*note: This is my completed novel for NaNoWriMo 2006.

     I walk up the stairs, pressing my fingers against the bridge of my nose. The tears had begun to spring when they said goodbye; every time my mother cries it is natural instinct for my own tear ducts to overreact. I had quickly looked away and toward the building when she released her hug.
     I close the dorm room door and walk toward my desk, sitting down and allowing the bawling to commence. Sarah looks up from her computer, an obvious loss for words.
     "It's okay," I say, reaching for a tissue from the newly opened box. "I do this a lot."
     "Yeah, I got like that too," she responds; her parents had dropped her off a week ago for track training.
     "I've never spent this long away from home," I admit, and the conversation ends. I blow my nose, tossing the tissue into the trashcan that had spent years in my bedroom at home, and log onto Instant Messenger. The names that appear are familiar, soothing, though the majority of them are idle. According to their away messages, my high school friends are either unpacking their belongings or preparing to depart for college. I put up an away message that simply declares I have arrived.

     Sarah and I head down to the cafeteria, and the food is surprisingly not terrible. I come to the disturbing realization that I will be eating cafeteria food for every meal. High school caf food was bad, but at least it was only for lunch. Caf food for dinner? Even as I select my pasta in line, the thought is surreal. Sarah still waits in line so I go out into the masses to select a table. The room is fairly empty, considering most of campus will not move in until later in the week, so the seat selection is a painless process. I poke at my penne with a fork.
     "Hey." I look up to see a tall, blond boy. Talking to me. "New here?"
     "Yeah," I say. He puts his tray on the table, sitting across from me. He makes a bit of small talk about campus, how I like it, et cetera. I know he will not be here long because of the small amount of food on his tray.
     "Hey have you had your computer networked yet?" He asks. Upon move-in we were informed of this infamous computer networking process. It was scheduled when technicians were stopping by and how we had to be in our rooms at the time. Hassinger's times weren't for another couple days.
     "No," I say, "I guess they're not coming until later in the week."
     "Where do you live? I can come do it for you."
     "Really?" I ask. "That would be great!" He gets out a piece of paper and writes down my name, hall, and room number. He asks for my extension just in case, but I haven't learned that yet.
     "I'll be around tonight," he says. "Will you be there?"
     "Yeah, definitely. Thanks a lot."
     "No problem." He stands and gathers his tray. "I'm Aaron, by the way. Nice meeting you." He leaves, and while I am grateful that my computer will be set up I am oddly perplexed by his hospitality. As I begin to wonder where Sarah has disappeared to, she appears and sits down across the table.
     "That line was ridiculous," she says.
     "Yeah I decided to go for something else. Hey, someone's coming to network our computers."
     "Really?"
     "Yeah he just randomly came to talk to me. He says he'll be stopping by tonight."
     "Cool. Oh, will you be there? I have track."
     "Yeah, no problem." The meal is rather silent after that, us having virtually nothing to say to one another. Occasionally we discuss random interests, but soon realize none of them coincide. We almost agree on musical tastes, but my snobbish attitude refuses to admit that New Found Glory is anything worth listening to. But to be nice, I just say "oh yeah, they're pretty good." She has to run to track practice, so I am left walking back to Hassinger Hall alone. It seems I am not the only one in such a predicament, for several others are walking toward freshman dorms sans buddies. When I approach my room I keep the door open, as signs around the building have indicated we do. Apparently this is a way to meet people, though I have no intentions of stopping by anyone's room. Chris has left me a message on IM, and luckily he is still online and available. It is good to communicate with someone whom I know I have something in common with.
     A quick glace around the room screams of the differences between Sarah and I. When I had first approached room 212, which was difficult since it was the only door without a number, I opened the door to reveal an array of leopard prints. Sarah was obviously at practice and had made herself quite comfortable in the week she had spent in the room alone. I had stressed over comforter colors, settling on black so I knew it wouldn't clash with my roommate's selections. Upon walking in, I knew it made no difference whatsoever. I hate animal prints, but I suppose I can live with a few leopard spots until May. The New Found Glory poster made me cringe as well, my Dashboard Confessional posters dark and drab next to its obnoxious colors. But to each their own. I note a large piece of paper that has been slipped under my door. It is the size of a small poster, advertising various services and companies in and around campus. I hang it by the doorway, its width the perfect size for the space between the door and the light switch. Its advertisements range from pizza places to pregnancy testing, apparently covering the spectrum of college student needs.

     "Angela?" I spin around in my desk chair to see Aaron standing in my doorway.
     "Yeah, come on in." I stand from my chair, giving him permission to be seated at my desk. I watch over his shoulder as he works, adjusting configurations I have never seen and restarting my computer several times. "What does this do, anyway?" I ask.
     "It connects you to the SU network," he replies. "You will have access to the entire network, including programs and virus protection. Oh, do you have an anti-virus on here?" I shake my head. "I'm going to have to install Norton. The school comes equipped with the program and it automatically updates through the network - you don't have to do anything for the next four years."
     "Wow, great. Thanks." He finishes networking and installing the anti-virus, ready to move onto Sarah's computer.
     "Do you know her password?" he asks, immediately greeted by the password prompt.
     "Oh," I say, "I have no idea."
     "Well, I can't do anything without it. It's going to have to wait for when she comes back."
     "That's okay, they'll be around tomorrow I think. She can get it done then." He stands from her desk and looks around for a moment before declaring his departure. "Thanks again," I say, and he assures me that it was no problem before he excuses himself out the door. How strange.

     The floor of freshmen fills the hallway during our hall meeting. I sit in the back of the mess of students, many of which seem to have taken advantage of the "open door" suggestion. The boys' side of the floor seems to have already befriended each other, while the girls are seated in pairs - I assume they are roommates. My own roommate is situated near the boy's side, laughing and chatting with the new group of friends that has formed, so I lean against the wall and wait for the meeting to begin. Much of what my RA, Amanda, says is fairly self-explanatory. I approach her afterwards with my schedule; I have obviously figured out which classes I have Monday through Friday but I haven't a clue what the "D" represents. She explains the schedule, and I instantly regret asking what that D stands for. My "daily" class is Calculus, meeting 9:00 every morning. The odds of me not dropping that course are pretty slim.

     Another night sitting in front of my computer, the room to myself because Sarah has already made friends. My door is wide open in welcome, in the off chance that someone may stop in to say hello. Or, perhaps, come looking for my roommate.
     "Hi!" I turn around to see a fellow freshman standing in my doorway. Her short blonde hair is cropped around her round face, which contains a broad smile. "I'm Erin. You must be Angela."
     I laugh nervously. "How did you know?"
     "It's on your door," she says, pointing to the large, paper crayon nametags Amanda posted on all our doors. "I met Sarah earlier, so I assumed you were Angela."
     "Well that makes sense," I laugh, still sitting at my desk. This is turning out to be an odd introduction.
     "Want to go to dinner?" she asks. "There's a bunch of us going to the caf."
     "Sure," I say, rising from my chair. Human interaction! Friends! This is great! I slip my dorm keys into my pocket and make sure the door is locked as I leave.
     "This is my roommate, Heather," Erin says, motioning toward a short blonde girl. She smiles, and we exchanged hellos. "And this is Pam and Lauren. They live next door to me."
     "Which room are you?" I ask.
     "The one across the elevator," Erin answers.
     "It's huge," Pam says, obviously envious.
     "Did you see my room?" I laugh, "It's a closet."
     "Yeah," Pam says, "I heard the rooms on the end are the smallest on campus."
     "It can only get better, I guess," I say, and we walk across campus toward the campus center.

     Erin's room certainly is huge. When I walk in, I am in awe of how they are able to keep both beds on the floor and have space to move around. "If we debunked our beds," I say, "it would be a fire hazard."
     "What's with the shoes?" Erin asks, always observant of the more peculiar things. Sarah's shoe rack is situated against an open closet door, displaying her wide array of footwear. I came equipped with a pair of sneakers and black dress shoes.
     "I guess it doesn't fit in the closet," I say. "She has to keep the door open because it won't fit otherwise." Erin purses her lips, crinkling her eyebrows, a standard look of confusion. "I tend to ignore it."

     During freshman orientation week, we wander campus to check things out. Erin's roommate went to a Phi Mu Delta party; beforehand she had told Erin to come and get her when it got late. Erin and I hike up the hill toward the fraternity house, feeling awkward and strangely out of place. The house is situated beyond the campus center, seemingly away from the rest of the campus but evidently still part of the university. We trek across the parking lot, stopping on the sidewalk far below the house when we see drones of college students crowded around the door. The house resembles a ski lodge, or at least that is what it felt the closer we got to it. However, our feet remained planted on the sidewalk. Without exchanging the words, we thought of the impossibilities of us being granted permission to enter. Why would they possibly want to admit two freshmen decked in jeans and t-shirts?
     "What's going on out here?" A voice echoes from beyond the parking lot. Someone comes over the hill of obvious authority, arms akimbo. "Now I know most of the people on this campus right now are freshman, and I'll bet anything that the majority of you are underage." I freeze as she goes on, talking about fraternity parties and alcohol and the serious trouble we could potentially get into. While she is not talking to Erin and me directly, I feel her eyes boring into my skin. And if they were, it was probably because I am terribly underdressed for the occasion.
     "Let's go," Erin says, tugging at my arm. We join the mass of underage students across the parking lot, attempting to blend with the crowd. "Busted at a frat party during freshman week," she later laughs, "what a great start!" While she's laughing it up my heart is still pounding, for I fear that teacher (Wait they're professors now, right?) would recognize me in an instant. Erin assures me that we are all right, though, since we were not even near the doorway. I join in her laughter. Busted at a frat party during freshman week. And I wasn't even at the party. That is a rather impressive start.

     Sunday night, a group of girls from the second floor decide to check out the rest of the campus. There is not much to check out, considered campus is relatively small, but the wandering provides good routes to take to our various locations and help us figure out which buildings house our classes. We dined in Encore, the fast food alternative to the cafeteria. While mozzarella sticks and chicken fingers aren't the greatest choices for dinner, they were tempting while sitting under the glowing light of the warmer. Note to self, avoid Encore in the future.
     We walk by the primary freshman dorm, Smith, and marvel at its sizes. While Hassinger hosts eighty freshman, the remainder of the class lives primarily in this one dorm - all two hundred some-odd of them. We pause in front of a group of students crowded around a guy playing the guitar. They make recommendations and he plucks out the songs, revealing a magnificent smile when he hits a wrong note. Someone turns and sees us in the distance, waving us over to the group.
     "Hi," guitar boy says, "I'm Jason. Take a seat." We sit behind the rest of the crowd, listening to him strum out familiar tunes.
     "There are two other guys named Jason who play guitar," someone sitting nearby says. "The three of them live in the same hallway."
     "That's really weird," I laugh, still listening to the notes. The group quiets, tuning in solely on the guitar playing and the sounds of the country around us. This campus is quite a difference from my usual suburban lifestyle. Outside the little town of Selinsgrove, there is not much in the area. If the nearby speedway is not running a race at night, you fall asleep to complete silence. Surely once college students settle in this will change, but for now there is nothing. Peaceful. I survey the area, looking up toward Smith's tall, brick walls from my position on the grass. The land beyond the dorm feels so far away; campus itself feels so far away. This is what I wanted.
     Walking back to Hassinger Hall, the guitar notes are still swimming in our minds. "I can't believe we start college tomorrow," someone says. The rest of us nod, unable to fathom the entire meaning of that simple statement. College. People wait for college; they plan for years and prepare themselves for the moment they move out of their parents' homes and into the exotic world of a dormitory. It feels glamorous as we, a clueless group of 18-year-olds fresh out of high school, walk across a playing field toward our own residence hall. Tomorrow, we begin the time that people anticipate the first moment they hear the word college.
     We crowd into the elevator, already too lazy to take the stairs up to the second floor. As we spill out of the tiny space, we say goodnight as we all head toward our respective rooms. I walk the longest, though the walk is not very long at all. But I am last to reach my room, room number 212 at the end of the hallway sans an actual room number. The only way I know it is mine is by the huge, pink crayon nametag on the door and the way my key fits perfectly into the keyhole. My belongings inside are still the only form of familiar comfort I have that surrounds me.

