Page 44 of Left on Read

“No,” he admits, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. “Not a medical doctor, anyway.”

“Okay.” I mirror his position, resting my elbows over the menu I still haven’t opened. I don’t need to. I came here last week, and I always get the same thing. “So what’s your grand plan, then?”

“I don’t know if I have a grand plan.” He twirls a discardedpaper straw wrapper between his fingers. Some old guy across the room laughs way, way too loud. “But I think I want to study neuroscience and go into research—computational neuroscience, maybe, with a lot of digital modeling and a lot of math. I love the topic, and I love being in a lab. Neuro is like brain math.”

“I can see that.” I chuckle.

We had this teacher freshman year, for this class that was supposed to help us become better college students, and he’d always say that critical thinking is thinking about your thinking while you’re thinking to make your thinking better. Neuroscience is using your brain to think about your brain to make your brain better. It’s all very Hayes.

“Is that … bad, somehow? Why’d you say it like that?” I didn’t like it, the defeated tone of his voice.

The waitress interrupts us at that moment. Her name’s Sharon, and she used to work with my mom, and she’s absolutely going to tell her I showed up here in the morning with a boy. Hayes orders an omelet full of questionable things, and I order pancakes.

“It’s notbad.” He diverts his eyes, looking at the old newspapers and black-and-white community photos on the wall. “It’s just not what they want. It’s not what we do. I love science and pharmacology and even medicine, I guess, but I don’t want anyone’s life in my hands. They don’t get that. We’re surgeons, not researchers.”

I don’t have to ask him to explain. He means his parents, his brother.

“So you’re saying you’d really be the black sheep of the family.”

He nods. Good Lord. That must be scary.

“It’s all they talk about. Ever. Especially since Hunter got into Duke, it’s literally all medicine, all the time. They don’t even have hobbies anymore. I literally don’t even know who they are outside of their careers. I don’t want that for myself.”

“I don’t want that for you, either.” My voice comes out almost a whisper, because my mind is busy whirring at all of the differences between us. Fundamental differences. In the way we grew up, the way we see the world. I knew they were there. I’d always known. They just seem so much more obvious today.

“Here’s your strawberry syrup, sweetie.” Sharon sets down a white ceramic bowl full of bright red goo.

“Thanks,” I mutter as she unloads the giant tray of food she has balanced on one hand. I’ll never understand how they do that.

“How’d she know you wanted strawberry syrup?” Hayes asks, already lifting a giant bite of an overfull omelet to his mouth.

“I used to come here every Saturday morning when the boys would have baseball practice at the school. She brings this to me every time, even though I can’t eat it anymore.” I push the bowl of strawberry goo aside and reach for the regular syrup.

“Why not?” he asks. His food is steaming, and he’s still eating as fast as he can.

“The red dye’s a migraine trigger.” Damn me for being too comfortable and just saying shit without thinking about it. I don’t like talking about this.

“Really? Cool.” His eyes widen. “Well, not cool, because you’re in pain or whatever, but that’s interesting. What else is a trigger?”

I don’t know why we’re talking about my chronic pain at breakfast, on what could by all accounts be considered a first date, but the boy does really love his brain math.

“Chocolate. Artificial sweeteners. Preservatives, like whatever they use to make bacon.”

He nods. Half of his omelet is gone already, and I’ve taken, like, three bites of my pancakes.

“Oh, and stress.” That one’s tougher to admit, because stressed is kind of my default setting. I need my stress. It’s who I am.

“Hmm.” He mumbles around a huge bite. He takes a sip of his orange juice, and then he covers his mouth to stifle a laugh.

“What?” I ask, putting my fork down and crossing my arms over my chest.

“It’s just funny how you know all of that, but you still don’t realize coffee isn’t food.”

You’re a good teacher.

On a handout of “The Tell-Tale Heart” by Edgar Allan Poe

Sometimes I forget I live in middle-of-nowhere North Carolina, but there are moments like these, when I’m literally sitting on a bale of hay in someone’s grandpa’s barn, that make it painfully obvious.