Third Degree by Julie Cross

on syrup, two bananas, a bagel with cream cheese, a blueberry muffin, and a refill on his glass of water. Not exactly displaying the picky-eater label he gave himself last week.
    My tray, on the other hand, contains a small serving of scrambled eggs, two big scoops of cut-up melon, a container of light yogurt, and a glass of orange juice.
    Marshall finds us seats easily since it’s still before nine and the dining hall doesn’t get really crowded until closer to lunchtime. I sit down across from him, my eyes still glued to his tray.
    “Don’t even think about commenting on my breakfast selection,” he warns.
    I stuff a forkful of eggs into my mouth to keep from commenting, but still the words slip out: “Just thinking about those steroids you mentioned last week.”
    His jaw freezes mid-chew. “I seriously can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”
    Am I that hard to read? I shrug and suppress a smile. “If we really needed an answer, I could always ask you to drop your shorts and see if your testicles have atrophied.”
    Okay, so that’s an Isabel Jenkins, M.D., thing to say, but since Marshall knows who I really am, I don’t feel like I have to ditch all of that part of me. Which is good considering that I’m here to figure out how to progress in the M.D. world.
    “Atrophied?” he asks, his mind evidently on the testicular discussion.
    “Shrank.”
    He resumes chewing. “Still can’t tell if you’re serious.”
    “You don’t use anabolic steroids.” I pop a slice of melon into my mouth and watch him inhale his pancakes. “Your moods are fine. You’re very even-tempered. I’ve only seen you shave about three times in the last week.”
    He points a fork at me. “Yes, you are definitely observing the wrong things.”
    “Maybe.” I sigh. “Probably.”
    “Definitely.”
    From the corner of my eye, I see two girls from the English 101 class that I had to drop last week after annoying the instructor by pointing out a copyright issue with his so-called original writing. Had he published it, he could have been sued. I thought it was the right thing to do. Now, however, I’m pretty sure that keeping my mouth shut would have been the better choice. The girls are glancing my way and then leaning in to whisper to each other.
    This is elementary school all over again. And the dance classes Mom enrolled me in. The T-ball team Dad forced me to play on for half a season until we were both knee deep in parent and teammate conflicts. Then there was the Girl Scout troop and summer camp. The list goes on for miles.
    “I like your mom a lot,” Marshall says, interrupting my thoughts. “I forgot to mention that last week. She was a pretty cool teacher. She made it fun, you know?”
    No, I don’t know. Classes haven’t ever been not-fun for me. “I’ve never seen her teach.”
    Marshall shrugs. “Well, you should sometime.”
    I can’t stop looking at those girls and then looking away. They’re still talking about me. That much I know for sure.
    “What’s up with them?” Marshall asks, nodding their way.
    I stare down at my tray. “Don’t know. Probably just commenting on how weird I am.”
    “Izzy—”
    A guy I know as the third-floor RA for our dorm interrupts us before Marshall can say anything more. He claps Marsh on the back and leans down to whisper, “Thank you for handling the difficult chick on your floor. Kelsey nearly exploded on me a few days ago, and she just said hi to me in the hall. Seemed totally fine.”
    Panic fills Marshall’s face, and he opens his mouth to interrupt, but the other guy won’t let him get a word in. “Whatever you did, man, keep it up. ’Cause that chick sounds like a complete nutcase.”
    I put Marshall’s panic together with this guy’s words, and it all clicks into place. He’s talking about me . Except he doesn’t know I’m sitting here. I’m just a name on a stack of pink conflict resolution forms.
    And then it occurs to me that Marshall is