by Anthony Youn
“I’ve been meaning to call you. I have a couple of questions.”
“Oh?”
She’s the last person on earth I expect to call me.
“Or, you know what, if you want to meet later—”
I’m facing hours of studying for my upcoming urinary-tract exam, but what the hell. I need a wo-man, right? But Amy? I thought she hated me.
“How’s five o’clock?” She’s positively glowing. “After the ghoul sets us free.”
“It’s a date.”
Is it?
It is. Sort of. We sit across from each other in the medical-student lounge, sprawled in ratty armchairs, sipping bitter lukewarm cocoa we’ve gotten out of a vending machine. Amy sips, frowns, puts her Styrofoam cup on the floor, and leans forward, her hands folded as if in prayer. “I owe you an apology.”
“For what?”
“I’ve been a little . . . cold. You know, when I see you in the halls, on campus, the library. I’ve been kind of cold.”
“You’re not cold. You run the other way.”
She blushes, laughs, dips her head.
“I wouldn’t call that cold,” I say. “That I would call repulsed. Revolted. Disgusted.”
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry.”
We sip our cocoa. This stuff tastes like motor oil.
“I’m not repulsed,” she says.
I laugh. I like this girl.
“Do you have questions?” I say.
“No,” she says. “I just wanted to get together.”
I like her even more.
“Um.” I smack my lips. “This hot chocolate is delicious.”
We both nod officiously as if we’re at a cocoa tasting.
“That taste,” she says.
“Bittersweet, I believe. Perhaps a hint of milk chocolate.”
“I was going to say mulch.”
Maybe it’s my state of mind, my lack of sleep, my need to connect, or my sudden comfort with her, but I lose it. What’s even better is that Amy loses it, too. We laugh until tears come.
“Wow.” Composed. Tears dried on napkins. “I haven’t laughed that hard in years. There was nudity involved.”
“Yours?”
Okay. I love this girl.
“So, I want to know. Why did you hate me?”
“I told you. I didn’t hate you.” She pauses, rubs the arm of her overstuffed chair. I find that kind of sexy. “You want the truth?”
“No. Lie. Yes, I want the truth.”
“It’s sensitive. You have to be discreet.”
“I am. Everyone confides in me. I know a ton of secrets. I have a horrible memory, so you can tell me anything.”
“It was Tanja.”
“Your roommate?”
She nods. I scarcely know Tanja. I’ve seen her maybe twice. Tanja is large, shy, Navajo, and unpleasant. I’m not a big fan.
“She has a crush on you.”
“What?”
“Had. She claimed you first before I could protest. She had such a huge crush that I felt I should back off. I didn’t want anything to come between Tanja and me. I have to live with her.”
“And that’s why you hated me?”
“That’s why I was cold.”
“I get it. I think. You women. So confounding.”
“We are challenging. By the way, Tony?” She speaks into her Styrofoam cup, the sides of which she has begun to crumble between her fingers. “I’m having the best time.”
She mumbles this.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“I didn’t.”
Amy stands abruptly, stretches. “Well, big sib. I have a ton of stuff to do.”
“You think you have a lot to do now. Wait.”
“Walk me home.”
We gather our stuff. I want to put an arm around her, hold her hand. I want to kiss her. But I don’t do anything. I shove my hands in my pockets and keep my eyes glued to the ground. I don’t want to spoil what has been maybe the best hour of the last decade.
We reach her dorm, stop at her front door. Our only moment of awkwardness sets in. We don’t speak. We don’t move.
“I will call you,” she says. “With questions.”
“I want you to.”
“You can call me, too.”
“I will. With answers. Maybe. Doubtful. But you never know. Even a blind squirrel finds his nuts sometimes. That didn’t come out right.”
She shines that ice-melting smile on me like a high beam. “We don’t even have to talk about med school.”
“Good. Great. I like that.”
“So, again, I’m sorry. Friends?” She holds her hand out. We shake. We don’t let go for a long time.
“Well, see you,” I say. I can’t tell which of us breaks away first. I turn to go, turn back. “What happened?”
