Third Degree

  Kelsey bangs so hard on Marshall’s door, I’m sure she’s going to wake up the whole floor. There’s a strange guy in our room, so I had no choice but to follow Kelsey out into the hallway, gripping the two samples I swabbed only minutes ago.

  “I was trying to protect you,” I say, pleading with her to not turn me in. To not make me look like a weirdo in front of Marshall. A week into the semester and my roommate already hates me, as do several instructors. I’ve changed my class schedule three times already.

  Kelsey gives me a sideways glance and then pounds on the door again, mumbling, “And I thought I had boundary issues.”

  Finally Marshall opens the door, revealing the shirtless-and-in-boxer-shorts look I’ve seen a few times while he travels to and from the bathrooms. He’s not hard to look at, that’s for sure. His eyes are only half open, his dark hair even more disheveled than usual. “I know I gave that speech about the door always being open, but four in the morning might be the exception.”

  “My roommate is stealing DNA samples from me and William,” Kelsey says, so loud that Marshall immediately shuffles us inside his room and closes the door.

  “William?” Marshall doesn’t seem awake enough to react to Kelsey’s bra-and-panties-only attire.

  “Not DNA samples,” I protest. But even I can’t believe what I just did. What the hell was I thinking? This isn’t a clinic or a hospital. I touched someone’s no-zone without consent. Oh my God, I’m a criminal. I was half asleep and my brain went into doctor mode. I put on the gloves and dove right in. I’m almost nineteen; I should know better than to perform STI testing on my roommate’s sleeping one-night stand.

  Dr. James believes your certainty may be a mask for avoidance of important age milestones.

  Oh my God. Dr. Winifred James, Ph.D., is going to become my alter ego. I’m gonna develop dissociative identity disorder like that lady in the show United States of Tara. Soon I’ll be spending three days a week assuming the role of the psychologist who ruined my medical career. The irony. The tragedy. It’s like a modern-day Shakespeare play.

  Marshall holds up a hand to me and turns to Kelsey, repeating, “William?”

  She’s too pissed off to explain much. “Just some guy I met at a frat party last night. I think he goes to school here.”

  Marshall takes a seat on his bed. “Well, is he a student or isn’t he? Because that changes the course of action.”

  “Fuck you, Marsh!” Kelsey raises her hands. “Turn off your RA bullshit for a minute and be real. Are you not seeing this chick with freakin’ DNA samples in her hand?”

  Marshall turns to me, eying the swabs in my hand. “Izzy?”

  “All I did was take a fluid sample from a couple of William’s sores. I thought Kelsey should know if the guy she’s sleeping with has syphilis.” At the same time, I’m thinking, This is bad. Really, really bad.

  “Jesus.” Marshall pinches the bridge of his nose and squeezes his eyes shut for a few seconds. “This was so not covered in RA training.”

  “Condoms,” Kelsey says to me. “Ever heard of them? Well, I have, and I use them every time, so back the fuck off.”

  “That’s not going to prevent the spread unless the sores are isolated to the penis only.” I raise my eyebrows at Kelsey. “Are they?”

  Shut up, Izzy, I tell myself. It doesn’t matter. You can’t invade people’s privacy like this.

  Her face twists with anger. “You little freak—”

  Marshall flops onto his back, covering his face and groaning. “What the hell am I doing? I’m not cut out for this.”

  Kelsey and I start shouting at the same time—me trying to explain and apologize, and Kelsey uttering strings of three and four swear words.

  Marshall shoots upright again, holding up his hands. “Shut up, both of you.” We clamp our lips together and he nods. “That’s much better. Kelsey, you need to be very direct with your roommate and ask her to please refrain from offering advice or trying to help you with … health-related matters.”

  “This is bullshit—” Kelsey starts to say, but Marshall gives her a stern look, and she huffs. “Fine,” she says, turning to me. “Izzy, please refrain from any biological testing on me or my guests. And please refrain from timing my trips into the bathroom stall and making suggestions relating to high-fiber diets.”

  “I don’t time—”

  Marshall puts up a hand to stop me again. “Kelsey’s turn.”

