"You're pre-med," he says, not a question.
I nod, still somewhat stunned.
"Makes sense. Your schedule has you studying sixteen hours a day. When's the last time you slept more than four hours?"
I bristle. "My sleep schedule is none of your concern."
He reaches into his bag, pulls out an energy bar, and offers it to me. "Your brain runs on glucose. That's your fourth coffee, but I haven't seen you eat anything."
"I'm fine," I say, even as my stomach betrays me with an audible growl.
He places the bar on my textbook, then stands up, unfolding to his full height. He must be at least 6'4", towering over my 5'7" frame.
"Good luck with your studies, Doc," he says with a slight smile that reaches his eyes.
"I'm not a doctor," I correct him.
"Not yet," he replies, then turns back to his friends, who are clearly watching us with interest.
As he walks away, I find myself staring at the energy bar. Reluctantly, I unwrap it and take a bite, hating that he was right. I desperately needed the calories.
If I lose one more pound, Momma is going to start showing up and force-feed me.
I glance over at his table, where he's listening to molecular structures with a wrinkle between his eyebrows. He catches my eye and winks at me.
I quickly look back at my textbook, cheeks burning.
Stupid jock, there's no heat behind it. Just confusion, and perhaps, though I'd never admit it to anyone, a tiny spark of interest.
Weeks later,I'm in my element: the Organic Chemistry lab. The sweet smell of various reagents fills my nostrils as I carefully measure 2.5 mL of a clear solution into a beaker.
"Moretti, your titration is perfect as usual," Dr. Hayes comments, peering over my shoulder at the precise colour change in my solution. "Textbook technique."
I allow myself a satisfied nod. This is where I belong, in the realm of exact measurements, predictable chemical reactions,and quantifiable results. Science makes sense. It follows rules. It's orderly.
Unlike Psychology, the current bane of my existence, I have the misfortune of needing it for my med school applications.
"When you're finished, please help Garcia with his pH calculations," Dr. Hayes adds before moving on to the next student.
I hide my sigh. Teaching isn't my strong suit. I understand the material perfectly, but explaining it to others requires patience I don't possess. I prefer my interactions with chemicals; they don't ask stupid questions.
Still, I nod. "Yes, Professor."
An hour later, I'm shoulder-to-shoulder with Russell, my closest friend among the pre-med students, walking across the mud puddles in the quad toward our Psychology 301 lecture.
"Did you finish the Myers-Briggs analysis?" Russell asks.
I scowl. "What a waste of time. Personality typing is pop Psychology garbage with no empirical validity."
"It's twenty percent of our grade," Russell reminds me gently.
"Which is why I did it. But I put my objections in the margins."
Russel laughs. "I'm sure Professor Harrington will appreciate that."
"The entire field is subjective nonsense," I keep going, getting into my favorite gripe. "You can't quantify human behaviour with any real precision. It's all just... feelings and interpretations."
"Med schools want doctors who understand people, not just diseases," Russell points out, not for the first time. "Those hearts you want to specialize in? They come with people attached.”
