We ordered and found a table. Place was jammed with students and also some professor-looking types (they had facial hair, which seems to be a requirement). A few minutes later I heard my name.

"Courtney!" the guy working behind the counter screamed at the top of his lungs. Sounded like kurt-kneeeeee. "Sandwich up!"

I hurried over to the counter for my basket of sandwich and corn chips. When I turned around, I almost b.u.mped into Grant, who was walking over from the cash register. Fl.u.s.tered fl.u.s.tered fl.u.s.tered.

"Grant, I hate to say this again, but, um, quit following me." He stared at me. I pushed him gently. "Joking."

He laughed. "Who's following you? I'm meeting my vet sciences study group here."

"Oh?" I coughed.

"We've been meeting here long before you moved to town."

"Oh. Vet studies. Interesting. You're still majoring in, um, veterinarianism?"

He stared at my sandwich. "And you're still failing at vegetarianism? Isn't that turkey?" Then he smiled. "Just kidding. And it's called veterinary science. Actually."

"Well, this is called vegan cheese. Actually."

We kind of laughed, awkwardly. He stared at my sandwich. "Really? That's fake cheese and not turkey? OK, here's one thing I don't get. Why not just give up cheese?"

We got into this conversation about the merits of vegan cheese. We so had nothing real to talk about.

"GRANT!" the guy behind the counter yelled, nearly splitting my eardrums.

"Yell much?" Grant commented to me under his breath.

"Didn't need that ear anyway," I added as we both picked up our baskets of food and headed away from the ear-shattering counter person.

Grant stopped by the table to say hi to Dara and Shawna on the way to his own table, which he was sharing with a few other students, one guy and two girls.

"So, I see you met our next-door neighbor?" asked Shawna.

That was the understatement of the year. "Um, yeah."

"He's totally nice, don't you think?"

You want to see nice? You should kiss him, was the first thing that popped into my head. What? I nearly slapped my own face. I was about to tell them that Grant and I went way back, when Dara said, "Nice? Maybe, but I think he's kind of a clueless dolt."

"Who-Grant?" asked Shawna.

"Yes. He's doltish. Doltesque."

Shawna shook her head. "No, he's not. He's, like, really sweet."

"In a dolty-like way." Dara brought up the time Grant had broken the window moving a couch into the house, but Shawna said that was his housemate Cody, who really, apparently, looks just like him but is a bit on the dumb side.

Another Grant look-alike? (A Grant-alike?) I'd have to meet him. I wondered if Grant was good friends with him, and the rest of his housemates, and I wondered who his best friends were now. Did he stay in touch with anyone from Bugling Elk? Did he ever see that group of friends that once used to include Dave, other ex of mine? What about his roommate from last year, the one I ended up talking to sometimes when I called-Matt, right?

And as I was sitting there, midsandwich bite, a hundred questions went through my mind. I can't remember them all now, but if I was to try to reconstruct them, they included things like: What did Grant do all summer?

Where did he live last year? I couldn't remember the name of the dorm.

Boxers or briefs? (JK.) Did he still think it was OK to wear that striped polo shirt that made him look like Where's Waldo?

Did he go through the Taco Bell drive-through anymore, and if he did, did he ever think of me?

I'm a hopeless romantic. I know.

I felt like I had to say something, or I'd be dishonest not to mention it. "So, back to Grant. I actually knew him from before. From Bugling Elk."

"Bugling what?" asked Dara, making a face as she pulled a stray bean sprout from her roast beef sandwich. (If anything, she should take out the roast beef.) "It's our high school," Shawna explained to Dara. "Well, I was only there a couple of years. I never knew him then, but I, like, wanted to."

"Yeah. Well. I kind of, sort of, like . . . dated him."

They both shrieked. Really loudly. And often.

I ducked down, hoping Grant wouldn't see or hear-he had to know what we were talking about, but still. My new favorite place to eat in town was rapidly becoming a place I could never set foot in again. At least not on Tuesdays during vet sciences study group.

