"But I'll feel awful." And I'll have to hustle back to Connecticut and sign my life away to the Navy.
"Yeah, but you'd feel worse if you never gave it a shot."
Quinn nodded. He was right. Pass this up and she risked being plagued the rest of her life wondering if it would have worked.
As she made herself step out of the car, Tim said, "Good luck, Quinn."
"Thanks. I'll need it."
She walked up the slope to the Administration Building and followed the little black-and-white arrows planted in the grass to the Admissions Office. She paused in the empty silent hallway outside the oak door. Her heart began to pound, her palms were suddenly slick with sweat. Intrigue was not her thing. How on earth was she ever going to pull this off?
Quinn shook herself. How? Because she couldn't afford not to pull it off. She stepped inside.
The Admissions Office turned out to be a small room, fluorescent lit, with a dropped ceiling. A long marble counter ran the width of the room, separating the staff from the public. A woman sat at a cluttered desk just past the counter. She appeared to be in her fifties with a lined face, a prominent overbite, and graying hair that might have been red once. A plastic name plate on her desk read Marjory Lake.
"Are—" The word came out a croak. Quinn cleared her throat. "Are you Marge?"
The woman looked up, fixed her with bright blue eyes, wary, not welcoming. "Some people call me that. If you're looking for registration it's—"
"I'm Quinn Cleary," she said, reaching her hand over the counter. "It's nice to talk to you face to face for a change."
Marge bolted out of her seat. "Quinn? Is that you, sweetheart? Oh, you look just like I imagined you! Claire! Evelyn! Look who's here! It's Quinn!"
Two other women, both short, plump brunettes, left their desks and crowded forward, shaking her hand, welcoming her like a relative. Quinn was sure if the counter hadn't been there they'd have been hugging her.
When all the greetings and first-meeting pleasantries had been exchanged, Marge looked at her with a puzzled expression.
"But what are you doing here? We didn't...I mean...no one's..."
"I know," Quinn said. "I just decided I wanted to be here in case someone doesn't show up."
Claire and Evelyn went "Aaawww," and glanced at each other. Marge gripped her hand.
"I don't know how to say this, Quinn, honey," Marge said, "but that sort of thing just doesn't happen around here."
"I know," Quinn said. "But I haven't anyplace else to go at the moment so I thought I'd give it a shot."
More quick, that-poor-kid glances were exchanged, then Marge said, "Well, might as well make the best of it. Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable. You're welcome to wait as long as you like. Want some coffee?"
Quinn would have preferred a Pepsi but didn't want to turn down their kind offer.
"Sure. Coffee would be great."
*
Tim showed up an hour later. Quinn introduced him to "the girls," as they called themselves. They knew his name—after all, they had processed his acceptance. She told them she was going out to stretch her legs but would be back in a while to see if there was any news.
"How's it going in there?" Tim asked when they were outside.
"They're sweet. I feel like a rat deceiving them like this."
"Who deceiving anyone? You're hanging around to try and take the spot of anyone who doesn't show up. That's an absolutely true statement."
"But—"
"But nothing. It's true. The fact that we know something they don't is irrelevant."
They found a shady spot under an oak by the central pond and sat on a wooden bench. The sun was in and out of drifting clouds, the air was heavy with moisture. A bathing sparrow fluttered its wings at the edge of the pond, disturbing the still surface of the water with tiny ripples and splashes. Off to her left Quinn saw a parade of sweaty new arrivals lugging suitcases, boxes, and stereos into the dorm. She looked around and was struck by how planned The Ingraham looked. The dorm, the caf, the administration, class, and faculty buildings were all two stories, all of similar design and color. And off to her right, up the slope, rose the science building; and rising beyond that, the medical center. Each set higher than the one before it, like steps to knowledge and experience.
"Where do you fit into this, Tim?"
He swiveled on the bench and faced her. She wished he'd take off those damn sunglasses. She wanted to see his eyes.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, what's in it for you? You don't know me. Sure, we've met a couple of times, but we're not what you'd call close by any stretch. Why should you care if I get into The Ingraham?"
