Chapter 10 takes place after "Stevie in the Hospital". Season 6 has passed and Malcolm and Cynthia haven't spoken. Malcolm's narcissism has peaked and then subsided as a result of suffering numerous rejections and blows to his ego. At the end of season 6, Lois is mistreated at a pageant ("Mrs. Tri-County"). He and his brothers stand up for her and he learns a great lesson in empathy in the process. Throughout Season 7, Malcolm is humbled several times. He has an experience where a girl he's dating makes him keep the relationship a secret because she's embarrassed to be dating a geek ("Secret Boyfriend"), much like how he was self-conscious about his relationship with Cynthia. Now, he and the other gifted students are taking a class trip to Washington University in St. Louis, Missouri to tour their medical facility and watch a live surgery. Fate will bring Malcolm and Cynthia together. What will come of their reunion?

Class Trip

In the middle of a dusty, gray morning, a group of former Krelboynes and future stock analysts, accountants, doctors, Monsanto employees, engineers, university professors, lawyers, and one marine biologist crammed their diligently packed suitcases into the storage compartment of an interstate charter bus. It was 5:30 am. By the time they arrived in St. Louis, it would be very late the following day.

Amidst their labored packing, Lloyd and Dabney stood near the door of the bus, both wearing complementary blue and yellow fanny packs and scanning an itinerary.

"Here's where we break for lunch," said Dabney. "And after the seminar on infectious diseases, we'll have almost forty five minutes to do whatever we want."

"I've never had power like this," said Lloyd. "It's frightening. But invigorating."

"Easy …

… does it," said Stevie, as they loaded him up a hydraulic lift into the back seats.

Mr. Herkabe walked into the middle of the crowd and blew a whistle hanging from his neck, which only managed to make a feeble chirping sound. The students stopped their packing and stood at attention, nevertheless.

"We're boarding in five minutes, people. Has anyone seen Malcolm?"

No one answered.

"Nobody knows?"

Silence resumed.

"I refuse to believe we're that lucky."

In the distance, a screeching tire could be heard. Coming around a corner, a faded blue van swung into the lot and just barely avoided rolling over into a stone flower pot. With a deafening screech it came to a stop right before the departing students. A stunned silence commenced, and then the engine backfired, causing them to scream.

"This is it!" yelled Dabney, "The terror sweeping the nation has arrived at our very doorsteps! Mother! I'm ready!" He instinctively flattened himself on the ground and put his hands over his head.

Stevie's muffled voice could be heard from the inside of the bus.

"…Lock…

… the doors!"

"Keep your diapers on, kids," said Herkabe. "It's only Malcolm and his family's busted old beater."

The side door of the van opened and Malcolm slowly slid out of it, befuddled by early morning exhaustion and grueling embarrassment.

"Decided to join us, did we, Malcolm?" asked Herkabe.

"I guess…" Malcolm replied.

"Hello, Lionel," said Hal from the driver's seat. He narrowed his eyes.

Herkabe narrowed his eyes in return. "Hal…"

Without breaking eye contact, Hal switched to reverse and slowly backed out of the lot. In one smooth motion, he went forward, and disappeared around the corner."

"Let's get going," said Herkabe. "C'mon everybody. I'm not taking my tranquilizer until everyone's in their seat."

The students organized themselves into a line and began filing onto the bus. As Cynthia ascended the steps, she rifled through her oversized travel bag, a gray, lopsided canvas satchel. Lloyd squinted at it.

"Is that a travel bag or a dead possum?"

"It's my grandpa's, from his IDF days. Really comes in handy for trips. Its days of carrying rations and medical supplies are over, though. I packed it full of all kinds of fun stuff. I thought we could do travel scattergories first. I made it a little more challenging by rewriting all the lists in Aramaic!"

"Sorry, Cynthia, but Dabney and I will be working on our Xena Warrior Princess fanfic. We're outlining the most important arc in the story."

