Page 56 of Scars of Anatomy
Game, Set, Match
Of course the seating order has me sitting next to him, and of course he’s practically manspreading, daring me to brush my knee against his by purposefully keeping his within an inch of mine. Hence why I’m plastered to my mother’s side.
Again, traitor.
Not that my mother is any better. At the rate she and Kalani are going, I wouldn’t be surprised if they make plans to go shopping and get mani-pedis together soon.
What is my life?
Brad leans over, lips inches from my ear. “Looks like they’re hitting it off, huh?”
I only harrumph in response, and he has the audacity to smile at my displeasure. Jackass.
“Yeah, I can tell Dee’s nervous.” I hear my dad’s voice across the table, and I turn my attention to him.
He has an amused but proud look on his face as he stares at me.
“If this were a normal day, she’d be on her third cup of coffee by now.
She maybe drank a fourth of a cup this morning while she was getting ready, and I don’t think I’ve even seen her take two sips of this one,” he calls me out, gesturing to my coffee cup.
Subconsciously, I fidget with the cardboard sleeve around my cup as all eyes turn to me, making me nervous. I force myself to take a sip, the warm liquid immediately sinking to my stomach and churning uncomfortably.
Kalani gives me a comforting smile. “Where are you hoping to match today, Delilah?” she asks, making polite small talk.
“Warner Central Hospital in New York,” I spew out immediately, like I have so many times before. It’s a reflex at this point.
“Oh!” Her eyes light up with genuine interest and excitement. “That’s a great hospital. Arguably the best in the country. What are you wanting to specialize in?”
“Neurosurgery,” my parents and I all say in unison.
Kalani’s smile grows. “That’s what Bradly wants to go into as well!” She shoots a proud look at her son.
My parents fawn over the revelation, and soon enough, all four parents start swapping childhood stories about me and Brad.
I tune them out, my attention homing in on two classmates who just arrived with their families. More classmates trickle in, making me itch in anticipation to get into the auditorium and grab a perfect seat for the most important day of my life.
I don’t realize all my muscles are tight and my leg is bouncing up and down obnoxiously until a hand lands on my thigh, squeezing it reassuringly. I look over at my mother to catch her giving me a knowing look.
“Well,” my mother announces, setting her coffee on the table and lifting her hand from my thigh to glance at her watch. “Looks like there’s about twenty minutes until showtime.”
“Oh, yes,” Anthony says, checking his own watch. “We should probably go grab some seats.” He takes two more large gulps of his coffee before standing.
We all follow suit, standing up and recycling our cups in a nearby bin before walking back to the auditorium. I try my best to walk at a normal speed, but the nerves and anticipation have me leading our tiny pack by a margin of several feet.
Brad catches up to me easily with his naturally long strides, his hands shoved in the pockets of his dress pants, looking as cool as a cucumber. “I missed the glasses,” he states casually.
I do my best not to trip over my own two feet. Glancing at him, I narrow my eyes in distrust. “What kind of game are you trying to play?” I accuse.
He shrugs. “No game, just a compliment. Haven’t seen the glasses in a while since you started wearing contacts. They’re cute.”
I glare at him skeptically and he just chuckles, smirking as he slows his stride, letting me walk through the auditorium doors first. The room is already about a third of the way full with our fellow classmates and their families.
Without any consensus, I immediately head for the fifth row, claiming the aisle seat. I’m surprised when Brad follows, walking down the row and leaving four seats in between us for our parents.
Soon enough, our parents take their seats as more and more classmates show up.
At 8:30 a.m. sharp, the auditorium is packed, and the head of the department takes the microphone at the front of the room to begin her speech about how hard we all have worked and how proud we should be of ourselves—as if I don’t know how hard I’ve busted my ass for this.
For the next thirty minutes, all the medical school bigwigs give similar speeches, trying to make us feel all mushy and gushy inside and pull on the heartstrings of the parents, buying themselves time until the clock strikes 9:00 a.m.—12:00 p.m. EST— when we’re officially allowed to start opening envelopes.
While everyone is talking, my eyes stay glued on Cindy, one of the department secretaries, who has all of the envelopes in her hands.
The envelopes that seal our fates. While Cindy is one of the sweetest people on the planet, right now I want to tackle her to the ground and find my envelope.
She’s a petite sixty-two-year-old lady standing at a whopping five-foot-two. I think I can take her.
