The Select by F. Paul Wilson

processed his acceptance. She told
them she was going out to stretch her legs but would be back in a
while to see if there was any news.
    "How's it going in there?" Tim asked
when they were outside.
    "They're sweet. I feel like a rat
deceiving them like this."
    "Who deceiving anyone? You're hanging
around to try and take the spot of anyone who doesn't show up.
That's an absolutely true statement."
    "But—"
    "But nothing. It's true. The fact that
we know something they don't is irrelevant."
    They found a shady spot
under an oak by the central pond and sat on a wooden bench. The sun
was in and out of drifting clouds, the air was heavy with moisture.
A bathing sparrow fluttered its wings at the edge of the pond,
disturbing the still surface of the water with tiny ripples and
splashes. Off to her left Quinn saw a parade of sweaty new arrivals
lugging suitcases, boxes, and stereos into the dorm. She looked
around and was struck by how planned The Ingraham looked. The
dorm, the caf, the administration, class, and faculty buildings
were all two stories, all of similar design and color. And off to
her right, up the slope, rose the science building; and rising
beyond that, the medical center. Each set higher than the one
before it, like steps to knowledge and experience.
    "Where do you fit into this,
Tim?"
    He swiveled on the bench and faced
her. She wished he'd take off those damn sunglasses. She wanted to
see his eyes.
    "What do you mean?"
    "I mean, what's in it for you? You
don't know me. Sure, we've met a couple of times, but we're not
what you'd call close by any stretch. Why should you care if I get
into The Ingraham?"
    He smiled. "I'm the
compleat altruist. My raison d'etre is to help others. That's why I want to become a
doctor."
    "Not."
    "You doubt my devotion to
the human species? Okay, try this: I'm hoping that my
getting you into
The Ingraham will help me add you to my near endless list of beautiful
female conquests."
    "Very funny."
    "Hey, don't sell yourself short. I
think you're a knockout. And you've got a very nice
butt."
    "And you need glasses," Quinn said.
She was annoyed now. "I ask you a simple question..."
    She pushed herself off the bench to
head back to the Admissions Office. This was dumb. Tim's hand on
her arm stopped her.
    "Okay, okay," he said. "Forget
everything I just said— except the part about your having a nice
butt—"
    "Tim..."
    "Well, I meant that. But
as for the rest of it..." He paused, as if searching for the right
words. "Look. Places like The Ingraham, they're systems. A bunch of
nerdy little dorks get together and figure out a way to set
someplace up so they can push all the buttons, pull all the levers,
call all the shots—run the show. They've got the bucks, that gives
them power, and they think they can make everybody jump through
their hoops. But they couldn't make Matt jump. With his family's
kind of clout, he can tell them to go jump. People like you and me, though,
Quinn...if we want to get into their system, when they say jump,
we've got to ask, 'How high?'"
    "That's the way the world works, Tim.
You can't change that."
    "I'm not saying I can. But I make it a
point to screw them up every chance I get."
    "Oh," Quinn said slowly, wondering if
she should feel insulted. "And I suppose helping me get into The
Ingraham is screwing them up."
    Tim slumped forward and rested his
forehead on his forearms. He spoke to the grass. "This conversation
is heading for the tubes. Maybe we should just go back to saying
that I thought it was a shortcut to adding another notch in my, um,
belt and leave it at that."
    "No," Quinn said softly. "You're going
out of your way to do me a favor. We've only met three times,
talked on the phone a few more. Can you blame me for being curious
as to why? TANSTAAFL, remember?"
    Tim lifted his head. The blank
sunglasses stared at her again.
    "Fair enough. Okay. I like you. I like
you a lot."
    Quinn felt herself
flushing. Now she really wished she could see his