"You're saying you'd rather spend the whole trip isolating yourselves in a fantasy world of incoherent mythological revisionism and scantily clad sorceresses than take part in meaningful human connections with stimulating exchange of ideas?"

"No," said Lloyd, "there's the trip back, too."

Cynthia walked to the middle of the bus and took a seat next to a few acquaintances, no one she really knew well. Malcolm boarded last, keeping his eyes averted as he trudged his way to the back. Cynthia looked around her, noting the various occupations of the neurotic assembly that prevented any significant socializing. Of course Dabney and Lloyd were already pulling out a map-like outline of their fanfic with looks of giddy anticipation. Stevie had made a fortress out of the accessible space on the bus with a personal warehouse of comics. Though a tiny voice in her head stressed the option of letting bygones be bygones, once again, and burying the hatchet with a friendly game of cards, she stayed resolute in her determination not to talk to Malcolm. As for the rest of the class, they were either burying their noses in books, getting ahead on a month's worth of homework, or attempting to use meditative practices to quell their travel anxiety. Cynthia looked down at her magic bag of fun and frowned. At the bottom sat a half-done book of crosswords. She tried to make herself believe it would last twenty-eight hours.

XXXXX

As Malcolm got off the bus, he scanned the area to make sure he wouldn't run into Cynthia. When he saw her wheeling her suitcase towards the hotel, he got his bag and joined up with Stevie, Lloyd, and Dabney.

"Just a heads up, I'm gonna need a side with a nightstand so I can plug in my CPAP machine," said Lloyd.

"What about my humidifier?" asked Dabney.

"I think not suffocating in my sleep is more important than your precious humidity."

"If that room's not at 50% humidity my sinuses are going to take a beating. I'll be a bear for the whole trip!"

"Oh, I'm really scared."

Dabney knocked Lloyd's sundries bag out of his hands.

"Easy…

… fellas," said Stevie.

"Just relax," said Malcolm, "I'll take the rollaway bed. It's bad enough sharing a bed with Dewey, I'm not about to find out what it's like to sleep next to either of you."

"That's a hurtful assumption," said Lloyd. "But correct."

The group picked up their stuff and headed into the hotel. One of the chaperones waited by the front desk handing out room cards. Malcolm took theirs and put it in his pocket.

"Are you sure we shouldn't vote on who gets the key?" asked Dabney.

Malcolm looked up at Dabney. "A vote? Really?

Dabney looked down, embarrassed.

"You don't have to vote for who gets the key. If you want it so bad, then here." Malcolm took out the key card and handed it to Dabney. Dabney took a hold of it and eyed it reverently.

"No, you keep it" He handed the card back to Malcolm. "Too much pressure." Malcolm simply shrugged and put it back in his pocket. They headed towards the elevators.

Cynthia had deboarded last, struggling with her unwieldy carryon and finally her oversized suitcase, which due to her showing up to the bus first had been shoved into the very back of the undercarriage. That's what I get for being early, she thought.

As she pushed her way through the hotel's heavy glass doors, nearly falling through the threshold but thankfully leaning onto a plastic ficus for support, she heard Herkabe repeating her name in monotone.

"Cynthia…Cynthia…where's Cynthia?"

"Oh, right here Mr. Herkabe!"

Mr. Herkabe shoved through the students while making audible sounds of disgust. Upon reaching Cynthia he held up a single keycard.

"This is for you," he said. "As you recall, Flora couldn't be here since she has pinkeye again. And since Henrietta's parents view medicine as sacrilegious she's not with us, either. They were going to be your roommates."

"So who am I with now?"

"Oh, honey," said Mr. Herkabe, with a light chuckle. "The school district doesn't make plans for such contingencies, whatever gave you that idea? No, the hotel is adamant that there be only four people to a room, max, and all the other rooms have four people. So lucky you, you get to be alone!"

"Alone?"