"Seriously? You and him. Was it, like, serious?"

"No. We were only in high school, you know. Seniors. No big deal." It only made my senior year the best one yet at high school or anywhere else. Until Wittenauer, of course.

"So what made you break up?" asked Dara.

"Well . . ." College. I went away, and he kissed Beth, and then I kissed Wittenauer . . . and then it was too far away . . . and we sort of got back together but not really because I didn't trust him . . . so then . . .

"h.e.l.lo. Earth to Courtney."

I suddenly realized I hadn't said anything out loud. "Oh, I don't know, really. Lots of things. Typical, you know, breakup stuff."

"Hooking up with other people." Shawna nodded.

"Existential angst." Dara nodded.

"Pretty much." I glanced over at Grant's table and noticed his study group hunched over their notebooks and laptops. "I, um, went away last year and things just changed."

"In other words, you hooked up with Witts-his-name," Dara said.

"Not exact-"

"This is major," Dara interrupted. "A major development. We're never going to look at you the same way again."

"You're not?" I asked.

They both shook their heads.

I couldn't tell whether they meant that in a positive or a negative way, but I didn't have time to ask because Tobie, their former roommate, walked in, and they all started talking about party plans.

I ate my fake cheese and wondered why I was eating it. Maybe Grant had a point. Besides, would a slice of Munster really kill me? Sure, I'm slightly lactose intolerant, but what about Swiss? The holes would not contain any lactose at all.

9/23.

I need a new cell phone plan. Have spent approx. 1,500 anytime minutes talking already this month, which is about 500 too many. Had to call Dad to appeal to his sense of guilt; he agreed to add me to his family plan but only if I start keeping control of my minutes.

My minutes are out of control, apparently.

It's not like my life is out of control or anything. . . .

c.r.a.p. Have to write my first essay for Art of Essay and can't think of anything.

We're supposed to write about something we feel pa.s.sionate about. Well, obviously, I'm not writing about Wittenauer. I mean, that is way too personal.

Maybe the TA doesn't mean pa.s.sionate that way. Maybe he means an issue that really concerns us?

Wait, I know. I have something very current: "The Evildoers: Phone Companies and the Overcharges." But that subt.i.tle sounds like a band. Besides, I believe my mother already wrote that story when she took on the giant MegaPhone corporation.

I do not want to copy my mother. Especially when it comes to cardigan sweaters.

9/24.

Near disaster in Environmental Activism cla.s.s today.

First of all, I found out Dr. Bigelow knows my name now.

Second, halfway through what was a slightly boring lecture, I thought I saw Grant go past in the hallway and I kind of, sort of, leaped out of my chair. I was so happy to see a familiar face.

See, at a small school like CFC, occasionally it gets old running into people. You sometimes wish you didn't see someone you knew everywhere.

But then here, it's the opposite. And I'm new. So I hardly ever see anyone I know.

"May I help you, Ms. Smith?" Dr. Bigelow asked. "You're already starting three weeks late. Now what?"

"I just . . . excuse me. Sorry." I saw my ex-boyfriend go past and, uh . . .

"Are you feeling all right?"

"Yes, yes, fine. Sorry. Leg twitch. Cramp thing."

"Maybe you should see a doctor about that. But in the meantime, let's keep our focus."

"Sorry." I stared down at my notebook, feeling like I was about eight years old.

"Oh, Superfund. I lost my place." Dr. Bigelow shuffled through his notes. He glanced up to glare at me.

I couldn't slouch any lower without landing on the floor.

9/25.

Is it my fate in life to always have c.r.a.ppy, part-time food-service jobs?

Because that's how it's starting to feel.

Oh, wait. I'm in college so that I won't have to do that. When I feel like giving up, I must remember that. I am avoiding having my career stop at the Smoothie Stop.

Fortunately, Dara and Shawna dropped by to visit, which made working with Guy Nicollet, SuperZero, better. Dara hates all things fruit but had a hot fudge sundae, and Shawna opted for an Orange Immunity Blast.

