Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 125845 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 629(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125845 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 629(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
The topic once again shifts to my classes, which I list for my father. “Organic Chem, bio, math, and Abnormal Psych.”
“Organic Chemistry was always a favorite of mine,” Dad reveals, sipping on a glass of water Mom gets for him.
“It’s my least favorite,” I confess. “Right now I’m having the most fun with the psychology class. It’s so fascinating.”
“Are you taking physics next semester?”
I grimace. “Unfortunately.”
Dad laughs. “You’ll enjoy it,” he promises. “And then wait till med school! Everything you learn there will be fascinating. Have you given more thought to that MCATs tutor? I have a good one lined up—just say the word.”
I swallow, but it does nothing to alleviate the lump of pressure that constricts my throat. “Maybe next semester?” I counter. “I’m worried my grades will dip a little if I add another study commitment to my schedule.”
“It’ll only be a few times a week.”
A few times a week? Oh my God, I thought I’d only have to see this tutor once, maybe twice a week.
“Let me see how it goes with midterms and then we can reevaluate?” I hold my breath, praying he’ll accept the compromise.
Luckily, he does. “All right. But I do think the head start will help you a lot. The med school application process can be stressful.”
“Honestly…” I find some courage, then continue, “Sometimes it feels overwhelming when I think about it. Med school, I mean.”
“I won’t deny it’s a lot of work, and a lot of sleepless nights. But that makes it all the more rewarding when you graduate and start calling yourself Dr. Davis.”
“You’re Dr. Davis.”
“There can be two,” he teases.
I hesitate again. “You know, I could still call myself doctor if I got a PhD in psychology rather than med school.”
His shoulders immediately stiffen. “Are you considering that avenue?” There’s an edge to his voice, along with surprise-tinged disapproval.
Yes, I almost blurt out. Because it’s the more appealing avenue, in my eyes. What do I care about biology or anatomy? I’d way rather be taking courses like psych theory, cognitive and behavioral therapies, research methods, personality development. AKA far more interesting areas of study.
And yet I can’t say any of that out loud. My father’s approval matters to me. Maybe too much, but that’s how it’s always been.
So I backtrack as fast as I can. “No, that was just a joke. Everyone knows people with doctorates aren’t real doctors. Like, come on.”
Dad booms with laughter again. “You got that right.”
Then I shovel more food into my mouth so I won’t have to keep talking. This doesn’t bode well, though. With senior year coming up, I’ve been giving more and more thought to what I want to do after I graduate. Med school had been the plan, but grad school is also tempting. Truth is, I find psychiatry to be so…clinical. There’s such a large focus on medication management of patients, and I can’t seem to gather much excitement at the notion of prescribing meds and monitoring dosages. I suppose I could specialize in something stimulating, like neuropsychiatry and treat patients with Alzheimer’s and MS. Or maybe work in a psychiatric unit of a hospital.
But I want to focus on treating the behaviors of patients, not only the symptoms. I want to talk to people, to listen to them. But my father never would get that. And this proves it. I mean, I just stuck my toe in the water and an alligator bit it off. That doesn’t exactly make me want to broach the subject again.
14
Hunter
“Dude! It’s been ages!” Dean looks insanely happy to see me.
Dean took me under his wing when I was a freshman and he was a senior, and I think part of him still views me a bit like his protégée. To be honest, he’s the one who taught me the bad habits that landed me in trouble last season. “How To Pick Up Chicks” by Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis should be a prerequisite course for all horny college boys. The guy knows what he’s doing.
Of course, it helps when you have supermodel-chiseled features, golden hair, sparkling green eyes. Summer is like the girl version of Dean, which is a bit unnerving considering I’ve jerked off to fantasies of her before.
“It’s good to see you,” I tell my old friend. “How’s it going?”
“Pretty damn good. My roster is killer this year.” Dean coaches a girls’ hockey team at a private school in Manhattan. He’d actually gotten into Harvard Law, but at the last moment accepted a teaching position instead. I guess you could say he’s a high school gym teacher, but he also coaches hockey and volleyball, and coaching is where his true passion lies.
“Nice. I should try to catch one of your games if they don’t conflict with my sched. Do you ever have road games? Anything in Boston?”