  “I also have no desire to know the estimated mercury levels in the fish served in the dining hall.”

  I bite down on my lip. I did recite mercury facts, but that was because I was nervous sitting with Kelsey and her cheerleader friends. That usually brings on the fact reciting. And they seemed like halfway intelligent girls, so I thought they might appreciate the extra knowledge.

  “Thank you, Kelsey,” Marshall says, then turns to me. “Izzy, I’d like you to hand over the … uh … samples you’ve collected, since they were taken without consent.”

  My grip on the wooden sticks tightens. That stupid, impulsive voice inside my head is shouting, You’ve gone this far already. Might as well find out if you’re right.

  “Izzy,” Marshall warns, his eyes narrowing at me.

  I blow air out of my cheeks, and after another two-second hesitation, I thrust the swabs toward Marshall. There, that’s the right choice. The socially acceptable choice. He wrinkles his nose and looks like he really doesn’t want to touch them but thinks it’s his civic duty to dispose of them properly. He holds them by the very end, using only his thumb and index finger. He stands up, raises the lid on his garbage can, tosses the swabs in, suppresses a shudder, then reaches for a bottle of hand sanitizer on his desk and dumps several ounces into his palm, bathing not only his hands but also his arms in it.

  “Izzy, can you agree to Kelsey’s clearly stated terms and apologize for the intrusive behavior tonight?”

  I fold my arms across my chest and stare at the wall behind Kelsey. “Yes, and I’m sorry for trying to prove your one-night stand’s syphilis diagnosis.”

  Marshall gives me a nod of approval. “And Kelsey, can you agree to the terms stated in the student housing handbook that all overnight guests must be signed in and approved by your roommate?”

  She glares at Marshall. “Fine.”

  He claps his hands together, looking way too happy and awake for this hour. “Now the final step …” He fishes through a stack of papers on his desk and eventually holds up identical pink sheets, one in each hand. “If you could just fill out these conflict resolution forms for me, we can all be on our way.”

  Kelsey snatches the sheet, tears it in half, tosses it on the ground, then stomps out of the room. Marshall rolls his eyes. “That went well.”

  Now that Kelsey’s gone, I’m even more embarrassed by the situation than before. Marshall probably thinks I’m not only creepy but also difficult to handle. Not that I didn’t already know that last part. I’ve always been difficult. Still, I thought maybe I could leave that trait with Isabel Jenkins, M.D. I had high hopes for Izzy Jenkins in the area of “getting along with others.”

  I reach for the pink sheet and a pen from his desk, leaning over to fill out the paper. Marshall lays his palm over the paper to stop me. “Izzy …” He points to the end of the bed, indicating that I should sit. So I do. “Before we document this, I just want to make sure you understand how this might look to an outside party.”

  My face flames. I lean forward, allowing my hair to conceal my cheeks. “I know. I’m sorry. I forgot where I was and what might be okay and what might be—”

  “Sexual assault?” Marshall finishes, his eyebrows lifting.

  I cringe, hearing those words. Hearing what could be deemed the truth. Things can get out of control so quickly. “Yeah. That.”

  “Here’s the thing …” He scrubs his hands over his face. “I’ve turned in two incident reports with your name on them in the last week. Becca is already on my case about filing somethin
g official with the main residential life office. If I don’t and Kelsey goes to them … I think I can talk her out of it, but I could lose my job for not reporting all incidents.”

  I run my palms back and forth over my thighs. “Right. Okay, so you have to write me up. I get it.”

  “If I lose this job, then I have to figure out how to pay for housing, which I can’t afford, and find a new source of income. It took a lot of work for me to get this position, the recommendations and the interviews … I’m sorry,” he says, guilt filling his expression.

  I stare at him blankly. “Why are you sorry? I screwed up. You’re just doing your job.”

  “I don’t think you meant any harm, that’s why I feel bad. The perception of the situation isn’t going to be anywhere near the truth, and I hate that people are going to think about you that way.”

  My face falls into my hands and I groan. “I knew this roommate thing would be too hard. I should have gotten an off-campus apartment and found other outlets for socializing.”