"That's right, as I'm sure you're well used to. Well, anyway, here's your keycard, and lights out at 10:00 PM, and I'm serious about that. I know it's tempting to stay up and chit chat with your rooming buddies, but—oh silly me, what am I saying?" Herkabe strolled away like a dog who's lost interest in a bone. Cynthia watched him go with helpless indignation.

XXXXX

The following morning, the students were taken by a much less glamorous rented school bus to the Washington University medical campus.

"Okay everyone," said a visibly groggy Herkabe, "get into groups. Just decide amongst yourselves, or…" he trailed off and rubbed his forehead. The students apprehensively began eyeing potential partners. A medical professor at the end of the room ushered them along with some motivating words.

"Let this act as both an educational tour and a college visit. Our medical school is among the highest rated in the country and I think I see at least three doctors in this crowd." The professor chuckled warmly.

The students looked at each other for a moment and then formed small clusters like highly charged molecules. Cynthia turned to join whatever group Lloyd, Dabney and Stevie were in in hopes she'd get there before Malcolm, but to her disappointment he was already there. Crestfallen, she walked over to some other students she'd chatted with a few times before school.

"Hi," she said.

The rest simply nodded.

"You think we'll get to see any dead bodies?" Cynthia asked.

"What?" said one of the group members. They all eyed Cynthia with uncertainty.

XXXXX

"You guys think we'll get to see a dead body?" asked Malcolm.

"Don't even joke about that," said Dabney.

A man in a lab coat approached the four of them.

"Alright," he said. "Looks like you're my group for the day. If you'll follow me, we're going to be heading down to the morgue. You're going to see your first cadaver."

"Sweet!" said Malcolm. The rest of the group eyed each other nervously, except for Dabney, who had gone pale and silent.

They descended the stairs into a dimly lit examination room with a group of students huddled around a gurney. One student carefully stitched the last part of a y-incision closed.

"Whoa, sick!" said Malcolm.

One of the students looked at the group and put a gloved finger to his lips. Above them, the fluorescent lights flickered.

"Mom…" muttered Dabney. The rest looked at him.

"Dabney," said Lloyd, "that's an 80-year-old man."

"Did I say something?"

XXXXX

The college cafeteria was no different than any other college cafeteria. Half empty racks of potato chips entrenched a single cash register manufactured in 1992 being run by a lone woman in a hairnet, with a tone in her voice that could only be described as close to homicide. An omelet station so old and unused it was practically haunted. Rows of gas-station-quality ethnic cuisines—Banh mi made with pulled pork, Mexican street tacos made with pulled pork, pulled pork fried rice, pork schnitzel (made with leftover pulled pork)—all mummifying under jaundiced heat lamps.

Malcolm assembled a halfway edible meal on a red tray and tried to find where the rest of the group had gathered. It was nearly impossible to distinguish his friends from the sea of feasting Krelboynes. As usual, Stevie's wheelchair gave their position away. But what he couldn't see among the crowd was who else occupied that table, and only when he reached to pull out a chair did he notice that Cynthia had already claimed a spot.

Cynthia placed her hands on her tray.

"It was nice catching up with you guys. Hopefully we'll get grouped together soon," she said.

Before she could stand up, Malcolm spoke.

"Don't."

She looked up at him, no emotion yet forming on her face. She didn't yet know the appropriate reaction.

"I'll just sit somewhere else."

Malcolm promptly turned around and headed for the other side of the cafeteria, and quickly disappeared from view.

"Geez," said Lloyd. "That was rough."

"He'll be…

…fine," said Stevie.

"Yeah," said Dabney, "we don't need him anyway. He's been a sourpuss the whole trip."

"If Malcolm's gone, who's going to stop you-know-who from monopolizing the conversation?" Lloyd asked.

"Piss off…

…pretty boy."

Lloyd petulantly leaned his head on his hand and took an indignant bite of his sandwich. A terribly charged silence fell over them.

"Wow," said Cynthia. "I've never felt more welcome."

