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I may not begreat at anatomy, but I have become a Master of Procrastination (MoP).

I was all right at procrastinating in college. I mean, I always managed to get on social media a few times during the course of any study session. But this year, I’ve stepped it up. It seems like every time I need to study, I end up becoming desperately curious about what all my former friends from high school are up to. And then I try to figure out what that song in my head is. And take a few online quizzes. And I text message literally everyone I know.

So instead of studying, which is what I should be doing right now, I decide this is a perfect time to look up the details of the alleged drug problem at our school. Rachel isn’t around, so it’s perfect timing.

The information is so easy to find, I’m slightly embarrassed that it took me this long. All I have to type in is “DeWitt Medical School” and “drug overdose.” Pops right up. How is it possible that I didn’t know about this?

Drug use is apparently rampant at our school and at the nearby college. Nobody entirely knows the source, but three years ago, a student at DeWitt overdosed and died. Then it happened again each of the next two years.

The student who died last year was named Darcie Peterson, and she was a first-year student. She was failing anatomy (sound familiar?) and apparently turned to amphetamines in an effort to boost her studying efforts. She collapsed in the girls’ restroom and was discovered to have died from a burst brain aneurysm thought to be related to her substance abuse.

There’s a quote from Dr. Conlon that’s repeated in several of the online articles: “Darcie was a wonderful student and a wonderful person. She had so much potential. This is a great tragedy.”

So much potential.

A door slams, and I nearly jump out of my skin. I minimize the window on my laptop seconds before Rachel strolls into our bedroom. I can’t say exactly why, but I don’t want her to know I was reading about the drug problem at DeWitt. Mostly, I’m afraid she’ll say something to make me feel worse about it than I already do.

Without asking if it’s okay, Rachel lays out her yoga mat on the floor and starts playing some music that is probably supposed to be soothing, but it just gets on my nerves. Besides, I’m studying (kind of). Listening to classical music is supposed to make you study better, but I can’t concentrate with music playing, and anyway, this isn’t classical music.

“I’m trying to study,” I say to her.

She’s already on her hands and knees on the mat. “So study. Who’s stopping you?”

I can’t imagine Rachel would understand, considering I’ve yet to see her crack open a book. “You know,” I say, “we’ve got our first exam coming up soon in anatomy.”

“You’re kidding.” Rachel straightens out her legs and spine so that her body makes a triangle with the floor.

I don’t get it. I’d say she must have a photographic memory so she doesn’t need to study, but it’s clear from the lab that Rachel has no clue what’s going on. Isn’t she worried about failing?

Maybe I should try yoga. Maybe if I did some meditation and stretching, I’d stop worrying about the exam too.

Or maybe some pills would do the trick. Apparently, they are pretty easy to get around here.

Oh my God, why did that thought just pop into my head? I’m really starting to lose it. I’ve never failed a class before in my life, and anatomy isn’t going to be the end of me. I don’t need pills to study.

I can do this.