     Monday morning, nine o'clock - calculus. I sit near the wall, my textbook and notebook open, as I am frantic to understand what Dr. Harrison is going on about. My first class as a Writing major and they put me into calculus. I took pre-calc in high school, junior year, but I am unable to remember a thing. As I sit staring at the white wipe-off board, a dizzying array of letters and numbers, it occurs to me that this is all stuff I had learned before. I am startled as the professor announces that she is simply reviewing pre-calculus, knowing that we all took some form of it in the past. As I stare at the board and back down to my incomprehensible mess of notes, I immediately know I will be dropping this class. Math core or not, there is no way in which I would be able to pass, let alone understand, this course. Next on the agenda: take a trip to the registrar's office to obtain my drop/add card.

     "What do you mean, you're dropping calculus?" Mom asks.
     "I don't get it," I say. "There must be some math class for English majors."

     Introduction to Music is far less painful. In fact, as Dr. Rislow presents the syllabus and explains what will be covered that semester, it occurs to me that I have previously learned all the material in my History of Music course last year. I consider dropping this course as well, because surely band would count for my music core class. That is, assuming I did well on my audition. But I decide to stay for the easy 4.0. Everyone deserves a class that will be a GPA boost and, if I play it right, Intro to Music will be mine. I sit back and open my notebook, mentally prepared to learn, again, about the Gregorian chant.

     I am unable to find my Writing Seminar class. Yet another core class that I cannot fathom why I need to take it. Is this not why I am obtaining a Writing degree? Will I not be writing obsessively for the next four years? Regardless, Writing Seminar it is. I walk down a long, carpeted hallway toward what I assume to be room 106. The room numbers end at 105, and I look around trying to find some semblance of a door that may be this mysterious room 106. I open a set of large, wooden double doors at the end of the hallway that lead to a foyer area in the back of the building. Slowly, I work my way around the winding staircase toward a doorway hidden behind the stairs. Lo and behold - a computer printout stating "room 106," pointing further into the recesses of Seibert Hall. You can't be serious. Late to my first day of class, naturally, but Dr. Holmberg is understanding and still waiting for a few students to appear.
     This class will, quite possibly, be a complete waste of my time. The professor has already given me the "I know you're a writing major" stare, and considering she is part of the department's faculty this may be harder than I originally thought. I recognize a few people seated at the oval table before me, which is comforting, though I haven't the first clue who they are. At least we are all freshman and equally clueless.

     "So, how are classes?" Erin asks. We are sitting on her bed, a bag of popcorn between us and Animal Planet providing background noise.
     "Core classes suck," I say. "Writing Seminar? Why do I need to take Writing Seminar?"
     "Yeah my professor sucks for that," she says. "He's not even an English teacher."
     "Then how come I got the writing professor?" On television, Steve Irwin is explaining the wonders of a crocodile and getting dangerously close to its open mouth. "You actually watch this?"
     "G'day mate," Erin says, her Australian accent frighteningly accurate, and she goes on telling her own story about hunting crocs in the wild. She pouts when the slow goes to commercial.
     "Do you have work study?" I ask during the break.
     "No, do you?"
     "Yeah I have this meeting tonight. I got a thing in campus mail that says I'm working at the snack bar. What snack bar?"
     "We have a snack bar?" she asks. "I don't know. Let's go find out." She jumps from the bed and we head into the hallway, asking Amanda and our fellow residents if they know what the "snack bar" is. No one has a clue.
     "I guess I'll find out later," I say, checking my watch. "Want to get some dinner before my meeting?"

     "Encore?" Erin sputters, nearly inhaling her Crystal Light. "Didn't you have to take a survey or something?"
     "Yeah, and they apparently matched the jobs with my interests, or something like that. Wouldn't that put me in a library, or something?"
     "I used to work in a library," she intercedes. "It was fun."
     "Yeah thanks."
     "Well, have fun flipping burgers. When are you working? I'll come visit."
     "I don't even eat burgers," I say. "What the heck. I think I start Monday night. Stop by and I'll make you a sandwich." She couldn't hold in any more of her laughter.

     Old Testament. I was originally excited to see this course on my schedule, being the curious Christian that I am, but I think it is all over my head. I take notes the first class, I read the syllabus in an attempt to understand what is going on, but I am still missing something vital here. Where is the flood? The desert wandering? This class is so, what's the word? Political. Politics of the Pentateuch? It's not sounding overly exciting. But religion is yet another core required by the school, and it is either that or philosophy. I'll stick with Old Testament, even though I feel I am the only Christian without a clue as to what Chaplain is talking about.

     Band! I follow the crowd of students into Heilman Hall, immediately knowing exactly where band results are posted. At the bottom of the flute section, sitting in the last possible seat, is I. I wonder how many actual music majors got the boot for this random non-major; I feel a small sense of pride for actually making Symphonic Band my first year of college. Rehearsal begins tomorrow, and I am more than prepared for it. Despite my major, I am a band geek at heart. I glance over to the Stadium Band column as well, noting my name in the small collection of flute players. Apparently the school isn't big enough for a marching band, or no one actually wants to teach it, so the "marching" was removed. As much as I complained about it in high school, I did love playing during football games (though never admitted to actually having school spirit). As I exit the area, I recognize a few people from the day I tried out. I say nothing, though I think we exchange the "I think I recognize you" glance. One person says hello, an older boy wearing glasses, who I definitely recognize from try-outs. I say a quick greeting back before scooting out toward Hassinger Hall again.
     One of these days, I will not be afraid to say hello to strangers. Central Pennsylvania is already weird to me. People say hello that I don't even know, just to be friendly. If anyone did that in New York they may get punched in the face. I glance at the ground on my way back to the residence hall, my eyes accustomed to averting away from strangers. This is stupid. College is a fresh start; everyone says you could completely change and no one there would even know. But I have already blown my chance. I still stare at the cracks in the sidewalk as I travel them, and I have already been labeled as quiet. A week and I couldn't even avoid that.
     I knock on Erin's door when I return to share the news. That, and she is already a familiar face, one that is considerably more outgoing than I am. We almost neutralize each other. Though I am from New York, her North Jersey roots are close enough for us to actually understand one another. No one has even heard of a Shoprite out here.

     I have arrived to band rehearsal ridiculously early, so I am not completely sure as to where I should sit. I quickly notice folders on all the stands with the seat and part number, and it is safe to assume I will be playing Flute 3. I squeeze into the second row with my unusually large case, wandering down until I am no longer in the flute section. The moment I see an Oboe folder on the stand, I know I am the last flautist beside it.
     I take a seat, quickly thumbing through the music folder. Some composers I have heard of, but the majority is foreign to me. I rip open the Velcro on my padded case and remove the hard case from inside. More musicians are filling seats around me as I put together my flute, adjusting the headpiece and testing a few notes to check whether I am in tune. I was always awful at figuring out whether I am in tune, even with other musicians around me. I am unable to hear myself anyway, with the number of people in the room noodling away at the music in the folders. I always hated noodling. I could never understand the purpose of playing just for the sake of playing; I always need a reason to adjust the mouthpiece to my lips. Perhaps that is why I was always awful at practicing. That may also explain why I am last chair.
     A big, blonde girl sits beside me. Not fat, but big. I have never seen her before and secretly fear what I would possibly say to her. She greets me as she takes her flute out of the case; I muster a hello in return.
     "I'm Lindsay," she says. "You must be Angela. I saw your name on the sheet. You took my last chair position; I've had that for the past two years!" She laughs, and I smile in return.
     "Someone's got to sit here, I guess," I say. "Might as well be the freshman." The girl seated on the other side of her taps her shoulder, and they begin reminiscing about something that I am completely clueless about. Lindsay introduces her as Sara.
     "We're the slackers back here," Sara laughs.
     "I'll fit right in," I say.
     The band director comes around from the back of the room, the band immediately quieting down when she stands on the podium. "Welcome back," she says, "though I see a lot of new faces as well. So welcome. For those of you who don't know me, I am Dr. Martin. Though you should already know that if you've looked at your schedule." She has an obvious air about her, a seriousness that I have never experienced in a band prior to this. She makes the occasional joke, but it is immediately known that these rehearsals will be an intense experience. She surveys the room. "Where's Bill?" she asks, pointing to an empty chair behind me.
     "He has a class before this," someone answers. "I just saw him, he should be here soon." It intimidates me to know that she already knows names, albeit not mine, and can instantly recognize who is missing from the room. The doors in the back open, though I don't turn around, and I assume it is Bill hurrying in apologetically.
     "We'll start with something easy," Dr. Martin says. "Let's see how many of you remember your scales." People laugh. "Concert B flat." She raises her arms, an array of instruments following, as the band begins its first, beautiful notes of my college band career. Even if it is only the Concert B flat scale. A little out of tune, but glorious all the same.

     "Do you want to come home?" Mom asks. It is my standard phone call home, though tonight I am feeling a little bummed out. It is only the second week of classes, but central Pennsylvania is already getting to me.
     "Nah," I say, "I don't even have my car here."
     "That's okay," mom says. "Dad will come out and get you, he doesn't care."
     "Really?"
     "Sure." After some planning and looking at my schedule, it is decided that Dad will come get me the following afternoon after class. It is a Wednesday. I am so lame.

     I do not say much during the ride home, but I am also attempting to take in the scenery. Eventually, I am going to have to take this trip myself.
     "This is where Mom and I got lost," I say, pointing in the direction of Route 81. "We missed the merge onto 84."
     Dad laughs. "There are four signs for it, that's kind of hard to miss."
     "Yeah, I know." I fell asleep for part of the ride, impressive considering it was the middle of the afternoon, but before I knew it we were pulling into the familiar driveway. I do not say much as I take my overnight bag from the backseat, because any words would certainly trigger the homesick tears. We go in through the garage, through the playroom, up the stairs to the living room. Nothing has changed. I look around for a sign of anything different, but I suppose not much would be different after two weeks.
     "Hi honey!" Mom greets me with a hug, and that motherly embrace sets me off. I try to get all the tears out before the hug has ended, but she obviously know they have already appeared because she holds on a little longer. She allows me a trip to the bathroom to blow my nose before I catch her up on college life. Gina, my little sister, emerges from her room with a cheerful hello as well. I can only smile and wipe my eyes, wondering how much of an idiot she thinks her cool, older sister is right now.
     When I return to the kitchen, I have calmed down a bit. "Is everything okay at school?" Mom asks, stirring something in a pot on the stove. I have no idea what it is, but after eating Encore salad and mozzarella sticks I am ready for anything she puts in front of me.
     "Yeah, I love the school," I say, leaning against the doorframe.
     "But...?" she asks, knowing that tone of voice.
     "I don't know," I say, sitting down at the table. A shred of Kleenex is balled up in my hand. "I think it's too far." Mom lowers the heat on the pot, coming to sit at the table with me.
     "Do you want to come home?" she asks.
     "I love the school," I say, "And it would be perfect if it was closer."
     "You're not used to this," mom says, the motherly wisdom beginning. "How about this. You stick it out for now, and if you still feel this way at the end of the year you can go somewhere closer."
     I nod, my tears finally coming to a halt. "I can do that. That sounds good."
     "Good!" She gets up, resuming her cooking. I stand to throw away my tissue as Dad comes into the kitchen, Mom asking him to set the table for dinner.
     "Wow, it's weird setting the table for four people again," he says, gathering the plates from the cabinet. I start to cry again, and Mom shoots him a look.
     "I'm sorry!" he says.
     "Don't say things like that!" Mom scolds. "Don't talk to her!" The latter comment makes me chuckle, so I am standing in the middle of the kitchen stuck between laughter and tears. Dad apologizes, but I just shake my head and continue chuckling.
     "Oh, that would have happened regardless," I say, taking another trip to the bathroom for another tissue.

