photo still on the shelf? I think my mother is in love with her.”
“Actually, your mother says you gave her a ring…” I study his face, watching his reaction.
He narrows his eyes. “Holly and I broke up before college ended. I never gave her a ring… but so what if I did? What’s the difference to you?”
I feel my cheeks burn. Mason has never spoken to me that way before and I don’t appreciate it. Maybe I’m not his girlfriend, but he’s always at least treated me with respect. This is the first time he has ever made me feel like he’s just using me for sex.
And when I look into his eyes, I realize even that part of our relationship is over for good.
Chapter 63
I have a really good feeling after the second anatomy exam. During the anatomy practical, I felt confident of my answers for nearly all of the pins and the written part of the exam was like a cakewalk. I know I aced it.
Of course, no matter how well I do, it seems like Mason is just always a little bit better than me. When the scores are posted, I fully expect to see his number at the top of the list, just like always.
The scores are posted outside the anatomy lab and I go to check them right before going to lab. There’s a small crowd of students looking at their scores and I slide past them to get a closer view of the list. I look up and find my score on the exam: Ninety-four.
Ninety-four. Okay, it could be better. I’m slightly disappointed. But it’s still a good grade—an honors-level grade.
But moment of truth: did anyone do better than me?
I scan the list of scores and find that nobody got a perfect hundred percent. One person got a ninety-five and one got an impressive ninety-seven. But the good news is that neither of those people are Mason Howard, based on the ID number. Which means that for once, I beat Mason.
Victory! Ha, maybe I’ll go rub it in his face.
Just out of curiosity, I scan the list, searching for Mason’s number. I’m perplexed when at first I can’t find his score. Then I see it, at the very bottom of the list: thirty-seven.
Mason failed the exam.
It must be some kind of mistake. There’s no way Mason could have failed. He’s the best student in the class. He’s the only person to ever get a perfect score on the practical. People like that don’t fail exams. That can’t be right.
Of course, I’ve noticed that Mason hasn’t been studying in the library anymore. But I just figured he was avoiding me after that awkward dinner. I did see him on the day of the exam, hunched in a corner, his hair wild, a week’s worth of stubble on his chin. He looked awful, especially for Mason, but I just assumed it was because of the marathon studying.
It can’t be because of the Sinemet, can it?
No. No way. It was just a few pills. Dad used to take like five of those a day, and at worst, I only gave Mason two a day. And besides, I haven’t given him any pills in weeks. No, it’s got to be something else. Maybe some personal issues he’s having.
I try to put Mason out of my mind as I go into the lab. Weirdly enough, the smell of formaldehyde doesn’t even bother me anymore. I almost enjoy it, because it reminds me of how much I’ve learned in this short period of time. With every passing day, my dream of becoming a doctor at Yale is drawing closer and closer. My father would be so proud of me.
Rachel is already standing by the cadaver, dissecting near his left shoulder. I lean over the body to see what she’s doing, because in all honesty, she usually messes everything up. But instead, I see the perfectly dissected nerves running through the shoulder.
“Nice job on the brachial plexus,” I comment.
Rachel smiles. “Thanks,” she says, “although I can’t totally take credit. Matt was helping me with it earlier.”
Matt? Who’s Matt?
There’s nobody in the class named Matt. And there aren’t any teaching assistants named Matt. Who is this mysterious Matt who’s been helping Rachel suddenly turn into an anatomy genius?
Wait a minute…
Oh my God…
She’s talking about Dr. Conlon.
Rachel is calling our professor by his first name. She’s somehow gotten to be on a first-name basis with the guy. I close my eyes for a moment and recall a couple of months ago, when I caught Dr. Conlon staring at Rachel’s chest.
Holy shit, they’re sleeping together.
Dr. Conlon limps over to us at that moment. When he sees Rachel, he gets this big dopey grin on his face.
“How is everything going, girls?”
“I’m just about finished,” Rachel says.
Dr. Conlon leans over the cadaver slightly to get a better view of Rachel’s dissection. He nods in approval, “Very nice job. Very nice.”
Yeah, they’re definitely hooking up.
Damn. No wonder Rachel never needs to study.
Dr. Conlon’s eyes rest on me. For a moment, I hold out a desperate hope that he’s going to quiz me or offer me assistance or praise or criticism or at least remember my goddamn name, but instead, he asks, “Have you seen Mason recently?”
Of course, he’s asking about Mason.
“No,” I say.
“Hmm,” Dr. Conlon murmurs.
There’s concern in his blue eyes and I recall Mason’s failing score on the last exam. He’s probably scared Mason’s going to kill himself or something. As if—Mason definitely isn’t the suicide type.
Unfortunately, even with Mason out of the way, I still don’t have the highest score on the last exam. And of course, now Rachel’s got the edge for obvious reasons. It seems like no matter how hard I try, people keep beating me out. It’s so unfair. There’s no way to be number one.