"No one's blaming you, Cynthia," said Lloyd. "But if you could at least tolerate Malcolm, it would go a long way in preserving what little social life we already have."

"Yeah," said Dabney, "this is my last chance. I won't have time for friendships in college."

Knowing she had about ten scathing remarks she could throw at Dabney in response, but none of the energy, Cynthia merely sighed.

XXXXX

The live surgery space reminded Malcolm of Wonka's television room. White-tiled, sterile, tiered with numerous platforms, the highest of which was a wraparound mezzanine for observation which the entire class now filled into. It carried with it the same sense of foreboding, a feeling that perhaps not everyone would leave this room completely the same. Despite the skyrocketing anxiety of most of the students, Herkabe made it clear that short of death, no absence would be excused.

The chaos of their entrance resulted in the students being completely discombobulated. Somehow Lloyd and Dabney were separated and staring at each other anxiously from opposite sides of the mezzanine. Stevie had the worst luck, having been ushered here and there by a writhing sea of sweaty hands before coming to rest somewhere near the middle, and all the way in the back. He figured, from his own personal experience, he'd seen enough surgeries and without complaint pulled out a copy of Vanity Fair from his travel bag and began reading.

As the swarm came to rest, Malcolm looked to his left, and Cynthia looked to her right, and in the same instant both realized that after nearly a year of avoiding each other they were now standing arm to arm, unable to budge, and about to witness a three-hour open heart surgery.

The surgeon walked in. They had expected some announcement, some spiel that he had prepared to acknowledge the students' presence, some kind of primer for the no doubt complex procedure about to take place. But no announcement was made. In silence, the surgeon had the OR nurses slip on his smock and gloves, and then held his hand out for the scalpel. It was then that the surgeon said the only words addressed specifically to the students.

"Alright, here we go I guess."

With eerie ease he began making an incision right in the unconscious patient's solar plexus.

And by some minor miracle, none of the Krelboynes fainted. Lloyd and Dabney, for their part, were surprisingly transfixed, unable to look away from the grisly scene other than to share expressions of amused disbelief. Mr. Herkabe watched with little interest, leaning on the railing's mezzanine and popping junior mints.

Then the surgeon took out the bone saw and began working on the patient's chest plate. A distressed murmuring shuddered through the crowd. Malcolm suddenly felt a pinky rubbing against his and snapped his hand away.

"Sorry," he said.

Cynthia crossed her arms and decidedly stared ahead.

Soon the breastbone was open and the ribs pried apart, and in the center of the chest cavity a red, bleeding heart rested in the open air, uncovered, unhidden, and, hopefully, about to be fixed.

Malcolm, who had been training his stare forward, sensed movement in his peripheral vision. Cynthia had turned for the exit and now began an awkward sashay through the crowd, pushing against the already cramped assembly and jostling each person she passed. Finally she got through the door and the commotion subsided. Malcolm looked down and saw the surgeon looking up at them quizzically. Then he noticed a hoard of curious, mostly bespectacled eyes watching him with anticipation. When he looked up, they all quickly darted back to the surgeon, who shrugged and resumed clearing the mitral valve.

Fighting against the thought of Herkabe's wrath, Malcolm turned as well and began shuffling through the crowd. Before he got to the end, he felt a hand as heavy as stone land on his shoulder. He looked up into the grim face of Mr. Herkabe and winced.

Silently, Herkabe mouthed, "I'm going to kill you."

Accepting his fate, Malcolm wriggled free and pushed through the door.

In the operating room's antechamber, Cynthia watched what she could of the surgery from an oblique angle and through thick glass.

"You can go back in", said Malcolm. "If you don't want to be around me, I mean."

Cynthia had a tired, annoyed expression, but it did not seem to be directed at him. Something about it reminded him of when she first got back from Europe. A look that betrayed a non-specific and overall dissatisfaction.