     Mom allows me to take my car back to campus, which I am ridiculously excited about. Though it is a simple green Stratus, I have been dying to show it off. Though since I have never taken the trip alone, Dad still accompanies me to Selinsgrove. I follow his Expedition for the three hour trip, amazed at how absurdly simple it is. Dad says he does not mind the trip, because he has to stop in Harrisburg anyway. Harrisburg is not exactly on the way, and I have no way of knowing if he really is going to Harrisburg, but we stop at my dorm before he continues down the highway.
     "That trip isn't too bad," he says.
     "Nah," I reply. "I can do that." He heads on his way, and I drive my car around to the freshman parking lot. When Erin and I take a trip to Wal-Mart that evening, we take my Stratus. Erin dubs it the "Zurlomobile," and though it is lame it will suffice for now. My car has never had a name before.

     I pressed my finger against the glass of Erin's betta fish tank. The fish perked up and swam around frantically, following my finger wherever it went.
     "Stop harassing Peaches," Erin says, not looking up from her computer screen. The fish is held in a giant vase, a green plant affixed on top. I see Peaches hiding behind the roots. There is another vase beside it, a 3-ring binder sitting between the two. "Want to see something funny?" Erin asks. She stands, removing the notebook from between the vases. "Watch." The fish swim around for a while, until one notices that another is present. His fins flare up, and soon the other prepares for battle as well. They swim into the side of the vase, a poor attempt at attacking the other fish. I am highly amused, but Erin quickly replaces the binder between them.
     "You're really not supposed to do that," she says. "It makes them angry. But it's funny!" I watch the two fish stare at the binder, probably confused as to where his opponent went. After some time they get bored and swim around their respective vases again. "Stupid fish," Erin says. I crash on her bed and check the television, which is always on, but there is some mindless sci-fi movie on. Erin apparently has seen it frequently, because she quotes random lines before the actors do. "Hey have you met Nicole and Siobhan yet?"
     "No, not yet," I say, knowing they only live next door to me. I am obviously a poor neighbor.
     "They are so cool. They're probably the most perfect roommates, because they're both insane."
     "Well, it's promising to hear that res life got someone right."
     "Sarah being a bitch?"
     "I ignore her most of the time. Though she's not there a lot, between track and spending the night in random boy's rooms."
     "Ah. I see. Doesn't she have a boyfriend at home? Tyler or something?"
     "I don't know. Probably."

     "Tyler is on his way over," Sarah says, hanging up her cell phone. I check the clock on my computer; it is nearing eight o'clock at night.
     "Okay," I say, unable to really respond to that. I know she lives an hour away, I assume he's from the same area, and I really can't say much when she declares that he's already on his way over. Though, considering it will be around nine o'clock when he arrives, I am expecting a third roommate for the night. But what can I say?

     "He's still there?" Erin asks. We are sitting in Encore, attempting to eat healthy by purchasing salads. Erin dumps her dressing packet into the plastic container, closes the lid, and shakes the salad to distribute the dressing. I simply push mine around with a fork. "Didn't he come on, like, Tuesday?"
     "Yeah," I say, "but what can I do? He's a nice guy."
     "Umm, dude, it's Thursday. I'm sure there's some kind of policy for overnight guests. Especially if your roommate is a bitch." I shrug, playing with the straw in my raspberry iced tea. Erin picks the onions out of her salad. And then the olives. And then the tomatoes.
     "Why don't you just buy a bag of lettuce?" I ask.
     "Shut up." I scoop the olives off the top of her plastic container, dumping them into my salad.
     "You're so weird," she says.

     I sit at my desk, waiting for Tyler to leave to take his shower. He has only been telling Sarah that he's going to for the past twenty minutes. This shower itself probably won't take this long. He grabs a towel and his bathroom necessities and leaves the room. Sarah glues herself to her computer, turning up the volume to her New Found Glory.
     "Hey, when is he leaving?" I ask over the music. She looks over.
     "Probably today," she says.
     "Okay because it's been, like, three days."
     "I know," she says, a hint of apology in her voice. "He'll be leaving tonight, I promise." The conversation ends and my desire to remove myself from her presence increases. I wait a few minutes, to eliminate the obviousness of my departure, and then grab my book bag and keys. "See you later," I mutter as I exit.

     The room is Tyler free when I return that night, though Sarah is also nowhere to be found. I climb to my top bunk and fall asleep before she's able to return. The top bunk was not exactly my choice. In fact, when Sarah and I spoke on the phone over the summer she was all about sleeping on the top bunk. Though when I arrived to the empty room, she had left me a note saying that she preferred the bottom. Something about returning from practice and being so tired that she didn't want to climb up. I was bitter at first, but have grown to like my space near the ceiling. Though there is no ladder, so I have to use the frame of her bed to hoist myself onto my mattress. But no matter. When I am curled beneath my blanket, no one that comes into the room can tell that there is anyone up here.

     I take my seat in Old Testament, arriving early so there are few people already in the room. Trevor's seat behind me is empty, which is a bit of a relief. Trevor's a nice guy, but I am just not in the mood for his hyper chatter and ramblings this morning. Emma sits beside him in the next row over, and the two of them are capable of talking throughout the entirety of class if Chaplain would allow it. They go back and forth with the religious debates and it's usually right over my head. I already have a headache, and no one is even sitting around me yet. I open my notebook to the notes I have taken thus far, studying for today's quiz.
     "Hi!" Trevor says, sitting behind me. I turn to say good morning, and he goes on about what a lovely day it is. I agree and turn back toward my notebook. Seats begin to fill as it gets closer to ten o'clock. Chaplain sits at a table in front of the room, attentive on whatever it is he is reading.
     "Hey." A student walks into the classroom, standing by the door. "A plane just hit one of the Twin Towers." We all look around at each other in disbelief.
     "Are you sure?" someone asks. It seems like a stupid question, but no one else is saying anything.
     "Yeah, I just saw it on the news."
     "Wow. Probably some pilot's mistake," someone says, and we all silently agree. We sit in our seats, quiet, trying to absorb this new information about current affairs. Another student enters the classroom, sharing the same news.
     "Yeah, he already told us," someone says, pointing to our bearer of news. He tells what he knows again.
     "No, there was another one. Both towers have been hit." We instantly know that the odds of two pilot's mistakes are near to impossible. Even Trevor and Emma behind me are saying nothing, and an eerie silence comes over the classroom.
     "Well," Chaplain says, "despite current events, I have to give you this quiz." He distributes the quiz, though I have no clue what it says when I see it on my desk. I desperately attempt to answer the questions, everything I had just reviewed now emptied from my brain. "You can leave once you've completed it," Chaplain says, and the students work as diligently as they can under the recent sharing of news.

     When I arrive back to my dorm, everyone's door is open and tuned to the same channel. I turn on my own television and attempt to call home. All lines are busy, but I eventually get in touch with my mom. She says everything is fine where she is; a family friend works in the first tower but he left before it came crashing down. Erin comes into my room as I am on the phone, and she sits at my desk watching the television. I hang up and she waits until the scene shifts away from the burning tower to say anything.
     "How's your family?" she asks.
     "Fine," I say. "We're about an hour and a half away from the city. We're fine."
     "We're closer than you are," she says, and this takes a moment to register because I know she is from New Jersey. "We're only about 45 minutes from the city. My mom says she can see the smoke." I lean against the bedpost, again watching the smoking towers. "It doesn't seem real," she says. "It looks like a movie." I nod in agreement.
     "I never even went to visit," I eventually say. "I never got around to it."
     "Typical New Yorker," she says, an attempt to alleviate the mood. "Want to get some lunch?" We head down toward the cafeteria, an unnatural silence fallen around campus. The cafeteria is deathly silent. I sit and eat my sandwich facing the news ticker, and the Towers are the only thing that is scrolling across its face.
     "They say it's terrorists," Erin says.
     "Well, this proves one thing," I respond. She looks up from her tray. "The United States isn't completely indestructible."

     "You're from New York, right?" Heather asks. I am sitting at Erin's desk while Erin searches her closet for her cleaning supplies.
     "Yeah, but we don't live near the city."
     "Oh, okay." Erin, who is hiding behind an open closet door out of Heather's view, rolls her eyes in my direction. I stifle a laugh behind a cough. Heather continues to go on about how sad it is, and though I completely agree I am just tired of hearing about it. And I am growing weary of people's sympathy toward me, though they have no reason to give me sympathy. When people ask if I knew anyone, they seem almost disappointed when I answer in the negative. It's sickening the way people thrive on disaster. Though when I attempt to change the topic to something more light-hearted, I get reprimanded for it. It almost seems as if I am not allowed to talk about anything but disaster, and I have to be miserable about it for the rest of my life.
     "It's going to be weird going into the city," Erin says. That seems to put the conversation to an end.

     Erin pokes her head into Nicole and Siobhan's room. The Grateful Dead is blasting, Nicole dancing around and swinging her long, brown hair around her head. Various people sit around the room, on beds and the floor, as Nicole laughs and sits down at her chair.
     "Erin! Come on it!" she says. Erin introduces me as the girl next door, Nicole exclaiming how she hasn't met me yet.
     "You're always welcome in our room. Come on, we're having a party!" Nicole is in the middle of telling stories about her cross-country trip. I immediately love her; she is beautiful and animated and everyone in her small room has their eyes glued to her. Her hands move wildly as she speaks, beginning her tale about driving through New Mexico.
     "We stopped the van because I saw some people over a hill sitting around a fire." Her voice calmed down a little when she started the story, a hint of seriousness in her tone. "I started walking toward them and noticed they were playing guitar and singing. I had no idea what they were singing, because it wasn't in English. They waved me over when they saw me, and I tried to explain that I only speak English. But they gave me a seat around the fire and I listened to them play beautiful music. Like, even though I had no idea what they were saying I knew it was beautiful. So the guy I was sitting next to handed me his guitar, and I start playing along with them. We could instantly understand one another through music, even though there was a language barrier. But music is the universal language! Like, I had no idea what they were talking about but once we started playing, it didn't even matter. It was so amazing." She continued to go on about the amazement of the experience, and she told the story in such a way that we all felt we were sitting around the fire as well. Dusk, on the top of a hill, sitting around a fire playing music. It felt too much like a stereotypical movie scene, but we knew it was authentic through the way she told the story.