Finally, at 9:00 a.m. on the dot, the first envelope is distributed.
One by one, classmates are called up to the front to announce their fate, some walking away with shaky hands and tears of joy, while others are not nearly as ecstatic. I anxiously await my turn as names are being called in no particular order.
“Bradly Gallow.”d
Brad stands up and his parents, along with my parents and a number of classmates, cheer him on as he makes his way down the row to the front of the room. As he passes behind me, his fingers skim the back of my chair before he walks down the stairs, and I get another waft of his cologne.
He walks to Cindy, grabbing his envelope and walking to the microphone. He gives the audience a spectacular smile before introducing himself.
For the first time today, I take a moment to really observe him.
He’s wearing a crisp white dress shirt, charcoal gray dress pants, and those stupidly ugly and overpriced dress shoes.
Yet, he looks like a hotshot-millionaire-bad-boy ready to grace the cover of Forbes .
His tan skin is extra glowy today, making him look radiant, while his dark, wavy hair is mussed to perfection.
Looking at his large, strong hands, I notice how steady they are.
He opens the envelope skillfully with a swipe of his finger under the flap, not tearing it or crinkling it whatsoever, and takes out the paper inside, his brown eyes scanning.
A grin breaks out across his face, and I automatically know what he’s about to say, my heart sinking to the pit of my stomach.
“Neurological surgery. Warner Central Hospital, New York.”
He looks directly into my eyes as he says it, and I deflate faster than a balloon being stomped on. The crowd goes wild, but all I can hear is the ringing in my ears.
That’s it. Just like that, my dreams are shattered. All that time I wasted busting my ass to beat him is useless now.
Bradly won.
A residency at Warner Central is exceptionally competitive, but a residency in their neurosurgery program is practically a one in a million chance. There’s no way two people from the same school are going to earn a spot in the same residency.
Completely numb, I watch as Brad walks off the stage, doing a victory lap back to his seat. I don’t look at him. I can’t.
The few sips of coffee I had this morning begin to churn around in my empty stomach all over again, and my skin feels uncomfortably clammy. I try to even my breathing and ignore the urge to throw up until they call my name.
“Delilah Harper.”
Like a newborn baby deer, I stand and my whole body is trembling with nerves.
I somehow manage to make it down the steps without falling and grab my envelope from Cindy.
She gives me a proud smile before my icy cold hand brushes hers and her smile falters to one of concern as she stares at me.
I can only imagine the look of panic on my face.
Standing in front of the microphone, I stare down at the envelope in my trembling hands.
Inside this envelope is the fate of my entire future.
I almost want to laugh, possibly even cry, at how silly this all seems. How one piece of paper is going to change my whole life and determine my future.
How one piece of paper is going to stare me in the face and remind me that Bradly Gallow won, and I’ll have to settle for second best.
It would be one thing if he matched at any other hospital, but the fact that he matched at one of the best hospitals in the country—my dream hospital since I was seven years old and knew how to work a computer to research how to become a neurosurgeon—and in one of the most competitive specialties is like a knife straight to the heart.
At least you matched , I remind myself. Some people don’t . I’ve heard horror stories about some people not being placed in a residency program on Match Monday, leaving them to scramble to try to scrape up one of the bottom-of-the-barrel positions leftover.
And now on Match Friday, I finally get to know where I’ve been placed.
This is it. This is what these past four years—my entire life, really— have come down to.
All of the studying, work, tests, strategic planning, research, interviews, networking, money, sleepless nights, tears, stress, and worry come down to this.
A few words typed out on a single damn piece of paper.
I may not be going to Warner Central, but hopefully I at least got one of my top-five picks.
I scan the crowd and lock eyes with my momma, who gives me a reassuring smile and nod. Subconsciously, I twist the ring she gave me around my finger, praying that no matter what this silly little piece of paper says, everything will work out.
Without thinking, my eyes drift over a few seats to find a pair of rich brown eyes staring back at me intently, face almost void of any emotion. Almost. There’s something there, swirling just beneath the depths of his stoic demeanor, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.
I tear my eyes away from Brad’s and take a deep breath before speaking into the microphone. “Hello, I’m Delilah Harper,” I announce to the crowd, my voice embarrassingly shaky. I’m surprised when I get a hefty amount of applause and cheers.
Staring at the envelope in my hand one more time, I tear it open with anxious fingers and scan the page, my heart jumping to my throat as tears sting my eyes.