Norah and Eddie, two of the interns, are whispering over by the wall where Dr. Diaz posts the schedules and charts for us. Buttoning up, I walk over to them.
“Are you sure they are going to announce?” Eddie asks in a low voice.
Norah shrugs, glancing at me.
“What did you hear?” I ask as though we haven’t heard the rumors snaking through the halls for weeks now.
“It never adds up to anything,” Norah scoffs. “I wouldn’t hold my breath.”
Eddie vigorously shakes his head in disagreement. “No, Mango has been whispering about this for a few weeks now.”
I cock my head. Dr. Diaz is one of the lead scientists in the research group that named themselves Mango. Some story about one of the doctors bringing in dried mango and no one liking it except that it’s the only snack left to eat at the end of the night so they all ate the mango. If there are hints from that group . . .
Norah jerks her chin at Eddie and gives him the dirty-eyeball stare. He presses his lips together and the two move away, whispering furiously at each other. I know Norah doesn’t think I’m worthy of knowing the inside scoop. She likes playing quarterback in our little intern group, setting up after-work parties and getting all the gossip on the lead scientists. I haven’t kissed her ass enough for her to warrant me an exclusive.
I try not to care about Norah’s little jab and instead focus on searching for my assignment. Maybe it’ll be a glamorous action-packed day of labeling blood work or wheeling carts of dirty test tubes, beakers, and equipment down to the sterilizing room. Anything is better than what I normally do, which is sit at a computer screen and input dates and numbers that don’t make sense because it’s part of some larger result that no one bothers to explain. Today Dr. Diaz has benevolently assigned me centrifuge duty. Boring as doing laundry, but at least it’ll leave me time to catch up on some homework.
At first, it all seems very exciting being picked out of hundreds of applicants all over the city for this prestigious internship. It’s couched with a certificate and a handshake while the local papers take pictures, but basically you are free labor. Another set of hands to do the grunt work. Because there is a lot of it. Even the scientists with certifiable PhDs and brains the size of boulders have to bow down and respect the hierarchy. There is always someone right above you who has the ability to command you at will. I’ve seen grown men with degrees from Yale and Harvard spitting mad enough to cry because they didn’t get the approval or funding or whatever else they thought they deserved instead of the lowly task of replicating results to test for consistency.
I read over the chart to see what the other interns are doing. Norah, of course, has the best job today. She gets to record while they split some cells. That’s the most exciting task out of all the chores. I suppose knowing what the leads like and baking them their favorite cookies gets you somewhere. I do have to hand it to Norah, though, she has drive about this work for some reason, not like most of the interns, who don’t really care what the Genentium scientists do down here. For them, working in the lab is all about the quid pro quo. This will look great on their college applications, and hopefully, if they’ve cleaned their lead’s goggles enough times, they might even get a paragraph-long letter out of it. The outcome is reassuring. The results predictable. Which is why I love this place. Everything has an order. Even the social network. There is nothing more soothing than knowing exactly where you stand, why, and how you can or cannot change it. Make a discovery and you are a rock star. Aid in an assist to a clue, or key insight, and you can swear off shit work for years. Sit on a winning team and you eat well. Feast or famine.
I walk into the large refrigerated room where vials of blood sit waiting to be centrifuged so the high-speed spinning will force the blood to separate into layers of plasma, white blood cells and platelets, and red blood cells. I check my list against the ones that I load onto my tray, each tube fitting neatly, perfectly, into its slot and grouping.
The centrifuge machines are located at the end of the hall. They sit outside randomly in front of various offices like they are copy machines. I load one group of tubes into one machine and set the timer for one hour. Down the hall at the second machine, I load the second group of vials and this time set the timer for thirty minutes. Back at the first machine I sit down on the floor to do my calculus homework. The low-decibel humming almost rocks me to sleep as I plow methodically through a dozen equations.
A set of footsteps echoes through the hall. I glance up and find myself staring at the guy with the animals from the elevator earlier. One hand is shoved into the pocket of his lab coat; the other one holds two vials.
“How long you going to be?” he asks.
I check my watch. “Another four minutes.”
He nods and looks back down the hall as though trying to decide whether to wait or come back. He pushes back his shoulder-length, sun-bleached hair and checks his wristwatch. His white lab coat splays open, revealing a black T-shirt with a half-illuminated skull that looks like a waning moon if you glance at it quickly. Something caught in the air vent duct clicks the passing of time.
I return to my math. He moves closer to the centrifuge, eyeing the timer. He’s clicking his tongue on the roof of his mouth. I can almost hear the saliva moving around. I put