Unless…
I look up at Rachel, who’s talking to Dr. Conlon. He’s practically undressing her with his eyes as she talks. It’s so wrong that Rachel is taking advantage of the fact that Dr. Conlon is obviously lonely and probably can’t get a girl to sleep with him otherwise. She’s manipulating him in order to ace a class that she rightfully deserves to fail.
And why should Rachel be the only one to benefit from her little scheme?
Chapter 64
I stand outside Rachel’s locker, my hands shaking. Last night, I spent over an hour composing a letter to Rachel. I wrote several drafts and ended up crumbling most of them up. It took me several tries until the handwriting seemed sufficiently unrecognizable. But then I got paranoid about fingerprints, so I did the whole thing over again while wearing rubber gloves from lab. I finally settled on the following:
“I know all about you and Dr. Conlon. Put the answers to the final exam under the door of Locker 282 or else everyone will find out the truth.”
Locker 282 is one of the empty lockers at the end o
f the hallway. I put a lock on it and figure I can collect the papers late at night when nobody is around. Rachel will probably try to keep an eye on the locker, but she can’t watch it all the time. It’s a perfect plan.
I may be crossing a line by doing this. Believe me, I’ve never cheated before. I’ve considered it once or twice, but never ended up going through with it. But it feels like the only way to level the playing field. I mean, Rachel gets an edge through sleeping with Dr. Conlon and Mason gets an edge because he’s good-looking and charismatic—it’s just not fair.
And yes, I know that’s sort of bullshit.
I look around the hallway before removing the note from my pocket. I take a deep breath and quickly slide the piece of paper under the crack at the bottom of Rachel’s locker. As soon as the white sheet disappears, regret washes over me. I almost wish I could somehow retrieve it. But it’s gone. I did it.
And actually, I don’t feel that bad about it.
I quickly back away from the locker, hurrying down the hallway. I don’t want anyone to see me. I’m heading in the direction of the library when I practically slam into a very pale-looking Mason stumbling out of the men’s room. He collapses against the wall, like his legs can no longer support him.
“Mason?”
I bend down next to him. He doesn’t look up at me at first—he just stares at the floor with that glazed look in his eyes. He’s still unshaven and looks like he hadn’t even showered in days. He looks horrible, more like some vagrant from the street than the confident guy I started hooking up with a few months ago.
Shit, I didn’t do this to him, did I?
No, I couldn’t have. I tossed those pills in a dumpster ages ago. It must be the stress.
“Mason?” I repeat.
Finally, he looks up at me. I gasp when I see how bloodshot his eyes are.
“What?” he says. His voice cracks slightly when he speaks.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
The question seems almost ridiculous. He is so obviously not okay.
“No, I’m not okay,” he says, spittle flying out of his mouth as he speaks. “I’m going to be murdered. Just like Frank.”
There’s something very frightening in his eyes, something very unfamiliar. I remember how at the beginning of the year he smiled at me across the table in the library and I got lost in his eyes. I remember the passion with which he had ripped my blouse open and pressed his lips onto mine. He seems like an entirely different person now.
Mason needs help. That’s really obvious. I could talk to the dean or maybe tell Patrice. Or even Dr. Conlon, who is obviously already concerned. But I’m scared. What if they find out that someone has been drugging him? How long will it take Mason to put it together after he remembers all those coffees I brought him? He’s a smart guy, after all. And I was so careless.
And really, isn’t this what I always wanted? To get Mason out of the picture? He’s been my greatest competition in the class and now he’s no longer a threat. And who’s to say it’s because of the Sinemet? It probably isn’t. I’m sure it’s just that the stress has finally gotten to him. But if I ‘fessed up what had really happened, I’m sure I’d get blamed. And maybe kicked out of medical school.
No, nobody can find out about this.
After all, what’s the worst that can happen?
_____
When I arrive at anatomy lab the next day, Rachel is staring down at the cadaver with a horrified expression on her face.
We’ve been working on the arms and legs—Rachel completed a perfect dissection of the left arm, undoubtedly with the aid of her lover, Dr. Matthew Conlon. I remember how Mason used to ogle Rachel too—what is so damn attractive about Rachel? Why are men falling for her left and right? Of course, it probably didn’t take much to lure in a pathetic loser like Dr. Conlon.
I approach Rachel, who seems nearly frozen.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
That’s when I see for myself what Rachel is staring at.
Somebody has massacred our cadaver. The arms and legs have literally been shredded. Someone has taken a scalpel and ripped apart every muscle in Frank’s body.
“Oh my God,” I breathe.
My first thought is: Mason.
Mason must have done it. God knows why, but I saw something terrible in his eyes yesterday. And if he’s capable of doing this, what else is he capable of?
