Dead Med, page 26
I have a really good feeling after the second anatomy exam. During the anatomy practical, I felt confident of my answers for nearly all of the pins, and the written part of the exam was like a walk in the park. I aced it.
Of course, no matter how well I do, it seems like Mason is just always a little bit better than me. When the scores are posted, I fully expect to see his number at the top of the list, just like always.
The scores are posted outside the anatomy lab, and I go to check them right before going to the lab. There’s a small crowd of students looking at their scores, and I slide past them to get a closer view of the list. I look up and find my score on the exam: Ninety-four.
Ninety-four. Okay, it could be better. I’m slightly disappointed. But it’s still a good grade—an honors-level grade.
But this is the moment of truth: Did anyone do better than me?
I scan the list of scores and find that nobody got a perfect hundred percent. One person got a ninety-five, and one got an impressive ninety-seven. But the good news is that neither of those people is Mason Howard, based on the ID number. Which means that for once, I beat Mason.
Victory! Ha, maybe I’ll go rub it in his face.
Just out of curiosity, I scan the list, searching for Mason’s number. I’m perplexed when at first, I can’t find his score. Then I see it, at the very bottom of the list: thirty-seven.
Mason failed the exam.
It must be some kind of mistake. There’s no way Mason could have failed. He’s the best student in the class. He’s the only person to ever get a perfect score on the practical. People like that don’t fail exams. That can’t be right.
Of course, I’ve noticed that Mason hasn’t been studying in the library anymore. But I just figured he was avoiding me after that awkward dinner. I did see him on the day of the exam, hunched in a corner, his hair wild, a week’s worth of stubble on his chin. He looked awful, especially for Mason, but I just assumed it was because of the marathon studying.
It can’t be because of the dopamine I was giving him, can it?
No. No way. It was just a few pills. Dad used to take like five of those a day, and at worst, I only gave Mason two a day. And besides, I haven’t given him any pills in weeks. No, it’s got to be something else. Maybe some personal issues he’s having.
I try to put Mason out of my mind as I go into the lab. Weirdly enough, the smell of formaldehyde doesn’t even bother me anymore. I almost enjoy it because it reminds me of how much I’ve learned in this short period of time. With every passing day, my dream of becoming a doctor is drawing closer and closer. My father would be so proud of me.
Rachel is already standing by the cadaver, dissecting near his left shoulder. I lean over the body to see what she’s doing, because in all honesty, she usually messes everything up. But instead, I see the perfectly dissected nerves running through the shoulder.
“Nice job on the brachial plexus,” I comment.
Rachel smiles. “Thanks,” she says, “although I can’t totally take credit. Matt was helping me with it earlier.”
Matt? Who’s Matt?
There’s nobody in the class named Matt. And there aren’t any teaching assistants named Matt. Who is this mysterious Matt who’s been helping Rachel suddenly turn into an anatomy genius?
Wait a minute…
Oh my God…
She’s talking about Dr. Conlon.
Rachel is calling our professor by his first name. She’s somehow gotten to be on a first-name basis with the guy. I close my eyes for a moment and recall a couple of months ago when I caught Dr. Conlon staring at Rachel’s chest.
Holy shit, they’re sleeping together.
Dr. Conlon limps over to us at that moment. When he sees Rachel, he gets this big dopey grin on his face.
“How is everything going, Doctors?”
“I’m just about finished,” Rachel says.
Dr. Conlon leans over the cadaver slightly to get a better view of Rachel’s dissection. He nods in approval, “Very nice job. Very nice.”
Damn. No wonder Rachel never needs to study.
Dr. Conlon’s eyes rest on me. For a moment, I hold out a desperate hope that he’s going to quiz me or offer me assistance or praise or criticism or at least remember my name, but instead, he asks, “Have you seen Mason recently?”
Of course he’s asking about Mason.
“No,” I say.
“Hmm,” Dr. Conlon murmurs.
