"Well, certainly you're not wrong, but to take it beyond a surface level analysis..."

The pedantic boy in the brown leather flip flops drones on, once again, as I drown in a sickening mixture of irritation and inadequacy.

"You mean to say, individual justice," Professor Sharp interjects with a correction when Sandal Boy misuses one of Plato's key terms.

"Exactly, exactly—excuse me—individual justice," he swiftly confirms, then continues his lecture.

Professor Sharp never exactly offers praise or confirmation that the student's analysis has hit the mark, but the way the two bounce ideas off one another as equals makes me feel like I'm at the kids' table eavesdropping on a profound philosophical debate amongst adults.

Several of my other more vocal classmates dive into the conversation, challenging the ideas laid forth by Mr. Intellectual. They toss up fancy vocabulary and confidently swing at one another's opinions. The ping-pong balls containing concepts from last night's reading whip past my head at breakneck speed; they are all familiar and intelligible to me, but I lack the verbal coordination and conviction to jump into the game.

"We'll leave it there," Sharp cuts in, decisively concluding the debate as the clock ticks towards 3:00pm. "Your discussion questions for today are posted to the Canvas module online. Be sure to follow the instructions for crafting an extended response, as well as replying to your classmates. The essay topic for the Plato text will be posted by tomorrow evening and is due when you arrive to class Monday."

There is a collective exchange of eye contact throughout the room as every student reacts to being assigned their first college essay. I witness excitement dancing in people's eyes, mock-apprehension and cool half-smiles.

Thus far, I haven't found college coursework to be any more challenging than that of my most rigorous high school classes, with the exception of this course—"Inventing America"—which is decisively intimidating. I'm an even, fifty-fifty split at this moment between confidence in my abilities to handle the essay topic and terror over being ripped to humiliating shreds by my professor.

Sharp is the quintessential college professor—quirky, serious and intensely intellectual. While mild-mannered, I have yet to hear him express approval of anything a student has said. He merely squints, smirks or challenges their ideas with additional questions, blowing holes in any potentially articulate string of logic before it can gain momentum. I have yet to speak one word in class.

"By the way," Sharp addresses us, and the students who were packing away their books freeze to direct their full attention his way. "When writing your essay, please be mindful of the synonym game. The online thesaurus is not your friend; more often than not, it will weaken your writing."

I happen to make accidental eye contact as he speaks these parting words of advice to the class, and the green twinkle gleaming back at me almost humanizes him. Despite myself, I smile knowingly as our eyes lock for that single second.

The scent of warm pine that I suck into my lungs upon exiting the classroom fills me with an unexpected sensation of optimism. I bet I can write a better essay than Brown Sandal Boy.

* * *

That evening, there is a game night down in the basement of Forest. I tag along with my roommate Krista. She has already made a large group of friends, and I usually eat dinner with them, though I feel no real affinity with anyone in the clique. I have yet to run into any of the people who visited our dorm that first night; it's as if they all vanished off the face of planet earth after our impromptu rendezvous.

Walking through the halls on the way to game night, we pass a boy with science goggles perched on the top of his head, babbling to a friend about linguistics through a poetic, unintelligible wordspray. He's tall with smooth, caramel skin and a cute smile.

As I'm staring at him, three students dressed in black whiz by us, shrieking, their bare feet pounding into the thin floorboards as they chase each other like elementary school children at recess. 

Everywhere I turn on this campus, there are all these... just, bizarre people. The odder they are, the more intimidated I feel.

When we arrive to the basement, I spot Isla from across the way, who smiles sweetly and waves my direction. She makes her way over and introduces me to the two girls who are with her.

"This is Natalia, or you can call her Nati." My stomach warms with the sensation of hot cinnamon apple cider at the fact that she remembered both my name and my nickname.

"Do you like ping pong?" one of the other gals asks me.

We play doubles for a while, and true, genuine laughs escape my throat for the first time since arriving at Lewis & Clark. Soon, we are sidetracked when someone begins strumming a guitar and singing "Riptide" by Vance Joy. Others join in for the chorus, which sends a piercing sensation through my chest all at once sweet and nostalgic and terribly painful.

Throughout the evening, I absorb the snippets of conversation that float around me, forming a sort of impressionistic collage of university life. My body is still untethered; I'm here, but I'm not fully here.

"Well, I'm taking twenty-one units this semester, so..." A cliché of a college nerd brags about his overextended course schedule, and I roll my eyes internally as I gaze over his poorly-fitting khaki pants, green collared polo, oddly-parted blonde hair and classically unattractive face. He is awful, and I instantly like him a little bit.

I turn around and nearly bump into the kid with the science goggles I passed upstairs.