Amy tips her head slightly, frowns. Really cute.
“With Tanja?” I say. “What happened to her crush on me?”
“She went lesbian.”
I nod. “Good choice for her.”
She grins, pivots, heads toward her dorm. I watch her go, my eyes fixated on her back. When she hits the door, she raises her hand and waves. Never looking back at me.
Wow. Is it possible? Do I got me a wo-man?
WEEKS OF PBL domains blow by. I bust for each exam, study more than anyone I know. With all this work and angst, I still barely eke by on every test. But now most nights, when I wind down, I add another activity between flossing and channel surfing—a phone call to Amy. We joke, we complain, we laugh, we gossip, we flirt. On occasion, during study breaks, we meet at the med-school lounge for bad cocoa. We’re friends now, confidants, and I know we’re both interested in more. I can feel it. I think. I’m fairly certain. But with Tim’s two-date rule hanging over my head like an ax, I’m afraid to take our friendship further.
“You should ask her out, Youner. Officially. Move this thing along,” Tim says.
“But what if nothing happens by the second date?”
“You bail. Next. You know the rule.”
“That’s what worries me. I don’t want to mess this up. I like her too much. I don’t know what to do.”
“Man up. Show some spine, dude. Oh, no. What time is it? I have to call Jane. She gets pissed when I’m late.”
With first semester a painful memory and second semester relentlessly pulverizing us, Ricky takes over and moves things along for me. He sees that we’re all walking like zombies and that we need to blow off steam. He decides that we will host what he calls the med-school bash of all time, a party that will become legend. He invites a hundred of his closest friends. We chip in for food and kegs. Ricky decorates, chooses the perfect theme for Michigan in February—Wacky Waikiki. In the Nerd Room, I invite Amy. Officially.
“I’m confused.” She’s mangled her cup into a ruin of Styrofoam debris. “Are you inviting me to this party as your date or your sib?”
“Yes.”
“Which one?”
“My date.”
“Your date.”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“No.”
She reaches out with her foot and bashes my boot with hers. “I accept.”
“Cool,” I say. “I’m nervous. I don’t want to do anything to screw this up.”
She punishes the last of the cup. “Then don’t.”
TWO NIGHTS BEFORE the party. I reach for the phone to dial Amy, and the phone rings, stuns me. I laugh, pick it up. “Hey. I was just going to call you. We’re like two bodies with one brain.”
A husky coo. “That’s what I think, too.”
Bianca.
“Whoa.” The phone slips, falls out of my hand, bangs on the concrete floor. I reel it back up by the phone cord. “Bianca. Hi.”
“It’s been a while. Why haven’t you called me?”
“Why? Well. Second year. It’s totally brutal. Like boot camp. You have no idea. I’ve been studying round-the-clock. Nonstop. Twenty-four/seven.
I barely have time to breathe.”
I’m rambling like the Rain Man.
“Hey, I hear you’re having this awesome party.”
“Yes. Yes, we are. Ricky’s idea. It’ll be a total scene. I only got invited because I live here.”
“Is it okay if I come? Ricky said it would be.”
Where is Ricky? I need to strangle him.
“I’m so excited about this party,” Bianca says.
“Sweet,” I say.
“I’m really excited to see you, too,” Bianca says.
Gulp.
“Yeah. Me, too,” I say. “Sweet.”
We hang up.
My forehead feels hot to the touch.
FOR THE NEXT two days straight, Bianca hijacks my thoughts. I cannot kick her out of my head. Her exotic looks. Mocha skin. Wild black hair. That accent. Those lips. Those hips. The body that drives sane men insane. Really excited to see me. That’s what she said. She called me out of the blue. Out of nowhere. She’d been a little cool when we went out. Not cool now. Not cool on the phone. Hot. Hot for me. She’s had a change of heart. It happens. Take a look at what else is out there, and you find yourself falling in love with what you had before. Almost had. Could’ve had.
Calm down, Tony. Take it easy. Chill.