     We're going to give you a makeover." Nicole and Siobhan, the world's perfect roommates, stand in my doorway with an authoritative stance. Erin warned me that this day was coming, since both of them had said I had "such potential," and I dreaded the makeover. But now that they both stood in my doorway, blocking any way for me to escape, it was inevitable.
     "Come on," Siobhan says, tugging my arm. They drag me next door and plop me onto Nicole's desk chair, which has been situated in the middle of the room amongst beauty gadgets and makeup. Siobhan brushes my hair and attacks it with a flat iron as Nicole crouches, eye-to-eye, examining my face.
     "Can I clean up your eyebrows?" She asks.
     "Go for it."
     "You have a lot of hair!" Siobhan exclaims. "It's so gorgeous." I wince with every one of Nicole's plucks, though it does not last long due to my own upkeep of my eyebrows.
     "Not too bad." She reaches into the bottomless pit of beauty gadgets, fumbling around for a moment before pulling out an eyelash curler.
     "Whoa," I say, stopping myself from retreating because of the scalding flat iron in Siobhan's hand, which is dangerously close to my head. "What are you doing with that?"
     "It's an eyelash curler," she laughs. Her approach to my face appears to be in slow motion.
     "Do you see my eyelashes?" I ask. "That's the last thing I need."
     "Oh come on, we're just having fun." I am unable to watch as the curler wraps around my lashes; I feel it clamping down and I fear she's going to pinch my eyelid. I manage to survive both of them. I look up as she applies eyeliner, but I can still see a crowd of second floor girls at the door.
     "Get out of here!" Nicole exclaims. "It's a work in progress!"
     She applies eye shadow, which I assure her will not stay on my lids, and we argue about the lipstick that I adamantly against. She lets the lipstick slide. Siobhan, after thirty minutes with the flat iron, smoothes down my newly straightened hair.
     "Now I understand why you never do this," she says. "But it looks fantastic." After Nicole brushes blush onto my cheeks, Siobhan comes around with the mirror.
     "So, what do you think?" She holds the hand mirror in front of my face, rotating it so I am able to see myself from all angles. I hate to admit it, but I look good.
     "I am impressed," I say, taking the mirror from her hands. Nicole grins and claps, Siobhan rushing toward the hallway to gather everyone to see. I follow, poking my head into the hallway as Erin and Heather exit their room.
     "Wow!" Erin walks around me, petting my straight hair. "Your hair is really long."
     "Where's your camera?" Nicole asks, and I allow her to go into my desk drawer to retrieve it. "Stand against the wall, we need to get pictures!"
     "Yeah," I say, moving toward an empty wall, "who knows the next time I'm going to look like this."
     "Well, if you ever need to," Siobhan says, "Please ask us. You were so much fun." I laugh and smile as Nicole works my camera; I tell her not to use up too many of my shots.

     There is a knock on my door. I turn and see Sean, a boy from down the hall, standing pathetically in my doorway.
     "Is Sarah here?" he asks.
     "No," I say, "I think she's still at class."
     "Oh, okay. Thanks." He leaves. I have seen way too much of Sean lately, with his following my roommate around. Erin jokes that she is making her way through the second floor boys. I personally question the validity of the "joke" portion.
     "Hey. Hey you." The familiar tone of Erin's voice fills my doorway.
     "Hey." She stands in my doorway, reading the poster of advertisements hanging near the light switch. I had almost forgotten it was there.
     "Are you pregnant?" she asks.
     "What?" I ask, my head instantly perking up.
     "It's on the poster," she says, pointing to an advertisement in the corner. "Are you pregnant?"
     "That would be an act of God," I say.
     "You had sex with God?"
     "Shut up."
     "Come visit Drew with me," she says.
     "Who's Drew?"
     "He lives upstairs. He's cool. Come meet him." I follow Erin to the third floor, unfamiliar territory to me. The setup is exactly the same, save the blue trim around the doors rather than the second floor's maroon. She knocks on the door across from the elevator, directly above her room. A male voice inside tells us to come in.
     I had never actually been in a male dorm room before. I had stopped in one guy's on the first floor, but it was unusually neat so it was no indication of how men really live. But Drew's room is the epitome of the male dorm room. The floor is bare, with random electronics piled against the wall. There seems to be no organization - wherever something fit was where it stayed. The setup drives me crazy.
     Erin introduces Drew and me, though I do not have much to say beyond hello. I am still in awe of the disheveled appearance of the room.
     "Don't mind the mess," Drew says, taking a quick look around. "My roommate is a slob. I hate him."
     "We have something in common, then," I say.
     "Who's your roommate?"
     "Sarah," Erin whispers.
     "Oh," Drew says, immediately understanding. "She's the one that sleeps with everyone, right?"
     "Well," I say, "I can't exactly confirm that."
     "Yes," Erin says, and I kick her in the shin. Drew blames the mess on his roommate, but his side of the room does not appear to be much better. His printer sits on a pile of cardboard boxes, a small shelf unit in the corner housing a stash of typical college food - mac and cheese and ramen noodles, primarily. The only thing I see that is somewhat organized is the collection of monster truck photos on the wall, lined up perfectly with one another.
     "Wanna take a trip to Wally World?" Erin says, apparently asking us both.
     "Sure," I say, "There's always something I have to pick up at Wal-Mart. I need to get my bag."
     "Me too," she says. "I'll meet you in my room, kay?" I head down the side staircase, my dorm room the first door I reach on the second floor. After gathering my bag and slipping on a hoodie, I meet Erin and Drew in her dorm room. "To the Putt-Putt!"
     Putt-Putt, Erin's intricately named Suzuki, lives in the freshman parking lot with the rest of our vehicles. We depart through the side door, walking across the football field toward the freshman parking lot. We complain about the distance, but I suppose the Hassinger students have it best - we can actually see the parking lot from the dorm, unlike the students in Smith Hall. Apparently the school is building a walkway from Smith to the parking lot, but for now they have to go out of their way across campus and down the football field. Sucks to be them.
     I call shotgun and climb into the front seat; Drew grumbles and squeezes into the back. Erin turns up her radio, blasting Bon Jovi, and sings along for the entirety of the trip. Bon Jovi isn't awful, and Wal-Mart isn't all that far away, but I can only listen to the sing-along for so long. Yet I am slapped on the wrist and cursed when I attempt to switch it to the radio.

     We wander the aisles of Wally World, though I am not finding anything worthy of purchase. I sneak into the electronic department to check the price of rechargeable batteries, though the prices are not exactly appealing right now. When I leave the department, I see Erin up to her shoulders in the five-dollar movie bin.
     "Look!" She exclaims, holding up a DVD. "Cheesy horror movie!" I haven't heard of this movie, but she is apparently enthralled that she has found such a bargain. "I love the cheap movie bin." I pick up random cases, reading the unrecognizable titles and tossing them near her pit of discarded choices.
     "These movies suck," Drew says, obviously complete with his bargain hunting for the day.
     "Shut up!" Erin says, two cheesy horror movies in her hands. I see a familiar case amongst the pile, digging through the slush before I can access it.
     "Hm, I have always wanted to see this," I say, holding American Graffiti in my hands.
     "Get it," Erin says. "If it sucks, who cares? It was only five dollars." I shrug in agreement, figuring I would pay that much to rent it anyway.
     "Why not," I ask, putting the DVD under my arm. Drew sighs, though not in a subtle manner. He looks toward Erin and lets out a deep sigh of disapproval, his breaths getting louder the longer she ignores him. She eventually decides on two cheesy horror movies, glaring at Drew before backing away from the movie bin.
     "Want to watch movies tonight?" she asks, and I am hesitant because of the quality of film she has in her hand.
     After a brief hesitation, I answer, "Okay, sure."
     "You're the bestest friend ever!" She skips down the aisle, picking up a box of microwave popcorn before making her way toward the checkout area.
     "You shouldn't encourage her," Drew says, pretending to whisper but knowing she can hear him clear as day. She looks back at us both; I only manage a stifled laugh.

     "This movie really sucks," Drew says. The three of us are crowded on Erin's bed; I am the lucky one that gets to sit between the two of them. I have stopped a few popcorn fights, but for the most part Erin and I are laughing at the ridiculous nature of the film. Erin says nothing to Drew's comment, but continues to point out every instance of the stereotypical horror flick.
     "You know she's going to die now," she says. "She just had sex."
     "Thanks for giving it away," Drew replies. "Loser."
     "You don't care anyway. Oh look, the killer is behind the door!" I laugh with her over the lack of a plot line, the beautiful girl's poor running away from the killer, and the sorry excuse for screaming.
     "I think my brain is rotting," I say, reaching for a handful of popcorn.

     I walk into the rehearsal hall, the setup much smaller than the usual symphonic band layout. I had to drag myself out of bed this morning to attend stadium band rehearsal, even though every other morning I am up at the same time. But ten o'clock on a Saturday morning is just cruel. I stand in front of the flute section, a strange feeling of dŽjˆ vu coming over me as I wonder where I am to sit. There are no music folders.
     "You can sit anywhere," someone behind me says. I turn and see a man standing at the podium that I assume is the director, though he looks young enough to be a student himself.
     "Thanks," I say. I sit beside someone who looks equally as young and confused as I am, assuming this would be a safe bet to make. We look at each other and smile briefly before returning to the setup and tuning of our instruments. The conductor quiets the group, the setting on the intimate side due to the small size of the group at hand.
     The conductor introduces himself as Lance. "I don't want you to call me 'Mister' anything, just Lance." He goes on to explain his graduation from Susquehanna in 1999, a surprise to me considering my initial reaction about his age. One of the band assistants is handing out marching band music, and I get flashbacks of high school marching band as a "flutist's friend" is placed on my stand. Every other instrument has the luxury of attaching music to the instrument itself, but the flautists attach a black piece of plastic to our arms in hopes we do not cut off the circulation. Why "flutist's friend" is etched on this torturous piece of plastic is beyond my comprehension. Since the music stand is in front of me, I position the arm piece on the stand during rehearsal to put off the inevitable tightening of the elastic around my forearm. The majority of the musicians around me are affixing their small books of sheet music to a lyre attached to the instrument. I flip through the small book of music, recognizing most of the tunes from years past. I see the conductor's name on a few of them, including the school's fight song. And, naturally, the flute part looks ridiculously difficult. I cringe for when I have to learn this piece.
     Rehearsal is far less uptight than the usual sounds that emit from this room. The majority of the room knows the pieces, aside from a few new tunes that are not difficult to figure out. I struggle a little with the runs of notes on various songs, but I don't take it entirely too seriously - I am going to be playing in the stands of a football game. I think it is all right if my musicianship isn't exactly perfect.
     Between running through each piece, the stadium band regulars make a few jokes with Lance. He shoots them a few looks, but also laughs with them when he can't contain his seriousness. He lets us out early, specifically for those that need to order official stadium band attire. As I learn while waiting in line, this includes a polo and sweatshirt. Though, if for some reason you are unable to wear said attire, our school colors of maroon and orange would also suffice if need be. I decide to stick with the polo shirt.

