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the Ice Cream Bash turned up. “I’m going to this ice cream party.”
    â€œSounds fun,” she said. “Remember to take your Lactaid.”

    Hordes of students ate ice cream from paper cups, gabbing amiably as sanitized pop music played on speakers. While no one was looking, I swallowed one of the two lactose-intolerance pills I stored at all times in the small fifth pocket of my jeans, entered the fray, and got in line. It seemed like I was the only untethered attendee, as if everyone else knew the secret that ensured they were never alone at a party.
    â€œHello?” The Crimson Key member wielding the scooper was looking at me with hostile impatience under his perky mask. “What can I get you?”
    I quickly asked for vanilla. “No, wait,” I said as he plunged his arm into the bucket. Vanilla was what I always picked, the gastrointestinally safe base that deferred flavor to its toppings.
    â€œChocolate,” I revised. “With rainbow sprinkles, please.”
    I was tucking into my audacious dessert, wondering how long I could last without speaking to anyone, when Sara materialized in another well-timed intervention. She wore a capacious L.L.Bean backpack and was empty-handed.
    â€œNo ice cream?” I asked.
    â€œI was hoping there’d be sorbet. I’m pretty lactose intolerant.” She added, with mock solemnity, “We all have our crosses to bear.”
    The spare lactase-enzyme supplement bulged in my pocket. I reached in and fingered its single-serving packet. To offer it to her would be an admission that we together were fragile Jews in the crowd, unable to stomach a treat little kids gobbled unthinkingly.
    â€œHere,” I said quietly, handing her the packet as if making a drug deal. She recognized what it was and smiled.
    â€œThanks,” she said, tearing it open and depositing the pill on her tongue. I felt a curious surge of warmth toward her.
    We drifted back to the ice cream table. “So, a fellow digestively challenged Ashkenazi,” she said. “You are Jewish, right? Your last name sounds like you’re a member of the tribe.”
    â€œUh-huh,” I said. “You haven’t been around in a while. Were you in hiding?”
    â€œAh, you’ve seen through my facade,” she said. “Underneath this pleasant exterior lies a deeply antisocial personality. I’m a closet sociopath. Or psychopath, I mean. I always confuse them.”
    She chuckled. I spooned some ice cream into my mouth and nodded.
    â€œGroups aren’t my thing,” she went on, waving her hand at the masses around us. “I’m an extroverted introvert at best. But everyone says that, right? They want to claim the best parts of each—that they can be charming when they need to, but they really prefersolitude. No one’s ever, like, ‘I have the neediness of an extrovert and the poor social skills of the introvert.’ Sorry I’m talking so much. I’ve been in the library all day prepping for my freshman seminar.”
    â€œI’m not that good in groups, either,” I said, thinking of Mrs. Rice’s letter of recommendation. “Or one-on-one.”
    She laughed authentically.
    â€œLike, when it’s just Steven and me in the room, I’m not any more comfortable than I am here.” It was a clunky segue to my next question. “Who’s your roommate?”
    â€œVeronica Wells? The really pretty girl?”
    Feigning ignorance, I shook my head. “I haven’t been paying much attention to the people in our dorm. Is she nice?”
    â€œI wouldn’t know,” Sara said. “I’ve seen her maybe five times. I think the last conversation we had was when she turned on the light at four in the morning and said, ‘Sorry.’ ”
    â€œOh, you’re also in the front room,” I said. “That’s annoying, huh?”
    She shrugged.
    â€œSo do you have any