Really excited to see me. Really excited. I heard those words. Tim’s stupid two-date rule. She’s Latina. She has different rules. Latina rules. It might take more than two dates. Could take three or four or seven dates. So what? This is a smoking-hot woman. How many dates should you take with a woman this hot? What’s that rule, Tim? Because Bianca—sizzling-hot Bianca—burns up my dreams. One question. Probably not important now. But keeps popping up.
What about Amy?
My own words boomerang into my brain and knock Bianca into a corner.
I don’t want to do anything to mess this up.
“Then don’t.”
SATURDAY NIGHT. SEVEN o’clock. Party starts in one hour. I lie in my bed, comatose. I haven’t called Amy in two days. I’ve gone deep undercover. Incommunicado. First time in months we’ve gone over a day without speaking. I’m frozen. I close my eyes and see Bianca wearing a sheer white dress. She circles around me, wiggles her finger to come to her. I move toward her. I stop. I blink and see . . . Amy.
Bianca.
Amy.
Bianca.
“If you don’t get your ass out of bed, you’re gonna lose both of them.” James. Standing in the doorway. Easy for him to say. As soon as the party starts, he’ll have a dozen women draping themselves all over him, even though he’s still with Daisy.
“I’m sick,” I say. “I have some kind of flu.”
Ricky now. At the foot of my bed. He pulls the covers off me. I’m wearing only my boxers.
“If you don’t get out of bed by the time I count to three, I’m getting in there with you. One.”
I’m on my feet. Wobbling toward the laundry room shower.
“No, no, no,” Ricky says. “Tonight you use the big-boy bathroom.” I take an hour in Ricky’s bathroom. Finally, clean, coiffed, clutching a plastic cup half filled with brew that I hold against my chest, I hide in a corner as the party unrolls. Bianca arrives first. She removes her coat slow as a stripper and shakes out her hair. She’s wearing a short, tight skirt and see-through blouse. Wait. Is she not wearing a bra? Holy shit. She’s not wearing a bra! I’m not 100 percent sure, because my glasses have fogged up.
“Tony!” Bianca lassos my neck with both arms. Then she kisses me on the mouth. American-style. “You look great, Tony.”
That is such a lie. I look like crap. I haven’t slept in six months.
“You. Too. Look great.” I’m talking like a caveman.
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.” Bianca traces the rim of my cup with her finger. “About us. We need to spend more time together. Starting tonight.”
“Well, ha. That would be certainly, you know, a change.”
I guzzle my beer. The living room has filled up. Wall-to-wall med students. Music throbs. People start to dance. I’m feeling feverish again. I need to lie down. Ricky squeezes by, a dozen leis ringed on his shoulder. He lifts one off and slips it over Bianca’s head. Kisses both of her cheeks. He winks at me. Then dances by. He looks back at me, slaps his cheek like a shocked diva.
“Are you all right?” Bianca asks me.
“Who? Me? Sure. Yes. Fine.”
“You seem jumpy.”
“Yeah, yeah, no. Second year, you know? Takes its toll. You’ll see. I don’t wish it on you, but. Oh, love this song.” And then, idiotically, I sing along, faking most of the words.
Bianca eyes me as if I’m a mental patient. “You sure you’re all right?”
“Fine. Honest. Um-hm.”
“Then get me a drink.”
“Okay. Good. Be right back.” I mime pouring a drink and putting it into my imaginary cart, grin, and push away from the wall.
And that’s when I see Amy.
She stands alone, scanning the room, looking for me, her coat draped over her arm. She wears jeans and a sweater. She has her hair pulled back, cut and shaped for the party. I have never seen anyone look hotter. She sees me and waves. I feel as if the floor is about to open up and suck me down. Or maybe that’s what I wish for.
“You’re acting so strange. I’ll go with you.” Bianca grabs my hand. Amy sees us and packs up her smile. Her face flushes purple. She nods, sick, then slips her coat back on and heads for the door.
“Amy!” I drop Bianca’s hand. I break into a run, nearly take out a gunner, slide by, then back up and face Bianca. “Bianca, listen. The two of us. It’s not gonna happen. I’m interested in someone else. I’m really sorry. I have to go.”