     I was sucked into flute lessons. I am not quite sure what happened, but I received an email confirming my lesson day and time. And then, my parents receive a bill from the school for said lessons.
     All I remember is being in Heilman Hall, noting a sign-up sheet on a bulletin board near the practice rooms. It called for all flute players to sign up for a lesson and me, thinking this was required, put my name down. I am now asked, "Why are you taking lessons when you're not even a major?" I often wonder that myself. Mrs. Hannigan, the instructor, also sucked me into joining flute choir. Like I needed yet another class to confused the general population as to what my major is.
     Part of me welcomes the flute choir, for I actually get to meet the girls in the flute section. Marissa, a freshman like myself, makes the realization that we are from the same area in New York. This excites me, for I have yet to meet someone from my area - most of the students in this central Pennsylvania university are from, well, central Pennsylvania. We say that we can easily ride back to Orange County together, since our respective towns are not all that far away from another. Marissa also informs me that Dana, the second chair flautist, lives not too far from us, either.
     "You live in Middletown?" Dana asks.
     "Yeah," I answer, "You've heard of it?"
     "I used to take flute lessons out there!"
     "From Port Jervis? That's quite a trip for a flute lesson."
     "Well, Lola is apparently the best in the county."
     At this I choke up. "Lola? Riddick?"
     Dana laughs. "You took lessons from Lola, too?"
     "I could have walked to her house!" Mrs. Riddick lived in the same neighborhood, and though I never did walk to lessons I probably could have if no one was around to drive me. Dana and I reminisce about our past flute lessons, about Mrs. Riddick's basement and her weird daughters that were always getting into trouble. I was amused enough when someone had heard of NYSSMA, New York's solo competition, but meeting someone all the way out here who also had my flute teacher was more than I could handle.
     "Well," Dana says, as the time to being flute choir approaches, "Hannigan is probably crazier than Lola is."
     "Great," I reply. "Looking forward to it." While I previously experienced Mrs. Hannigan in my flute lesson, and do admit she struck me as strange, how was I supposed to know what a college-level music lesson was going to entail?
     Mrs. Hannigan walks into the practice room; I stand almost a head above her body figure and her smile takes up the entirety of her face. She exclaims her excitement at how much the flute ensemble as grown. A quick glace around the room suggests that most of the people here dread it and, as I later learn, the majority of the music department is not all that fond of it, either. We receive our parts, after an extensive shift of bodies and stands into the appropriate order, and she begins to poorly conduct the group.
     I should not be that mean about it, but it seems as if she forgot to check the tempo prior to waving her arms. And the waving itself resembles nothing I have ever seen. I am no expert on conducting methods, but I have learned a little about how to move your arms in accordance to what the time signature is. This just is not matching up for me.
     The hour goes by painfully slow, and we are already inching toward our empty cases as she is wrapping up. When she starts talking to people individually, the remainder of us take that as a sign of our completion. I slip out of the room behind her as she is talking with another student, escaping my own lecture about my recent or up-coming lesson.
     "Isn't that great?" Dana asks, coming up behind me.
     "Well," I say, pausing. "I can't say I've ever done anything like it."
     "Even with Lola."

     Sarah has made a new friend. His name is Justin, and he lives on the third floor. My experience on the third floor has been limited to Drew's room, so I have yet to bump into him up there. But I immediately dislike him. He and Sarah have a love/hate friendship, continually bickering and then making up again. He tries this with me, but I just can't be bothered listening to his blabbering. He obviously knows instantly that he irritates me, because he makes no attempt at backing off.
     "Please don't play with that," I say, as he picks up my Ricky Hendrick diecast. He holds the miniature car in his hand, opening and closing the small door and pushing his finger against the elastic window net. "Please?" I ask, the irritation in my tone rising.
     "Okay, okay," he says, but runs it across my dresser before finally taking his hands off it. I have been watching him the entire time.
     "Let's go out somewhere," Sarah says, who has been sitting at her desk curling her hair the entire time. I fail to understand it. She washes her hair, straightens it, and then curls it with the iron. What the heck was the point of the straightening?
     "But I'm hanging out with my new friend," Justin says, an obviously sarcastic comment. Sarah lets out a snort of a laugh, rummaging through the pile on her desk to find he room keys.
     "Come on," she says, walking toward the door.
     "Bye Angela!" shouts Justin, and I turn to wave before the door is closed. I sigh, standing up to observe my diecast. It is not exactly where I put it, so I roll it over to its proper position. I only know this because of the thin layer of dust on my dresser. I really need to find my Pledge grab-it wipes. Greatest invention in the world.
     "Zurlo!" Erin says, drawing out the last syllable of my name. "What is up?"
     "You just missed Sarah and Justin," I say, faking sincerity.
     "And I was really looking forward to seeing them, too." She sits down at my desk, going through my AIM contact list. "Who's this?" she asks for nearly everyone, and I reply to all her questioning. "Why isn't anyone online? This is lame. I want to talk to someone."
     "Don't talk to people on my name!" I say, but she has already found someone who is available.
     "Who's this?" she asks.
     "I'm not telling."
     "It doesn't matter, I'm going to talk to them anyway." My pleading makes no dent on her judgment as she opens Chris's IM window, sending a simple 'yo.'
     "He's going to know it's obviously not me."
     "So who is he?"
     I sigh. "That's Chris."
     "Who?" At that point he responds. 'Yo?' Erin laughs, easily amused.
     "Chris, he's in North Carolina. I met him online." Erin is typing out some response to him, though I am too embarrassed to look.
     "It's okay," she says, "I told him it's not you."
     "And?"
     "And he knew it was me. What does he know?"
     "I don't know," I say, "I just tell him random things about school."
     "What is his name? Ralph?"
     "No, Chris."
     "From Zimbabwe?"
     "You're an idiot." Despite her nonsense conversation, he continues to reply. I peek over her shoulder and he appears to be amused as well, intrigued to finally be talking to the mysterious Erin.
     "You like him," she says bluntly.
     "You could say that," I say, and she follows with an elementary-level 'oooooh.' "I guess we're kind of together."
     "And you met online? There are weirdoes out there."
     "There are weirdoes here, too," I say, and it takes a moment for her to realize the reference.
     "Are you calling me weird?" I say nothing, but she takes no notice. She continues her conversation with Chris. "I told him that I call him Ralph."
     "And how does he feel about that?"
     "He thinks I'm weird."
     "Right. Let's get some dinner."
     "Caf or Encore?"
     "We never go to the caf," I say.
     "True. To Encore!" She says goodbye to Chris, promising that I will talk to him later. I can't tell whether he is disturbed or amused, though with Erin it is probably a little of both. "Let's go upstairs and get Drew," she says, and though I don't really feel like gathering a group I already know it is not my decision. We go up the side stairs and knock on his door, but there is no answer. "Drew!!" she screams, "I know you're there, you putz!"
     "Wente!" Drew's voice travels from the end of the hallway. I have never called Erin by her last name, but this is an obviously nickname she has. And I soon understand why. We follow the voice to the girls' side of the floor; Drew has already peeked into the hallway to see where his visitors are. "In here!" He says, motioning for us to follow. We are led into a room where a small group of people has gathered. Aside from Drew there are three girls, one named Tabby and the other two are Erin. This has got to be a joke.
     "We're going to Encore," Wente says. "Anyone want to come?"
     "We just got back from the caf," another Erin says. Due to her smaller stature she is dubbed Little Erin, though the volume of her voice indicates otherwise. The other Erin is also referred to by her last name, Sauers. I cannot keep this all straight.
     "Well you guys suck," Wente says.
     "I'll come with you," Drew says. "I didn't really eat anything at dinner. And I forgot to check my mail."
     "Putz," Wente says, and he is already moving toward the doorway.
     "Stop by later," Little Erin says, "We might be making Jello shots."
     "Cool," Wente says, and we are on our way to the campus center. I have to somehow get out of this Jello shot extravaganza. I have gone this far in my life without a drop of alcohol, and just because I am in college does not indicate that I should start. I have seen drunken people. They are not amusing, and I can't even begin to imagine what kind of drunks Wente and Drew would turn into. I would rather skip that part of the friendship. Besides, we live in a freshman dorm. Everyone, aside from a few of the RAs, is underage.

     Wente has sucked me into stopping by Little Erin's room. She tells me "not to be a putz" and practically drags me out of my room and up the stairs. The door is closed when we approach it. Upon knocking, the door is opened a crack and Little Erin's eye peeks through. We are granted access, quickly closing and locking the door behind us. There are a few more people seated on the floor that I do not recognize, though introductions seem to be unimportant at this point in the game. I do not see any obviously drunken people, which is a great relief. The guests make room for us around the oval carpet, leaning against beds and walls for support. Jello shots red cups of liquor are passed around, but I decline both. This does not seem to cause an issue, which relieves me.
     "This is good," Wente says, taking a sip out of her red cup. "What's in it?" Little Erin lists off a concoction of various alcohols I have never heard of, but Wente is apparently satisfied with the mixture. Some conversation commences, but I am not feeling entirely comfortable. I hang around for a while, laughing with some jokes and joining in discussions, but I am never completely comfortable.
     "I have to get going," I say, waiting for someone to dismiss me before I stand up.
     "Oh come on," Drew says, "stay a little while."
     "I can't, I have some work to do," I lie. "I need to get to sleep early tonight."
     "That's okay," Wente says, who has possibly noted my discomfort. "Lunch tomorrow?"
     "Sure," I say, finally standing from the floor. "I'll see you all later."
     "Thanks for coming!" Little Erin says, waving goodbye frantically.

     "I have to quit this job," I say. Erin is talking to her mom on AIM, but has this amazing talent of multi-tasking.
     "Don't want to flip burgers anymore?" she laughs.
     "It's so gross! The grill is seriously disgusting. And when I was making someone's sandwich today, I mixed up ham and roast beef."
     She turns, giving me the infamous pursed-lip stare. "You're an idiot."
     "See I know the difference, but I wasn't thinking. I don't even eat the stuff."

     The following evening, I tell my supervisor that I can no longer work. She does not say much of anything at first, but I proceed to tell her than I am a vegetarian and tried my best to handle the burgers, but I just was not able to do it.
     "Why didn't you say something before?" she exclaims, like my vegetarianism is any indication of whether I would be able to do the job properly. I am really only using it as an excuse, but it is an excuse that worked. She instructs me to stay the remainder of the night on my shift, and sends me out to wipe down tables and refill napkin dispensers. I wonder how these menial tasks will last for three hours, but I somehow manage to wipe tables slowly and fill the napkin dispensers to capacity. Before leaving, I thank her for the opportunity and apologize for not being able to do the job. She says it is all right, and I am apologetic though excited to finally get out of there. So my job in food service lasted all of two weeks. When I later tell my mom about my quitting the job, she is impressed that I even lasted that long. Cooking burgers? Handling roast beef? Sorry, not for me.
     To celebrate, Wente puts on a cheesy horror movie and we search for all the stereotypical additions to the plot. The horror movie run, where the girl runs from the killer and trips over imaginary objects, and the blood-curling scream that does not curl our blood. As we sit on her bed laughing from scene to scene, Heather comes in the room and fails to greet us. She changes into her pajamas, hidden behind the closet door, and shuts out the overhead light before crawling into her bed without a word. Wente looks at me and shrugs, turning down the volume slightly on our movie. We also attempt to decrease the volume of our laughter, keeping our lips tight as the laughter disappears in our throats.
     "Do you mind?" Heather says, turning over in her bed. "I have an early class." Without a word, Wente turns down the volume a notch more to satisfy her roommate. We whisper the idiosyncrasies of the film to each other, hardly being able to hear the movie anymore. Heather sighs loudly, rising and gathering her blanket and pillow. "This is ridiculous," she says, "I can't sleep in here."
     "Heather, I can hardly hear the movie myself. And we're not even talking."
     "You're so inconsiderate," she says, leaving the room. We assume she has gone next door to Pam and Lauren's room; the three of them have gotten frighteningly close.
     "Okay," Wente says, standing up the turn the light back on. She increases the volume again, even more so than before in hopes that she disturbs the room next door. We continue our sniggering at the poor quality of the horror film.