She leaned against the glass, one arm crossed over her and clasping the crook of her elbow. She breathed deeply and spoke softly.

"That's not going to work, Malcolm."

"What's not going to work?"

Cynthia turned towards him and threw her hands up, expasperated.

"Avoiding each other."

Malcolm remained silent. He felt a puny flicker of hope sputter to life in some dark cobwebby chamber of his heart.

Cynthia finally looked directly at him, his boyish face in a typically stunned, defensive expression, thick furrowed brows and electric blue eyes wide and searching. They looked into hers, dark but luminous, strange and powerful.

"That doesn't mean we can be friends," she said.

Malcolm could almost hear the pathetic sizzle of the flicker being snuffed out.

"But maybe…" she stopped, narrowed her eyes in uneasy deliberation.

"Acquaintances?" Malcolm finished.

Cynthia let out a deep breath.

"Yes," she said. "That'll work."

Malcolm looked down and nodded lightly, although he could not hide the child-like, crestfallen look darkening his face.

"Well, what do we do now?" he asked.

"I think if we go back in we might be risking our lives, and maybe this guy's too," she said, pointing to the unconscious man on the operating table getting tools jammed into his open chest cavity.

"Maybe it's best we just watch from here."

Malcolm walked over to the window and leaned against it from the other side. From this angle they faced one another, the surgery transpiring between them. They looked down into the room where the surgeon worked tirelessly, repairing and cauterizing and prodding, not a word passing between them for an amount of time neither of them would later be able to determine.

XXXXX

A sea of grim faces filled the cafeteria. Arms crossed in pensive repose with uneaten cafeteria food hardening in front of them. That is except for the table that sat Malcolm and Cynthia. While Stevie, Dabney and Lloyd looked on in revulsion, Malcolm and Cynthia casually ate their processed lunches with a sense of newly discovered serenity.

"Do I want to know?" asked Lloyd.

"Quiet…" said Stevie.

"Let them…

… rekindle…

…the flame…"

Cynthia and Malcolm rolled their eyes in tandem like twin Kit Kat clocks and resumed eating.

"This is eerie," said Dabney.

"You know, we're seniors in high school," said Cynthia, "in the gifted program, no less. I think we're ready to be adults about this kind of thing."

"Have you had your eyes closed for the past 12 years?" said Lloyd, incredulously. "Who among us has a shred of emotional awareness? I ask you!"

"Just let it go," said Malcolm. "It stopped being funny in the 5th grade."

"...For you," said Stevie, smiling.

XXXXX

It had been a long day. When they first arrived in this city, they had been eager to enter one of the country's best medical schools. Now, after enduring several days of bad food, a contemptuous, drug-addled Herkabe, and three grueling hours of bloody life-saving spectacle, the students yearned for the feeling of cool hotel pillows on their heads as they drifted off into a hopefully dreamless sleep, secure in the knowledge they'd be back home in no time.

And after enduring the aforementioned, plus the emotional whiplash of at once confronting and making up with the boy-going-on-man she swore to hate but couldn't, no one was more ready to get back to her room than Cynthia.

She walked up to the door and inserted the key card. The door handle light blinked red and the latch made an unwelcoming ratchet sound. She pulled on the handle and confirmed the door was locked. She tried the card again. Same light, same sound. Cynthia drew a hot, ragged breath in and let her head thump against the door. Just before she resolved to turn and go to the front desk, the door opened, causing her to crumple to the floor where a pair of brown shoes stood below a pair of legs in pressed chinos. Looking up, Cynthia saw the quizzical look of a bespectacled man with a goblin-like child hanging from his neck and gurgling.

"Excuse me," said the man. "If you don't mind, please refrain from knocking on our door."

"Your door?" said Cynthia, confused.

The man sighed. "I didn't think they let you people in here." He looked back into the room, where all manner of commotion and screeching were occurring. "Honey," he called, "do you have any change? There's a junkie at our door and she isn't going away."