There’s concern in his eyes, and I recall Mason’s failing score on the last exam. He cares more about Mason than me when he’s acing the exam, and now when he’s failing too. I can’t win.
Unfortunately, even with Mason out of the way, I still don’t have the highest score on the last exam. And of course, now, Rachel’s got the edge for obvious reasons. It seems like no matter how hard I try, people keep beating me out. It’s so unfair. There’s no way to be number one.
Unless…
I look up at Rachel, who’s talking to Dr. Conlon. He’s practically undressing her with his eyes as she talks. It’s so wrong that Rachel is taking advantage of the fact that Dr. Conlon is obviously lonely and probably can’t get a girl to sleep with him otherwise. She’s manipulating him in order to ace a class that she rightfully deserves to fail.
Why should Rachel be the only one to benefit from her little scheme?
84
I stand outside Rachel’s locker, my hands shaking. Last night, I spent over an hour composing a letter to Rachel. I wrote several drafts and ended up crumpling most of them up. It took me several tries until the handwriting seemed sufficiently unrecognizable. But then I got paranoid about fingerprints, so I did the whole thing over again while wearing rubber gloves from the lab. I finally settled on the following:
I know all about you and Dr. Conlon. Put the answers to the final exam under the door of Locker 282 or else everyone will find out the truth.
Locker 282 is one of the empty lockers at the end of the hallway. I put a lock on it and figure I can collect the papers late at night when nobody is around. Rachel will probably try to keep an eye on the locker, but she can’t watch it all the time. It’s a perfect plan.
I may be crossing a line by doing this. Believe me, I’ve never cheated before. I’ve considered it once or twice but never ended up going through with it. But it feels like the only way to level the playing field. I mean, Rachel gets an edge through sleeping with Dr. Conlon, and Mason gets an edge because he’s good-looking and charismatic—it’s just not fair.
And yes, I know that’s sort of bullshit.
I look around the hallway before removing the note from my pocket. I take a deep breath and slide the piece of paper under the crack at the bottom of Rachel’s locker. As soon as the white sheet disappears, regret washes over me. I almost wish I could somehow retrieve it. But it’s gone. I did it.
And actually, I don’t feel that bad about it.
I back away from the locker, hurrying down the hallway. I don’t want anyone to see me. I’m heading in the direction of the library when I practically slam into a very pale-looking Mason stumbling out of the men’s room. He collapses against the wall like his legs can no longer support him.
“Mason?”
I bend down next to him. He doesn’t look up at me at first—he just stares at the floor with that glazed look in his eyes. He’s still unshaven and looks like he hasn’t even showered in days. He looks horrible, more like some vagrant from the street than the confident guy I started hooking up with a few months ago.
Shit. I didn’t do this to him, did I?
It seems so unlikely. I tossed those pills in a dumpster ages ago. Yes, I have heard of certain drugs triggering a psychotic break in vulnerable people, but… that can’t be what happened to him, could it?
No. No way. It must be the stress. Or maybe he’s started taking some of the illegal drugs that are being passed around. Yes, that could definitely be it.
“Mason?” I repeat.
Finally, he looks up at me. I gasp at how bloodshot his eyes are.
“What?” he says. His voice cracks slightly when he speaks.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
The question seems almost ridiculous. He is so obviously not okay.
“No, I’m not okay.” Spittle flies out of his mouth as he speaks. “I’m going to be murdered. Just like Frank.”
There’s something very frightening in his eyes, something very unfamiliar. I remember how, at the beginning of the year, he smiled at me across the table in the library, and I got lost in his eyes. I remember the passion with which he had ripped my blouse open and pressed his lips onto mine. He seems like an entirely different person now.
Mason needs help. That’s obvious. I could talk to the dean or maybe tell Patrice. Or even Dr. Conlon, who is already concerned. But I’m scared. What if they find out that someone has been drugging him? How long will it take Mason to put it together after he remembers all those cups of coffee I brought him? He’s a smart guy, after all. And I was so careless.