I have to tell someone. I have to get Mason help. I have to—
“What happened here?” Dr. Conlon limps over to us. There is a concerned crease between his dark eyebrows.
I hear Rachel whisper softly in my ear, “Ginny, don’t…”
I don’t know what that means though.
“Someone destroyed our cadaver!” I speak up. The tears welling up in my eyes are real.
Dr. Conlon’s mouth falls open as he inspects the damage. Rachel is strangely silent. I wonder if she’s told Conlon about the blackmail letter. He seemed a little too cheerful in class this morning to know about it.
But he doesn’t seem cheerful anymore. Dr. Conlon’s face grows very dark.
“I can’t believe a student in my class would do such a sick thing,” he says. He looks up at me, “Do you have any idea who did this?”
I need to confess. I need to tell him all about Mason. That he’s sick and needs help, before it’s too late. I don’t need to admit to my part in it.
But I can’t say it. My jaw feels glued shut. And before I can stop myself, I slowly shake my head no.
Here’s the sad truth:
I want Mason to fail.
Nobody deserves to get through life as easily as he does. Nobody deserves to live in that giant house with two doting parents, to be handsome and brilliant, to get absolutely everything he wants in life. I want Mason to sink deeper and deeper into the hole. So deep that he can never crawl out.
Chapter 65
I try to push the guilt out of my head as I lose myself in studying.
The library is open until three a.m., and I intend to stay there until closing time tonight. For some reason, it’s comforting to stare at diagrams of arteries, nerves, and muscles. I try to blank out everything except anatomy.
But it’s hard to focus. I keep thinking about that letter I stuffed into Rachel’s locker. Is Rachel really going to get me a copy of the exam? And if she does, will I really look at it? I’ve never cheated before. This really crosses a line.
And of course, if Rachel doesn’t get me the exam, should I make good on my threat and blow the whistle on their little sex romp? An offense like that is enough to get Dr. Conlon fired and Rachel kicked out of school. I don’t have much sympathy for Rachel, but I’d feel sorry for Dr. Conlon. He’s a really good teacher who clearly cares a lot about his students. I can tell his job means everything to him. It’s not his fault that Rachel is playing him for a grade.
But really, what I can’t stop thinking about is Mason. As I look at the diagrams of the arms and legs, I can’t help but think about what he did to our cadaver. The Sinemet capsules are long out of his system though—the matter is out of my hands. Mason has friends, a roommate, and his family to look out for him. It shouldn’t all fall on my shoulders.
But then sometimes I think back to the way he used to kiss me. The way he’d smile at me. The way we ripped each other’s clothes off like the ship was going down. Mason isn’t just my classmate. At one time, I actually really liked him.
“Ginny!”
I practically jump out of my skin. I gasp when I behold the person who used to be Mason Howard standing before me. He looks awful. His clothing is wrinkled and stained, his hair is disheveled, he has a week’s growth of a beard on his face, and there are dark circles under his eyes.
He seems out of breath. He bends down in front of me and takes my hand in his like he’s about to propose. There’s a terrible, haunted look in his bloodshot hazel eyes.
“Ginny…” he whispers.
I try not to let on how shocked I am by h
is appearance. I force a smile. “Hey, Mason.”
“Ginny, I think…” He takes a deep breath. “I think there’s something wrong with me. I… I think I’m losing it…” As he speaks the words, his eyes fill up with tears.
I’ve never seen Mason cry. I’ve only seen a man cry once in my entire life: when my father watched me graduate from college.
“Please help me,” he whispers.
He buries his face in his hands, his trembling fingers reaching into his brown hair and compulsively pulling at the strands.
Why should I help him? Nobody ever helped me.
He looks back up at me, the desperation plain on his face. He’s having his first lucid moment in a long time and he’s realizing what is happening to him. It’s almost heartbreaking.
Almost.
“Calm down,” I say, trying to put conviction into my words. “You’re fine. Everyone gets nervous before a big exam.”
Mason is shaking his head, mouthing the word “no.”
“Come on,” I say. “Think about it: people who are crazy don’t know they’re crazy, right? You’re just being a typical med student hypochondriac.”
I watch his face, waiting to see if he’ll buy it.
“Maybe…” he says slowly.
“You just need to get some sleep,” I say in my most gentle voice. Hey, maybe I’ve got a career in psychiatry. As if.
Mason’s shoulders sag.
“Yeah, maybe you’re right.” He sighs and looks back up at me. For a moment, he’s his old self as he offers me a half-hearted grin, “Hey, do you want to go to the locker rooms…?”
Even with everything going on, I’m tempted. Even with his disheveled appearance, Mason is still very attractive. But I can’t. Not after everything I’ve done to him. Just looking at him makes me sort of hate myself.
_____
Usually when I start studying, I’m like a machine. I keep going until I’ve gotten through everything I intended to learn at the beginning of the session and then some.
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