Third Degree by Julie Cross Page A

babysitting me. He’s made it his job to keep me out of trouble so that he stays out of trouble. Tears sting the corners of my eyes as I watch the other RA walk away. Marshall sighs and runs a hand through his hair. He knows that I know.
    I’m not normal. I’m never going to be normal. I’m never going to pass that test and become a surgeon. There’s no fixing me. So what’s next? Shutting myself in a lab with rodentsfor the rest of my life?
    I stand up and pick up my tray. “I’ve got class later and … I need to shower and stuff.”
    Marshall lifts his head, shame and pity filling his expression. “Izzy, wait …”
    But I don’t wait. I can’t stand the thought of seeing that look of pity a second longer or having Marshall as my babysitter. This whole “normal college experience” was a terrible idea. I’m so done with this.

Chapter 6
    I barely take anything with me.
    I grab a clean T-shirt, my purse, and my keys, then head out to the student parking lot. I can’t stand the thought of running into Marshall, Kelsey, or anyone who’s come in contact with my incident reports over the last week. I’ll arrange to have my stuff sent home. Or I’ll send my mom to get it for me. She can make up an excuse for my departure: mononucleosis, maybe, or a death in the family. That should do the trick. It’s not like I’ll ever have to see any of these people again.
    My guess is, my parents won’t be the least bit surprised that I couldn’t survive this plan. These are basically the only kinds of failures I’ve experienced in my life—getting along with others. Or belonging to anyone but them. They’re amazingly patient, tolerant, and accepting. I hit the adoptive parent lottery, and I’ve tried to never let myself forget that fact.
    The whole two-hour drive, I’m restless, dying to walk through the front door of my house and smell the familiar scent. Stretch out across my larger, more comfortable bed and bury myself in some kind of medical research project. We’ve only gone on a handful of family vacations since my parents became my parents. And never for more than a week. I haven’t done any traveling beyond some short weekend trips on my own. I’ve never left the country. Already it feels like I’ve been away from home forever, and it’s not even been two weeks.
    Turning onto my street already lifts some of the anxiety I was feeling. I park in an empty space across the street from my house, bolt out of the car, and head toward the front steps. I get halfway up the path and come to a dead stop.
    A large white and red metal sign is pushed into the grass in our front yard, the words FOR SALE written in blue letters.
    What the hell?
    I fumble around for my house key, knots forming in the pit of my stomach. The first thing I notice after stepping through the doors of my house is the empty den. My dad’s office. The large L-shaped desk is gone, leaving behind imprints in the carpet where the legs have rested for years. The bookshelves are still there, but half empty. My heart is flying as I charge the stairs up to my room. I fling open the door but don’t even walk inside—nothing’s changed here. I jog down the hall and stop in front of one of the guest rooms. The queen bed and matching dresser are gone.
    My feet are glued to the hallway carpet, my brain digging for answers. Then finally, aftercoming up empty, I flip the lights off, head back downstairs, and walk out the front door.

    Because my day has been so full of bad luck, the first person I spot at the hospital who may be of help to me is Justin. And he’s got four eager and completely green interns at his heels.
    “Have you seen my dad?” I’m not in the mood for any brand of small talk.
    Justin stops, glances over his shoulder at the fledglings behind him, then turns back to me. “This is Isabel Jenkins,” he explains. “We did our internship together.”
    All four of them go simultaneously wide-eyed. Great. Damn hospital