"Well call the police!" responded a shrill voice from within. "Drezdynn is getting cranky again, I don't have time for this!"

"Yeah, actually, we really have our hands full here. If you don't leave I'm calling the police."

The man stepped back into the room and closed the door. Bewildered, Cynthia went to the elevator and once inside pressed the button for the lobby.

The first thing she saw when the doors opened were Malcolm and Mr. Herkabe at the front desk. Lloyd, Dabney, and Stevie stood nearby in varying states of distress.

As she approached she could hear Malcolm arguing with the clerk about something. It became clear as she approached the desk herself.

"You double booked us. We had all of our stuff in there," said Malcolm. "Some of it was medical equipment. Do you want to be responsible for my friend having a fatal episode?"

They looked over at Stevie, and after a moment of recognition he quickly raised his fist to his mouth and coughed.

"Ahhh…" Stevie moaned.

"...ahh…

…my lung…

…my lung is…

…shriveling…"

"I'm sorry, sir," said the clerk, "we state clearly in our booking agreement that we aren't liable for medical equipment."

"Yeah, save your breath, Malcolm," said Herkabe. "These ingrates have no value for human life since theirs are meaningless." He slammed his fist down on the table. "Do you know who I am!? I was the Tri-regional Academic Octathlon Genius in Residence for three consecutive years, 1981 through 83! I have Steve Wozniak's email address! He blocked me six years ago but I have it, damnit!"

"Mr. Herkabe?" Cynthia said, meekly.

He spun around "WHAT?"

A hot drop of spittle landed directly in her eye, but Cynthia wiped it away and continued, determined not to further enrage the apoplectic former star pupil turned bitter public school teacher.

"I think we're having the same problem. A rather unpleasant family is currently occupying my room."

Mr. Herkabe slowly swiveled back towards the clerk.

"Are we just going to let this go on?" he asked in a near whisper. "Is this the beginning of society's long overdue descent into sick, senseless pandemonium? Is it? Because if it is, I'm taking names. And you're first on my list, my friend. You and every thoughtless, pre-programmed automaton working in this place."

"We may have a solution, here, sir," said the clerk, unfazed. "We have a suite open on the top floor. How about we upgrade to that room?"

"At what cost?"

"Five hundred dollars, sir, not including the housekeeping and re-rooming fee."

"I don't know," said Malcolm. "Doesn't the school have a strict budget for this kind of—"

"Oh shut up," Herkabe interrupted. "To hell with it, give us the upgrade."

"Very good, sir," said the clerk.

"What about me?" asked Cynthia.

"Oh, right. You."

"The suite can accommodate five to ten people, sir," said the clerk.

"Perfect," said Herkabe. "And do I need to say it?"

"Um, I don't know what—"

Herkabe interrupted Cynthia with a hiss of a sigh. "This stays between us. If the school finds out I let a girl share a room with these four desperate little weirdos, I'm out on my ass."

At that moment, an attendant came down with everyone's luggage and personal items.

"Should I put this stuff right outside or in the alley down the street?"

"Oh, nevermind Victor," said the clerk. "We've made new accommodations. Bring them to the upstairs suite."

Led by Herkabe, Stevie, Dabney, and Lloyd made their way towards the elevator. Malcolm and Cynthia turned towards each other and froze.

"I'll take—" they both started.

Cynthia broke in. "I'll take the elevator."

"I'll take the stairs."

In an attempt to quickly exit the awkward standoff, the two of them slammed into each other.

"Sorry."

"Sorry."

They turned away from each other and walked in opposite directions. Cynthia came to the now closed elevator doors and waited awkwardly for it to come back down to the ground floor. Malcolm realized he was walking towards the front door and that he'd have to turn around and go back to the stairs. He put his hands in his pockets and pretended he was admiring the hotel lobby's wall art until he heard Cynthia get on the elevator.

Mired in a swamp of embarrassment, Malcolm reflected on the fact that this had been their first physical contact in months.