Symptoms of a Heartbreak Page 2

  I nod at her, raising my newly perfect eyebrows so she’ll take the hint and leave. Instead, she steps closer, spits on her hands, and starts to smooth them out with her fingers. “Sonia Mamiji made this one a bit thicker—”

  I shove her hands away. Hard. “Mother!”

  The guy laughs again. Louder this time. He’s not looking at his phone anymore, just staring right at us, like we’re a part of his favorite sitcom or something. Mom notices him and frowns, but turns her focus to me.

  “I knew we should have waited for Reshma to return,” Mom says, and she can’t resist one last eyebrow stroke even as I’m backing away toward the wall. “She’s the only one who really knows how to do them properly.”

  My phone vibrates in my backpack. Lizzie, likely. If she’s up early.

  “Mom, I’m late!” I basically shout this time, making a move toward the door. My stomach is about to boil over, like an overdone pot of chai. This is pretty much the most important day of my life so far, and I am SO LATE. “I’ll see you at lunch.”

  “Wait,” she says, shoving the greasy brown bag toward me. “Don’t forget the samose.”

  “I don’t want them.”

  The guy laughs again, and I hear him say under his breath, “I’ll take them.”

  “But, beta, your friends will enjoy them—”

  “No.”

  “Acha,” she says, tucking them back into her bag. “Have a good day.”

  She gathers all her crap—the carryall, the samose, three other random bags—and heads back toward the elevator. As it dings, I take a deep breath, then exhale.

  “I’ve never witnessed anyone so violently reject samosas,” the boy says to me. “I mean, I’ve never seen anyone reject samosas at all.”

  My cheeks are blooming again as he waltzes right up to me, just a few inches away. He’s a good foot taller, and he smells familiar—like crisp citrus and something sweeter, maybe cinnamon. His dark hair flops forward into his eyes as he looks down at me, a dimple denting one cheek and that smirk playing on his mouth again. He looks mostly white, but there’s a hint of something else, like that guy from my best friend Lizzie’s favorite K-drama.

  “You new?” he says when I don’t answer. “You’ve got that new-kid vibe.”

  “You could say that,” I say, picking up my briefcase. “And I’m late.”

  “So I heard,” he says with a laugh. It’s rough around the edges, like it could turn into a cough pretty quick, and he clears his throat to stop it. “Big appointment?”

  “Yes,” I say, looking at my smartwatch again. “And I really am super late now.”

  I rush off.

  But I can’t help but look back one last time.

  He’s still standing there, his phone at his side, staring after me with a wide grin. “Maybe I’ll see you around. Give you the tour. Or something.”

  “Maybe!” I shout, then nearly trip over my own two feet as I head toward the oncology double doors. I catch myself, and for reasons I can’t explain, I take a little bow, like some nerdy, uncoordinated ballerina, and push on through.

  His laughter follows me through the door, and that tingle rushes up my back again, making me want to stay, to chat another minute. But I know I can’t—my smartwatch tells me it’s now 9:18. I’m a whole eighteen minutes late. On my first day of work.

  So very late.

  CHAPTER 3

  I stride into the administration office, as grown-up as I can be, my hair in a fancy Taara braid, my polka-dot blouse paired with some tailored black pants—I just couldn’t do the capris—and my new cherry lip gloss adding just the right hint of color and shine. (At least according to my sister.) Professional, but not stiff. I hope.

  All eyes land on me—because, of course, I’m the last one here. And I’m sixteen, so, you know, I stand out. A blush warms my cheeks. The erythema again.

  I pull my shoulders back, take a deep breath, and try to focus on the details instead of my anxiety. There’s too much to look at, too much to think about. Breathe, Saira, breathe.

  The rest of the group is already gathered, and there’s a woman taking attendance. “Glad you could make it,” the woman says sternly. Dr. Davis, the hospital administrator, I guess. She’s tall and blond, with Texas curls and an accent to match. But there’s not a touch of softness to her. Which works, since she’s like the boss of this whole place. If doctors worship medicine, and the hospital is our church, this lady is like the pope. You don’t want to mess with her. She decides who gets to stay—and who has to go. I’ve heard terrible things about her. Mostly from Mom—who’s now standing next to her, waiting, expectantly. She’s got Dadi’s sack of samose in one hand. And my dry-cleaning bag in the other. Wait, what?

