On Rotation(36)

I was really pouting now. “Leave me alone. I can’t control my face.”

“You really can’t,” Ricky said. “You’re like a cartoon character. Everything comes out through the face. The rest through your hands.”

I looked down at my hands, and, lo and behold, they were fidgeting with my earbud cords in my lap. I balled them into fists.

“You’re observant,” I said.

He smiled lazily.

“I like looking at interesting things.”

Before I could figure out whether he’d just insulted me or hit on me, the timer went off.

“That’s it. Time for you to hit the books.”

When Ricky had suggested meeting in the coffee shop to help motivate me to study, he hadn’t been playing around. He was a drill sergeant. All my attempts at sneaking in conversations were rebuffed. He barely looked away from his computer screen to direct me back to studying, sometimes by pointing at my books, once by stepping on my toe when he caught me on my phone. Eventually, I gave up on distracting him and actually started doing practice questions. There were a thousand of them in the bank, a number that seemed impossible in the six weeks I had for my ob-gyn rotation. I’d been paralyzed by that number, by the low returns, by the fact that one hour of studying would get me through only twenty. That my one day off a week, the one day I had away from Labor and Delivery and the disapproving attendings and the emotionally friable residents had to be spent grinding. Maybe that’s why I’d avoided it, why I’d let myself sit and stew in my bitterness instead of trying to keep myself from failing my next shelf.

The timer went off, and I jumped up in shock. I’d done eighteen questions in half an hour. Not bad. If we kept this up for two more hours, I’d get seventy done, which was way better than zero.

“You must be very smart to have gotten into medical school,” Ricky said, “because you totally lack discipline.”

“Jerk,” I said. “I’ll have you know I was very productive, despite you breathing down my neck.”

“You really think you’d have gotten anything done without me here?” Ricky said.

“Of course,” I said. “How do you think I got this far? Start the timer.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Ricky said, punching it on. Then, without asking permission, he reached across the table and picked up First Aid.

“So,” he said, opening up the book and flipping idly through the pages. “Shae said your sister got engaged the other day. Didn’t that already happen?”

I snorted.

“Marrying a Ghanaian girl is complicated, okay,” I said. “The day you and I met was right after the Knocking. It’s like . . . the traditional engagement?” I pursed my lips, trying to think of the best way to explain it. “Chris’s dad basically came with him to tell us he was planning on proposing.”

“So . . . ,” Ricky said, “it’s the same as asking permission to propose?” He puffed his chest out, dropped his voice an octave. “Like, ‘Sir, I would like to ask your daughter to marry me’?”

I wagged my head, laughing.

“No,” I insisted. Then I considered it. “Actually, though, maybe? But I don’t know, it’s heavier than that. You have to seal the deal with a drink and everything.”

“What kind of drink?” Ricky asked. He seemed genuinely curious, resting his chin in his palm and giving me his rapt attention. Who would have thought we could come so far in a month—from squabbling on the peds floors to sitting in a coffee shop across from each other, discussing Ghanaian engagement traditions? Maybe he’s storing this away for future reference, Hopeless Angie said in a small voice, and, annoyed, I shoved her back into the hole from which she came.

“Gin,” I said, “or schnapps.” When Ricky’s grin grew devilish, I added hastily, “Not that kind of schnapps.”

“Yeah?” Ricky said. “You mean I can’t go lay claim to a Ghanaian girl without figuring out what schnapps flavor she favors?” He narrowed his eyes, then pointed at me. “You look like a whipped cream kind of gal. Wait, no, peppermint. Definitely into Peppermint Patties.”

I crossed my arms, pretending to take umbrage.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Ricky rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“Hear me out,” he said. “I’m guessing you spent most of college hiding away in a library, yeah? Probably not partying too hard. Definitely not wasting your precious study time getting trashed.”

I raised an eyebrow, curious about where he was headed.

“Okay . . . ,” I said.

“Except,” Ricky continued, “on those nights after your big organic chemistry exams, or whatever big premed test you had to take. Those were nights you truly wanted to forget. But you couldn’t stand the taste of liquor, because, unlike your college-aged brethren, you hadn’t spent the last several months burning off your taste buds with bottom-shelf vodka. Enter . . . the Peppermint Patty. Highly efficient and tastes like dessert.”

I winced at the accuracy, recalling a time that Michelle accidentally squirted a line of chocolate syrup down my chin instead of into my mouth at a spring break house party.

“You sound like you have a lot of experience,” I said instead.