Chapter 6
Edgar and the Pre-Med Ninja
Sebastian
Whoever said running clears your head was full of shit.
Ten miles in, and my brain's still playing a Family Dinner drinking game.
"When are you joining the company?" Take a shot.
"The Palmieri boy's still unmarried at thirty-five.
" Another shot. "I know about medical school, Sebastiano. " Chug the whole bottle.
Actually, that last one still has me laughing. Or wheezing. Hard to tell the difference when you're running. The way Mamma just casually dropped that bomb while elbow-deep in dishes, like she hadn't just revealed she's known my second biggest secret this whole time.
Meanwhile, I'm standing there holding a soapy plate like an idiot, trying to process that she's been researching Stanford's med program while I've been sneaking around like some kind of pre-med ninja.
The fucking Palmieri thing, though. "Thirty-five and his poor mother is still waiting for grandchildren." The tragedy. The horror. Someone alert the media.
Here I am, literally running away from my family instead of just saying eight words: "I'm going to be a doctor. Also, gay." But no, that would be too simple. Instead, I'm out here at ten PM doing my best Forrest Gump impression because apparently, I process emotions through cardio.
God, my life is ridiculous.
I approach the small house my friends and I rent near campus. It's a shabby two-story with peeling paint and a sagging porch, but the rent is cheap, and the landlord doesn't ask questions about the occasional small explosions from Max's room.
I can feel sweat cooling against my skin in the night air as I slow to a walk for the last hundred meters, giving my muscles a chance to cool down properly.
The house glows with yellow light coming from the windows. I hear my friends talking and laughing inside. Just as I'm about to knock, the door opens.
"I calculated your arrival time based on your average pace and the distance," JP says by way of greeting. "You're two minutes late. Did you add a hill repeat?"
"Hello to you too," I say, stepping past him into the warmth. "And yes, actually. How did you know?"
"Your face is redder than the last time you jogged from their house, that suggests—"
"Please don't finish that sentence," I interrupt, knowing JP's tendency to launch into detailed physiological explanations. "Is the beer cold?"
He hands me a bottle and leads me into the living room, where the rest of the group is gathered.
The space is cluttered but clean, dominated by mismatched furniture and overflowing bookshelves.
A whiteboard covered in complex equations stands in one corner, Leo's current project, and what appears to be a small robot is sitting in the middle of the coffee table.
Thank god Leo remembered to put the beer in the fridge this time.
"Seb!" Max exclaims, jumping up from his spot on the floor. His wild hair is sticking up in all directions, and there's a smudge of grease on his cheek. "Perfect timing! I need someone with steady hands."
"I just ran ten miles," I point out. "My hands are anything but steady right now."
"That's okay, we have beer for that," he says, undeterred. "This is Edgar." He gestures proudly to the robot.
"You named it," I say, taking a long sip of beer.
"Of course, I named it. Edgar brings drinks from the kitchen to wherever you're sitting. Watch!"
Max taps his phone, and the small robot whirs to life, its lights blinking as it slides off the table onto a ramp and heads determinedly toward the kitchen.
"Should we be concerned?" I ask Leo quietly.
"Probable fire risk: twenty percent. Potential for minor injury: forty-five percent. Entertainment value: priceless," he says without hesitation. "Plus, I've got the extinguisher behind the couch."
I shake my head, grinning, and say hi to everyone else. Luca is typing furiously on his laptop, barely looking up to nod in my direction. Elliot is curled in an armchair, headphones on, eyes closed, probably analyzing a piece of music in his head.
"Where's Haru?" I ask, realizing our Japanese friend isn't here.
"Date," JP says with a smirk.
This gets everyone's attention.
"Date?" Antonio's head snaps up from his laptop. "Haru has a date?"
"Who would willingly sit through Haru's stiff English for a whole evening?" Max asks, genuinely puzzled.
"Jamal Washington," JP says, looking far too pleased with himself. "Football team's quarterback."
"How did that happen?" I ask, surprised. Haru is painfully shy around strangers, and his English becomes very formal when he is nervous.
"Apparently, they bonded over archery," JP explains. "Haru was practicing at the sports complex, Jamal saw him, and the rest is history in the making."
"Good for him," I say, meaning it. Even though we're all extremely awkward around people, we want to date someone. We're just generally terrible at talking to new people.
"So," Luca closes his laptop, giving me his full attention, which is rare. "Family dinner? On a scale of Italian opera to Greek tragedy, how bad was it?"
"Surprisingly interesting," I say, settling onto the couch. "Turns out my mamma has known about medical school all along. She's been researching programs and saving money for my applications."
Everyone's eyebrows raise at that.
"Told you," JP says smugly. "Mothers always know. It's like they have spyware installed in our brains from birth."
"My mother called me last month to remind me to take my allergy medication because she 'had a feeling' I'd forgotten," Leo contributes, briefly emerging from his mathematical trance. "I had forgotten."
"And your father?" Elliot asks quietly, removing one headphone to hear my answer better.
I sigh. "Same as always. When am I joining the family business? Books don't build houses, legacy, tradition, etc."
"Statistical probability of your father accepting your career choice in the next calendar year: seventeen percent," Leo offers.
"That high?" I raise an eyebrow.
"I'm being generous because your mother is on your side. Maternal influence is a significant variable in the equation."
Before I can answer, Edgar the robot comes back from the kitchen, swaying a bit as it rolls over the bumpy floorboards. A single beer bottle sitting on its flat top, looking like it might fall off at any second.
"Success!" Max crows as the robot rolls towards Antonio, stopping with a cheerful beep.
Luca takes the beer with a serious look on his face. "Thank you, Edgar," he says to the robot, which beeps again before turning around.
"What happens now?" I ask.
"Now it should return to its charging station," Max explains.