  Oh yeah, that.

  “How did you get in here?” I ask, my voice croaking.

  Mom points. The stairs, obviously.

  “Your white coat,” Mom says brightly, shimmying the dry-cleaning bag. She hands the sack of samose to Dr. Arora, the chief of residents, whom I met at my interview, and he smiles graciously as Mom ignores the fact that everybody is staring at us. Arora’s the guy I’ll be working under in oncology. Mom’s invited him to dinner several times—I think she wants to set him up with Taara—but he keeps politely declining. Which makes me like him already.

  “Mom, get out of here!” I whisper-shout, but she’s beaming at me as she unzips the dry cleaning.

  My coat. It’s so crisp and white, I want to touch the collar in awe. No more wearing my mother’s white coat and following her around the office like a little kid playing doctor. I mean, I’ve worn an actual lab coat since the White Coat Ceremony last year and all, but this one is brand-new, and marked with the Princeton Presbyterian logo, all official.

  This is it.

  This is real.

  I suddenly feel super nauseous.

  There are snickers among the group. Except for Davis, who clears her throat loudly.

  “Just a minute, Davis,” Mom says to her. A mistiness coats Mom’s eyes, and I’m as red as that gross chicken tikka masala at the Indian place at the mall, but I have to let her have it. This is a moment she’s been imagining for years—and so have I. “You know this has to be done properly. Come on, beta, let’s get you ready.”

  Mom holds up the coat for me like she did with my coats when I was small.

  I slip my arms through the sleeves, button up the front. Smiling, my mother smugly pins my ID to the front pocket, then straightens the collar. Part of me is mortified at all the witnesses, but I can’t help but relish this moment a little, too.

  My mother raises a hand, giving into her urge to smooth my French braid. I duck and bump into one of the other interns, a young black woman with springy, dark curls and glasses. She grins.

  “Mom, I think Dr. Davis is waiting,” I say, trying to usher her to the door. “I’ll see you at lunch.”

  “Okay, beta.” She waves to Davis and the others. “Enjoy the samose!” She wanders off toward the door, empty dry-cleaning bag in hand.

  “Well, now that drop-off is done, maybe we can get this show on the road?” Davis says. “Given that we’re a good half hour behind, thanks to Sehgal here.”

  “Sorry about that,” I say.

  Davis grimaces at me. “First things first.” She passes around folders of paperwork. “Welcome to the Pediatric Oncology Fast-Track program here at Princeton Presbyterian. It is unique, and you are lucky to be here. These folders will contain all the information you need to acclimate yourself to the hospital, including maps, log-ins, and passwords for the electronic records system, your intern lounge and cafeteria pass, and other details. And here’s Dr. Arora, whom you all met at your interviews last month.”

  Arora clears his throat, as if he’s about to give his Oscar speech, and turns to address the three of us, young, new, naive, and ID’d as interns by the pink strip on our badges. “Dr. Sehgal, Dr. Howard, Dr. Cho,” he says. “Welcome to Princeton Presbyterian, your home—and I do mean you will prett
y much live here—for the next year.”

  My fellow interns are the young black woman, who seems friendly, and a scowling twentysomething Asian man who’s wearing a tailored suit—complete with an oversized Winnie the Pooh tie—under his lab coat. Is he a doctor or a clown?

  “Princeton Presbyterian is one of the most renowned teaching hospitals in the United States. This is the inaugural year of the Fast-Track program, a specialized residency year designed as a filter program for the award-winning pediatric oncology program here in Princeton. As you all know, the three of you were selected from among hundreds of applicants based on your stellar records of academic merit, recommendations from your clinical and rotational supervisors, and your previous research. As interns, you will be competing for two coveted spots in our pediatrics program, which feeds our renowned pediatric oncology fellowship—of which I am a graduate myself. As you know, our fellows have gone on to practice and teach at many esteemed institutions, including Harvard, UCLA, Hopkins, and others.

  “Once we fill out some of the paperwork, Dr. Davis needs to set up your night calls, and I’ll give you guys a tour of the pediatric oncology ward.”