     Late at night, I am sitting at my computer waiting for Justin and his friend to leave. They and Sarah are going on and laughing about something that is not particularly funny, and as far as I know Sarah does not even understand. I sigh, putting off my crawling into bed as long as I possibly can. Eventually, I stand and take my pajamas into the bathroom to change. When I return, the three of them are still yammering away as I climb into my top bunk. I read for a little bit, even though the words are not registering, before I crawl into the fetal position and face the wall. I pray that they take this for a sign, but nothing seems to be happening.
     "Don't think we're leaving or anything," Justin says, and I say nothing. I pretend I am already asleep, listening to Sarah's attempt at a whisper as she makes comments about her lovely roommate. The nerve to think that I am the obnoxious one.

     The next weekend I go home. It is nice, sleeping in a full-sized bed and eating Mom's food again. She sends me back with leftovers, the bag heavy as I take the elevator to the familiar second floor. I poke my head into Wente's room, since her door is already open.
     "Hey dude," she says, "I think you should hang out in here for a while."
     "Why?"
     "Sarah's in your room with some guy." I look down the hallway toward my closed room door.
     "Gross. Can I sleep in here tonight?"
     "Of course." I am partially joking at the request but know, if it came down to it, Wente's floor would always be open to me.
     "So, do you want some of my mom's eggplant? It's really good." I do not have to ask twice, for homemade food beats the cafeteria any day. Especially if it was made by an Italian mother. Wente gathers some paper plates and plastic forks, and we wait for the elevator to go down to the first floor. "What's with the plates?" I ask, taking note of the zoo animal design. The plates have ears.
     "Do you want a panda or a monkey?" she asks, holding up the two options.
     "I'll go with the panda."
     "Good, because I always get the monkey." We turn the corner into the kitchen/laundry room, only considered a kitchen because it contains a microwave and a sink. I cut parts of the eggplant parmigiana and place the squares onto the zoo animal plates Wente has provided. We wait for the microwave to beep, listening to the rattle of the nearby dryers.
     "I really can't stand living with her," I say. "I can't imagine doing this for the rest of the year."
     "You should say something to Amanda," she says, though I have rarely spoken to our RA. "Sarah's being inconsiderate."
     "Yeah, I guess," I say. Part of me would rather suffer through another semester with her than confront anyone about a potential issue. But then I remember that I am temporarily exiled from the room. The microwave beeps, and we take our plates back up to Wente's room. We keep the door open in case Sarah or her new friend walk by, an indication that she is done entertaining. Or whatever she does.
     "Does your room smell like sex?" Wente asks, delving into the eggplant.
     "I don't know what sex smells like," I respond.
     "You'd know." I shrug, sitting cross-legged on her bed and cutting into my square of eggplant parmigiana. "Hey!" she says suddenly. "Want to go to the Halloween parade?"
     "What Halloween parade?"
     "I don't know, Selinsgrove has a Halloween parade. But come on, it's Halloween. It has to be cool."
     "Sure, why not?"

     I knock on Amanda's door. After having another sleepless night and Sarah's inane ignoring me in the morning, I decided that it would be a better idea to confront the RA. I hear her rustling around inside, eventually coming to the door.
     "Hi Angela!" she says, cheerfully. "How is everything?"
     "Can I talk to you for a moment?" I ask, ridiculously timid. She motions me into her room, which I had never seen before. It is probably the same size as my own, though shaped like a square (mind is more rectangular) and it only houses one person. She has an intimate setup of a futon and beanbag chairs; she sits in a beanbag and invites me to do the same.
     "What's on your mind?" she asks.
     "Well, it's Sarah," I say, having absolutely no idea where I am going with this. "Is there a way I can move out?" Well. That was one way of beating around the bush.
     "Unfortunately, it's not that easy," she laughs. "Are you two having problems?" I begin to explain, though I feel not very well, about her attitude and the late nights and her inconsiderate friends. As I am speaking, I realize it makes me sound pathetic. Then again, I never thought going to bed by midnight was horribly unreasonable. "Well," Amanda says, leaning back slightly, "have you spoken to her about all this?"
     "Not really," I answer. "I'm kind of afraid to."
     "Well, what we would have to do is having a roommate consultation. The two of you will come in here and I'll act as a kind of mediator, asking questions and seeing if we can draw up some kind of roommate agreement. It's really just a set of rules you both agree to follow, and if for some reason the agreement is broken then we can bring res life into it." The plan does not sound all that appealing, for I would rather throw Sarah's belongings out the window, but I agree to the meeting. Amanda says she will contact Sarah for me, and we will set up the meeting through her. A little juvenile and stupid, but it beats having to tell her myself. I thank Amanda and, after I know the brief meeting is over, say I will be talking with her later.
     "So?" Wente asks, the minute I appear in her doorway.
     "I guess we have to come up with a roommate agreement."
     "That's so retarded." Wente has already researched the procedures, so she had an idea of what Amanda was going to say to me. "What you have to do, then, is after you make the agreement watch every little thing she does. If she breaks the agreement at all, go straight to Amanda to get her kicked out." It sounds easier said than done, feeling as if the great roommate switch is an impossible feat. But I decide to go through the procedures anyway.

     The meeting with Amanda, as Wente had predicted, is retarded. Sarah and I come up with a few rules, including always carrying our keys (I have apparently locked her out numerous times) and a "lights out" curfew of midnight. The ridiculous nature of the agreement is probably the only thing Sarah and I have ever agreed on, and I now know that she has hated me all along as well. We fake our excitement to write up the contract, signing the bottom, both secretly plotting to watch the other like a hawk.

     "Do you know Ashley?" Little Erin asks. "She lives across the hall from me."
     "Not really, why?"
     "She hates her roommate, too. Maybe the four of you can work something out." Wente gets excited at the prospect of my new roommate, since we had previously been wracking our brains trying to figure out who would potentially go where. The last thing I wanted to do was move out of Hassinger Hall; an even worse idea is having to move into Smith. I agree to talk with Ashley, already thinking of how easy the great roommate swap would be.
     When I get back to my room, I am actually excited to see Sarah there. "Hey there are a couple girls upstairs having roommate problems," I say. "A friend of mine says that they'd probably be interested in switching."
     "Really?" she asks, excited to talk to me for the first time since I moved in. "Who are they?"
     "I know the one is Ashley, I'm not sure who her roommate is."
     "Allison!" she exclaimed. "Yeah, we know each other from class. I didn't know she lived in Hass." We decide to talk to each of the roommates, and if they agree to the swap will approach res life with the idea. If all four of us are willing to make the change, how could they possibly say no?

     "I hate Allison," Ashley says. I stand in her room, leaned against the bunk beds while she sits on the bottom bunk. "We wrote up this roommate agreement, but she never follows it."
     "You have an agreement, too?" I laugh.
     "Yeah, there's really stupid stuff on there. My slippers aren't allowed in the middle of the floor. I have to keep them under my bed, because she trips on them."
     "You've got to be kidding."
     "I wish I was."

     The four of us approach our respective RAs, inquiring about the potential roommate switch. Amanda is weary about it, since there are no visible issues with the contract Sarah and I had signed. She says she will contact res life about it, but the moment I leave the room I know it is a lost cause. Again I go to Sarah and explain our predicament, and we are at a stand still. Sarah and Allison have been hanging out a lot outside of class, and they have gotten along better than she and I would ever even pretend to. Ashley began joining our small group to Encore and random Wal-Mart trips, and we always sat near each other and talked of various things. Schoolwork (she is a biology major), NASCAR, our respective hometowns, anything. We begin even to plan who will move where and the setup of the new room. Our group unanimously agrees that I should move to the third floor, since the majority of our friends live there. And Wente spends enough time in Drew's room to qualify as a third floor resident as well. At this point, the only thing that is stopping us from moving my belongings out is the authority of the residence life office. I begin to resent them.

     Wente dresses up as a clown for Halloween, and I walk around sans costume. She calls me lame, but I have absolutely nothing I could possibly wear as a costume. Little Erin dresses up as a trucker, stuffing the belly of her shirt with newspaper. The borough of Selinsgrove apparently does not follow the standard holiday schedule, for the day of trick-or-treating commenced several days before Halloween so it landed on a weekend. The Erins went out with their pillowcases, soon returning defeated.
     "This town is lame," Wente says. "The only place we really got anything was the mall."
     "Gee, seems like I really missed out on a lot," I laugh, and she pouts at me from behind her clown makeup.
     On Halloween itself, we walk down to Market Street for the annual parade. Wente is ridiculously giddy when we see the police cars and fire trucks come down the street. The floats have various Halloween related themes, many tossing candy into the crowds of people.
     "Putz," Wente says to me, "you're supposed to go for the candy!" She is bitter because someone picked up the really good candy, while she ended up with the dum-dums.
     "Sorry," I say, "I'll do better next time."
     "No you won't." And she is right, because I am not exactly the kind of person that is going to run into the street for some free candy. She, on the other hand, stretches out her arms and reaches for anything that comes into our vicinity. Occasionally she 'accidentally' lets it drop if there is a small child nearby, or she will hand the candy to the child herself. I gather a few Tootsie rolls that have been tossed from the floats, keeping my small stash hidden in the pocket of my hoodie.

     It is dark one evening as we walked back from Encore, the three Erins, Drew, Ashley, and myself. Little Erin is being her usual obnoxious self, babbling about whatever comes to her mind. As we approaching Hassinger something must have triggered in her head, and she goes around to the side of the building instead of the front, which is the only place our keys work.
     "Where are you going?" Ashley asks. Little Erin stands in front of a large bush on the side of the building, deep in thought, her hand placed upon her chin.
     "Who dares me to jump in the bush?" she asks.
     "You're an idiot," Drew says. I rummage through my bag for my camera, because I know that she does not need anyone to dare her to do something ridiculous.
     "Come on," she says, inching closer to the bush. "Okay." She positions herself to jump, crouching slightly in front of the shrub. I find my camera at the bottom of my bag, and when I look up she is mid-air into the bush. "That kind of hurt," she says, enveloped by branches and leaves.
     "Hang on a second," I say, when she tries climbing out. I tell her to smile and she grin uncomfortably as I take the shot. Drew and Wente help her out of the bush.
     "That was definitely worth it," she says. "Who's coming by for Jello shots tonight?"
     "Umm, Zach is on duty," Ashley says, referring to the third floor RA.
     "So? He never does anything. I can walk by his room with a tray of Jello shots and he wouldn't even notice." It sounds as if she is pressuring someone to dare her, but none of us doubt her. Neither do we doubt that she has actually done it before. We agree to stop by her room tonight; I agree to simply watch as she walks by the RA's open room with a tray of shots.

     I take the long way up to Little Erin's room that evening, just so I can check out the RA's room. I watch Zach's open door out of the corner of my eye as I pass, briefly seeing him seated on his bed watching television. He takes no notice of anyone walking by his door. I snigger, knocking on Little Erin's closed door.
     "Yay, you came!" she says, clapping. I look around at the familiar faces, also noting the lack of Jello shots. She must have noticed for she then says, "the shots are in Drew's fridge. I have to go over to get them." This is obviously planned, for Little Erin has her own fridge, but by keeping them in Drew's room she is forced to walk by Zach's room carrying the tray. She casually walks down the hallway; the rest of us wait by her doorway for her return. After a moment, she emerges from Drew's room carrying a cafeteria tray, the small cups lined up perfectly on top. She grins at us, walking again casually across Zach's door as if she is carrying a stack of schoolbooks.
     "Jello, anyone?" she asks as she approaches, holding out the (presumably stolen) tray. We move into her room and I watch each guest takes a shot, Little Erin demonstrating the proper way to eat it. Or swallow it, whatever the case may be. I never did understand the appeal.