You can learn a lot about people by what they order.

But usually, you really don't care.

9/26.

Grant's house had a party tonight. Yesterday night, since it's now 2 A.M.?

Whatever. I had too many energy drinks at the party next door. Great for mingling but not recommended if you plan on sleeping. On the plus side, I can chat/IM with Beth in a few hours. Or now, maybe.

Grant wasn't there at the beginning. Which was actually kind of nice and relaxing and gave me a chance to meet other people.

"What's the occasion?" I asked the Grant look-alike, Cody. Except they don't really look that much alike. Cody is a cargo shorts/flip-flop/T-shirt person. Every single day, as far as I can tell. That's not really Grant's look. Grant's more of a cargo shorts/tee/flip-flop person.

Wait. That's the same thing.

Anyway. "It's Sat.u.r.day night, dude," Cody said, as if he didn't need a reason to trample the gra.s.s, rent a keg, blare music, and annoy the neighbors.

"Well, yeah. Of course it is," I said. I clinked my can of Rockstar against his cup of beer. "Party on."

"Right on," he said, nodding.

Sometimes those of us in tragic long-distance relationships lose track of things like parties and fun and weekends.

I sat down in a webbed chair to watch some volleyball. Game was kind of boring. Meanwhile, I kept texting W. We talked a few times and I held the phone out so he could hear what a Sat.u.r.day night party in Fort Collins sounded like. Same as it does anywhere, just at slightly higher alt.i.tude. Does the air being thin make the noise louder, or softer?

Eventually met some people, including Matt, Grant's roommate from last year. We talked for kind of a long time, just small talk, naturally. I was wondering how much he knew about me and whether he loathed me for the way I'd acted toward Grant. "On behalf of Grant Superior, I'd like to punch you . . ." could easily have been his greeting.

But he was just a nice person who seemed to be genuinely interested in my life and felt bad about the fact I had to transfer but was glad to meet me, etc.

I was talking with Shawna about a million different things, like people we both knew from Bugling Elk soph.o.m.ore year, for hours. I think we ate three bags of tortilla chips. Jane called and she totally remembered Shawna, so they talked for a while. Jane pointed out something I already knew: I'm so lucky that even though I moved to a new place, I live with someone I already knew, totally nice Shawna. (Then Jane complained about her own housemates for a while.) Finally Grant showed up. Said he'd been at work. Man, whenever I think I have a bad social life . . . Grant is working at a grocery store on Sat.u.r.day nights. I hate to say it, but . . . that's slightly loseresque. Wonder if he is steering away from vet science into food science. Only explanation for his devotion to customer service desk and green team initiative.

We talked for a couple of minutes. I told him about the Smoothie Stop, and my cla.s.ses, and how I'm already on Dr. Bigelow's. .h.i.t list. I told him about the time I thought I saw him walking by the room and how I jumped up and got in trouble. He laughed a lot but told me not to worry, that everyone starts out there and has to earn their way up. He started to tell me a story about what happened to him freshman year, until the guys started setting fireworks on the street.

When there was a pause in the action, I heard this howling sound coming from somewhere. Then I realized. It's Oscar. Poor Oscar. Scared to death of fireworks.

I ran home and Oscar was running in circles around the room. He had started to wear a path in the bas.e.m.e.nt rug. I crouched down to catch him, midlap, and got him to stop by giving him a bear hug. He was shaking all over and kind of whimpering.

I'd been hugging him for a second when there was a knock on the door. I looked up and saw Grant, just as another firecracker whistled into the sky. Oscar and I both must have looked pathetic and helpless, or maybe he only cared about Oscar. Anyway.

"I'll take care of it," Grant said in this deep, somewhat manly voice. He was off, up the stairs, back outside. A minute later, he got everyone, even the really drunk people, to stop doing fireworks. He made some argument involving post-traumatic stress disorder and its effect on animals. He was Oscar's hero. Again.