F. Wilson - The Select

"So, if you're Don Quixote, who am I? Sancho Panza?"

"Hardly. Take the casinos as a for instance. They're a system. They set up the rules so that the percentages are always with them. Somebody wins big once in a while, but that's the exception. They publicize those exceptions to bring in more losers. But systems aren't set up for wild cards. I'm a wild card. Their blackjack system has no contingencies for someone with an eidetic memory. Fortunately for them, we're rare birds. But with my memory, I can screw up their system and win most of the time instead of lose ."

"But The Ingraham is not a casino."

"Right. But it's a system. And Matt is the wild card here. His family's got—pardon the phrase—fuck-you money. He qualified, they accepted him, but they can't buy him. They can buy you and me, Quinn. We'll gladly put up with their bullshit rules for a free medical education. Hell, we'll fight for it. We need them. But Matt doesn't. He's the chink in their armor. How many people did you say have turned them down?"

"Two in the last ten years."

"Right. But they're well prepared for that contingency anyway: they've set up a highly qualified waiting list. But I'll bet they've got no contingency plan for what Matt's going to do." His expression was gleeful as he pounded his knees. "And that's when we stick it to them."

"Tim Brown...radical."

"Not a bit," he said, raising his hands, palms out. "I'm not out to destroy anything, or throw a monkey wrench into anybody's works. The whole idea is to stick it to them without them even knowing they've been stuck. If you cause noticeable damage, or you make a big deal about it and strut yourself around bragging how clever you are, you queer it for the next wild card. Because they'll fix that weak spot in their system. But if everybody keeps their mouths shut, someone may get a chance to stick it to them again."

"Is sticking it to them so important?"

"How important is it to you right now?"

"Touche."

"All right. Then let's do it." He checked his watch. "Registration's pretty well closed. Any minute they ought to be realizing they're shy one body."

She headed back to the Admissions Office feeling anxious, scared, thinking about Tim and how he was turning out to be a lot deeper than she'd originally thought, and wondering if he really thought she had a nice butt. She knew she didn't, but there was no accounting for taste.

"Don't you have to unload?" she said as Tim ambled by her side.

"We'll unload together. This plan is my baby. I want to be present in the delivery room."

*

Quinn sensed the change in the Admissions Office as soon as she walked through the door. The air was charged. Claire and Evelyn were trundling about between their desks and the file cabinets. Marge look frazzled. Her eyes went wide when she saw her.

"Quinn! We've just heard from registration. They're getting ready to close up and somebody hasn't shown up. I can't believe it. I've been here ten years and nothing like this has ever happened."

She felt Tim's elbow bump her ribs.

"Wink, nudge, poke," he whispered.

Quinn ignored him. "Maybe that's my chance," she said to Marge. "What's his name?"

"Crawford. Matthew Crawford."

"Are you going to be calling him? Maybe he's just had car trouble or something."

"Well, then," she sniffed as she picked up her phone, "he should have called us. Whatever the cause, I'll have to check with Dr. Alston first. Then we'll call." She smiled at Quinn. "This could be your lucky day, hon."

Quinn stepped back so as not to appear to be listening. She dragged Tim with her to the row of chairs by the door, then sat there straining to hear. Marge's end of the conversation was garbled but she heard her hang up and dial another number. Matt's?

If so, Mrs. Crawford, Quinn's mother's old high school friend, would tell Marge the truth—as she knew it.

Quinn crossed her fingers and waited.

She heard Marge slam her receiver into its cradle.

"Matthew Crawford's not coming!"

Quinn heard cheers from Claire and Evelyn. She grabbed Tim's hand and squeezed, then realized what she was doing and let go.

"It's okay," Tim said. "I wash them regularly. Twice a week sometimes."

Marge was up at the counter, motioning Quinn closer. Her face was flushed.

"He's not coming!" she said as Quinn approached. "He decided to go to Yale Med instead!"

"And he didn't let you know?" Tim said, leaning against the counter beside her. "What a cad!"

"He wasn't there—off to Yale already—but I spoke to his mother and she said as far as she knows he sent us a letter last month. She couldn't imagine why we never received it."

"Probably never sent it," Tim muttered with convincing disgust. "You know how these rich kids are—"

Quinn kicked his ankle. He was getting carried away.

"Can I take his spot?" Quinn said.

"If it was up to me, honey, you'd be on your way to the registrar. But it's up to Dr. Alston and the admissions committee. I'll do my damndest for you, though."

As she returned to her desk and tapped a number into her phone, Tim leaned closer.

"Why'd you kick me?"

"You're overdoing it."

"You mean Robert DeNiro doesn't have to worry about me?"

"It might be better if you hung back a little...like in one of the chairs."

Tim shrugged. "Okay. But you're having all the fun."

Some fun. This was murder. Quinn turned and clung to the counter, hanging on Marge's every word.

"Dr. Alston? It's Marge, down at the office...Yes, we called him...No, apparently he's decided to go to Yale instead...That's right, sir...No, I don't know why...Yes, sir, I certainly can do that, but I think you should know, one of the wait-list students is right here...Dr. Alston? Are you there?...Yes, sir, she's been hanging around all day in the hope that something like this would happen...I know, sir. Not in my memory either. Her name's...let me see..." Marge smiled and winked at Quinn as she made a noisy show of shuffling through the papers on her desk. "Here it is: Cleary...Quinn Cleary. Yes, sir. I'll do that, sir. Do you want me to start making those calls now?..Okay. I'll wait...Right sir."

She hung up and approached Quinn. Her air was conspiratorial.

"Well, Quinn, honey, you've sure thrown Dr. Alston a curve. He wanted me to start calling the waiting list immediately, starting with number one and working my way down. When I told him you were here, he was actually speechless. And if you knew Dr. Alston you'd know that he's never speechless. He's never heard of a wait-list student hanging around on registration day. He's going to check your application and talk to the committee."

Quinn felt lightheaded. Her knees wobbled. She struggled for a breath to speak.

"Then I have a chance?"

"You sure do. Better than you think. Because just between you and me, if I get the word to start calling the waiting list, there's a very good chance that most of them will already be committed to other schools, and those that aren't, well," her voice sank to a whisper, "they may not be home, if you know what I mean."

"I wouldn't want you doing anything like that for me," Quinn said. "You might be risking your job."

Marge patted her hand. "You let me worry about that. Meanwhile, take a seat by your friend over there and we'll see what happens."

*

"I smell a rat."

Dr. Walter Emerson was startled by Arthur's vehemence. He'd known Arthur Alston for years and had always thought of him as a phlegmatic sort.

"Do you, Arthur? I'm the one who does most of the rat studies here, so if anyone should recognize that smell, it's me. And I don't."

"Really, Walter," Alston sniffed. "This is serious business. I don't think any of us should take it lightly."