by Julie Cross
“I don’t know you!” he shouts. “Did you party too hard last week and cut my class? Unacceptable.”
“No, I didn’t—”
Marshall pokes me in the back and whispers, “Rule number one in this class—don’t argue with the drill sergeant.”
“Come on, he’s not a real drill sergeant.”
At least twenty students have gathered around the circle drive in front of the rec center, watching Sergeant Holloway lean in, right next to my face, and blow hard on the whistle again.
“Did I hear you right?” he says, his voice booming across a half-mile radius. “I’m not a real drill sergeant? Well, you’re not a real soldier. Just a stupid girl who can’t run fast or do a push-up.”
“I can do a push-up,” I argue, then clamp my mouth shut, remembering Marshall’s advice.
“Drop and give me twenty!” Holloway lifts his chin and addresses the entire class. “All of you. Now!”
A groan erupts through the group as we all drop to the ground, gravel from the driveway digging into our palms. I glance at Marshall. He gives me his innocent I-told-you-so face, then he’s on the ground, whipping out his push-ups like it’s nothing.
“You can all thank our new student for inspiring me to give you the hardest workout of your lives today!” Holloway paces through the lines of students doing push-ups, stopping occasionally to press his foot on people’s backs or yell at them to suck in their gut.
I’m pretty sure he’s taking this drill sergeant role a little too seriously. I’m also pretty sure that my advisor must be as pissed off at me as Kelsey is, because she “highly recommended” this course as a wonderful and beneficial method of achieving physical fitness. She even said she’d heard great things about the instructor.
“One step out of line today and I’m flunking your asses!”
I guess technically you can flunk people in a pass/fail class, but typically that happens only if people don’t attend or participate. Not if they fall over from push-up exhaustion or their gut is too big to suck in.
By the end of the class, my knees and elbows are scraped from the army crawl section of the obstacle course and I’m so beat I can barely walk. Marshall did everything we did and stayed at the front of the group, but he appears to be fine, not near collapse like the rest of us.
Several students take a moment to glare at me and mumble a sarcastic thank-you before leaving. I rip off my T-shirt and use it to wipe sweat from my forehead so it won’t drip into my eyes. Marshall jogs to catch up with me after spending a few minutes chatting with our abusive instructor.
“I’m beginning to think you should listen to my advice more often,” he says.
“That’s probably a good idea.” I tug the bottom of my sports bra, making sure it stays in place and covers what it’s supposed to cover. “I feel like shit.”
“You need breakfast. That’ll get you going again.” He takes me by the shoulders and steers me toward the dining hall.
I pull out of his grip and angle myself toward our dorm. “No way. I can’t think about food. Must. Shower. Now.”
“I thought we were listening to my advice today,” Marshall says.
I glance around to see if anyone’s watching or listening. “Are you sure that’s allowed? You know, for RAs and residents …”
“Conversing and advising over a meal in a university dining hall is completely acceptable,” Marshall says. “In fact, it’s encouraged.”
Once inside, we both grab big glasses of water and start chugging, then I follow him through the line. Marshall told me to observe new things, but I can’t stop myself from watching him load his tray with food and analyzing the choices—three pancakes, passes up the butter but piles on syrup, two bananas, a bagel with cream cheese, a blueberry muffin, and a refill on his glass of water. Not exactly displaying the picky-eater label he gave himself last week.
My tray, on the other hand, contains a small serving of scrambled eggs, two big scoops of cut-up melon, a container of light yogurt, and a glass of orange juice.
Marshall finds us seats easily since it’s still before nine and the dining hall doesn’t get really crowded until closer to lunchtime. I sit down across from him, my eyes still glued to his tray.
“Don’t even think about commenting on my breakfast selection,” he warns.
I stuff a forkful of eggs into my mouth to keep from commenting, but still the words slip out: “Just thinking about those steroids you mentioned last week.”
