The Select

'I don't know if he really does. He's an economics major but he squeezed in the required science courses for med school last year to give him the option in case he wanted it. I guess he decided he wanted it.'

'Great!' she said, leaning back. 'I spend three and a half years breaking my back as a pre-med bio major so I can nail the MCATs; he 'squeezes in' a few science courses and gets invited to sit for The Ingraham's. How does that happen?'

Matt grinned. This was familiar territory for him.

'Tim's not like the rest of us mortals. He has an eidetic memory. Never forgets a thing. That's how he wins at blackjack—remembers every card that's been played.'

'All fine and good but that's not enough to—'

'Plus he has a keen analytical mind. You remember calculus—all the binary equations you had to memorize? Tim never bothered. He'd go into the test and figure them out.'

Quinn glanced toward the kitchen door where Tim was in deep conversation with a heavy-set black man in a white apron, then turned back to Matt.

'You could hate a guy like that.'

Matt sighed. 'Sometimes I do. Not easy to be friends with a guy who can ace every test without breaking a sweat.'

'You're no slouch in the grade-point department yourself.'

'I've done all right.' Matt had calculated that by this semester's end his overall GPA at Dartmouth would be 3.75. 'But I've had to crunch for those grades. Yet here's Tim who spends his time gambling, drinking, and polishing his car, whose idea of studying is pulling one all-nighter before an exam, and he's going to graduate Phi Beta Kappa. If he weren't such a nice guy—'

'Nice guy?' Quinn said, her voice rising half an octave. 'Matt, he's got to be one of the most irresponsible, self-centered, inconsiderate, egotistical—'

'He's just testing you,' Matt said. 'It's a game he plays, but only with people he likes. Likes to see how far he can push them, how much they can take. Once he finds out, he backs off. He's pushing you, Quinn—gently. He must like you.'

He saw her cheeks begin to redden and hid a smile. She blushed so easily.

'That kind of like I can do without.'

'Go with it. Once you get to know him he's a lot of fun. And believe me, he—' Matt glanced up. 'Speak of the devil, here he comes now.'

Tim glided up and set three 16-ounce paper cups on the table.

'Rolling Rock for the men, and—' he pushed one of the cups toward Quinn '—a Coors Light for the pretty lady.'

Quinn glanced down at the white foam riding an inch below the rim, sniffed—

'How on earth—?'

'Nothing to it, my dear. I used to work in a kitchen. The help always has a corner of one of the coolers reserved for their own private stock, three cans of which these folks were more than happy to part with for a mere ten dollars.' He lifted his cup. 'Cheers.'

'No, thanks,' Quinn said. She pushed hers across toward Tim. 'But please don't let this go to waste. As Matt said, there's a lot of people vying for The Ingraham's fifty places. I need all the edge I can get. Do drink up.' Quinn rose from her seat. 'Excuse me. I've got my interview.'

Matt was startled—this wasn't the Quinn he knew—but as she turned to leave, she winked and gave him a little smile. Matt relaxed. So that was it. Tim had started pushing Quinn, so Quinn was pushing right back.

Good for her.

Matt glanced at Tim and saw that he was staring after Quinn. He turned to Matt and grinned.

'I like her. Where'd you find her and are there any more like her where she came from?'

'Known her since we were toddlers and she's one of a kind. But not your kind.'

Tim's eyebrows rose above the frame of his aviator shades. 'Oh, really? You staking out that territory for yourself? Because if you are, just say the word and I'll—'

'Nah,' Matt said. 'We've known each other too long and too well to be anything more than good friends.' At least that's the way Quinn sees it, he thought.

'Good,' Tim said, watching her retreating figure. 'Because I think I like being around her.'

Matt wasn't sure how he felt about that, but Quinn was quite capable of taking care of herself. She had her sights set and wouldn't let Tim Brown or him or anyone distract her from becoming a doctor.

He watched the door close behind her and silently wished her well on her interview. She'd need all the help she could get. The Ingraham was known—and widely criticized—for peopling its student body with mostly males. He hoped she got somebody with enough perception to recognize what a prize The Ingraham would have in Quinn Cleary.

*

Dr. Walter Emerson rubbed his eyes and waited for the next applicant to arrive. These interviews were tiring but a necessary evil. Current wisdom ran that you could tell only so much from test scores and application data. You had to meet these people face to face, see how they presented themselves, and look them in the eye to decide whether they would make the kind of doctor worthy of the enormous amount of time and treasure invested in each one of them, who'd go out into the world and practice front-line medicine.

But it pained him to know that so few of the hopeful, eager faces he'd seen this week were going to be asked to return to The Ingraham in September.

He yawned. He always got sleepy this time of the afternoon. He hoped didn't doze off during the next interview.

A soft knock.

'Come in.'

He immediately recognized the slim, strawberry blonde who entered as the girl he'd seen on Fifth Science this afternoon. He remembered her staring at Ward C through the window, the high color in her cheeks, the wide blue eyes so filled with wonder and empathy. He glanced down at her file: Quinn Cleary, 21, Connecticut, full academic scholarship to the University of Connecticut, pre-med Biology major; president of the Biology club, stringer for the school paper; excellent GPA, high MCATs. A fine catch for any medical school. Too bad she was lacking a critical factor: a Y chromosome.

Walter had gone around and around with the board for years on this thing they had for males. Sure, twenty years ago when The Ingraham first opened its doors, males ran American medicine. But things were changing. Hell, things had already changed. Women were gaining now, and their influence would continue to grow. If The Ingraham was to maintain its status as a premier training center, the Foundation's board would have to alter its antiquated sex preference.

So far the board had paid him a little lip service, but no new admissions directives had been issued.

Well, he'd see what he could do for this young thing. For some reason he could not quite fathom, Walter felt attached to her. Maybe he'd seen something of his old self in this youngster as she'd looked at those patients, something in her eyes, the desire to do something for them, the need to act.

And then an epiphany: his daughter. This girl reminded him of Clarice. Clarice was twenty-five in Walter's mind. Would always be twenty-five. That was when a drunk had run a stop sign and brought her life and her mother's to a fiery end. A void had opened in him then. He still carried it with him every minute.

'So, Miss Quinn Cleary,' he said after she'd seated herself across from him. He smiled to allay the tension he sensed in her. 'Let me ask you the question I must ask, the question you know you're going to be asked, and get that one out of the way: Why do you wish to become a doctor?'

'Because I...'

Her voice trailed off. She sat there with a tortured expression, twisting her hands together.

'Is something wrong?' he said.

'I...I had a whole speech prepared and now I can't remember a word of it.'

'Good. I've been listening to speeches all afternoon. Let's deviate from the prepared text, as the politicians