Why is he volunteering to spend time with me? He can tell I don’t like him, and it’s pissing him off. Plus he’s a surgical resident. Legally, he’s capped at eighty hours of work a week, but everyone knows it’s more than that. I can’t believe he would sacrifice even more of his precious time.
Dr. Fields has a point, though. I need all the project experience I can get if I land a med school interview.
I sigh. “Yeah, okay. That’s, um, a good idea.”
Dr. Fields smiles and spreads his arms wide as if to say,See? I’m brilliant. My work is done.Grant exhales. His eyes flick toward me like he might have been worried about what I was going to say. Do I scare him? Good.
I stand up to wash my plastic container, wondering how I’ve gotten myself into more time with Grant.
I rummage in my bag for my water bottle as I stand in the parking garage. I need to work through some of the roiling stress of today, so I’ve got a date with the gym this evening.
“Damn it.” I sigh before making my way back through the halls, which are mostly empty since it’s late, and into the clinic. I enter through the employee entrance and grab my water bottle from the break room.
Low voices drift out from Dr. Planck’s office. A thin triangle of light projects out in the hallway. I stop just outside his door. It’s cracked a bit, so the conversation inside is easy to pick up on.
I should definitely move. I know what I’m going to do, though, before I go through with it. My breath stalls.
“I have concerns about working with her,” Grant says. “Not everyone has to like me, but she hates me so much it’simpacting patient care. Just today, she disagreed with me in front of a patient. And frankly, I have qualms about her going to med school if she can’t set aside petty grievances, or whatever this is.”
My stomach drops. That asshole. I barely even disagreed with him, anyway—I just pointed out that we had the patient’s x-rays so he might not need to order more. I strain forward to hear Dr. Planck’s reply.
“This is really hard for me, Dr. Wyndham,” Dr. Planck says. “You’re the only one with these concerns. Everyone else works well with her. You can report her if you have cause for that, but this isn’t her typical pattern of behavior.”
I back away from the door when his voice swells as though he’s moved a little closer. I look around me. Worst case scenario, I can duck into the hall closet. Or could I play it off like I’m just walking by? My fingers drift to my mouth, like I can hold back noise that way.
Grant’s sigh punctuates the silence. I take another step back. My heart pounds.
“I’ll give it more time,” he says. “But I swear I’m not imagining things. That woman hates me for no discernible reason. If it doesn’t get better, it might be worth alerting the admissions faculty about this.”
My gut plummets further. He wouldn’t. But I know he would—he always gets his way. He was always so intense. Wound tighter than a banjo string, my mom would say. I might jeopardize not only my current job but my future prospects if I don’t fix this.
I scurry away from the door, careful not to make any shuffling noises, my mind whirling with what I have to process. I sneak back out the employee door and head toward my car again.
Now I have a few choices.
I can tell him who I am, which is probably the best thing todo. It’s the action I would have taken if he were anyone else from high school. I’m not good with secrets, and I can’t deny the weightlessness I feel at the thought of spilling to him.
When I imagine the aftermath of that, though, my chest seizes and ice fills my veins. I want to cry, and I haven’t done that in months. Years, maybe.
So that option’s out for now.
I can hint I have good reason to hate him. Would that work for long? Probably not. I can be a little nicer and just grit my teeth and get through it. I didn’t realize I’d been that awful, anyway. I can continue with what I’m doing, and risk not getting accepted to med school because he’s badmouthed me to the faculty.
I bite my lip. I can fake pleasantness while still messing with him a bit. Little insults, like wrinkling my nose when he gets near as though he smells bad or sticking his coffee in the freezer when he’s not looking. He won’t have anything to complain about, at least nothing concrete, and I can have some fun.
I smile to myself. Bingo.
I pick up a gorgeous eyeshadow palette at the beauty store. Shimmery pink, gold, and ivory—yes, please.
Yikes. Eighty dollars? I gently set it back down. I have the money, technically, but one doesn’t move past years of frugality and fear without a scar on the psyche. Sometimes I dream of draping my body in designer clothing and dropping hundreds of bucks on beauty products, but I can’t bring myself to now, not when I still remember hiding school breakfast in my backpack so I knew I’d have something for dinner.
I turn to Joan, Maria, and Gwen—my best friends from nursing school—to find them hanging out in the skincaresection of the store, having a somewhat passionate discussion about whether or not SPF in foundation actually protects one’s skin.
Joan, ever the peacemaker, pats Gwen on the arm. “I think you’re right. You still need sunscreen on under it.”
Gwen nods and runs a hand over her blue-tipped, spiky hair. She points at my basket. “Ooh, blush. That looks fun.”
I pluck it out of my basket. “You think? I can’t decide.” I turn it, looking at it from different angles.