His jaw freezes mid-chew. “I seriously can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”
Am I that hard to read? I shrug and suppress a smile. “If we really needed an answer, I could always ask you to drop your shorts and see if your testicles have atrophied.”
Okay, so that’s an Isabel Jenkins, M.D., thing to say, but since Marshall knows who I really am, I don’t feel like I have to ditch all of that part of me. Which is good considering that I’m here to figure out how to progress in the M.D. world.
“Atrophied?” he asks, his mind evidently on the testicular discussion.
“Shrank.”
He resumes chewing. “Still can’t tell if you’re serious.”
“You don’t use anabolic steroids.” I pop a slice of melon into my mouth and watch him inhale his pancakes. “Your moods are fine. You’re very even-tempered. I’ve only seen you shave about three times in the last week.”
He points a fork at me. “Yes, you are definitely observing the wrong things.”
“Maybe.” I sigh. “Probably.”
“Definitely.”
From the corner of my eye, I see two girls from the English 101 class that I had to drop last week after annoying the instructor by pointing out a copyright issue with his so-called original writing. Had he published it, he could have been sued. I thought it was the right thing to do. Now, however, I’m pretty sure that keeping my mouth shut would have been the better choice. The girls are glancing my way and then leaning in to whisper to each other.
This is elementary school all over again. And the dance classes Mom enrolled me in. The T-ball team Dad forced me to play on for half a season until we were both knee deep in parent and teammate conflicts. Then there was the Girl Scout troop and summer camp. The list goes on for miles.
“I like your mom a lot,” Marshall says, interrupting my thoughts. “I forgot to mention that last week. She was a pretty cool teacher. She made it fun, you know?”
No, I don’t know. Classes haven’t ever been not-fun for me. “I’ve never seen her teach.”
Marshall shrugs. “Well, you should sometime.”
I can’t stop looking at those girls and then looking away. They’re still talking about me. That much I know for sure.
“What’s up with them?” Marshall asks, nodding their way.
I stare down at my tray. “Don’t know. Probably just commenting on how weird I am.”
“Izzy—”
A guy I know as the third-floor RA for our dorm interrupts us before Marshall can say anything more. He claps Marsh on the back and leans down to whisper, “Thank you for handling the difficult chick on your floor. Kelsey nearly exploded on me a few days ago, and she just said hi to me in the hall. Seemed totally fine.”
Panic fills Marshall’s face, and he opens his mouth to interrupt, but the other guy won’t let him get a word in. “Whatever you did, man, keep it up. ’Cause that chick sounds like a complete nutcase.”
I put Marshall’s panic together with this guy’s words, and it all clicks into place. He’s talking about me. Except he doesn’t know I’m sitting here. I’m just a name on a stack of pink conflict resolution forms.
And then it occurs to me that Marshall is babysitting me. He’s made it his job to keep me out of trouble so that he stays out of trouble. Tears sting the corners of my eyes as I watch the other RA walk away. Marshall sighs and runs a hand through his hair. He knows that I know.
I’m not normal. I’m never going to be normal. I’m never going to pass tha
t test and become a surgeon. There’s no fixing me. So what’s next? Shutting myself in a lab with rodents for the rest of my life?
I stand up and pick up my tray. “I’ve got class later and … I need to shower and stuff.”
Marshall lifts his head, shame and pity filling his expression. “Izzy, wait …”
But I don’t wait. I can’t stand the thought of seeing that look of pity a second longer or having Marshall as my babysitter. This whole “normal college experience” was a terrible idea. I’m so done with this.
Chapter 6
I barely take anything with me.
I grab a clean T-shirt, my purse, and my keys, then head out to the student parking lot. I can’t stand the thought of running into Marshall, Kelsey, or anyone who’s come in contact with my incident reports over the last week. I’ll arrange to have my stuff sent home. Or I’ll send my mom to get it for me. She can make up an excuse for my departure: mononucleosis, maybe, or a death in the family. That should do the trick. It’s not like I’ll ever have to see any of these people again.
