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Landon is supposedto call me tonight at nine p.m., and it’s now eight minutes after nine. With each passing minute, I’m getting more and more ticked off.

I don’t want to be that kind of girlfriend—the kind where he has to call at the exact time he said he would or else I get all pissy. But then again, how hard is it to call on time? Is it really so difficult to pick up the phone and call me at the time I asked him to? He knows it’s my first day of school and I’m all keyed up. Why is he doing this to me?

It doesn’t help that Rachel is driving me out of my mind. First, she was going on and on about how eighty percent of college relationships end during med school. I don’t know where she got that ridiculous statistic, but she wouldn’t shut up about it.

Then, she asked me what I wanted to specialize in when I graduated. When I told her I wanted to be a pediatrician, she looked at me with utter contempt for falling into the “traditional gender stereotypical role.” Apparently, she wants to be a surgeon.

The other weird thing is that Rachel hasn’t bought any books. Not even Dr. Conlon’s book, Anatomy: Inside Secrets. You’d think if she wanted to be a surgeon, she’d be studying her ass off right now in anticipation of our first anatomy lab tomorrow. Or at least half-heartedly trying to read the lab manual like I’m doing.

Instead, she’s sitting on her bed in a lotus position, just watching me. It’s a little creepy. Our bedroom is too small for two people to share—we’re always on top of one another. There’s just barely room for both of our beds, our desks, one dresser, and a single bookcase. We have to share a single closet. I can’t even walk into the room without tripping on something.

“Are you waiting for your boyfriend to call you?”

I look up at Rachel, who is blinking innocently. I make a face. “His name is Landon. And… he’s going to call any second now.”

Rachel snorts. “Just don’t get too hung up on the guy. If he dumps you, you might turn to pills. And I don’t want to be the one who finds you when you…”

“What?”

Rachel makes a choking sound as she clutches her neck.

I stare at her, horrified. “I’m not going to overdose on pills!”

“You never know. I mean, who walks into medical school thinking, ‘Hey, I’m going to become a drug addict’?”

My mouth falls open.

“The question is,” she goes on, “where are the drugs coming from?”

I shake my head. “What do you mean?”

“Three students in three years got their hands on enough pills that they accidentally died. Someone is giving them those pills.”

“So… another student?”

“Maybe.” She twists her body to one side then the other. “But for so many years in a row? More likely, it’s one of the professors. A first-year professor, who can get to all the students early.”

We got introduced to every single one of the first-year professors this week, and none of them seem like drug dealers. Especially not Dr. Conlon with his dorky bowtie. The idea is laughable.

I’m about to tell Rachel that she’s full of it when my phone starts ringing with Landon’s number. My ringtone is Miley Cyrus’s “Party in the USA,” which resulted in some choice comments from Rachel last night. But screw her. I like that song.

“Hello,” I answer breathlessly.

I hear chewing on the other line. “’Lo?”

“Hey,” I say, rising from my bed. Rachel is still staring at me, so I back out of our bedroom into the living room. “What’s up?”

More chewing. “Not much.”

“Um,” I say. “Are you eating?”

“Just an apple.” I hear him swallow.

“Didn’t you get dinner?”

“Yeah,” Landon says. “But, like, I got hungry again.”

Typical Landon. He always gets hungry about an hour after dinner.

“Oh,” I say. I grip the phone tighter. I wish I could give Landon a hug, feel his body against me. The person on the other line almost doesn’t seem like it’s him. We’ve barely been apart for a week, and already, this long-distance thing sucks. I didn’t expect it to feel so… distant.

Landon and I first met in freshman chemistry. We were assigned to be lab partners, and I got taken in by his dimples and brown curls. Also, he was just so smart. I would have burned the lab down with my Bunsen burner if not for him.

For months, Landon and I were just friends. Then, one day, while we were walking together, I felt his hand slide into mine. We’ve been together ever since.

“I miss you,” I say to him.

“I miss you too,” he says.

I grip the phone tighter, pushing it against my ear. “How much do you miss me?”

He sounds baffled by the question. “What do you mean?”

“Like, on a scale of one to ten.”

“Oh.” He considers this for a moment. “Maybe… seven?”

“Seven!” I burst out.

“Is that too high or too low?”

I let out a huff. “I miss you a ten.”

“Well, it’s only been a week, Heather. Can you give me a little time to work up to a ten?”

“I guess so,” I say grudgingly. I suppose he’s right—it has only been a week.

We spend the next half hour or so chatting about our respective days. I fill him in on all the weirdo students I met today. He clucks sympathetically when I tell him about how that bearlike student stepped on my foot and almost broke it. And I laugh when he tells me about how a ripe pear that he packed in his backpack exploded and got over all his new books and papers.

“I wish I’d been there to see that,” I say.

“Yeah,” Landon says. “I wish you’d been there too. You would’ve pissed your pants laughing.”

I close my eyes and imagine that Landon is sitting beside me. My left hand squeezes my knee.

“I miss you so much,” I say.

“I miss you too, Heather,” Landon says. “I miss you a ten.”

“I miss you a ten too,” I say. It’s all I can do to keep from covering the phone with kisses.

When I hang up, I have a good feeling in my stomach. It helps to know Landon is here for me. Landon is my first… well, no, he’s more like my second… well, anyway, he’s my first love. I love him. And he loves me. This is going to work out. I’ve got nothing to worry about.