"Oops, sorry," I mutter as a blush spreads across my cheeks.

"It's interesting, isn't it? How 'sorry' is so often everyone's immediate reaction to minor physical mishaps such as bumping into someone or even veering slightly into another person's space."

"Um..." I stare at him, paralyzed by the melodic jumble of words firing at me, like a handful of tiny pebbles thrown by a toddler.

"I'm Josué," he says, extending his hand. I take it, and his smooth skin wraps all around mine with a sweet heat.

My brain notes the way he pronounces his name, and I match his accent when I introduce myself.

"I'm Natalia."

"Ah, you speak Spanish?" he remarks, and it's a statement rather than a question.

"Eh, somewhat," I correct him. "My mom is Mexican. And you?"

He launches into a confusing analysis of what it means to "know" a language, and I feel myself squirming; I have no idea how to respond to him. It's unclear to me whether the fine mist of constant words spraying into my ears is deeply profound or meaningless, rambling nonsense.

As I smile stupidly, he tilts his head to the side and appraises my discomfort. He sees through whatever armor I'm attempting to shield myself with.

"Do you always find it difficult to engage with people—to say what you honestly think in conversations?" he asks me point-blank. The tone of his voice is sing-songy and unintimidating, yet my fingers are soggy with sweat.

"I... sometimes, depending on the topic and who I'm talking with," I stammer.

"Hi! I'm Isla." The excruciating exchange is interrupted, but rather than relief, I feel a tiny sting of jealousy when I witness Isla batting her eyelashes and puffing out her voluptuous chest. Josué forgets about me instantaneously, like a half-empty bottle of room-temperature piña Jarritos, shifting his attention to a more willing and dynamic conversation partner. His face lights up, and his dimples sparkle as he and Isla launch into easy dialogue.

The next minute of reality is static white noise as I recover from my failed conversation. When I regain my composure, I discover that the geeky braggart in khaki pants has joined our small circle.

"Hey there, Joshua!" The guys fist bump in a less-than-smooth manner. "Please meet Isla and Natalia. Joshua is my roommate," Josué informs us.

I snicker on the inside at the fact that their names are translations of each other in English and Spanish. Joshua and Josué.

Joshua is much less intimidating to me, and I find I'm able to manage an entire conversation without embarrassing myself.

"Want to play ping pong?" I ask during a lull, shocking myself.

"Sure, I'd love to," he answers.

Josué is rambling on about a new topic with Isla, and I catch only certain vocabulary words that flash and gleam like rainbow sea glass on a never-ending grey expansion of shore.

"So, what's your major?" Joshua inquires, employing the most uninventive and overused college freshman question. His awkwardness puts me at ease in his presence.

"I'm not sure yet, but possibly Literature. How about you?"

"Poli-Sci," he returns.

The ball pings and clinks with airy, satisfying sounds as we engage in stilted conversation that doesn't feel uncomfortable to me, because I can tell we are on an even playing field of social incompetence.

When we tire of volleying, the other roommate approaches me with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

"Okay, here's a question for you. Why is it that when we look in a mirror, we see ourselves first, rather than noticing anything else in the surrounding vicinity?"

Is this some kind of deep, philosophical query I'm supposed to analyze?

He stares at me, and I can feel his eyes boring into my brain, checking to see if I'm allowing my synapses to fire.

I get it; he's challenging me to engage. I can't.

"I guess because people are self-absorbed," I reply. My face is pulsing with heat at my empty reply.

I don't look at myself when I step in front of a mirror.

"Do you really think that's what it is—that we're self-absorbed?" His tone is skeptical. This kid is bizarre and harmless—maybe even a touch crazy—but he makes me feel stupid.

"I don't know," I stutter, my voice disintegrating into scraggly threads of whatever the opposite of conviction is. "I mean, obviously we see ourselves first because we're the biggest and most noticeable thing in the mirror when we step in front of it."

"Ah! So what about if there were an entire room, full of people, lined with mirrors? Would we notice something or someone else first?" His voice is animated, as if he has discovered a critical scientific clue.

Throughout the exchange, Josué is standing close to me—closer than I'm accustomed to any boy standing, with the exception of Alex. It's not romantically motivated, however; he's trying to connect with me. I'm beginning to sense a stubborn, boiling irritation in the pit of my stomach. As I work to navigate my social humiliation, I question whether to be grateful or angry over his attempt to draw out a sliver of honesty from my soul.

"It's natural to notice your own reflection first—why wouldn't we see ourselves first? But some people avoid looking in the mirror." My words creak out, squeezed and strained.

Josué pauses for a prolonged moment, studying my face, then grins. I think I finally satisfied him, played his game, tricked him into believing I said something true and beautiful... but I feel exhausted and ungratified.