     During the second seven weeks of the semester, my schedule instructs me that I am to appear at a class called Using Computers. I have to drag myself into a classroom at eight o'clock in the morning so someone can teach me how to use a computer. I am sure there is a way out of this, but I can think of none. I go, and learn how to use Microsoft Office. Again, I reiterate how much I hate core classes. The people seated around me ask questions during class, which frightens me. I say nothing as the professor fumbles for an answer, poking around her own desktop (which is projected onto a screen for us to see) while I imaging myself banging my head against the desk. If I ever said that a class was a completely waste of my time, I lied. This class wins.

     Football games are not entirely awful, though when it is raining I have to hide my flute beneath my sweatshirt. I never actually wear it, unless I am dying of hypothermia, so it stays spread out on my lap for those occasions I have to protect my instrument from the cold. This is one of those mornings. We seldom play, because the coaches and cheerleaders are angry with us. Apparently we have performed during a football play and interrupted the cheerleaders. The former I can't recall, but it is really funny when the latter happens. Regardless, we have to wait for the cue from a coach or some other authority figure before we are allowed to play. As a result, I rub my flute between my hands to keep it from freezing up on me. I put my arms in the sleeves of my sweatshirt, holding the instrument against my chest.
     "Why don't you just put the sweatshirt on?" Lance asks. "Wouldn't that be easier?"
     "Nah," I say, ignoring the goose bumps that are forming on my arms.
     "Quick, Fight Song!" he says, jumping to begin his conducting. The end of the quarter is the only unspoken time in which we are allowed to play. I flip to the front of my music, lying my "flutist's friend" across my lap. "Come on, stand up!" he says, and I groan as I strap the piece of plastic to my arm. By the time I stand up, the band is already halfway through the piece. No matter. I can still hardly play these ridiculous runs and tend to hide behind everyone else, anyway.

     In Writing Seminar, it seems I am unable to get the easy A I anticipated. Dr. Holmberg is big on the peer reviews, and I know there are worse papers out there that have gotten better grades than I. Though the class is right before band, and I risk being late and experiencing Dr. Martin's wrath, I stay after everyone has left.
     "Something wrong, Angela?" Dr. Holmberg asks. She seems to have taken a liking to me, which makes the process a lot easier. I hate asking professors anything.
     "Not really, I just have a question about this paper," I ask, holding out the one she had just handed back during that class. "I don't know, this may sound weird, but I think mine was better than some of the ones I've read, and they got the better grade."
     She smiles. "This is true." I haven't the first idea how to respond to that, but she continues when sensing my confusion. "You're a writing major," she adds. "I don't expect as much out of the rest of them."
     I can hardly believe what I am hearing. "Well, oh, okay."
     She laughs. "Don't worry about it. You're doing fine." I thank her, already halfway out the door because I will definitely be late for band. She is aware of this, so I know there are no hard feelings. "Before you go," she says, "are you taking poetry next semester?"
     "I'm not sure yet," I admit, "I have to look at my schedule."
     "Okay," she smiles, "just wondering." I pull my jacket closed and head outside, though it is warmer than I anticipated. By the time I arrive at Heilman Hall and get my things out of my locker, Dr. Martin has already begun rehearsal. I have no missed much, however; they have yet to begin the scales. As I rush down the hallway toward the rehearsal hall, I can picture Dr. Martin standing at the podium and asking, "Where's Angela?" as she motions to my chair. At least five people would answer, "I just saw her in class; she should be on her way." I slip through the double doors of the rehearsal hall, but there is no escaping Dr. Martin's glance - the doors are situated right behind the percussion section, which gives her a clear view of whoever walks in late. I have to go directly in front of the podium as well in order to access my seat, which makes the ordeal even worse. I look up at her when I finally sit down, ready to give a look of apology, but she has already resumed speaking about our upcoming concert. Freshmen need to order their concert attire, and rehearsal will get out early so we have time to place our orders. Lindsay and Sara look at me and snigger.
     Lindsay leans over and whispers, "They're awful. I'm warning you now." I do not have a chance to respond, for Dr. Martin has already noticed her leaned over. Lindsay immediately sits upright again.

     "What was that?" I ask Lindsay after rehearsal.
     She laughs. "The concert dresses are awful. I don't think they were made for a real person; mine never fit me right."
     "Yeah," Sara adds, jumping into the conversation. "I think I'm going to burn mine after I graduate."
     "Encouraging," I say, taking my flute apart. I wipe the silver down with a rag before placing it carefully back into its case.
     "Well," Sara says, "We all look stupid, so you won't feel left out."
     "At least we're not guys," Lindsay says. "Their tuxes cost a lot more than our dresses."
     "I have to pay for this thing, too?" I ask. "That's not fair."
     "Welcome to college," Sara says, snapping her flute case shut. I gather my case and my music folder, joining the line of freshman girls waiting to give the band assistant our measurements. The process is quick and painless, though I am not convinced I will feel the same way once I receive the actual dress.

     Ashley stands in my doorway, gritting her teeth. She has her moment of being overdramatic, so I do not think this very peculiar. But she does not move from the doorway.
     "What?" I finally ask.
     "Allison doesn't want to live with Sarah," she says, her facial features frozen in place.
     I allow the news to sink in, creating a brief hesitation. "Come in," I say. "Close the door." She does as directed, sitting carefully on Sarah's bed so she won't know later that anyone has been near it. "Okay, what's going on?"
     "I don't exactly know," she says. "I guess they were out last night drinking, and... things happened. I think they're too embarrassed to look at each other."
     "You know what," I say, leaning back in my chair. "I don't even want to know. Hopefully they'll just get over it."
     "Yeah," Ashley responds, though it does not sound very convincing.
     "I mean, really. Either they live together, or they live with us. I'm sure they'll get over it."
     Ashley finally laughs. "True, true. We'll give them a couple days and they'll get over it." I managed to convince Ashley of this, which sounded good, but part of me did not believe it myself. Though if Allison was anything like my current roommate, and all signs pointed that way, they were both equally wishy-washy. Surly they would changed their minds again once they retreat to their rooms, reminded of the awful people they have to live with.

     I was on the phone with Chris when Wente came barging into the room. I usually do not care when she arrives unannounced, though holding the telephone to my ear is usually a good indication that I am busy.
     "Are you pregnant?" she asks, passing by the advertisement poster.
     "What was that?" Chris asks, apparently overhearing Wente's questioning.
     "Never mind," I say, waving Wente away. She comes further into the room, lurking around me.
     "Who's that?" she asks, immediately knowing it is not a family member. I do not generally wave her away when talking on the phone with my mom. I motion toward the phone with my free hand, though the phone itself should have been an indication that I was not able to talk at the moment. "Is that Ralph from Pakistan?" she asks, coming toward my desk. "I wanna talk to him!" She reaches for the phone, and I swing around so the handset is just out of her reach.
     "What is going on?" Chris asks, instantly hearing someone in the background.
     "Nothing," I say, though I do not think he heard the entire word for Wente grabbed the phone from me.
     "Hi Ralph!" she says, and I am fearful for the conversation that may commence. She introduces herself as the one who spoke to him online, which either amused or frightened him. "I don't know," she says, answering a question that is unknown to me. "I just want to call you Ralph. Is that okay?" Apparently it is, for she continues to use her nickname for him for the entirety of the conversation. "Okay, I'm giving you back to Angela, it was nice talking to you!" she hands back the phone, which I promptly grab from her hand. "Come to my room when you're done," she whispers before exiting.
     "Sorry about that," I say.
     Chris laughs. "It was actually pretty funny. Random, yet funny."
     "You see what I have to deal with?" I ask, though not completely serious about the question. It is not like Wente is a thorn in my side, though she does seem to enjoy tormenting me.

     "So how's Ralph?" Wente asks, the moment I enter her room. She is sitting behind her computer screen, so I am only able to see the top part of her face at first.
     "You should know," I respond, though my faked anger does not register with her. Or she chose to ignore it.
     "He's really funny," she says.
     "Yeah, he says the same about you." I walk across the room to her side, situating myself on her bed.
     "So when can I meet him?"
     "Meet him? I haven't met him yet."
     "Oh right. Well, when you do, I want to come."
     "Sure." I look over Wente's shoulder at her computer screen, where she plays a seemingly mindless game. "What the heck is this?"
     "Snood!" she exclaims, not taking her eyes off the screen. "It's addictive. You have to play."
     "Not if it's addictive," I laugh. "The last thing I need is another thing to keep me glued to my computer." At that moment Heather rushes in, obviously upset about something. Wente and Heather seem to get along as well as Sarah and I do, but Wente at least makes the attempt to be civil.
     "Are you okay?" she asks, though Heather says nothing as she flops on her bed. Wente looks at me, and motions for me to hang on for a moment. She leaves the room and I sit on the bed picking at my cuticles, watching as Heather gets up to change her clothes behind the closet door. When Wente returns, Heather is still fumbling for something in the closet. I furrow my eyebrows in confusion, but when Heather leaves the room Wente is free to speak again.
     "I just went next door to tell Pam she's upset," she says. "She can do a better job comforting her than I can." Wente resumes her Snood, and I watch as the oddly colored balls fly around the screen. "You're taking Intro to Music, right?"
     "Yeah," I answer, "why?"
     "I need a music core and I don't know what to take."
     "I'm sure you can find something more interesting," I laugh.
     "Yeah, probably." We both look up abruptly when her room door is slammed shut. Heather stands by the doorway, fuming.
     "You have no right..." she says, stumbling over her words. "How dare you!"
     "What?" Wente asks, for once looking fearful. Heather may be small, but she obviously has quite the temper.
     "You had no right telling Pam that I was upset. If I wanted Pam to know, I would have told her myself!"
     "I'm sorry," Wente says, her voice growing smaller. "I only wanted to help."
     "You can help by staying out of my business! You and I are not friends, so stop trying to pretend we are!" She moves closer to Wente's side of the room, and I watch as Wente retreats back as far as she can in her desk chair. "Mind your own business," she says. "I can deal with things on my own." Without giving the opportunity for Wente to defend herself, she storms out of the room with her face on fire. Wente sits motionless in her chair, blinking furiously to hold back the tears.
     "I just wanted to help," she says, her voice ever smaller. I am completely speechless. I can't for the life of me figure out what had gotten her so fired up.
     "I know," I say, and it is the only thing I could possibly think of to stay. Wente sits for a while, dumbfounded, and I feel the pressure of the room closing in on us. Without speaking, we know we need to escape her room. "Want to go to Friendly's?" I ask, and she agrees with the idea. I head back to my room to gather my wallet and meet her outside her room. "She's a bitch," I say as we go down the elevator. "Don't let her upset you."
     "It could be worse," she says. "I could be living with Sarah."
     "Thanks." I pretend to hit her against the head, though my hand is too far away to make any impact.

     I order a chicken supermelt, only because it comes with a free sundae. The sandwich is greasy and keeps on sliding out of my grip, which makes it irresistibly delicious. I smother my French fries in ketchup and pick at them with a fork.
     "Freak," Wente says, pouring a puddle of ketchup in her own basket.
     "What?"
     "Who the hell eats French fries with a fork?"
     "You do when they look like this," I say, motioning toward the mound of ketchup on my platter.
     "That's why you put the ketchup on the side," she says, demonstrating by dunking a naked fry into the pile of ketchup.
     "Too much work. I'll use the fork." Our meals come with a free sundae, which we are both willing to spend the extra money to turn it into a Reese's Pieces sundae. "We're retarded," I say. "Why get the free sundae when we're going to pay for it anyway?"
     "Because Reese's Pieces are a gift from God." I can't exactly argue with that. She orders hers to go, but assures me that I can order mind in the standard sundae glass.
     "I have to ask," I say once the waitress departs.
     "I never finish it," she says. "So I get it to go and then I can take the rest with me."
     "Genius," I say. "Though where are you going to keep it? Mini fridge freezers don't really... freeze."
     "Yeah. I'll probably just finish it when I get back to my room."
     "That is, assuming you ever go back to your room."
     "Right." The waitress appears again bearing our sundaes, and there is no mistaking which one belongs to who - mine arrives in a decorative sundae glass, while Wente's is held together in a take-out cup. I can't imagine eating it out of a Styrofoam cup, because the entire joy of a Reece's Pieces sundae is hearing the pieces clink against the glass and scraping the sides with a spoon.