  “She’ll come around,” Marshall says. “Kelsey’s pretty great once you get to know her. Maybe let her cool off a little before trying to reconcile things, though.”

  “I planned on going right to bed and ignoring her for the rest of the night,” I say, to reassure him that we won’t come knocking again. Not tonight, anyway. Or this morning, since it’s technically morning.

  Marshall takes a pillow and a blanket from his bed, tossing them onto the floor. “Uh, yeah, you won’t be sleeping in your bed until tomorrow night. I’m sure Kelsey locked you out. I could open the door for you—using my awesome RA key ring—but I don’t think that’s the best plan of action, considering the guest in her bed.”

  I’m wearing pajama pants and a tank top—no shoes or pockets to have stuck room keys in. “What should I do? Sleep in the common room?”

  He nods toward his bed and yawns. “You can stay here. Just please don’t tell anyone, and we’ll get you out of here early in the morning so no one catches you performing the walk of shame, exiting the RA’s room. I’ll take the floor.”

  I know that, socially, I should refuse the bed and play that little game where he refuses my refusal and so on, but I’m tired and I hate games that are pointless and predictable. I mumble a thanks and climb onto his bed, resting my cheek against his pillow. I press my nose into it and inhale. “Head and Shoulders shampoo … you know, Selsun Blue is much more effective.”

  “Remember that conversation about being intrusive? The one we had like five seconds ago?” Marshall stretches out on the floor on top of his blue comforter and then closes his eyes.

  “Right.” I lie there in silence for several minutes, watching his chest rise and fall, counting his breaths until I can’t stay silent any longer. “Marshall?”

  “Isabel,” he mumbles, eyes still shut.

  “I suck at being normal.”

  He rolls over on his side, his back to me. “Well, that’s one thing you have in common with your roommate.” He gives that a good thirty seconds to sink in before adding, “You’re always observing people, but maybe you’re studying the wrong things.”

  He’s gotten my brain swirling with thoughts all over again, keeping me from sleep. I watch a half-asleep Marshall roll around and try to get comfortable on the floor for at least thirty minutes before I lean over to shake him.

  “Marsh?” I shake his shoulder again, and he turns on his back, peeling his eyes open. “Just sleep on the bed. You look miserable, and there’s room up here for two people.”

  “You sure?”

  I nod, and seconds later he’s stretched out beside me, his blue comforter tossed over me instead of him.

  “No taking samples from any part of my body, got it?”

  I laugh and stare up at the ceiling. “That won’t be a problem as long as you refrain from sleeping naked and giving me a full frontal view on my way to the bathroom.”

  He slaps his hands over his face, half laughing, half groaning. “Nasty. Don’t tell me he had something … you know, down there? Something big enough to see in the dark?”

  “Oh, yeah. It wasn’t pretty. He was practically begging me to take a look and find out if it’s contagious.”

  “I feel nauseous,” Marshall says, still laughing.

  “My apology was completely sincere. I know I screwed up. It’s just … Well, this is going to sound weird.…” I stop, not sure if I should reveal too much of Isabel Jenkins, M.D.

  He tugs on my hair. “What’s going to sound weird?”

  “Promise you won’t think I’m psycho?”

  He laughs. “I can’t promise that until you tell me the rest.”

  “There’s something so satisfying about seeing the disease you’ve been looking for under a microscope. I know that sounds morbid, but it calms me. Like no matter what, I have something.”

  “What? Your brain?” he guesses.

  I laugh. “Yeah, sort of. And sometimes it becomes this frenzy whenever I question something and I know there’s a way to find the answer.” I search for a more common, mainstream analogy to help him understand. “It’s like when you’re talking about movies or TV shows or music with someone and you can’t think of a title or an actor’s name. Then later, when it finally comes to you, you get this wave of relief, like part of your mind has been occupied with that question and you didn’t realize how much energy had been spent on it until you have the answer.”

  His gaze is practically burning a hole into the side of my face. I can feel it. “I think I know what you mean,” Marshall says.

