I saw Flint again at a freshman event filled with trust falls and other forced bonding activities. He was wearing cowboy boots and a bandana around his neck and hooting over something one of our other floormates had said. One of the other guys from our floor gave him a look, a look asking for the volume of his laughter to be cranked down. Flint didn’t seem to notice or mind. I found a way to join his group, the one rotating through the activities slower than every other group.

“So, you’re from Texas?”

“Yes, ma’am. But this here liberal stuck out like a porcupine at a nudist colony in his home town.” He had adopted a mildly offensive regional accent to make his statement even more ridiculous. “What about you? Where are you from?”

“Connecticut. And I’m an expert at blending in.”

“I could pick you out of a crowd, easy.”

A blush crept up my neck and I tried not to faint. “That’s because I’m not trying to hide.”

“Good,” he said.

I realized that the group had left us behind. I felt daring in Flint’s presence. “Let’s skip out. They’ve already seen us make an appearance.”

Flint took my hand, causing the little dwarves in my stomach to do a jig. We jogged away, turning back to see if anyone was looking. We were completely conspicuous and I loved it.

* * *

The next day, I woke up and ran through my schedule. I was taking the required freshman courses: English Lit, World History, Calculus I. It was unfortunate, because I had already completed the college equivalent in my AP’s, but the college didn’t count those towards requirements. I planned on attending all of my classes. I wanted my professors to like me. In high school, all of my friends and I had gathered in our favorite teacher’s room during our free periods. Every year, we had a new favorite teacher who mentored us and joked with us like equals. I wanted the same thing to happen here and going to class was a good place to start.

“Fuck you.”

The sound came from Ruby’s bed. I glanced up the lofted bed and tried to figure out what she was doing. She looked like she was still sleeping, but she had definitely just yelled.

“Ruby?” I said.

No response. I climbed onto my desk to see her better. She was tangled in her sheets, her eyes were shut and she was thrashing about. I was stuck with a violent sleep talker. She had been blessed with a village elder’s way of telling you how much they didn’t like you, even in her sleep. I made a mental note to loft my bed as well, just in case she was also a sleepwalker. Hopefully, sleepwalkers can’t climb ladders and I would be safe from her sleepy rage up high.

I picked up my backpack, an item that was half my weight already from a computer and a textbook, and slipped out the door, closing it until I heard a soft click. I hoped that Ruby hadn’t heard it and woken up. I padded down the ghostly hallways painted in a palette of colors that could only have been selected while looking at vomit. No one was awake to witness my exit, 10 am being too early for most of my floor to have decided to go to class. As I walked through the campus, I made sure that my hair was in place, that I was wearing my makeup and that I looked generally presentable: my mother would be furious if she found out I was checking myself after I had left the room.

I arrived at Calculus I and slipped into the seat in the front left corner: my favorite vantage point. It allowed me to see the professor and pay attention, but not so teacher’s pet-y as to be front and center. The other students filled in the back rows, gradually forcing the newcomers to fill in rows closer and closer to the front. I was hoping that someone could sit next to me. Then, I could make a friend. It would be weird if I turned around just to try to make friends. Besides, after orientation week, everyone had already found their preliminary friend groups and they were sticking to them, afraid that if they let go of them, they would be left friendless and alone. Which is a fair fear, just perhaps not one that allowed for making more friends.

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A boy wearing aviator sunglasses sat down beside me. I took my chance.

“Hi, I’m Andi. What’s your name?”

“Fothorn,” he said. “Jacob Fothorn.”

“You introduce yourself like James Bond,” I said, smiling. “What are you studying, Jacob?”

“It’s Fothorn. I’m studying Economics with a Business Administration minor.” He looked away.

I was really not making progress with this guy. I kept trying though.

“I’m studying Psychology. I’m pre-med so I’m taking a ton of science classes. Where do you live?”

Jacob turned, probably surprised I was still talking. “I live in Wesling.”

“Cool,” I said. “I live in Reeves. It’s horribly ugly and small, but at least it has air conditioning.”

Our conversation hit a wall. Jacob, or Fothorn, or whatever I was supposed to call him did not want to continue chatting. To be fair, I wasn’t sure what else I was supposed to ask him to spark discussion. Maybe “why are you wearing sunglasses inside?” or “Is there a reason are so particular about being called by your last name?”

“Fothorn, my man.” A boy wearing an A$$, A$$, A$$ bro tank sat down beside Jacob.

They completed a secret handshake and bumped shoulders. It was my chance to turn away and let them have their moment.

The bro tank whispered to Ian, “Who’s that?” and pointed to me.

Jacob whispered back, “Some freshman.”

They both laughed, probably proud that they had already settled into their college family and no longer needed to try as hard as the freshman did. I cringed inside, sorry that I had put myself out there to someone who didn’t care. Why would they look down on the freshman, I thought, when the freshman are the ones who actually need to be accepted. I composed my face to something neutral as the professor stepped to the front of the classroom. Obviously no one’s empathy had developed from going through the same process.

The calculus professor was new, a young PhD student from Venezuela. His classroom was filled with rules: no whispering unless you can whisper without using the letter “s”, every student had to participate in solving practice problems, no bathroom breaks, and no food in the classroom. We would eventually learn his unspoken rules, like never interrupt him when he’s ranting about Venezuela, stay away from drug jokes (something bro tank had just learned), and complementing the t-shirt he wore every day was the fastest way to gaining his favor.

He began a rant, weaving together his time in college in Venezuela and trigonometry. I was glad I had already learned this, because picking out the parts of the rant that were actually relevant to the class was difficult. My mind wandered to the EMS informational barbeque the next day. I needed to plan an outfit and study some of the jargon, anything that I had found online pertaining to their service. I wanted to be an insider, as quickly as possible. I would bring chocolate chip cookies. I hope they liked cookies. Who doesn’t like cookies? But then again, there are people out there who don’t like chocolate, or who only eat white chocolate, so I should be prepared for anything.

I pulled out my phone and hid it behind my pencil case. I searched through my contacts for Flint’s number.

I texted him “Cookie baking tonight? I’ll get milk from C-Shop.”

Before I had put my phone away, it buzzed. “You bet, motherfucker.”

I sighed and rolled my eyes. Adding “motherfucker” to the end of boring sentences was a new phase of his, he said. He thought it made everything funnier. He added a rising and falling inflection, a you-betcha hand motion, and a quick smile.

I couldn’t join in, although sometimes, when I was with him, I felt like I could. I felt invincible and safe from my mother’s perpetual disapproval of anything less than perfect when I was around him. But now, away from him, I felt the years of being taught not to swear, under any circumstances, rise up and clamp down on my vocal chords, almost daring me to try to express such vulgar language.

“Andi!” My professor’s voice jumped out at me.

I looked up at the board. “Yes?”

“What’s the next step?”

I peered at the board, trying to make out the messy squiggles that tangled across the board.

“Nothing? We did a similar problem a few minutes ago.” He pulled at some of the fibers in his beard.

I felt a hot flush creep down my neck. “You divide by cotangent.”

He nodded. “Put your phone away.” He turned to teach a class that was almost as checked out as I was.

I dropped my phone into a backpack that was too heavy for me.