Third Degree

  “You know he wears those flip-flops and shorts all winter, too,” she adds. “It’s like the boy forgot he lived in Evanston and not on the beach in California or something.”

  “Is that all you remember about him?” Yes, I know I have no reason to dig for details, but what if I need a reason later? Isn’t it better to have and not need than the other way around?

  “All my past classes tend to blend together. I think he missed a lot of school, but I’m not sure why. Don’t think he was a skipper, but then again, he barely pulled a C if I remember right.”

  I hear footsteps outside the door and then Marshall’s voice fills the hallway as he gives the my-door-is-always-open speech to a pair of freshman guys. “That’s all I needed, Mom. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

  There’s just enough time to tuck my phone into my pocket before Marshall’s poking his head into my room. “Want to meet your neighbors?” He flashes that infectious grin again, and I have no choice but to nod. The two boys get shoved inside the perimeter of my room. One is blond and stocky, the other taller and part Asian.

  “This guy is Evan.” Marshall taps the blond’s head, then moves his hand to the other guy’s head. “And his roommate, Yoshi.”

  I lift a hand and give a little wave. “Izzy Jenkins.”

  Both of them simultaneously do the roaming-gaze move that Marshall did on me outside right before he put two and two together. My stomach flutters with panic, my face heating up yet again. My thoughts tumble together trying to form a distraction of some kind. Finally my gaze rests on a cold sore at the corner of Evan’s mouth. Before I can stop myself, I’m lifting my finger and pointing at it. “You should really get something for that sore. They’re contagious.”

  Evan’s mouth falls open in shock, Yoshi snorts back a laugh, and I know I’ve said the wrong thing. Shit. Yoshi smacks Evan on the chest, “Dude, she just told you to take care of your herpes.”

  My gaze moves to Marshall, whose eyes are wide. “Abreva is the best product to treat herpes simplex virus type one,” I add as if Dr. Rinehart, my old boss, were here asking me about the best course of treatment.

  “Oh, look!” Marshall says, pointing to something in the hallway. “I see two moms waiting for their weepy goodbye. Better hurry and get it over with.”

  The boys shuffle out quickly, neither saying anything else to me. Marshall turns his attention back to me. “Well, I think you dodged those two bullets, huh? I mean, they are from Wilmette, so I can’t say I blame you. But most girls just glare if they’re not interested in a guy. Disease diagnoses might be better reserved for extreme situations.”

  Sarcasm is often lost on me and I have to have the point clarified later on, but this time it’s not. And God, I hate this introduction phase. It’s like being under the gun in the worst way. Like being onstage at the Dr. Phil show—racing heart, churning stomach, loss of appetite, sweaty palms, and no physical reason for these symptoms other than my body’s increased adrenaline production. Nothing throws me off my game more than psychological explanations for physiological reactions. Too much gray, non-scientific area for me.

  “Marshmallow!”

  Before I can think up a reply to Marshall, a petite dark-skinned girl is pushing her way into the room dragging a suitcase and a full black garbage bag. She tosses the items onto the empty bed and then literally jumps into Marshall’s arms, wrapping her legs around him. I back up toward the window, already uncomfortable with the intimacy of this reunion. She’s beautiful. He’s beautiful. Are they together? Why do I even care?

  Justin’s words come back to me: Physical intimacy is all you were good at. I know that the last thing I need is some hot guy confusing me on the difference between physical attraction and emotional connection. If I’m going to dabble with the opposite sex, I need to surround myself with guys who are less hot. And I need to date. Like out in the open, not ripping each other’s clothes off behind the locked door of the on-call room or in the confines of a professor’s office.

  Marshall doesn’t even stagger when Kelsey launches herself into his arms. His forearms flex, revealing some nice muscle definition. Kelsey’s feet are quickly on the floor again, and she releases him in order to give him the once-over. “Look at you, Mr. Strong Man.” She squeezes his biceps and then raises his T-shirt halfway, revealing his well-sculpted abs before giving him a light punch in the gut. “What have you been doing all summer, boy?”