  I scan the packet in my hands, reading through the schedule—state-mandated forty hours a week for me, to start, and nearly double that for the other interns—the rules and regulations, the criteria that we’ll be judged on, and information about board certification, which I’m already studying for. I scrawl some notes in the margins of the pages.

  “Seagull! Sara Seagull!” Davis yells my name (or her own slaughtered version of it, anyway), then taps me.

  “Here!” I say, like she’s going through the class roster.

  Davis raps on her clipboard like it’s a clock that’s stopped working. “Sara Sehgal, if I could get your rapt attention for a moment.”

  Apparently, she doesn’t like to repeat herself.

  It makes me feel like the bad kid in class—which I’ve never experienced before.

  “Sorry, Dr. Davis, it’s actually Saira. Like Sigh-ra Say-gull.” My words rush out in a whoosh when I’m nervous.

  “What?”

  “Saira, you know, with an i. Sigh-ra. Etymologically, it’s of Arabic origin and means ‘traveler.’ There’s also a Hebrew version that means ‘princess.’ But my parents named me after Saira Banu, the Bollywood starlet from the sixties, known for her roles in classic films like Junglee and Padosan. There are more than sixteen hundred Sairas in the United States, all of whom spell their names with the aforementioned i.”

  Cho rolls his eyes with a scoff. He’s tall and well built, with pitch-black hair and wire-rim glasses. Arora smiles. I wonder if people butcher his name a lot, too.

  Davis sighs. “Look, Sara. Sigh-ra. Whatever. I understand that you were late, that your mommy brought your lab coat and your lunch because you forgot them, and I know you don’t have your license yet. But—”

  “I have my permit,” I tell her. “And I’m preparing for the practical exam, too.”

  This does not seem to impress her.

  “What I was going to say, Sehgal, before I was so rudely interrupted, is that I really don’t care for excuses.”

  “Neither do I, Dr. Davis. And I’m not making them. But you know how it is, learning to drive.”

  She frowns.

  “Or not,” I add.

  “In any case, punctuality is a vital facet to your employment here at Princeton Presbyterian. I expect you to be on time, and fully committed while you’re here.” She looks haughtily at the three of us and clicks the clipboard again. “Understand that this will be trial by fire—you will be assigned a supervised caseload and will be expected to pitch in wherever you are needed within the department. All three of you. And by the end of the year, only two of you will remain for residency. If today is any indication, it won’t be much of a challenge to eliminate one of you, and while Dr. Arora has the majority say, nothing is finalized here without my approval.” She looks pointedly at me. “Now, once you’ve filled out your paperwork, Dr. Arora will lead you through the different sections here in the children’s oncology wing, introduce you to the nurses and staff, and give you your schedules for the coming weeks, which are subject to change.”

  She turns her attention back to me. Which is unfortunate. “Sehgal, I understand, too, that you’re temporarily excused from night rotations due to your … circumstances.”

  “Ah yes, I’m age-challenged.”

  “If that’s what you want to call it.”

  Mom and I negotiated—as soon as she’s comfortable with me driving solo, she’ll notify the state to green-light overnights. Who knows when that will be, though. Since I’m still nowhere near getting my license.

  Davis marks something down on her paper again. I rarely dislike anything or anyone. It wastes too much energy. For her, maybe, I’m making an exception. She could be a nemesis.

  “Cho, Howard. The two of you will be working five sixteen-hour shifts per week.” The other interns are trying—and failing—to look unbothered. Davis continues. “While Sehgal, of course, is exempted.” She turns to address me. “For the moment, we have you working four ten-hour shifts per week, which is less than half of the usual workload. I guess it helps to have your mommy on the hospital board.” Her eyes are narrowed, and she’s practically snarling.

  Howard and Arora look alarmed. Cho’s entertained, like he’s binge-watching his favorite TV doc drama.

  I try not to suck my teeth. “Yes, that’s a state mandate, actually, for this kind of situation—for which I’m the precedent. My mother has—”

  “Convinced the state of New Jersey that you only have to do half the work to become a whole doctor?” Davis delivers this casually, while scribbling on her ubiquitous clipboard.

