Page 180 of Burn Bright

Swiping a chocolate chip cookie from the plate, I take a nibble. It’s disgusting. It tastes like the inside of a rotted tree. I keep chewing because spitting it out will likely make Elijah and Kiki throw my application in the garbage can.

They start talking about the new science library being built on campus, and I struggle to add any helpful commentary. I just nod. Hoping that maybe my presence is enough. Sanders speaks over Kiki a couple times to boast about several engineering competitions he won, and he’s totally not picking up on Kiki’s side-eye.

I devour the cookie and wash it down with a big gulp of punch. I have very little experience in recreational drugs, especially edibles, so I’m hoping this shit kicks in soon and eases my nerves.

A candidate named Grace brushes off cookie crumbs from her racerback tee, matched perfectly with brown corduroy shorts. “My parents are both anesthesiologists at JohnsHopkins,” she says. “So I’m fully expected to join the ‘family business’.” She uses finger quotes. “They had a friend who I’m shadowing at Metropolitan Medical.”

The cookiehas notkicked in. I repeat: THE COOKIE HAS NOT KICKED IN.

My blood runs cold. My pulse accelerates. A ringing begins in my ears. It was easy not to feel panicky about my medical school prospects when I was listening to Kiki and Elijah talk because they’re not pre-med.

But hearing that Grace has found a shadowing position at Metropolitan Medical Hospital here in New York—something I haven’t been able to land—is wrecking my self-confidence in a single instant.

You’d think being around other pre-med people would fuel a sense of camaraderie, but it only surfaces the big, stressful reminder of what more I could be doing and how much smarter I could be.

I hate this fucking feeling.

Grace continues, “Add that with four clubs, volunteering, undergrad research, and I think I have my bases covered for med school. Just have to kick ass on the MCAT.”

“We have great tutors for that at Honors House,” Kiki says. “Pre-med is the main focus for about half the members here.”

“That’s amazing,” Grace says wistfully. “I could really use the extra support.”

The cookie/punch combo unsettles my stomach. “Where are your bathrooms?” I ask Elijah. He lists off a few directions, and as I slip away, I hear him say, “Does she always look mad?”

I stop right outside the door where I can easily eavesdrop.

“I think she’s kind of cute,” Kiki replies. “Like a fun-sized pre-med grumpy Barbie.” I rarely wear much pink. Red, definitely. So the only Barbie thing about me has to be my blonde hair. Thanks to a five-buck boxed dye.

“She’s pre-med?” Grace’s tone has the same competitive freeze that runs through my blood. “Do you know what her extracurriculars are?”

“Not off the top of my head. But she’s in Dr. Venison’s lab.”

“Fuck,” Grace curses.

That shouldn’t cause me to smile. But it does. Yeah, maybe that makes me an asshole, but I don’t care tonight. I leave the wall before they say something that plummets my self-esteem. I’m going to nurture this surge of confidence like a fragile seedling. Channel Ben’s green thumb ways.

Continuing down the hall, it doesn’t take me long to forget Elijah’s directions.

I most definitely took a wrong left-turn somewhere. I’m about to retrace my steps when I pass one of the many little study lounges. Alcoves nestled beside the full-length windows. A cobweb-strewn bookcase and club chairs accent the intimate space. Purple and orange multicolored lights wrap around a fireplace mantel, and my heart shoots to my throat when I spot Ben.

He’s facing away from the hall, angled toward the bookshelf and a girl.

A girl.

I don’t have to be good at reading body language to see he knows her. It’s the way he stands close to her with little visible distance, the way his hands move passionately as he talks, the way his head dips down to be more at eyesight. To be closer.

She’s taller than me. Maybe by five inches, making their height difference not as awkwardly obvious as mine and Ben’s.

Her dark sandy blonde hair flows into a loose braid. A rust-orange satin, cowl-neck top is tucked into a pair of high-waisted denim jeans.

My throat dries. There’s no need to be jealous. She’s just a girl. He can talk to girls.I should introduce myself, I think. Butmy feet root to the ground, an invisible force seizing my muscles. My resolve. The way Ben starts to look at her, raw concern in his blue eyes, devastates every inch of me.

He touches her shoulder—and I can’t watch anymore.

I slip away from the alcove, walking dizzily toward…somewhere else. My head feels far too light, and I wonder if the pot has finally hit me. I really hope it has.

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