  Marshall leans back against the open door, puffing his chest out. “You know, weights, ’roids, more ’roids.”

  Anabolic steroids? I look him over more carefully—he might have obvious muscle definition, but he’s still lean, not bulky, no bulging veins in his neck, no early five o’clock shadow, no abnormal development of male breast tissue, no acne or bad breath. And between our first encounter and the conversation in his room, I would’ve noticed these things. He’s kind of perfect-looking, actually. From a medical standpoint.

  Kelsey laughs and walks over to her bed, flinging open her suitcase. Finally she turns her gaze to me. “Roommate, right?”

  “Izzy,” I manage to croak out.

  “Kelsey,” she says. “And I’d love to tell you this is going to be an awesome semester, but now the most fun person in the entire building has gone to the dark side.”

  “Come on,” Marshall says. “You know how much money I’m saving being an RA. Plus I get all these keys.” He removes his key chain from his pocket and dangles it in the air.

  Kelsey shakes her head. “Boys and their keys.” She looks at me again. “You know why we call him Marshmallow?”

  “Why you call me Marshmallow,” Marshall corrects. “Everyone else thinks it’s stupid.”

  “Well, I think RAs are stupid,” Kelsey snaps, fishing through her bag. “Anyway, Izzy, you know the myth of the freshman fifteen?”

  “I’ve heard of it,” I say.

  “This guy did the opposite last year. Instead of gaining weight on unlimited dining-hall food and midnight pizzas, he shriveled up to nothing. So I called him Marshmallow since he was all bony and skinny.”

  Um, yeah … makes perfect sense.

  “I’d like to point out that I was a sophomore last year, therefore the freshman fifteen could not apply.” Marshall pushes off the door and turns to face me. “Also, I’m picky. I only like my mommy’s cooking.”

  My gaze drifts up and down him again. I can’t imagine him bony and scrawny. I can, however, imagine all kinds of other things having to do with Marshall Collins.

  Kelsey catches my attention again by flinging off her shirt, revealing a black sports bra. Then she drops her jean shorts to the floor and stands there in her bra and black panties. Marshall slaps a hand over his eyes. “Kelsey. Boundaries.”

  “Jesus Christ. You’re taking this RA thing seriously, aren’t you? Damn you, Marshall.” She snatches up a pair of black cotton shorts, slides them on, then tucks white sneakers under one arm. “I’d beat some sense into you, but I’m late for practice. You never had any issues with naked girls in your line of sight last semester.” She uses her free hand to squeeze his cheeks, forcing him to make a fish face. Then she kisses him right on the mouth.

  “Kelsey! Cut it out.” Marshall wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His tone is angry, but he’s laughing.

  “Can’t help myself. You’re adorable, and now you’re all hot and sexy, too.” Kelsey squeezes his cheeks again and turns to me. “He’s, like, the world’s greatest kisser. Perfect technique. Get a few drinks in him and he’ll have no problem showing off for you. We’ll do roommate stuff later, okay? Don’t let this boy fool you into thinking he’s responsible. There’s a party animal behind all that bullshit RA training.”

  I think my face is going to remain the color of a tomato forever. Well, not forever, because that’s scientifically impossible.

  My new roommate bounces out of the room, and Marshall throws a sheepish grin my way. “Forgot to mention her issue with respecting boundaries and personal space.
Her words, not mine. Guess those psych classes last year were pretty useful for self-diagnosis.”

  I have no idea what to say to that or to the comment about him being the world’s greatest kisser, so I just nod. Realizing I haven’t spoken a word in several minutes, I add, “I better finish unloading so you can have your handicap placard back.”

  “Right,” he says. “If you happen to see a short, fat bald dude, make sure he sees you limp or something.”

  Oh, great. Potential fraud charges. The real college experience is awesome so far. Huh … maybe I can do sarcasm.

  “Izzy?” Marshall says, turning around after getting a foot into the hallway. “Those dudes next door? Totally not your type. Trust me. As a junior, I can read freshman boys like that.” He snaps his fingers. “Let me know if any of them get out of line. I’ll take care of it.”