I turn and sprint, weave between James and Daisy, sidestep Tim and Jane, spin around Ricky and a guy on the swim team. I cut in front of Amy and block the door as her hand is about to circle the doorknob.
“Hi.”
“Excuse me. I’m leaving.”
“You’re not. You can’t.”
“Get out of my way.”
“You’re not going. If you go, I’m going with you.”
“I have another party to go to. I have a date. Go back to your mysterious exotic friend.”
“She’s not my friend.”
Cute-as-hell head tilt. I want to kiss her right now.
“No?”
“No. She’s my Latin-American cousin. I think she was adopted.”
“Nice boobs. You can see them from the bookstore.”
“I hadn’t noticed.” I reach over and stroke Amy’s hair. She closes her eyes for a split second, then swipes my hand away. I grab her fingers, fold mine through hers. She squeezes my fingers white.
“I dated her twice, like months ago, before you. Nothing happened. I haven’t spoken to her since. Ricky invited her tonight. She shows up and she’s all over me. I think she’s psycho.”
“She would have to be.”
We cling to each other’s hands.
“Would you like a drink?” I ask.
“No, thanks.”
“May I take your coat?”
Amy stares at me. I can almost hear her mind whirring, calculating, deciding—Should I make a run for it, or . . . ?
“Please,” I say.
“If you ever go radio silence on me again, I’ll kick your butt.”
“Fair enough.”
I help her off with her coat.
“How about that drink?” she says.
We hold hands all the way to the keg.
MAY. SECOND SEMESTER ends.
Unless you’re a second-year medical student.
School’s out for summer, but we still have a month to go. A month of hell. We end our grueling second year and jump right into studying for the United States Medical Licensing Exam Step I Board Exam (USMLE), or the Boards. By reputation, the Boards rival the MCAT as the most important test an aspiring doctor will take. To this day, my doctor friends and I debate wh
ether the Boards deserve that reputation. There is no debate about this: I never study harder for a test in my life.
My studying begins the day after second semester ends. Along with almost every second-year med student I know, I enroll in a USMLE review course. The course goes for three weeks, Monday through Saturday, eight hours a day. Once we complete the course, we have one week left to cram for the all-day exam. Tim and I give up the house to James and Ricky and lock ourselves in the Nerd Room for fifteen hours a day. I leave my cubicle only to stretch, to eat peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches, to bitch to Tim, and to call Amy. We know the importance of sleep, so we’re home at Flower Street by eleven each night. Even though I’m getting some sleep, the grind is wearing me down. I give up everything except studying. I no longer look like a homeless person. I look like a strung-out homeless heroin addict.
I drive myself based on the fear of failure. If I don’t pass this treacherous eight-hour exam/brain tease this time, I will have to take it again. I need no other motivation. Besides, I can’t imagine how I could possibly study harder. If I fail this test, I don’t know what I will do. More than once during this killer month of brutal studying, I feel that I will have to quit.
By the day of the test, I’m a jittery mess. I haven’t shaved, I’ve showered days ago—how many days ago, I don’t remember—and I don’t recall when I last changed my clothes. Even more worrisome, my brain feels vacant, as if I’ve retained nothing. Glancing around the exam room, I see that everyone else looks worse. I get no consolation there. Okay, some.
Part one of the Boards, a four-hour morning session, begins. I look at the test and can’t make out a single word. I can’t focus. The page shimmies. The letters swim around and plunk back down on the page, out of order and written in a language I don’t know. I start to panic. I shut my eyes. My life flashes forward.
I have flunked out of medical school. My father orders me to sit down at the dining room table. He slams a stack of books in front of me. He tells me that I am not allowed to leave this room, ever, that I will have to study these books for the rest of my life.
I jerk back to reality. The letters miraculously unscramble, form into words, connect into sentences. Not only do I recognize the first question, I know the answer. I insert earplugs to reduce the noise in the examination room, pick up my pencil, and attack. We break for a fifteen-minute lunch. I inhale two peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches, my staple. Why mess with success? We return for part two, four more hours.