He smiled. "I'm the compleat altruist. My raison d'etre is to help others. That's why I want to become a doctor."
"Not."
"You doubt my devotion to the human species? Okay, try this: I'm hoping that my getting you into The Ingraham will help me add you to my near endless list of beautiful female conquests."
"Very funny."
"Hey, don't sell yourself short. I think you're a knockout. And you've got a very nice butt."
"And you need glasses," Quinn said. She was annoyed now. "I ask you a simple question..."
She pushed herself off the bench to head back to the Admissions Office. This was dumb. Tim's hand on her arm stopped her.
"Okay, okay," he said. "Forget everything I just said— except the part about your having a nice butt—"
"Tim..."
"Well, I meant that. But as for the rest of it..." He paused, as if searching for the right words. "Look. Places like The Ingraham, they're systems. A bunch of nerdy little dorks get together and figure out a way to set someplace up so they can push all the buttons, pull all the levers, call all the shots—run the show. They've got the bucks, that gives them power, and they think they can make everybody jump through their hoops. But they couldn't make Matt jump. With his family's kind of clout, he can tell them to go jump. People like you and me, though, Quinn...if we want to get into their system, when they say jump, we've got to ask, 'How high?'"
"That's the way the world works, Tim. You can't change that."
"I'm not saying I can. But I make it a point to screw them up every chance I get."
"Oh," Quinn said slowly, wondering if she should feel insulted. "And I suppose helping me get into The Ingraham is screwing them up."
Tim slumped forward and rested his forehead on his forearms. He spoke to the grass. "This conversation is heading for the tubes. Maybe we should just go back to saying that I thought it was a shortcut to adding another notch in my, um, belt and leave it at that."
"No," Quinn said softly. "You're going out of your way to do me a favor. We've only met three times, talked on the phone a few more. Can you blame me for being curious as to why? TANSTAAFL, remember?"
Tim lifted his head. The blank sunglasses stared at her again.
"Fair enough. Okay. I like you. I like you a lot."
Quinn felt herself flushing. Now she really wished she could see his eyes.
"And I don't know of anyone," he continued, "who wants to be a doctor more than you. I mean, it shines from you. And with your MCAT scores and GPA, I can't think of anyone—with the possible exception of myself—who deserves to be a doctor more."
"Really, Tim—"
"No, I mean it. And I was pissed, really pissed, when I heard that these jokers had turned you down. Not as pissed as Matt, of course. I mean, he wanted to nuke the place. Neither of us could figure it out. Every other med school you applied to took you, but not The Ingraham. Why? What is it about you that doesn't fit into their system? Was it because you're female? Do they have something against nice butts?"
"Please stop talking about my butt!" She did not have a nice butt or a nice anything. "Can't you be serious for two consecutive minutes?"
"I'll try, but...I don't know, Quinn...show me an anal-retentive system like this one that's screwing somebody I know and it's like waving a
red flag in front of a bull. I want to beat that system."
"So, if you're Don Quixote, who am I? Sancho Panza?"
"Hardly. Take the casinos as a for instance. They're a system. They set up the rules so that the percentages are always with them. Somebody wins big once in a while, but that's the exception. They publicize those exceptions to bring in more losers. But systems aren't set up for wild cards. I'm a wild card. Their blackjack system has no contingencies for someone with an eidetic memory. Fortunately for them, we're rare birds. But with my memory, I can screw up their system and win most of the time instead of lose."
"But The Ingraham is not a casino."
"Right. But it's a system. And Matt is the wild card here. His family's got—pardon the phrase—fuck-you money. He qualified, they accepted him, but they can't buy him. They can buy you and me, Quinn. We'll gladly put up with their bullshit rules for a free medical education. Hell, we'll fight for it. We need them. But Matt doesn't. He's the chink in their armor. How many people did you say have turned them down?"
"Two in the last ten years."
"Right. But they're well prepared for that contingency anyway: they've set up a highly qualified waiting list. But I'll bet they've got no contingency plan for what Matt's going to do." His expression was gleeful as he pounded his knees. "And that's when we stick it to them."