And really, isn’t this what I always wanted? To get Mason out of the picture? He’s been my greatest competition in the class, and now, he’s no longer a threat. And who’s to say it’s because of the dopamine pills? It probably isn’t. I’m sure it’s just that the stress has finally gotten to him. But if I ’fessed up what had really happened, I’m sure I’d get blamed. And maybe kicked out of medical school.
No, nobody can find out about this.
After all, what’s the worst that can happen?
85
When I arrive at the anatomy lab the next day, Rachel is staring down at the cadaver with a horrified expression on her face.
We’ve been working on the arms and legs—earlier in the week, Rachel completed a perfect dissection of the left arm, undoubtedly with the aid of her lover, Dr. Matthew Conlon. I remember how Mason used to ogle Rachel too—what is so damned attractive about Rachel? Why are men falling for her left and right? Of course, it probably didn’t take much to lure in a pathetic loser like Dr. Conlon.
I approach Rachel, who seems nearly frozen.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
That’s when I see for myself what Rachel is staring at.
Somebody has massacred our cadaver. The arms and legs have literally been shredded. Someone has taken a scalpel and done a truly horrible dissection that is bordering on brutality.
“Oh my God,” I breathe.
My first thought is: Mason.
Mason must have done it. God knows why, but I saw something terrible in his eyes yesterday. And if he’s capable of doing this, what else is he capable of?
I have to tell someone. I have to get Mason help. I have to—
“What happened here?” Dr. Conlon limps over to us. There is a concerned crease between his dark eyebrows.
Rachel whispers in my ear, “Sasha, don’t…”
I don’t know what that means, though.
“Someone destroyed our cadaver!” I speak up. The tears welling up in my eyes are real.
Dr. Conlon’s mouth falls open as he inspects the damage. Rachel is strangely silent. I wonder if she’s told Conlon about the blackmail letter. He seemed a little too cheerful in class this morning to know about it.
But he doesn’t seem cheerful anymore. Dr. Conlon’s face grows very dark.
“I can’t believe a student in my class would do such a sick thing,” he says. He looks up at me. “Do you have any idea who did this?”
I need to confess. I need to tell him all about Mason. That he’s sick and needs help—before it’s too late. I don’t need to admit to my part in it.
But I can’t say it. My jaw feels glued shut. And before I can stop myself, I slowly shake my head no.
Here’s the sad truth:
I want Mason to fail.
Nobody deserves to get through life as easily as he does. Nobody deserves to live in that giant house with two doting parents, to be handsome and brilliant, to get absolutely everything he wants in life. I want Mason to sink deeper and deeper into the hole.
So deep that he can never crawl out.
86
I try to push the guilt out of my head as I lose myself in studying.
The library is open until midnight, and I intend to stay there until closing time. For some reason, it’s comforting to stare at diagrams of arteries, nerves, and muscles. I try to blank out everything except anatomy.
But it’s hard to focus. I keep thinking about that letter I stuffed into Rachel’s locker. Is Rachel going to get me a copy of the exam? And if she does, will I look at it? I’ve never cheated before. This crosses a line.
And of course, if Rachel doesn’t get me the exam, should I make good on my threat and blow the whistle on their little sex romp? An offense like that is enough to get Dr. Conlon fired and Rachel kicked out of school. I don’t have much sympathy for Rachel, but I’d feel sorry for Dr. Conlon. He’s a really good teacher who cares a lot about his students. I can tell his job means everything to him. It’s not his fault that Rachel is playing him for a grade.
But really, what I can’t stop thinking about is Mason. As I look at the diagrams of the arms and legs, I can’t help but think about what he did to our cadaver. The dopamine capsules are long out of his system, though—the matter is out of my hands. Mason has friends, a roommate, and his family to look out for him. It shouldn’t all fall on my shoulders.
