Third Degree (25 page)

“No Gatorade,” he says.

I hand him an empty glass. “Apple juice. Put ice in it and water it down a bit.”

Allie breezes by us holding a plate that consists of a mound of vanilla ice cream topped with gummy bears and hot fudge. Marshall reaches for the back of her shirt. “Slow down, kid. You’re gonna fall and end up wearing that sundae for a shirt.”

She giggles but slows down as instructed. When we get back to the table, I notice that every Collins family member is eating completely different things. Elizabeth sighs when she sees Allie’s breakfast, then excuses herself, returning with a plate of scrambled eggs and canned peaches. She sets it in front of Allie but doesn’t take her ice cream away. She throws me a sheepish grin. “You probably think I’m a horrible mother.”

“I don’t know anything about being a mother,” I say. “But my dad’s the one to enforce healthy eating in my family.”

Marshall’s dad, who finally introduced himself during the ride here as Jesse senior, snorts at my comment. Obviously he’s not a good influence in the area of healthy diets.

“ ’Cause he’s a doctor, right?” Renee says.

I nod. “When I was about Allie’s age he showed me a cadaver with fatty tissue surrounding the heart and blocked arteries and then told me that’s what happens if you eat too many french fries. I’ve been pretty careful ever since then.”

I shove a forkful of eggs into my mouth and then notice that six utensils have stopped moving and six pairs of eyes are now on me.

“What’s a cadaver?” Allie asks, her mouth full of gummy bears. She’s the only one not staring at me.

Elizabeth Collins clears her throat. “It’s something in France.”

“Oh, I get it,” she says. “French fries … France …”

“That’s gross.” Renee points her fork at me. “But also cool.”

Marshall leans on one elbow, facing me. “I think it’s pretty demented. I’m adding it to my list of amazing things you’ve survived.”

My insides warm, remembering his reassurance and kind words last night. “I suppose it’s a bit unconventional as far as parenting goes, but I bugged my mom and dad constantly with questions. I drove them to the edge of insanity.”

Other conversations erupt spontaneously around the table—about the high school where my mom works, a school that three of the Collins children have attended or currently attend, and about the nuns at the Catholic grade school that Allie and Renee attend. I watch Marshall push food around his plate, never taking a bite. He does drink the apple juice I suggested, though, and makes at least three trips to the restroom. Each time he scoots away from the table to get up, Elizabeth’s face takes on the worried-mother expression, but she doesn’t say anything—not with Jesse glaring at her the whole time.

“He’s doing okay, right?” she finally asks me when both Marshall and Jesse are away from the table. “He’s taking his meds and drinking plenty of fluids?”

Answering her question feels like a betrayal, but I remember the urgency I felt only days ago, how I needed those answers and he’s not even my kid. It must be so much worse for her. “He’s taking the steroids. Just started last night.”

She sighs with relief. “If only we could get him to eat something.”

Now I see why Marshall gives in. She really would feel better if he ate, even though he’s only going to puke it back up later. It can’t be easy denying this woman, what with all those worried-mom looks she’s such a pro at.

“I assume you’ve already reported your relationship,” Elizabeth says when Marsh returns.

Marshall chokes on his apple juice but pulls himself together quickly. “Um … no, not yet. But I will.”

Renee grins. “Don’t you get it, Mom? It’s like a new thing for them. Look how embarrassed they are.”

“Oh! Was it this weekend?” Tracy asks, leaning in. “OMG, it was, wasn’t it? You guys like just hooked up. Have you told your parents yet, Izzy? I bet your mom is going to be so excited. She loves Marsh. We were just talking about him last week when I saw her in the ha—”

“Enough,” Jesse senior says, and the whole table goes silent. “Leave the boy alone. Let’s talk about that punk-ass kid who keeps Facebook-messaging Renee.”

“Dad!” she shouts. “Invasion of privacy.”

“You left yourself logged on at the kitchen computer. But don’t worry, I replied for you. He won’t be sending any more love notes.”

Arguments pop up all around us, and I take the opportunity to talk quietly to Marshall, “So you really have to tell someone, like the RA people? Like Becca?”