My guess is, my parents won’t be the least bit surprised that I couldn’t survive this plan. These are basically the only kinds of failures I’ve experienced in my life—getting along with others. Or belonging to anyone but them. They’re amazingly patient, tolerant, and accepting. I hit the adoptive parent lottery, and I’ve tried to never let myself forget that fact.
The whole two-hour drive, I’m restless, dying to walk through the front door of my house and smell the familiar scent. Stretch out across my larger, more comfortable bed and bury myself in some kind of medical research project. We’ve only gone on a handful of family vacations since my parents became my parents. And never for more than a week. I haven’t done any traveling beyond some short weekend trips on my own. I’ve never left the country. Already it feels like I’ve been away from home forever, and it’s not even been two weeks.
Turning onto my street already lifts some of the anxiety I was feeling. I park in an empty space across the street from my house, bolt out of the car, and head toward the front steps. I get halfway up the path and come to a dead stop.
A large white and red metal sign is pushed into the grass in our front yard, the words FOR SALE written in blue letters.
What the hell?
I fumble around for my house key, knots forming in the pit of my stomach. The first thing I notice after stepping through the doors of my house is the empty den. My dad’s office. The large L-shaped desk is gone, leaving behind imprints in the carpet where the legs have rested for years. The bookshelves are still there, but half empty. My heart is flying as I charge the stairs up to my room. I fling open the door but don’t even walk inside—nothing’s changed here. I jog down the hall and stop in front of one of the guest rooms. The queen bed and matching dresser are gone.
My feet are glued to the hallway carpet, my brain digging for answers. Then finally, after coming up empty, I flip the lights off, head back downstairs, and walk out the front door.
Because my day has been so full of bad luck, the first person I spot at the hospital who may be of help to me is Justin. And he’s got four eager and completely green interns at his heels.
“Have you seen my dad?” I’m not in the mood for any brand of small talk.
Justin stops, glances over his shoulder at the fledglings behind him, then turns back to me. “This is Isabel Jenkins,” he explains. “We did our internship together.”
All four of them go simultaneously wide-eyed. Great. Damn hospital gossip.
“My dad. Have you seen him?” I repeat with more urgency.
Justin leans against the nurses’ station counter and grins. “How’s the University of Wherever the Hell You’re at Now? Are you making friends? Meeting any cute boys?”
“Screw you,” I say before stomping away from him and heading for the surgical board. I scan the list and search for Dr. Jenkins. He’s in OR four doing an aortic valve repair. I pace outside the operating room door for thirty minutes. I’m still in my clothes from this morning’s boot camp class, my hair a mess from getting all sweaty and then drying up with no shower. The second Dad exits the OR, he takes one look at me and knows something is wrong.
“I went home,” I tell him before he can ask.
Dad draws in a breath, his eyes already pained. He pulls the mask off his face and tosses it into a nearby garbage can. Two third-year residents I recognize exit the OR, and Dad quickly turns to them, saying, “Can you speak with the family and take them into recovery when the patient wakes up?”
Both nod, and Dad leads me to an empty stairwell, sitting down on the steps. I can’t sit, but I attempt to lean against the railing and push off seconds later, resuming my pacing.
“I was going to tell you soon,” he says, lifting his eyes from his lap and meeting my gaze. “Everything got all messed up when you didn’t get the residency at Johns Hopkins.”
“What does Johns Hopkins have to do with the FOR SALE sign in our yard?” Had they been planning on following me to Baltimore and then gotten in a bind because they’d already secretly committed to selling the house? I bet that’s it. It has to be.
Dad rakes a hand through his hair. “You mom and I … we’re …” He stops and swallows, his Adam’s apple popping out, and my heart speeds up, sweat forming in my palms. “We’re getting a divorce.”