"Tim Brown...radical."
"Not a bit," he said, raising his hands, palms out. "I'm not out to destroy anything, or throw a monkey wrench into anybody's works. The whole idea is to stick it to them without them even knowing they've been stuck. If you cause noticeable damage, or you make a big deal about it and strut yourself around bragging how clever you are, you queer it for the next wild card. Because they'll fix that weak spot in their system. But if everybody keeps their mouths shut, someone may get a chance to stick it to them again."
"Is sticking it to them so important?"
"How important is it to you right now?"
"Touche."
"All right. Then let's do it." He checked his watch. "Registration's pretty well closed. Any minute they ought to be realizing they're shy one body."
She headed back to the Admissions Office feeling anxious, scared, thinking about Tim and how he was turning out to be a lot deeper than she'd originally thought, and wondering if he really thought she had a nice butt. She knew she didn't, but there was no accounting for taste.
"Don't you have to unload?" she said as Tim ambled by her side.
"We'll unload together. This plan is my baby. I want to be present in the delivery room."
*
Quinn sensed the change in the Admissions Office as soon as she walked through the door. The air was charged. Claire and Evelyn were trundling about between their desks and the file cabinets. Marge look frazzled. Her eyes went wide when she saw her.
"Quinn! We've just heard from registration. They're getting ready to close up and somebody hasn't shown up. I can't believe it. I've been here ten years and nothing like this has ever happened."
She felt Tim's elbow bump her ribs.
"Wink, nudge, poke," he whispered.
Quinn ignored him. "Maybe that's my chance," she said to Marge. "What's his name?"
"Crawford. Matthew Crawford."
"Are you going to be calling him? Maybe he's just had car trouble or something."
"Well, then," she sniffed as she picked up her phone, "he should have called us. Whatever the cause, I'll have to check with Dr. Alston first. Then we'll call." She smiled at Quinn. "This could be your lucky day, hon."
Quinn stepped back so as not to appear to be listening. She dragged Tim with her to the row of chairs by the door, then sat there straining to hear. Marge's end of the conversation was garbled but she heard her hang up and dial another number. Matt's?
If so, Mrs. Crawford, Quinn's mother's old high school friend, would tell Marge the truth—as she knew it.
Quinn crossed her fingers and waited.
She heard Marge slam her receiver into its cradle.
"Matthew Crawford's not coming!"
Quinn heard cheers from Claire and Evelyn. She grabbed Tim's hand and squeezed, then realized what she was doing and let go.
"It's okay," Tim said. "I wash them regularly. Twice a week sometimes."
Marge was up at the counter, motioning Quinn closer. Her face was flushed.
"He's not coming!" she said as Quinn approached. "He decided to go to Yale Med instead!"
"And he didn't let you know?" Tim said, leaning against the counter beside her. "What a cad!"
"He wasn't there—off to Yale already—but I spoke to his mother and she said as far as she knows he sent us a letter last month. She couldn't imagine why we never received it."
"Probably never sent it," Tim muttered with convincing disgust. "You know how these rich kids are—"
Quinn kicked his ankle. He was getting carried away.
"Can I take his spot?" Quinn said.
"If it was up to me, honey, you'd be on your way to the registrar. But it's up to Dr. Alston and the admissions committee. I'll do my damndest for you, though."
As she returned to her desk and tapped a number into her phone, Tim leaned closer.
"Why'd you kick me?"
"You're overdoing it."
"You mean Robert DeNiro doesn't have to worry about me?"
"It might be better if you hung back a little...like in one of the chairs."
Tim shrugged. "Okay. But you're having all the fun."
Some fun. This was murder. Quinn turned and clung to the counter, hanging on Marge's every word.
