An apology

Soon after we smoked, the tapestry-draped, cinder-block dorm room began to feel extremely cramped. There was nowhere to sit. Pat and Ben were talking about stuff I couldn’t understand. I wondered at some point whether they’d made up a secret language. But I nodded along so as to be polite.

It was a great relief to get outside. But by that time, 8 p.m. maybe, it had gotten dark and the road back to the quad had taken on a sinister air. I had still had no idea what Pat and Ben were saying when they spoke. And when they laughed, it was worse.

Back at the tent, the party had begun. Seniors were arriving, drunk and loud as they’d been all week. You were a whirl of orchestrating activity, talking fast, with people surrounding you wherever you went. I didn’t dare approach. Pat and Ben, though, went to get their assignments, and were soon stationed at the side of the stage, ten feet behind an orange rope. There’d be a band playing later, and I guess they were supposed to keep people away from the instruments or something. It was all very confusing. I walked around by myself for a while and it soon became clear that everyone was against me.

Dear Julia Neaman