“Are you hungry?” Mom demands, then answers her own question. “Of course you are! Sit down so I can feed you, mami. How is school going?”

“Good.” I fill her in on my classes and the project with Hunter, while she unloads Tupperware containers from the fridge.

If my visit hadn’t been last minute, I have no doubt she would’ve cooked me a feast. Instead, I’m relegated to the leftovers from whatever feast she cooked for Dad yesterday. And it’s spectacular. Soon the cedar work island is laden with dishes, most of them Cuban, with a few of Dad’s American favorites sprinkled in.

My mouth waters as each new item emerges from the microwave. There’s shredded beef seasoned to perfection with veggies and olives and served on brown rice. Cuban chicken stew with raisins to give it a bit of sweetness. Stuffed peppers. Fried beans. The roasted potatoes and garlic carrots that Dad likes.

“Oh my goodness, Mom,” I declare while inhaling her food. “I’ve missed your cooking so much.” Pieces of rice fly out of my mouth as I talk.

“Demi,” she chides.

“Hmmmm?” I mumble through a mouthful of spicy beef.

She flips her glossy brown hair over one shoulder. “Of all the traits you could’ve inherited from your father, his poor table manners is what it had to be?”

“What? You should take it as a compliment that we both enjoy your cooking.”

“Maybe you can enjoy it with your mouth full,” she suggests. “And leave some carrots for your father.” She slaps my hand when I try to stick my fork in the carrot container.

Speaking of my father, he appears in the doorway without warning. I hadn’t heard him come in. Granted, that’s probably because I’m chewing so loudly.

“Hi baby,” he says happily. Enormous arms encircle me from behind as he places a kiss on the top of my head

“Hey Daddy.” I swallow some more rice.

He greets my mother, which is always a fun sight to see. Standing at six foot five, Dad is a bald black guy with arms like tree trunks, palms like oven mitts, and long but surprisingly delicate fingers. Or I guess not surprisingly, seeing as how nimble digits are required when poking around in somebody’s skull. And then there’s Mom, who’s all of five feet, with huge boobs and shiny hair and the Latin temper she passed on to me. They’re the cutest couple ever, and I adore my little family. Being an only child means I don’t have to share anything with a sibling, including my parents’ attention.

Dad joins me at the counter and digs into the leftovers. Mom, who has trouble staying still, eventually sits down too and nibbles on an olive while Dad tells us about his surgery. The patient was a construction worker whose skull nearly got crushed by a falling steel beam. He wasn’t wearing his hardhat, and now he might have permanent brain damage. It’s heartbreaking. Which is one of the reasons I’d never want to be a surgeon—that and I don’t have the hands for it. My fingers get trembly when I’m nervous, and I can’t imagine a more anxiety-inducing situation than sawing into a human being’s skull.

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.