  I crack a smile. To say Marshall is charming is an understatement. He’s obviously done the advanced-level course in the science of flirting. “I think I did a good job scaring them off.”

  “True.” He turns back around, then calls over his shoulder, “Remember, my door’s always open.”

  Oh, I’m sure that won’t escape my memory.

  Chapter 3

  The second-floor common room consists of several uncomfortable couches, a flat-screen TV, a mini kitchen, and a dartboard. Eighteen male and female freshmen are currently squeezed into this room preparing for our freshmen-only floor meeting. Apparently my roommate is one of the few non-freshmen to move in today, and that’s because she’s a university athlete and has practices to attend.

  Marshall still has that clipboard clutched in one hand like it’s proof of his authoritative role. There’s a tall skinny girl with large black glasses standing beside him wearing an identical shirt. The girl claps her hands together, getting everyone’s attention. “I’m Becca, and this is my senior year. I was an RA last year and I signed up again this year because I absolutely love my job. I love getting to know all my residents on the south end of floor two … Go floor two!”

  When nobody joins Becca’s cheer, Marshall takes over. “And I’m Marsh. The north end is my area, and I’m new to this job, so give me some time to screw up and figure it all out.”

  “I can see everyone is still feeling that awkward I’m-new-in-a-new-place insecurity,” Becca says. “Marsh and I are going to lead you guys in some super-fun games so we all get to know each other. We’ll be BFFs in no time.”

  I sit uncomfortably between two girls who keep leaning over me to whisper about how hot Marshall is; they’re also talking about those two guys he introduced me to earlier and two other guys I haven’t met yet. The commentary continues while the activity is explained.

  Too bad RAs are off-limits, especially for hookups.

  And he’s got that full-sized bed in his single room, plenty of space for two.

  I saw that! I think he caught me staring at the bed when I was in there getting my keys.

  That Yoshi guy is hot, don’t you think?

  I’ve heard Asian guys have small you-know-whats.

  I roll my eyes after that last comment and glance around for an empty space to move to. If they can’t manage to use the word penis, then they shouldn’t be talking about other people’s sexual anatomy. Especially not in a manner that includes racial stereotyping. I thought this was a liberal university.

  Except the girl who made that comment is also Asian, so does that count as a racial stereotype? She’s also completely gorgeous. I catch two guys and one girl gawking at her, though she appears to be oblivious. Hmm … or maybe that’s what you’re supposed to do? Pretend not to notice those kinds of looks? But do you pretend not to notice if you’re interested or if you’re not interested? Or both?

  “Izzy!”

  I shake my head, refocusing on this orientation activity. Marshall is walking toward me, holding out a hand. “I need your help with this game.”

  Why? Am I solving equations or something? That would probably be easier than whatever they have planned. Marshall leads me to where he was standing, spinning me around to face the group.

  “I don’t have a blindfold. Well, I did, but then it got lost.” He shifts to stand behind me and places a hand over my eyes.

  “Um … okay,” I hear Becca say, a trace of hesitancy in her voice, “I suppose that’s one method of blindfolding.”

  Marshall’s hands are big, covering my eyes easily. His palms are rough and callused, but his fingertips feel soft against my temple.

  “Many of us enter college bringing items with us, but not in the physical sense,” Becca explains.

  What the hell is she talking about? Virtual items?

  “Stereotypes,” she says after a dramatic pause. “We’ve all been limited in our exposure to differences, and we enter college with certain thoughts about one another even before we take the time to learn about each other.”

  “Nothing about that statement made sense,” I whisper to Marshall.

  He leans down, his breath landing on my ear and sending my heart into a sprint. “We only have one game planned and we’re supposed to have three, so I think she’s throwing in extra words to kill time.”

  I bite my lip to keep from laughing.

  “What we’re going to do now, with Izzy,” Becca says, “is have each of you exchange your resident questionnaire with someone else and then read one of their items from that person’s list of favorites. Izzy is going to guess, based on that statement, whether the author is male or female, an athlete or not, and a night owl or an early riser. Then the real writer can reveal him- or herself to the room and we’ll see with our own eyes how wrong first impressions can be. Who’s first?”