Instead, Edgar makes a sharp left turn, bumps into a bookshelf, backs up, spins in a circle, and then races at full speed toward the stairs.
"That," Max says like he's studying it, "is not supposed to happen."
We watch in collective silence as Edgar launches itself up the first stair, fails to make the second, falls backward, and comes to rest upside down, wheels spinning pathetically in the air like a drunk robot.
"Forty-five percent chance of injury might have been optimistic," Leo says.
Max sighs and retrieves his creation. "Back to the drawing board."
I laugh, feeling the last of the tension from my family dinner drain away. This is why I love coming home after those dinners, these brilliant, awkward, genuine friends who accept my intensity, my ambition, and my quirks without question.
"So," Luca asks, opening his beer, "the tutoring thing. Tomorrow at three, right?"
My good mood evaporates instantly. "Thanks for the reminder." A groan escapes my throat. "Professor Harrington's forcing some psychology expert on me. Apparently, I lack 'insight' into human behaviour. Also he caught me throwing up before my presentation, so that's fun."
Max pats my knee, completely ignoring the vomit confession like the good friend he is. "You? Lacking insight into people?" He gasps in mock surprise. "The guy who once asked if a girl's tears were 'a manipulation tactic or evidence of corneal irritation'?"
I wince. "Okay, I could've handled that better."
"She was crying because I told her leeches were historically used as anticoagulants," I defend. "It was relevant to the conversation."
"The conversation was about her grandmother's stroke," JP points out.
"Medical context!"
"At a coffee shop," Elliot adds softly.
I throw up my hands. "Fine! I'm terrible with people. This is not news. Hence the tutor."
"Any idea who it is?" Antonio asks.
"Someone Professor Harrington says has 'natural intuition' for human behaviour," I say, not bothering to hide my skepticism. "Probably some insufferable psychology major who thinks they can read minds because they memorized Freud."
"Statistically speaking, psychology majors are among the most empathetic students on campus," Leo offers.
"Not helping," I mutter.
"Whoever it is, they can't be worse than failing the class," JP points out reasonably.
"True," I concede. "I just hate needing help. Especially with a class so... soft."
"As opposed to your rigid, unyielding personality?" Max grins.
I throw a pillow at him, which he dodges, laughing.
"You know what you need?" Luca says suddenly. "A distraction. A palate cleanser. Something completely unrelated to school or family."
"Like what? I don't exactly have hobbies outside of running and studying."
"A date," he says triumphantly. "I know this guy in my Computer Science seminar—"
"No," I cut him off. "Absolutely not. I don't have time for dating."
"The human brain needs regular rewards to work at its best," JP states. "Social connection and physical intimacy have been shown to improve how well we think."
"Are you saying I should get laid to improve my grades?" I ask incredulously.
"I'm saying there's research to support it," he says, way too calm for my liking.
"I don't need research, I need sleep. And to pass Psychology. In that order."
The conversation drifts to other topics: Leo's latest theoretical breakthrough, Lucas’ ongoing battle with his programming assignment, and Max's plans for Edgar 2.0. I listen and jump in when I can, but part of my brain is stuck on tomorrow's tutoring session.
Did I leave my good pens at the library? The ones that don't smudge. Fuck, I need those for anatomy diagrams.
"—and then the whole server crashed," Luca's saying, gesturing with his beer.
I hate needing help. I hate struggling with any academic subject. And most of all, I hate the idea of some smug psychology expert looking at me like I'm a particularly interesting lab specimen because I can't grasp concepts that seem obvious to everyone else.
Should probably wash my jeans. Or just buy new ones. When did I last do laundry? Tuesday? No, that was dishes. Christ, I'm turning into one of those med students who forgets basic hygiene.
"Seb? You good?" Max waves a hand in front of my face.
"Yeah, just thinking about tomorrow."
Wonder if Mom's right about Stanford. Would be close enough to bring laundry home. No. Bad thought. Can not become that guy.
It's getting late when I remember I still have to go get my car. Leo grabs his keys from the hook by the door.
"Come on, I'll drive you back to your parents' place," he says, already heading outside. "Unless you're planning to run another ten miles tonight?"
"Even I'm not that crazy," I say, following him to his ancient Honda, which smells perpetually of coffee and old textbooks.
The drive to my parents' neighborhood is quiet for the first few minutes. Then Leo looks over.
"Statistically speaking, most people who need tutoring end up with a better understanding than if they'd figured it out themselves."
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"
"Just data." He shrugs, turning onto my parents' street. "But data suggests you're going to be fine. And if this tutor is an ass, we'll work together and destroy them… Systematically."
I bark out a laugh. "Thanks, Leo."
"Besides," he adds with a cryptic smile as he pulls up behind my car, "I have a feeling about tomorrow."
"A feeling?" One eyebrow raises. "That's not very scientific of you."
"Even statisticians occasionally rely on intuition." He puts the car in park. "See you back at the house."
"Night. Thanks for the ride."
As I drive back home, I'm trying to shake off the dread about tomorrow's session. It's just tutoring. One hour of my life. Endure it, pass the class, and move on to things that matter.
The whole thing will probably be painfully awkward, some overeager psychology major who thinks they can decode my "issues" in an hour. They'll probably want to discuss my feelings about learning or some equally ridiculous topic.
But at least it'll be over quickly, one torturous session where I nod politely and pretend their insights are revolutionary. And maybe they will give me tips on how to get through this term and then be done.
Then I can get back to the critical stuff that actually determines my future: finalizing my med school applications, finishing that research paper on cardiovascular anomalies, studying for the MCAT retake I'm considering.
Real work that matters, not pseudo-scientific babble about learning styles and emotional barriers.
One psychology tutor armed with textbook theories can't possibly be that bad. Right?