It’s now or never, I imagine the girl thinking. I will be the first girl here to approach the mysterious cute boy. He will think I am bold and intriguing, and will immediately want to make out with me.
She walks toward him, smile in place. I try to catch her eye and signal her to stop—this guy is very obviously gay—but she’s too fast.
“Hi,” she says to the guy. “Excuse me. I was wondering. I couldn’t help but notice. Those shoes, with the stripe, that you’re wearing. Are those bowling shoes?”
She’s doing that thing where you’re nervous, so you use more words than you need to. I feel bad for her.
“Yes,” the guy says.
“Because I’ve been wanting to get bowling shoes,” the girl says. “Where’d you find them?”
The guy exhales a long puff of cigarette smoke. I cough.
“I slept with the little old man,” the guy says.
The girl blinks at him. “Uh. What?”
I feel even worse for the girl, but it’s hard to keep from laughing.
“Who?” she asks.
“The old man,” the guy says. “At the bowling alley. With the foot spray. His name was Gerald. Charming fellow.”
“Oh,” the girl says.
The guy looks at her.
“Um, okay,” she says. “Well, I guess I’ll see you around.”
The girl walks away. Probably to give up on the whole comedy-club idea and slink back to her room for the next four years.
When she’s far enough away, I laugh out loud.
The bowling shoes guy turns around. His lips twitch.
“What’s funny?” he asks.
“That was so mean, what you did to that girl!” I say, still smiling.
He frowns. “It was just a joke.”
“Oh, come on. How was she supposed to come back from that?”
He frowns some more. “I don’t know. I didn’t think about that.”
“Where did you get those shoes?” I ask him.
“A vintage shop down on Canal. Are you into vintage clothes?” He looks down at my Martha Jefferson Academy for Young Women Tennis Team T-shirt. “By that I mean real vintage, not some ancient crap you dug out of the bottom of your girlfriend’s closet.”
I clutch at my heart. “Your wit, it burns me.”
The guy sits down next to me. “Hi. I’m Carroll.”
I laugh some more. I can’t believe how good laughing feels after everything that’s happened. “No way.”
“Yes way.” He pulls out his wallet and shows me his New Jersey driver’s license. It says Carroll Ostrowski next to a photo of him looking twelve years old and even scruffier than he does now.
“Little-known fact,” he says. “In 1932, Carroll was the hundred and seventy-third most popular name for boy babies in the United States.”
“What happened after that?”
“It fell off the chart thirty years later.” Carroll smiles, showing off extremely prominent dimples. “My folks fancied themselves eccentrics.”
I laugh again. I can’t wait to tell Toni this story later. Toni’s parents are into old-fashioned names, too, so they named their daughters Antonia and Audrey. Bad, but not as bad as Carroll.
“You don’t have a nickname?” I ask Carroll.
“In high school I tried to have people call me Carrey, ’cause at least that sounded kind of like a guy’s name. Then I got beat up anyway, and I figured now that I’m out of that hell town, I should embrace the real me.”
“Okay, Carroll.” I smile. He’s clearly rehearsed this speech, but it’s funny anyway.
“So?” he asks. “I showed you mine. You show me yours.”
“Oh. Okay.” I dig in my bag and pull out my Maryland driver’s license.
“Gretchen Daniels,” he reads. “Also somewhat old-fashioned, and yet not the sort of name that prompts disbelief. I like it.”
“I’m glad you approve.”
The other guy, the one who stuck his head through my doorway earlier, motions for us to come with him. We get up and follow him down the street. I don’t know if he’s our orientation guide or our RA or just a very outgoing freshman, but whoever he is, he doesn’t know the city at all. He has us looping all the way around Washington Square Park.
It’s fine, though. I’m busy with Carroll. It’s distraction city over here.
“That’s my roommate,” Carroll says, pointing to a tall guy in a sports jersey. “Juan, from LA. He already hates me, but he’s hot, so I’m okay with it. Who’s your roommate?”
“I still haven’t seen her. I know her name’s Samantha and she’s from South Carolina. Oh, and she’s a goth. I know because there’s black lace and purple candles spread out all over her side of the room.”
“Is she in Tisch?” Carroll asks. Tisch is the arts school, where all the wannabe dancers and filmmakers go.
“No,” I tell him. “She’s Arts and Sciences, same as me.”
Carroll snorts. “Why’d you pay all that money to come here for that? You can take English and math anywhere.”
“Hey.” I give him a shove. “Anywhere isn’t New York. I guess you’re an artsy fartsy Tisch kid, then, since you have such an attitude about it?”