He slides his plate away from him and squeezes my thigh under the table. “Only if you
want people to know. You don’t have to decide right now. But if it’s going to happen out in the open, then yeah. While it’s not something they’ll be too happy about, it can’t be forbidden. Documentation is the proper procedure.”

“Okay,” I say, looking right at him. “You can tell people.”

He rests his arm on the back of my chair. “They might make me switch sides with Becca, but I’m all right with that.”

I don’t ask him what happens if he gets sicker and needs to be in the hospital. Is that going to affect his job later or next year? Will that keep him from performing well enough in classes this semester? Especially with his less-than-stellar anatomy grade.

Instead of worrying, I sit through breakfast and the short ride to the bowling alley thinking up more creative anatomy lessons for future study sessions. And replaying the last one over and over.

“Line up your ball with the center arrow and get as low as you can before you release it,” Jesse senior instructs from right beside me. After he noticed that I only managed to knock down a total of six pins in six turns, he’s made it his responsibility to help me improve.

The Collins family has also paid for my two games of bowling and the shoe rental despite my protests and the fact that they’ve just given Marshall a brand-new laptop for his birthday. It’s the only gift they gave him, and everyone was extremely excited to hand it over, so I know it’s probably a big financial strain for them; even Marshall’s face seemed to reflect that when he opened the gift.

“Why don’t you let Marshall give her some
hands-on
instruction?” Tracy teases from her seat behind us.

Been there, done that
. Darts have been a whole different game ever since.

I glance over my shoulder. Marshall is staring at his sister, eyes narrowed. “What do you know about
hands-on
instruction?”

Her face flushes and she looks away. “Nothing. It was a joke, you idiot.”

“Don’t call your brother an idiot on his birthday,” Elizabeth says from the lane beside us, where she, Jesse, Allie, and Renee are all playing.

“Fine. I’ll wait until tomorrow and send him a text telling him he’s an idiot.” Tracy smirks like she’s just won an important contest.

“Ready, Izzy?” Jesse senior asks.

“Oh, right.” I lift the ball to my chest and focus on the arrows in the center of the lane. I manage to knock down eight pins this time.

Marshall grins and gives me a high-five when I slide into the seat beside him. Then he wraps an arm around me and touches his lips to my ear. “I will totally give you some
hands-on
instruction if you want.”

My face heats up even more than Tracy’s did. I shake my head. “Maybe next time. At the campus bowling alley.”
When your family isn’t studying my every move
.

“Didn’t you date that one girl from marching band when you were sixteen?” Tracy drills Marshall. “What was her name? I can’t remember.…”

“Tanley.” He keeps his arm around me, but his attention turns to his sister seated across from us. “Why?”

“I knew it!” She says it with such triumph that Jesse senior falters in his step and his ball heads toward the gutter.

“Dammit,” he mutters, then walks over to join us. “Everybody in a thirty-mile radius is now aware of the fact that you want to date some punk-ass kid and I said no. So give it a rest. Because I said no.”

“What punk-ass kid?” Marshall asks.

Renee turns around in her row of chairs and faces us. “Take your pick. Every male that looks our way, even online, is a punk-ass kid according to Dad.”

“What about you, Izzy?” Tracy asks. “Were you allowed to date when you were my age?”

I sit on that question long enough to end up with several pairs of eyes trained on me, waiting for my answer. “When I was sixteen, I went to medical school. All the males were at least twenty-two years old and tried their best to ignore me completely. So no, I didn’t date.”

“See?” Marshall’s dad grins and claps his hands together. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

Tracy’s shaking her head like he’s absolutely lost his mind. “You know what I think? I bet Marshall and Jesse got a yes the second they mentioned taking a girl on a date at my age. I bet you even slapped a condom in their hands and told them not to get anyone pregnant, am I right?”

She stares at Marshall, who jumps to his feet. “It’s my turn.”

Marshall’s dad heads over to the other lane to offer Allie some instruction, and Tracy moves into Marshall’s seat and immediately launches into a rant against her dad and sexism and some other things that I tune out because I’m too busy staring at her brother. He’s obviously in pain—one of his big symptoms is inflammation of the joints—but he still picks a ball heavier than mine and makes his best attempt at throwing a strike. He manages to hit nine pins, and on his second attempt gets the last one.