  Cho actually cackles, but the others look on in stunned silence.

  “My mother actually had nothing to do with the decision,” I finish, trying to keep my voice steady. Yes, she’s a senior attending in pediatrics at Princeton Presbyterian. But that has nothing to do with me landing my spot here. Or the special rules the state makes for minors. “New Jersey decided that all on its own.”

  “And I’m sure she doesn’t iron your lab coats, either,” Davis says, leaning in close to flick an imaginary piece of lint from my shoulder.

  I take a step away and smile. “Nope, we have our coats dry-cleaned at Schroder’s on Elm. Organic and lavender-scented. My favorite.” I take a deep breath. “In any case, I’m happy to discuss this in private if it’s something you’d like to explore further. In fact, I’ll stop by later to see if I can get on your calendar.” Maybe we’re getting off on the wrong foot. Maybe—

  “That won’t be necessary.” I swear there’s fire flashing in her eyes. “My calendar is pretty full. Some of us are here to actually work, Sehgal.”

  “Dr. Sehgal,” I say, smiling so I won’t scream.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’d prefer you call me Dr. Sehgal, Dr. Davis.”

  “That’s a title you’ll have to earn from me, Sehgal,” Davis says as she’s walking away, waving her clipboard in the air as she goes. “All the interns have to. You’ve got a year to prove yourself.”

  Diagnosis: Hate her.

  Prognosis: War!

  CHAPTER 4

  “Don’t take it too personally.” Arora walks up to me, clipboard in hand—they’re all about the clipboards in this hospital. He tucks a pen behind his ear. “She’s like that with all of us.” He’s so tall, I feel like a little kid standing in front of the Empire State Building, staring up at him. “Especially the Indian doctors. There’s too many of us or something.”

  So the rudeness is because I’m brown? “She seems to like you just fine,” I say with a frown. “Maybe it’s because of Mom. She’s always saying that the Sehgal name means something. I always thought she meant in a good way.”

  Arora laughs, so I decide to work it. “And, given the population density of the state and the regional demographic, we may actually be unde
rrepresented here,” I say. “I mean, we’re in the thick of Central Jersey. If anything, there should be more brown people. And don’t white people, like, love our food? I should be the most popular intern here.” I point to the samosa bag.

  “Ah yes, the infamous Sehgal samosas,” he says. “Classic. So, your mom has told me a little about the root of your passion for pediatric oncology. Very interesting.”

  “Yeah, I’ve wanted to do this since I was, like, eight.” I can almost see him wanting to roll his eyes. “And I’ve been working toward it for a long time—just as long as anyone else. But because I’m sixteen, there are rules, like they have for kid actors and stuff. I didn’t ask the state to regulate my hours. I mean, I graduated magna cum laude from Princeton and from UMDNJ. I’m perfectly capable of handling the workload.”

  “I wouldn’t have hired you if I didn’t think so, Girl Genius,” he says with a smile as I cringe. “You are too modest, but your mom makes up for it. And you’re not much older than some of our patients here in pediatric oncology, as you’ll soon learn.” He leans back against the counter, resting his clipboard on it and scrawling something else on the first page. “You know, back in the day, I was sort of a protégé myself. That’s how I got to be the youngest chief resident in New Jersey. I think you’ll shatter my record, if things work out well here. Although that Varun Khanna kid might beat you to it. I’ll try not to hold that against either of you.”

  Gah. Why’d he have to bring up Varun Khanna? At nineteen, he’s the second-youngest doctor in America. And decidedly my nemesis. Although we’ve only met twice. I wonder if he was up for this internship. In any case, I’m the one who got it.

  Howard walks up to us, carrying two cups of coffee, and for once, I’m not the only one blushing. I swear, Arora stands a full three inches taller all of the sudden. And I can’t really blame him. Howard is adorable—light brown skin scattered with freckles, with these teal-blue-tortoiseshell cat’s-eye glasses, her pink-streaked brown curls held back by a red polka-dot scarf. A look Taara would appreciate, even if it is a bit too hipster for my sister’s posh style. I stare down at my stiff doctorly loafers and frown. I should have gone with the sandals.