  The tone of his voice has shifted from light amusement to something deeper, more serious. I swallow back nerves and dig for a new subject.

  “So this is what college is like.” I turn my head toward him. “Girls exposing their entire floor to their bra and panty collections, casual and platonic cohabiting of beds, random sexual encounters, lots of wet naked people walking around in towels that are way too short. Who knew?”

  Marshall rolls his eyes. “Yeah, it’s a real jungle. And personally I’m quite fond of the bra and panty bit. I have yet to see an unattractive collection.”

  The heat radiating off his body, moving into my personal space, is enough to get my heart speeding up a bit. Even his voice—oozing charm despite its comedic tone—is sexy, especially emerging from beside me in the nearly dark room.

  “And then there’s the presence of world-famous kissing,” I add.

  He rolls on his side, propping himself up on an elbow and grinning at me. “That’s why you pissed off Kelsey. You wanted an excuse to get me alone so you could see for yourself if it’s true or not.”

  I laugh really hard and shake my head, refusing to answer.

  “Admit it,” Marshall presses. “You are dying to know.”

  “I am a girl who likes to get answers,” I concede. He studies me carefully and then starts to lean in. My heart is racing now, my eyes preparing to close, and my hands … what do they want? Probably to touch Marshall’s hair, run my fingers through it. His mouth is so close to mine when he freezes and pulls back.

  His forehead wrinkles. “Now look who’s crossing lines. I suck at this RA thing.”

  “Hey.” I touch his arm lightly. “It’s not your fault. I brought it up.”

  He rolls back over and stares at the ceiling, and for several minutes all I do is lie there and listen to him breathe. “I’m gonna leave out a few details on that report. Just please don’t make me regret this, okay?”

  My heart speeds up, this time from anxiety and fear of failure. “Okay. I promise to do better.”

  It’s a silly little incident report to the residential life office, but it feels like the most important promise I’ve ever made. Letting Marshall down would prove that I’m truly a freak. A freak who can’t possibly be allowed to practice medicine without supervision. Like ever.

  Chapter 5

  Marshall’s alarm wakes both of us up at six-thirty in the morning. He stands up and slams his fis
t into it, cutting off the blaring beeps. “I have class, but you should probably sneak out now rather than later.”

  Suddenly I remember my new schedule and bolt upright. “Shit. I have this seven o’clock boot camp class today.”

  He grins at me, lifting an eyebrow. “You’re kidding me. I’m the TA.”

  I rub the sleep from my eyes. “There’s a TA for the boot camp fitness program? Why? And you’re an undergrad student. You can’t be a TA.”

  “Unofficial TA. I take roll and collect the bodies after Sergeant Holloway tortures you guys,” he says calmly. “Occasionally I clean up vomit if anyone is stupid enough to eat breakfast before class.”

  Note to self—no breakfast on Monday, Wednesday, or Friday.

  Marshall looks me over, taking in my bare feet and pj’s, not to mention the lack of bra. “Want me to let you into your room so you can get some clothes and shoes?”

  “Shoes? Does this mean you’re going to wear actual shoes?”

  “Not by choice.” He plucks a pair of sneakers from his closet and holds them up for me to see. “The societal confines placed on feet are something I plan to fight once I’m in a position of power.”

  “What position would that be? Head of the public footwear council?”

  “Is that a real thing?” He sounds very hopeful, which causes me to crack up laughing.

  Five minutes later, I’ve made it through the hall unseen by my floormates and in and out of my room without waking the angry sleeping bears. I’m also sporting appropriate footwear and workout clothing in addition to clean teeth, but I avoided my usual morning protein bar, per the no-breakfast rule.

  All my classes last week were ten o’clock or later, so I’m surprised by the eerie quiet of campus at this hour. It’s a short walk to the rec center, where the class meets outside, at least until weather requires us to move the sessions indoors. I’m expecting to meet an older retired man in a full-out army uniform, but Sergeant Holloway is probably middle-aged and he’s wearing an NIU ROTC T-shirt with gym shorts. He does have a whistle around his neck, and he blows it the second he sees me.