     I stand in front of the mirror behind my door, raising my arms to admire the insane amount of extra fabric on my band dress. Lindsay was definitely right about one thing; this was not made for any normal woman's figure. It fits properly around the waist, but the neck is too low and I am already pulling it up constantly. The skirt is a little too long, so I will definitely have to pick it up if I were to walk anywhere. I simply cannot picture all the women in the band wearing the same dreadful gown. I feel as if I am attending a funeral.
     Drew and I walk across the field together toward Heilman Hall, watching our fellow musicians swarm to the building as well. We are kind of hard to miss in our funeral attire. As awkward as the dress looks, at least it is somewhat comfortable. I can understand that much about it, at least.
     I get my flute and music folder from my locker, keeping an eye on gathering parents as I walk toward Weber Chapel. My mom is unable to come, because she had to have surgery this week, but I am expecting Dad and Gina to be in the audience. As I walk toward Weber, it occurs to me that I have never really been inside. I have gone as far as the hallway, but anything behind stage is a big mystery. I assume, however, that it will not be too difficult to find other band members going in the same direction. I follow the crowd of black dresses and tuxedos. I find myself behind stage, looking around frantically for a familiar face. I finally see Sara talking with a group of flautists, and I rush over.
     "I told you these things were awful," she says as I approach, bunching the extra fabric in my hands as I walk.
     "I think making me walk in heels is even worse," I say.
     She laughs. "That's something else we have in common." I immediately recognize Lindsay and Dana, and I know the other in the group as Susan because she sits directly in front of me. All but Lindsay wear gold pins on their dresses, and I briefly admire them but dare not ask what they are. I shift around uncomfortably in my shoes, switching my weight from one foot to the other. Dana summons us to begin tuning, and I follow Sara and Susan as Dana attempts to find the rest of the flute section. I have to follow them closely, for we are going further underground into areas of the building I wouldn't have even thought existed. We gather in a hallway outside a bathroom, the echoing of our voices probably being the only sounds audible in this area at all. The remainder of the section eventually shows up, and we stand in a circle to tune our instruments.
     It is awful. Dana tunes each of us individually, which follows with the entirety of the group attempting to tune to one another. Susan needs to tune her piccolo as well, although we all know it is an impossible feat. With tuning slightly imperfect, we need to head back upstairs to backstage. I would have been willing to give up ten minutes ago, but the group was determined to get as close to a perfect pitch as we possible could. Of course, our work could mean nothing once we tune with the entire band. I need to follow someone upstairs, otherwise I will most likely get lost and Dr. Martin may hate me for the rest of my life.
     Before previous concerts, I would panic as I stepped on stage due to the sheer size of the audience. But for some reason, I do not freak out as much as I had anticipated. As the lights dim and Dr. Martin raises her arms, it feels as if we are simply doing a run of the concert (though I am not wearing my usual jeans and a t-shirt). The intermission is a blur as I find myself back in the basement, tuning once again to the rest of the flute section. Apparently our tuning was off during the first half, but I somehow failed to notice. Sounded fine to me.

     After the concert, I look around the front of Weber Hall for my dad and sister. I should be able to spot my dad easily, seeing he's six-foot five and generally towers over everyone else, but I am unable to spot him in the massive crowd of parents. I gather the fabric of my dress as I go down the stairs, suddenly seeing Gina waving in the crowd.
     "Nice dress," dad says.
     "I need to get out of this thing," I say. We agree to dinner at BJ's, the one nice place in Selinsgrove, but not until I change first. "Did you record the whole concert?" I ask, knowing that mom had requested it.
     "Kind of," he says.
     "The battery died," Gina adds. "I told him not to record until the concert actually started, but he didn't listen."
     "Well, how was I supposed to know?"
     "Because I told you!" Gina exclaims. "He didn't get the last song."
     "I like that one, too," I say. I shrug. "Oh well."
     "At least I got us here on time, right?" Dad asks.
     I look over at Gina. "What does he mean?"
     She sighs. "We kind of left the house late. He lost track of time."
     "You were supposed to be paying attention, too!" he says.
     "Okay. Anyway, we left late but got here on time. It only took two hours." The trip from home to school generally takes three.
     "How in the..?"
     "We took the Jag," Dad says, proud of his accomplishment. "Gina didn't know how fast that thing could go, because your mother never has fun with it."
     "I now understand why it's called a Jaguar," she says. As we approach my dorm, dad says he will go around and get the car while I head up and get changed. I figure BJ's will be packed, so any opportunity to save time sounds good to me. I head up to my room, pull on a well-worn pair of jeans and a t-shirt, and make it back down in time as dad pulls in front of Hass with mom's white Jaguar. I am not particularly fond of the car, because it lacks in legroom, so I can't imagine how uncomfortable dad must be behind the wheel. But legroom is probably the last thing on his mind as he peels around the corner onto University Avenue.
     "Dad," Gina says, "we're on a campus. Slow down."
     "Hey, I don't get to drive this car that often," he says.

     As expected, I leave dinner at BJ's with a substantial amount of leftovers. Dad drops me off at Hassinger, waving goodbye before peeling around the corner again. Random students are milling around the front door, and they eye me as I walk up the stairs. Not only were they checking out the Jag, their noses are also filled with the glorious aroma of whatever it is I have in my Styrofoam container. I head up to my room, where Sarah is sitting at her desk. I put my leftovers in the mini fridge.
     "We have an appointment with res life this week," she says. "I just got the email."
     "Cool," I say. We had been waiting to hear from them for quite some time since calling for an appointment. Now, we both had the opportunity to sit in front of the director of res life and explain why we were not suited to live together. I was more than willing to skip over all the formalities and just kick Sarah to the curb, but res life thought different. I had to act civil about it.

     I sit in our back booth at Encore, poking my salad with a fork. It's hardly a salad; it is more a container full of lettuce. I down it in Italian dressing as much as I can, but too much dressing makes me gag. Wente picks the tomatoes, olives, and onions out of her salad and dumps it in mine. I take out half of the rings of onions, placing them into the lid of my plastic container.
     "I think I want to be an RA," she says.
     I think about this for a moment. "Okay. I can see you doing that."
     "Yeah?"
     "You don't take crap from anyone. I think you'd be good at it."
     "Thanks. I'll have to do some research." I pull my jacket on again, unable to make up my mind whether it is cold or not. Though there have been a few flurries of snow lately, the outside temperature is far from bitter. I am not looking forward to when I have to walk across campus in the cold, wet winter. I wonder how different Pennsylvania winters are from New York.
     "Wanna go to late shopper's night?" Wente reads a table tent as she eats her container of lettuce. We often read the table tents and vow to go to various activities, though seldom actually make it to them. Unless, of course, it includes a cheesy horror movie.
     "What is it?"
     "I guess all these stores on Market Street stay open late one night. I've been wanting to go into some of those stores down there; they look pretty cool."
     "Yeah, me too. Why don't we?"
     "I dunno. Well this thing is on a Wednesday night. We're not doing anything then. We can drag Drew along." I laugh at the thought of Drew doing any form of shopping.
     "We can drag the entire third floor along," I say.
     "Don't forget about it," she says, putting the table tent down around a bottle of ketchup. "Though if we do, we should check out those shops anyway."

     "At least you get along with your roommate," I say to Chris over the phone.
     "Well, we tolerate each other. Okay I guess you can say we're friends," he laughs.
     "Yeah thanks. So when are you coming to visit me?"
     "I don't know," he says nervously. "Now isn't the greatest time."
     "There's never really a good time," I say. "You're in North Carolina."
     "I know. But I will come up there to visit you someday. I promise."

     Sarah and I sit nervously in the res life office, waiting our turn to talk to the director. She is a large, mean woman, or so we have been told. When she emerges from her office, ten minutes after our appointed time, she requests one of us at a time. I go in first.
     She closes the door, and I sit in the seat closest to the exit. The rumors were true about her being fairly large, and from what I have already observed she is not the kindest person I have ever met.
     "So," she begins, "what is the problem?" I hardly know where to start.
     "Well," I stammer, rolling the hem of my shirt around my finger, "we're very different people." The director says nothing, so I take this as an indication to continue. I go on about her being inconsiderate, about the breaching of our roommate contract (though not entirely accurate) and include how we have tried getting along, but nothing has been able to work. The director nods, and after some more of my rambling she thanks me and asks that I wait outside. I sit in the waiting area and she summons Sarah in, probably prepared to listen to listen to a similar spiel. After some time, she calls me into her office again. I sit on the chair opposite Sarah.
     "I'm not really seeing any grounds for you two not living together," she says. I hardly hear her, as this comment comes to a shock. My being miserable and disgusted in my own room is not grounds? But I remain quiet. "There has been no serious violation of the roommate agreement, so there is nothing I can do at this point." The tears begin to well in my eyes, and she immediately notices.
     "I'm sorry," I say, and before I can continue I notice that Sarah is crying as well.
     "What exactly do you feel is wrong here?" the director asks.
     "We're just different people," Sarah sobs. "We can't get along!"
     "I'm sorry," she repeats, "'being different people' is not a reason to allow you to move out." The three of us sit silently for a moment, and I wonder when I will be excused to go. I cannot continue to sit here crying together with someone I really can't stand. "Listen," she continues. "I still have to talk to Allison and Ashley, and if they are having serious problems I'll consider your room for the switch. But I can't make any guarantees."
     I nod, this being the most promising thing I have heard during this meeting. "Okay." That's the only thing I can think to say? Though it is apparently the only thing that comes to Sarah's mind as well. We are excused, thanked for our time, and walk out of the office together.
     "That sucked," Sarah says.
     "Yeah." As far as I know she is going back to the room, and the last thing I want to do is find myself walking along side of her. As she leaves the campus center, I turn and go down a flight of stairs toward the mailroom. I have already checked my mail, and I am in no mood to eat anything at Encore, but I need to delay my travel time to prevent myself from walking anywhere's near her.

     "I may be able to come up after Thanksgiving," Chris says. I lay sprawled on my bed, the cord to my room phone stretching across the room.
     "We'll have to see," I say. "I'm not sure when my break is and everything."
     "Yeah, me too. But I'll definitely check it out next time I have the chance."

     I received the phone call I had never expected. After Allison and Ashley met with res life, and we had nearly given up even the idea of possibly ridding ourselves of our unfortunate circumstances, the director of res life was on the other end of the phone. She was sharing with me the details of our great roommate switch. I can hardly contain my excitement. I first rush to Wente's room, though she is not there at the time. Class, most likely. I skip up the stairs to Ashley's room, who is coming out of her own room as I am approaching it.
     "I'm free!" she exclaims, pumping her fists into the air. We laugh and emit squeals of excitement, doing a small dance of victory in the middle of the hallway. We stop momentarily to discuss the details. Though we have planned for me to move up to the third floor, res life apparently thought differently. Sarah would be packing her stuf