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know where Rollinson Hall is?”
    “I’m a freshman,” the kid says, shrugging a sorry and walks off.
    “Excuse me,” I say to the next person — a girl in a twin set with a tan so evenly distributed, it’s got to be a mist-on. “Do you now where math classes are held? Rollinson Hall?”
    She pauses on her cell phone and looks at me. “Math?”
    Yes, I want to say, as in arithmetic, simple or complex equations, reckoning of inequality in numerical form, but instead I just cut to my already infamous chase, “Rollinson Hall.”
    She mutters into her tiny phone and says, “Probably that way — go to the basement of the rectangular building there — and look in the lab.”
    Suddenly, I have visions of myself being on Hadley Hall Survivor, where I have to outwit and outplay the preppy masses, using my wits as my guide. In this ridiculous vain, I set off to the building where tan phone girl pointed to, and take the stairs two at a time.
    In the basement, the air is cool, the walls thick concrete, decorated with student art and murals. I search for signs of mathematical life — but find only a sculpture gallery (Note to self: naked male sculptures of people currently enrolled at Hadley Hall = sexy and disturbing at the same time), a huge auditorium presumably where Friday Films! are shown, and then a blue metal door marked “Lab.” Finally. I open it up, prepared with my “I’m new/sorry I’m late” excuse already forming on my lips, but when I get inside, there’s just tables and paper cutters and black and white prints and another doorway marked “Lab 2.” Now I really feel like I’m on a surreal game show and decide to just open the next door to see if a dragon or faded pop star will pop out and explain the rules to me.
    But instead I hear, “Didn’t you see the developing light was on? Close the door, quick.”
    My eyes take a minute to adjust to the dark, and when they do, I can make out a tall figure in the corner.
    “I’m looking for Rollinson Hall,” I say.
    “Robinson,” the guy says.
    “No, Rollinson,” I say. I step closer towards him, watching him slip a large piece of white paper into a shallow tray. While I wait for him, an image seeps onto the once-blank paper. Ah, I may be slightly slow, but at least I know where the photo lab is now. Not that I take photo. Not that I’ll be allowed on campus if I get expelled for cutting classes on the first day. “Sorry — Rollinson?” I ask again. My voice goes up, too girly, and I annoy myself.
    The guy flips his hair up and I see that he is no other than hottie himself. He comes over to me and speaks slowly, like I’m an exchange student. He points a finger into his chest, “Me Robinson.”
    “Oh, your name is Robinson.” My name is Loser, I think but don’t utter.
    “Yes, Robinson Hall — how can I help you?”
    If the room wasn’t dark, he’d see my red face and red hair, my whole self a blend of embarrassment. “I thought you were my math building.”
    Even in the dim lighting I can see his mouth twist — half smile, half dumbstruck by my weird comment. I start to back out of the room. “Sorry to bother you.”
    I’m back at the door of the naked man sculpture gallery when he — Robinson — reappears and says, “Hey, wait up. You must be late for Trig with Thomspon — which means you’re in trouble. I’ll walk you over.”
    Oh my God! Is what I’m thinking when he actually starts to accompany me to class, but what I say is, “Great tee-shirt.” Smooth, Love, smooth. Robinson’s got an old General Public shirt on, the one with the eyes and weird wing logo.
    Robinson glances down to remind himself what garb he threw on this morning. “Yeah?”
    “Yeah,” I say and then, “I really like ‘So Hot You’re Cool.” It’s my favorite song on that disc. Another gift from Mable.
    “I don’t actually know their music,” Robinson says, semi-admitting lameness. “A friend in New York gave this to me.” From his voice