American Panda(16)
Dr. Chang cleared her throat, the softest ahem of all time. “Wait—why don’t we take this to an exam room? Or at least let me put some paper down.”
Nicolette looked at her for a moment, piecing it together, then sat with gusto. “Are you serious right now? Do you think it can travel through my clothes or something? No wonder I’m still not cured; you don’t know anything!” She wriggled her butt side to side. “By your logic, I just had an orgy on the subway. I’m probably crawling with herpes and syphilis now too. Forget the chlamydia.”
Dr. Chang wrung her hands, her eyes straying to Nicolette’s pelvis every few seconds . . . which she must’ve seen . . . magnified.
Nicolette peered at Dr. Chang the way kids used to inspect my dried squid snacks—with curiosity and confusion. “How can you be a doctor if you’re like this?”
Dr. Chang and I exchanged a glance. Then she said, more to me than Nicolette, “You compartmentalize. It’s doable. You’ll learn, Mei.”
Nicolette burst into laughter. “You’re going to be a doctor, Mei? Your closet has more hand sanitizer than clothes. And what’s up with the weird tissues everywhere?”
I don’t like to touch your things, and apparently for good reason, I wanted to retort but held back.
Nicolette gestured to Dr. Chang from head to toe with the wave of a hand. “Is this what you want to become?” she asked me.
“Will you please go to the front desk and make an appointment?” Dr. Chang begged.
With one last wriggle, Nicolette uncrossed her long legs and strode to the door.
Dr. Chang rushed over with latex gloves and CaviCide spray, which broke me out of my post-chlamydia-stress trance. As I watched her scrub, I saw it as a sign of hope.
If she could compartmentalize, maybe I could learn to do it too.
Being at MIT Medical post-rash-investigation was the one situation in which I didn’t want to see the spiky outline I was constantly searching for . . . so of course there he was, in all his six-foot-something glory. And when I say glory, I mean yumminess.
I froze, not sure if it was worse to miss this opportunity or to have to explain why I was there.
He walked by without turning his head my way, obviously just passing through the building as a shortcut to the other side of campus. I breathed a sigh of relief. Then immediately yelled, “Darren!”
When he turned, I was still frozen in place, a little disoriented at how I hadn’t been in total control just now. Maybe it was the rash.
His face lit up. I wish I could say mine did as well, but I was too busy fighting my urge to itch the still-lingering rash while simultaneously trying to come up with a lie as to why I was hanging out at the health center—free pamphlet? Free condoms? Free lollipops?
“Mei! What brings you here? Everything okay?” Darren called out as he made his way over to me.
Why do I do this to myself?
“I was just, um, passing through,” I said. Then I realized I was pretty far into the actual building, in front of the gynecology reception desk. Of course. It couldn’t have been anything less embarrassing. I started to ramble. “I mean, well, I bought this new pair of jeans, and then, well, there must’ve been something on them—and really, you should wash your new clothes before wearing them. . . .” I took a breath. “I was just passing through. Like you.”
“Sounds complicated,” he said, the amusement on his face matching his voice. “I’ll keep your tip in mind. I’ve been grabbing all the free shirts around campus to avoid doing laundry.” He pointed to the tee he was wearing, which said PUNT in bubbly, half-formed letters right-side up and TOOL upside down—MIT lingo for putting off work for fun (punt), or to toil away studying (tool). I silently thanked the campus life brochure for teaching me those. “I’m glad the ‘tool’ is upside down,” he continued, “or else people would think I was calling myself a tool, which I would be if I were wearing a shirt that said ‘tool.’?”
“True, but you’d be even more of a tool in an ‘I love beaver’ shirt.”
“I do love beaver though,” Darren said with a straight face. (Yes, I blushed.) He dug around in his messenger bag before emerging with a stuffed TIM the Beaver. “He’s too cute and cuddly not to love.”
I laughed. Instead of revulsion, which my mother had led me to believe was the only possible response to my loud, openmouthed “man-laugh,” Darren grinned at me—genuinely, I think, since it reached his eyes.
I could get used to that.
“Do you carry that around with you everywhere?” I asked. A microscopic part of me hoped it was true so that I would finally know something embarrassing about him.
He tossed TIM from one hand to the other. “I picked this up from the activities fair for my sister, Sally.”
I mock wiped sweat from my brow. “Phew. Because between the two of us, there can only be one stuffed animal hoarder.” I laughed to myself about how Horny was still my little secret.
He smiled so wide I could see that his bottom teeth were slightly crooked. His gaze never left my face as he asked, “Are you free right now?”
“Right now?” I sputtered. “I mean, yeah, I’m free.” And finally I removed my foot from my mouth. “No better time for some punting.” I gestured for him to lead the way.