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The scoresfor the first anatomy quiz are posted a few days before the hard copies are returned to us. A large crowd of students is milling about the white piece of paper hung up near the lockers containing the scores posted by each student’s five-digit school ID number. I see Heather backing away from the group, looking rather pale.

I’ll bet she failed.

I edge my way closer to the scores, taking an elbow to the forehead in the process. That’s the problem with being so small—I can’t shove my way past my classmates effectively enough. But I can duck down past them until I have a clear view of the list of scores.

My ID number is 44545. I scan the list, my heart thumping so loudly in my chest that I’m sure all my classmates can hear it. When I see the number, I follow the straight black line leading to my grade: Ninety-eight.

Ninety-eight! I got an almost perfect score!

Before rejoicing, however, I decide to check the list to see if anyone has beaten me. I don’t see any ninety-nines, but there is, in fact, a single grade of one hundred posted under the ID number 20205.

I take out an index card and carefully print the number 20205. Next time, I will beat 20205. I want to be first in the class. You don’t get into a top residency by being second. Right now, I’m thinking about emergency medicine, maybe at Columbia. Columbia was where my father got diagnosed, and he always said I belonged there. But that’s not going to happen if I’m second.

When the second quiz rolls around, I lose a single point for mislabeling the “main pancreatic duct” as the “pancreatic duct.” I’m very pleased with my grade until I scan the list and am horrified to find, once again, a second perfect score.

Belonging, once again, to 20205.

Who is 20205? I practically become obsessed. This one person somehow managed to beat me twice in a row with two perfect scores. It could be dumb luck. Maybe 20205 will mess up the next exam. But even so, it’s obvious this person is very sharp. I have to take them seriously.

I make a list of possible candidates who might be 20205. I select people who frequently speak up in class and give intelligent answers. I also notice who stays late studying in the library. Of course, I don’t know my classmates very well yet, and the truth is, it could be anyone. After all, I’m sure nobody would guess that I have the second-highest average in the class. Maybe 20205 is lying low.

Besides, there’s more to succeeding in med school than just grades. Take Mason, for example. Whenever Dr. Conlon comes to our table and asks a question, he always booms out the answer with confidence. And Dr. Conlon beams at him and says, “Exactly right, Dr. Howard!” Even though I knew the right answer too.

Dr. Conlon never, ever compliments me like that. When I do manage to answer before Mason cuts me off, Dr. Conlon simply smiles and nods at me. I don’t think he even knows my name. And he knows everyone’s names.

I need to be more like Mason Howard. Somehow.

Mason studies in the library like I do, so I decide to quietly observe him. I have to respect the fact that he seems to study a great deal. At least he recognizes that his looks and charisma can only get him so far without some knowledge to back it up.

I’m watching him when a classmate of ours, Brogan Scott, stops by his desk to interrupt his studying.

“Hi, Mason,” she whispers. “I baked some cookies yesterday. Do you want to try a few?”

“Uh, sure,” he says, smiling up at her as he reaches for one of the chocolate chip cookies.

“What do you think?” Brogan asks as he takes a bite.

“Delicious,” he says.

Brogan chats with Mason as he finishes the cookie, which is incredibly irritating. This is supposed to be a quiet area of the library—that means no talking. As soon as Brogan leaves, I head over to the desk where Mason is sitting, intending to remind him of that fact.

“Mason,” I say to him, and he looks up. He has, I have to admit, astonishingly pretty hazel eyes. I wish I had eyelashes like those—mine are practically invisible. “There’s no talking allowed in this area of the library.”

Mason raises his eyebrows then he grins. “Oh, Brogan wasn’t talking. She was just babbling.” He makes a “blah blah blah” motion with his hand to show how she was going on and on.

“Still,” I say. “She was making noise.”

“That’s for sure,” he agrees. “And honestly? The cookies weren’t all that good.”

Mason is still smiling at me, and it’s getting a little hard to stay angry at him. But I’m really trying.

“How do you stand it?” I ask him.

“Stand what?”

“Girls like Brogan.”

He shrugs.

“You probably like it,” I acknowledge. “I mean, who wouldn’t want an attractive girl baking cookies for him?”

He shrugs again. “She’s not my type, actually.”

Not his type? What did that mean? As irritating as Brogan is, she’s objectively very attractive. Who doesn’t like strawberry-blond hair and legs that are like six feet long? Her legs are longer than my entire body.

Mason reaches into his backpack and pulls out a small package of Oreo cookies. He holds them out to me.

“Would you like a cookie, Sasha?”

“Home-baked?” I ask.

“I had them cooking in the vending machine all day,” he says with a grin.

I smile despite myself. Damn Mason for being so charming. I want to continue to hate him, but it’s surprisingly difficult. I stand up to take a cookie from him, and a piece of paper sticking out from the pile of study materials in front of him catches my eye. It’s a copy of our last anatomy quiz, with a grade of one hundred circled at the top.

That’s how I discover Mason is 20205.

And that’s when things go horribly wrong.