“What?” My mouth is literally hanging open. My eyes dart around the stairwell. It’s like the walls are caving in slowly and soon I’ll be buried alive in this hospital. The place where all my failures are laid out in front of me. I rub at the front of my shirt, my chest tightening again. “You can’t get divorced.… I don’t—why?”
I don’t even know if hearing why will help the crushing, world-flipping feeling I’m experiencing right now. I lean back against the wall, closing my eyes and attempting to force out the claustrophobic vibe this confined windowless space is now giving off.
“We thought you’d be in Baltimore living in your own place, creating a new life for yourself, so your mother suggested we wait,” Dad explains. “You didn’t get into the program, but then you were off to school, and we thought it was time …”
I lift my head, narrowing my eyes at him. “You were gonna let me move across the country and then what? Call me up to tell me my parents now have two addresses for holiday cards to be sent? Or were you planning to simply change your Facebook status from married to single and consider me informed?”
“Isabel,” Dad says, the rare warning tone emerging, “this isn’t about you. We all have our lives to live. You’re an adult now. It’s not like we’re putting you in the middle of a custody dispute.”
My hands are shaking. My legs, too.
He’s right. I’m an adult. I shouldn’t be freaking out like this. But it’s different for me. My parents didn’t become my parents until I was five years old. And while I know that logically it’s false, it feels like if they’re not together, then I don’t belong to them. And that means I don’t belong to anyone, considering my birth mother died when I was three months old.
This is not something I want to relive today.
There’s a huge lump in my throat, making it difficult to swallow or speak. Crying would make the lump go away, but I’m too shocked to cry. Maybe tomorrow they’ll change their minds. Maybe tomorrow Johns Hopkins will change its decision, too, and realize that it was a huge mistake to reject me.
I’ll be able to keep going if even one of those things happens.
I look at my dad again, my eyes probably pleading for help. “What now? What are your plans?”
His plans, Mom’s plans … I want him or my mom to answer ridiculous questions that shouldn’t even be crossing my mind, like Is Mom going to change her last name back to her maiden name? If she does, will I still be Jenkins? Will I have a room at your place or Mom’s? Where are you going to live? Where am I going to live?
It’s like I’m four years old again, sitting alone in the corner of my foster f
amily’s living room while they all squeeze onto the couch, posing for a holiday card photo—a mom, a dad, a brother, and a sister. And me, the weird little girl in the corner who has a battered copy of A Wrinkle in Time spread across her lap. She pretends to be completely fine with her isolation, and if she’d said something, the family probably would have taken the photo in secret, but she doesn’t say anything. She’s learned that the quieter she is, the more independent, the longer she gets to stay in one house.
Internalizing everything is not something I’ve had to do in years, but I think I’m headed down that road again. If I don’t go back to NIU and face Marshall’s babysitting and my shared room with Kelsey, I’ll be sentencing myself to sit around for six months and contemplate how weird I am, how different, how alone in my world I am, and how I have no genetic connection to my parents. Or anyone else that’s alive, at least that I know of. And now my parents are about to sever the one connection they have—marriage. Unless I count as another binding ingredient, bridging them together?
I release a shaky breath and pull myself together before saying to my dad, “I’m gonna go see Mom at work and then head back to DeKalb and you can continue all your secret divorce plans. It’ll be much easier with me out of the way.”
Jesus Christ, I don’t want to go back. But if it’s a choice between facing Kelsey and a great deal of resident advisor humiliation or having a front-row seat to watch my family fall apart … this is the easiest decision I’ve had to make in a long time.
“Isabel,” Dad says, reaching for me before I can take off.
I shake out of his grip and turn my back to him. “Just let me deal with this my own way, okay?”
Luckily, he doesn’t argue, and I escape before I’m forced to explain my childish views on this divorce. But choosing to go back to the humiliation and failure I literally fled from this morning, rather than stay here and watch more rooms in my house become empty, is like being asked to choose which disease I’d rather have. Smallpox or whooping cough? TB or hepatitis C? Cancer or heart disease?