  “No peeking,” Marshall whispers, and I swear he’s making excuses to lean down and breathe on my ear. This is already awkward without some guy turning me on in front of nearly twenty of my peers.

  “My favorite food is …”

  I’m not paying attention to whoever’s reading because logic has finally caught up. “Something is not right about this game,” I whisper, turning my head slightly toward Marshall. “Why am I blindfolded if the author’s identity is already concealed?”

  He’s close enough behind me that I feel his body shaking with laughter. “Between you and me, Becca is not very bright. There seems to be something missing in all of her games. And she had to be in charge. Wouldn’t let me near her orientation planner. You know, ’cause she’s a veteran RA.”

  “Izzy,” Becca prompts, “male or female?”

  “Favorite food, french fries,” Marshall whispers. “Girl.”

  “Female,” I say.

  While Becca is busy searching for the author of that brilliant piece of information, Marshall says, “Not just a girl, a skinny girl.”

  “How do you know? Lots of people eat french fries.”

  “Skinny girls like to claim they can eat anything and it’s not their fault they have a slimmer waist than their friends or whatever.”

  My forehead wrinkles. “That makes no sense.”

  But this game continues, and while I have no clue how to tell if loving vanilla bean ice cream means that the statement was written by a male or a female, Marshall continues to guess correctly. Plus I really enjoy him whispering in my ear every few seconds. Finally my eyes get uncovered and I can see that Becca is flustered. I don’t think this game really accomplished what she’d wanted. I’m not sure it accomplished anything. Nor do I really feel like I know my fellow floormates any better. I return to my seat, and Becca redeems herself by reciting the dos and don’ts of dining-hall food, giving inside information regarding when the name of a menu item is code for it being yesterday’s leftovers concealed in a new package. Everyone seems to find that useful, including me. Maybe she’s trying too hard to get people to think she’s fun instead of accepting that “being fun” may not be what she was meant to contribute to society.

  After we’re dismissed and told we should all attend the hall mixer tonight so we can mi
ngle with people from the other floors, I hang back for a minute, intentionally making a task out of organizing my informational handouts, hoping to walk back with Marshall since I don’t really know anyone else.

  “You can’t do that stuff,” I hear Becca say, speaking urgently to Marshall.

  “What stuff?”

  “Getting frisky with the residents.” She sounds like she’s mashed her teeth together and is trying to speak through them. “It’ll only make your job more difficult. The other residents will assume you’re playing favorites, or maybe one of them will get ticked off at you and claim sexual harassment. You’re putting yourself at risk.”

  “I was just being nice,” Marshall says, sounding genuinely concerned.

  I’ve heard more than enough. I scoot out of there quick and head for my room, my cheeks flaming. I thought he was flirting with me. Maybe he was but didn’t realize it. Either way, Marshall Collins is a bit too skilled in this area for my taste. If I’m going to tackle any kind of real relationship, I want someone who can stumble through it with me. I’m not good at being behind.

  But damn, that voice in my ear, that hand over my eyes, and the heat of him behind me … My back feels ice cold now. And to think that probably would have never happened if Becca had half a brain. Her game may have made no sense at all, but it gave Marshall the chance to “get frisky” with me.

  I spot Evan and Yoshi in the hall near my room. I give them a little wave and say, “Hey.” Both guys avoid eye contact with me, look at each other, and then shuffle into their own room.

  My face burns from blushing. This is not going well.

  Chapter 4

  @IsabelJenkinsMD: So even though I’m having downtime, I haven’t forgotten the importance of debunking medical myths.

  @IsabelJenkinsMD: Myth—shaving causes hair to grow back faster.

  @IsabelJenkinsMD: This is just an illusion. You get used to your smooth legs or face and the smallest bit of hair growth is more noticeable.

  @IsabelJenkinsMD: Cutting the surface of the hair has no influence on what goes on underneath. That’s like saying cosmetic surgery makes you smarter.