"Dr. Alston? It's Marge, down at the office...Yes, we called him...No, apparently he's decided to go to Yale instead...That's right, sir...No, I don't know why...Yes, sir, I certainly can do that, but I think you should know, one of the wait-list students is right here...Dr. Alston? Are you there?...Yes, sir, she's been hanging around all day in the hope that something like this would happen...I know, sir. Not in my memory either. Her name's...let me see..." Marge smiled and winked at Quinn as she made a noisy show of shuffling through the papers on her desk. "Here it is: Cleary...Quinn Cleary. Yes, sir. I'll do that, sir. Do you want me to start making those calls now?..Okay. I'll wait...Right sir."
She hung up and approached Quinn. Her air was conspiratorial.
"Well, Quinn, honey, you've sure thrown Dr. Alston a curve. He wanted me to start calling the waiting list immediately, starting with number one and working my way down. When I told him you were here, he was actually speechless. And if you knew Dr. Alston you'd know that he's never speechless. He's never heard of a wait-list student hanging around on registration day. He's going to check your application and talk to the committee."
Quinn felt lightheaded. Her knees wobbled. She struggled for a breath to speak.
"Then I have a chance?"
"You sure do. Better than you think. Because just between you and me, if I get the word to start calling the waiting list, there's a very good chance that most of them will already be committed to other schools, and those that aren't, well," her voice sank to a whisper, "they may not be home, if you know what I mean."
"I wouldn't want you doing anything like that for me," Quinn said. "You might be risking your job."
Marge patted her hand. "You let me worry about that. Meanwhile, take a seat by your friend over there and we'll see what happens."
*
"I smell a rat."
Dr. Walter Emerson was startled by Arthur's vehemence. He'd known Arthur Alston for years and had always thought of him as a phlegmatic sort.
"Do you, Arthur? I'm the one who does most of the rat studies here, so if anyone should recognize that smell, it's me. And I don't."
"Really, Walter," Alston sniffed. "This is serious business. I don't think any of us should take it lightly."
Walter glanced around the conference room at the "us" to whom Arthur was referring. The Ingraham's admissions committee—or at least most of it—all top specialists in their f
ields, sat around the polished table in the oak-paneled conference room: Arthur Alston, Phyllis Miles, Harold Cohen, Steven Mercer, Michael Cofone, and Walter himself. Although Arthur was the Director, Senator Whitney was the powerhouse; he represented the Kleederman Foundation and had veto power. He would be flying in later for his annual welcoming address to the first-year students.
"I'm not taking it lightly, Arthur," Walter said. "But I see no point in viewing this as some sort of conspiracy."
"You've got to admit it looks suspicious," Arthur said, tapping the table top with the eraser end of a pencil. "The applicant who turned us down and the wait-listed one in question are both from Connecticut. I don't know about you but I find it a little hard to swallow that as mere coincidence."
So did Walter, but he wasn't going to admit it. Not just yet. He'd been oddly thrilled when he'd learned that the unorthodox student sitting on their doorstep was Quinn Cleary, that bright young woman with whom he'd been so taken when he'd interviewed her. He'd recommended her highly and had been disappointed when she'd been wait listed.
"Granted, they're both from Connecticut, but they live nowhere near each other. They went to different high schools in different counties, went to different colleges. There may be a connection, but it's certainly not obvious."
"Exactly. That's why I said I smell a rat. I haven't found one yet." He looked around the table. "Does anyone else have anything to add?"
Cohen and Mercer said no, Cofone and Miles shook their heads. They seemed largely indifferent. And why not? None of them had ever met Quinn Cleary. But Walter had. If only there was some way he could convey his enthusiasm for her.
"All right, then," Arthur said. "We'll follow the usual procedure and start calling the wait-listed applicants in order. And if by some stretch of the imagination we have no takers by the time we reach Miss Cleary —"
"Can I say one more thing, Arthur?"
"Walter, we haven't got all day."
"Just hear me out," Walter said, rising and walking slowly around the table. "Last winter we made out a list that we put on hold for possible admission to The Ingraham. All but one took that lying down. Miss Cleary did not. She took the initiative of coming down here on registration day in the hope of being admitted. Her chances were slim to none, but she did it anyway. That takes determination, that takes desire."
The Select Page 7