In my head, I’m rewinding back in time a few weeks, replacing this subdued Marshall with the version that ran backward in flip-flops, was disappointed with his time of six minutes twenty seconds on the mile run, and wolfed down a triple hamburger in minutes for his
second
dinner. He’s a shadow of that guy right now.

The reality of there being no cure for what causes him to slip backward into this other Marshall hits me hard. I want him to get better, but I also want him to
stay
better, and I know he can’t. Here I am feeling sorry for myself because I can’t be a surgical resident at nineteen, that I can’t have everything exactly when I want it, while Marshall’s pretending he’s okay, trying his best to hang on to the most important parts of himself.

“He’s a survivor,” I mumble to myself.

“Who? Marshall?” Tracy says, putting a halt to her angry speech about how unfair her teenage life is. She catches me watching him, and that seems to answer her question. “I know, right? One time, when we lived in California, my mom had planned a sleepover at a hotel for my birthday. Her friend who owned a salon even came and did our nails.… Anyway, Marsh was really sick but he didn’t want to tell my mom because Dad and Jesse were on some Boy Scout weekend camping trip and he knew we’d have to cancel my party. He stayed home all by himself, puking up blood all night long.” She shudders and shakes her head. “He finally called Mom at exactly ten in the morning when the party was scheduled to be over. Of course she screamed at him, called 911, and told him she’d kill him herself if he ever did something like that again.”

Marshall heads over to the other lane and begins chatting with Jesse. He flashes a smile in my direction but stays away. He must be afraid of Tracy’s questioning. Now I’m wondering if she was right about her dad slapping condoms into his sons’ hands and sending them off on dates at sixteen.

“Girls have dumped him,” Tracy says. “Because he got sick or needed surgery and it grossed them out. He never tells anyone unless he has to.”

“Yeah, I noticed that.” As much as it pisses me off that he kept it from me, I get it. Once you tell someone, you can’t un-tell them.

“He liked you way before this weekend.” She keeps her eyes on her brother, making sure he’s not going to come over here. “He told me that he thought you might really get him, and that you were real, you know? But then he wasn’t sure, and the RA issue got in the way.…” She shifts her focus to me. “So it doesn’t freak you out? You’re not gonna, like, break up with him because you want some strong alpha-male type who’s always healthy?”

I should probably censor my answer—be vague and talk around the subject—but I don’t. It feels cheap to not be straight with her. “I don’t really know where things are going with Marshall. There’s a good chance I’ll screw things up, but him being sick won’t be the reason for that.”

“Good,” she says with a nod. “Because he’s awesome and … well, look at him. He’s way hotter than Jesse, and Jesse has girls all over him, all the time.”

I laugh a little but decide to keep my thoughts about Marshall’s hotness to myself.

“And he’ll never force you to sacrifice something for him,” she continues, her voice growing more serious. “He’ll barf up blood all night by himself so that you can have your stupid slumber party to impress a bunch of catty rich girls so they’ll invite you to their birthday parties and you don’t have to feel like a loser because your family doesn’t make a ton of money and your mom chooses to be with her children instead of adding to the family bank account by getting a job of her own.”

I don’t say anything for a moment, thinking about the guilt she obviously feels, buried underneath the selfish whining she was doing a little earlier.

“Anyway, so you really didn’t date at all while you were in medical school?” Tracy asks.

I glance at her. “When I was your age, nobody really expected me to go down that path. I wasn’t a teenager in their eyes—I was a prodigy, a freak of nature. Even my parents didn’t suspect.”

She leans in, her face lighting up with interest. “Didn’t suspect what? You totally hooked up with a twentysomething med student at my age, didn’t you? Holy shit, was he hot?”

I laugh and shake my head. “Not a med student, a professor. And I was seventeen.”

“Oh my God,” she squeals. “Was
he
hot?”

“He’s the picture of smart and sexy. Youngest, hottest, most charming professor at the university,” I explain. “And at the beginning he hated me—well, not me, but he hated the idea of a kid my age about to be a doctor. I didn’t like being hated when I hadn’t done anything, and I wanted his attention, so I figured out how to get it.”