Deep End

ON SATURDAY, I TAKE THE MCAT.

Or maybe the MCAT takes me. I’m no linguist, but afterward I lie face down on the couch while Maryam stacks an increasingly tall pile of textbooks on my butt. (“JengAss, this fall’s hottest game.”) There seems to be little agency in what I was put through.

I won’t get the results for a month, but my brain zapped so many times during the test, I don’t think I did well. I could retake, but med schools will still get to see my bad scores, and the next testing opportunity will be in January, during the season, and—why do I have no memories of my critical analysis and reasoning part? A fugue state, clearly. I blacked out and rubbed against the proctor to scrounge up a couple more points.

My skull feels like oatmeal, the instant, microwavable kind. And in a shocking turn of events, I have plans for the night.

“It’s a good thing, it’ll take your mind off the test,” Maryam says, an evil glint in her eyes, a cackle when I scowl. She knows that compounding my academic exhaustion with social exhaustion is only going to drive me even closer to the edge of lucidity. She just wants to catch me making out with the spin mop in our closet.

“Why do you look like you just donated a chunk of your pancreas to the organs museum?” Pen asks when I sit in the passenger seat of her car.

“That is such a good summary of what I feel like right now.”

She flips her hair. “Why, yes, I am minoring in creative writing.” We’re going to the twins’ birthday party, which is happening at the house of the Shapiro twins, whom they are still dating. Pen’s car is a cozy mess of slushy cups, protein bar wrappers, and about twelve poorly crocheted animals hanging from the rearview mirror. “My baby cousin makes them for me, and yes, I’m aware they’re a driving hazard, Luk has been very vocal about it.” She grins at me over the warm beats of a K-pop playlist. “Are you sick?”

“Nope. Just took the MCAT.”

“What’s the—hang on, is that the seven-hour test for med schools?”

“Yup.”

“Oh my god. Lukas took it last year.” She pulls out of the parking lot. “He was toast after that.”

“I’m starting to suspect it’s part of a Big Pharma conspiracy to force us to seek psychiatric care.” I sink back against the headrest, and have no reason to ask, but still do: “Did Lukas do well?”

“I think so?” She glances at the directions. “He was satisfied, which is unheard of. I think the score was 525.”

I almost choke on my tongue. Screw Lukas Blomqvist and his 525. Is it too much to ask for a bilingual Olympic gold medalist to not be in the ninety-ninth percentile for the test I’ve bombed?

“Actually, I’m sure that’s what it was. Because we celebrated and, um, Hershey’s syrup was involved. My idea, of course.” She shoots me a proud side-look, and I cannot help huffing out a laugh, even as my insides twist at something I can’t quite name—a primordial, swampy blend of academic jealousy, vague horniness, wistfulness at the memory of having someone to share victories with.

“Hey, can I tell you something?”

If she’s going to detail her threesome with Lukas and sundae ingredients, I might have to ask her to pull over.

“Synchro partner to synchro partner?” she adds.

Ah, right. I now have a new item to add to my bulleted list titled Things I’ll Probably Fail At. I feel like a total impostor, but still nod.

“I have a date,” she tells me. Her fingers drum excitedly against the wheel. “Tomorrow.”

“With . . . ?”

“This guy I know from my advanced microeconomics class. He’s a NARP.”

The acronym takes a second to click—non-athletic regular person. “First date?”

Her lips press together. “We’ve been seeing each other, actually. Mostly as friends. Off campus—I’m trying to, you know, be a little circumspect.”

“To avoid your and Lukas’s friends?”

“Um. That, too.” She fidgets a little with her hair.

“Is he a senior?”

Her silence stretches so long, I half wonder whether she didn’t hear me. I’m about to repeat my question, when she says, “He was actually my TA.” She rushes to add, “But he’s a PhD student and, like, only three years older, and that class is over, and he’s really cute and has, like, a man bun, which is totally my weakness for some reason that I cannot even fathom, and—” She stops and gives me a pleading look, as if expecting me to tell her that it’s not a big deal.

I remain quiet. Pick up her phone.

“Vandy? Please, say something?”

I don’t. Instead, I scroll down her Spotify app.

“I don’t think I’m doing anything, like, unethical.” Her voice is unusually high-pitched. “I’ve always liked him. I approached him. It’s not like I’m milking him for better grades or . . .”

I set the phone down just as the drums of “Hot for Teacher” by Van Halen fill the cabin.

“Oh my god.” She turns to me, exhaling an outraged laugh. “Vandy, I hate you so much.”

I pout. “Is it because I cannot grade your macroeconomics homework?”

“It’s micro and—” She slaps me on the arm. “Oh my god.”

I sigh dramatically and tap my chin. “Maybe I should give Mrs. Sima a heads-up.”

“About what?”

“Your insatiable hunger for older pedagogues, of course.”

She shouts a new peal of laughter, and by the time we make it to the party, the song has played twice, and we both have tears rolling from our eyes.