Page 6
My phone buzzes again.
Marco: Also, gossip. New faculty joining the teaching hospital next week.
That catches me. New faculty is always interesting.
New faculty means fresh humiliation opportunities, updated attendance threats, and one more person in a white coat who can ask questions in a tone that makes you forget your own birthday.
Me: What kind of new faculty?
Marco: Surgeon, apparently.
Me: That narrows it down to every man with a God complex and comfortable shoes.
Marco: Cardiovascular, I think. Big deal. Some people are already being weird about it.
Me: Define weird.
Marco: Like department-heads-wearing-ties weird.
I pause. That is serious.
Department heads only wear ties when donors, inspectors, or famous people are nearby. The tie is the academic medical equivalent of a peacock scream.
Me: Name?
Marco: Don’t know. Someone said Price? Pryce? Dr. Something Price.
There are many Prices in the world. Gas prices. Stock prices. The emotional price of checking your bank account after ordering delivery. Probably several doctors named Price. Probably many. Doctors love having surnames that sound like they belong on bronze plaques.
Still, something small and stupid trips in my chest.
I blame the hormones.
I blame everything on the hormones now. Bloating? Hormones. Crying at a detergent ad? Hormones. Thinking a surgeon named Price sounds ominous in an expensive way? Hormones in a little lab coat, holding a clipboard.
Me: Great. New surgeon overlord. Can he teach brachial plexus by tomorrow morning?
Marco: If he can, I’ll marry him.
Me: Get in line. I need passing grades more than you need romance.
Marco: You need many things.
Me: Rude.
Marco: Accurate.
I smile at my phone despite myself.
Then I remember Petra exists.
She’s still there, hands folded around her tablet, watching me with the patient disapproval of a woman who has never once had sauce on her shirt.
“I should go,” I say.
“Yes,” Petra says. “You should rest.”
“Rest,” I repeat. That’s the last thing I can have right now.