But then sometimes I think back to the way he used to kiss me. The way he’d smile at me. The way we ripped each other’s clothes off like the ship was going down. Mason isn’t just my classmate. At one time, I actually really liked him.
I look down at my watch—it’s a quarter to midnight. I’ve barely been able to focus at all in the last few hours, and the library will be closed soon. I may as well get packed up to leave.
“Sasha!”
I practically jump out of my skin at the sound of my name. I look up and gasp when I behold the person who used to be Mason Howard standing before me. He looks awful. His clothing is wrinkled and stained, his hair is disheveled, he has a week’s growth of a beard on his face, and there are dark circles under his eyes.
He seems out of breath. He kneels down in front of me and takes my hand in his like he’s about to propose. There’s a terrible, haunted look in his bloodshot hazel eyes.
“Sasha…” he whispers.
I try not to let on how shocked I am by his appearance. I force a smile. “Hey, Mason.”
“Sasha, I think…” He takes a deep breath. “I think there’s something wrong with me. I… I think I’m losing it…” As he speaks the words, his eyes fill up with tears.
I’ve never seen Mason cry. I’ve only seen a man cry once in my entire life: when my father watched me graduate from college.
“Please help me,” he whispers.
He buries his face in his hands, his trembling fingers reaching into his brown hair and compulsively pulling at the strands.
Why should I help him? Nobody ever helped me.
He looks back up at me, the desperation plain on his face. He’s having his first lucid moment in a long time, and he’s realizing what is happening to him. It’s almost heartbreaking.
Almost.
“Calm down,” I say, trying to put conviction into my words. “You’re fine. Everyone gets nervous before a big exam.”
Mason is shaking his head, mouthing the word “no.”
“Come on,” I say. “Think about it: people who are crazy don’t know they’re crazy, right? You’re just being a typical med student hypochondriac.”
I watch his face, waiting to see if he’ll buy it.
“Maybe…” he says slowly.
“You just need to get some sleep,” I say in my most gentle voice. Hey, maybe I’ve got a career in psychiatry. As if.
Mason’s shoulders sag.
“Yeah, maybe you’re right.” He sighs and looks back up at me. For a moment, he’s his old self as he offers me a half-hearted grin, “Hey, do you want to go to the locker rooms…?”
Even with everything going on, I’m tempted. Even with his disheveled appearance, Mason is still very attractive. But I can’t. Not after everything I’ve done to him. Just looking at him makes me hate myself.
87
Usually, when I start studying, I’m like a machine. I keep going until I’ve gotten through everything I intended to learn at the beginning of the session and then some.
But today, once again, I can’t concentrate.
I keep thinking about Mason. As much as I hate to admit it, I’m worried about him. Really worried. I don’t know what’s going on in his head. And it scares me. The last time I saw him, there was something terrifying in his eyes. Every time I try to concentrate on my work, I see those bloodshot hazel eyes.
Finally, I give up on studying and decide to head over to Mason’s suite. I’ve never actually been there before because we’ve been keeping our relationship casual and a bit hush-hush, but it doesn’t seem to matter anymore since it’s pretty much over. And I’m a little bit curious to see where he lives.
I drive over to the dorm where the vast majority of students are residing. I briefly considered living in the dorm because it was so cheap, but at my age, I couldn’t stomach it. I needed my own apartment and my privacy—I couldn’t imagine having to abide by some dorm rules and have a roommate sharing my bedroom.
Mason’s apartment is on the third floor of the dorm. I find his apartment, and after only a brief hesitation, I knock on the door. By the heavy footsteps, I can tell that Abe is the one coming to answer the door. He looks slightly breathless as he pulls the door open, and I feel a twinge of sympathy as his face falls when he sees it’s only me. I suspect he was hoping for Heather.
“Oh, hey, Sasha,” he says. “Mason isn’t here right now.”
He knows about me and Mason. He’s cleverer than I’ve given him credit for. I wonder who else in the class knows. Probably everyone.
“Do you know where he is?” I ask.
