“Call me if you go anywhere, okay?” Lewis half asks, half orders.
I nod once and plunge into the crowd, regretting the decision instantly. I’m doubly aimless and overwhelmed without Lewis. I push out of the hall into the front stairwell and head up, passing the door where we entered. Nearby in a narrow foyer, a chandelier draped with toilet paper hangs from the ceiling. I wander in and follow the room to the doorway on the other end, which opens into a larger common area. This room’s equally crowded, if fortunately less claustrophobic. Windows line the walls, and the entire room is effectively a dark dance floor.
It feels intensely anonymous. Not in a comfortable way either. In an unpredictable, vaguely frightening way. I acknowledge pulling out my dictionary would render me the weirdest person in the vicinity of this entire college campus, so I focus on putting words to the experience instead.
Discomfiture (n.): the unease, close to embarrassment, I feel walking amid partygoers enjoying the kind of party I’d never go to on my own, on a college campus I’ll never call my own.
I force myself farther into the crowd. Suddenly really thirsty, I decide to find the bar—only for a cup of water. I’ve never had the curiosity for underage drinking I know almost every one of my classmates does. I have a hard enough time holding on to control of my circumstances without the liquid catalyst for risks and abandon. When I’ve nearly reached the counter, someone barrels into me and I feel something wet slosh onto my sleeve.
Bacchanalian (adj.): characterized by drunkenness and excessive revelry, even on Sunday nights, probably with fall semester finals coming up.
Ataraxia (n.): the peaceful calm I’ll feel when I get the hell out of here.
The bar consists only of open bottles from which people mix their own drinks. The girl next to me pours together Sprite and whatever’s in the clear plastic bottle she’s holding while I reach for the soda water. I dump what’s left into one of the plastic cups. It’s flat but not terrible.
Turning back to the crowd, I wonder what exactly Lewis imagined I’d do here. Dance with a random girl in this poorly converted common room? Play drinking games with bros I’ve never met before in my life? Experience a real taste of college? The truth is, I don’t understand how people do this. What combination of effortless ease and bravado, confidence and poise permits them to walk up to people in dark rooms, play anonymous games, and try things they’ve never tried before.
I’m not that person.
Theoretically, I could be. Nobody on this campus knows me—it’s possible I could be whoever I want. Everyone certainly says college provides the opportunity to “reinvent yourself.” But I don’t know if a dimly lit fraternity and a different zip code can summon from me something that’s not already there.
I don’t have to find out, not tonight. I promised Lewis I’d come to this party, but that’s all. I only have to be here, not present.
Pertinacious (adj.): persevering in one’s course of action to return home to New Hampshire in the morning, even when what’s required is hanging out within the confines of a college party.
I head for the stairs. If I’m going to remain in this building the rest of the night, it’s essential I find some peace and quiet. Everyone’s streaming down into the basement, but I go up. While I doubt I’ll find the upper floors entirely peaceful, they have to be better than down here.
The stairs open onto an empty hallway. Tight doorways run the length with little whiteboards hung on each one of them. I walk idly and read what’s written on them. Janine needs to study. If you hear music (or sex) behind this door, KNOCK AND YELL AT HER. I find crudely drawn hand turkeys and end-of-year countdowns. On one I read an extensive conversation of song requests for the person who presumably plays guitar in the room.
I figure I’ll read my dictionary until Lewis texts me he’s ready to leave. Finding nowhere to sit, I settle for the floor near the windows on one end of the hallway, opposite the door to