—It’s Ethan, remember! From the library? And you’re OK! You’re OK, get it?
I did. It was lame enough to remind me where I really was.
—You straightened your hair, he said. It looks rad.
I dipped my head forward to bring my hair in front of me, then pushed it back again like it was so annoying to have to deal repeatedly with something so substantial. Then I pretended to yawn.
—I have a boyfriend, I said.
He didn’t even blink. Good for you, he said.
He glanced around, trying to nod with the beat but missing it by a little each time. Now that I stood next to him (instead of towering above from my library desk), I saw he was thin and a good eight inches taller than me. He kept leaning down, as if trying to see the room from my height, and the terrible plaid shirt he wore over some faded T-shirt kept falling open in my direction, as if lined inside with stolen watches he wanted me to check out.
—This party is way loud, he yelled into my ear.
The red light bulbs illuminating the entrance made his already-red hair look orange. Disorganized red scruff glinted from his chin.
—I know, he said, I’m a freak, right? This light. It’s like I’m glowing.
He’d caught me staring, so I said, Sorry.
—Nah, it’s cool, he said.
One team of girls from the front door grew a little brave, tiptoed their way behind me. I didn’t want to move—I wanted to break them up like a school of fish around a shark—but Ethan touched the top of my half-exposed back and scooted me closer to the wall. It was a little quieter there, without the beam of sound from the dance floor’s entrance directly hitting us.
—So I can keep calling you OK, he said. But if you have an actual name, you can tell me what that is at any point.
—Okay, I said.
And I couldn’t help it; I laughed. So did he, his throat flashing as he sent the boom of it toward the ceiling.
A pair of hands clamped down on my shoulders from behind me.
—Liiiiiiz, Jillian slurred when I turned around. Where were you? We were looking for you!
Her necklace was now wrapped around her wrist. Her hat was gone, her face glazed with so much sweat I would’ve guessed she’d just been jogging.
—You guys left me at the dorm, I said.
—Wha? No we did-it. Tracy said she could-it find you when you left the bathroom.
Ethan yelled over the music, Who’s your friend? and I said, She’s not my friend, she’s my roommate.
—She’s pretty wrecked, he said.
—No, she’s just a little sloppy, I said. Right, Jillian?
—Li-zet! she said, a hand still on each of my shoulders. I. Love. Dancing!
—Who knew! I said. Hey, maybe go get some air?
She closed her eyes and nodded, then jolted them open and squealed, I want to see you dance later!
I kept my mouth shut but smiled.
She grabbed me in a bear hug—said, You are one fucking hawt mamacita!—then freed me and ran away, yipping as she sprinted outside.
I shrugged at Ethan and said, She sucks sometimes.
—I can see that, he said. He took a sip from his cup, leaned down even more, then said, Li-zet.
—Are you drunk, too? I said.
He tipped the cup down. This is water, he said. I don’t drink shitty beer.
—There’s non-shitty beer?
—What? he laughed. Where are you from?
—Miami, I said. I braced myself for the follow-up But where are you from from? by watching people’s shoes turn slush into water on the floor, but it never came.
—Well that explains you not knowing there’s good beer in the world.
I asked him where he was from, and he said Seattle.
—Which explains my excellent dancing outfit, he said. He pulled open the plaid shirt even more. The T-shirt underneath said YIELD.
I grinned. I didn’t say anything about your clothes, I said.
—You didn’t need to. He sipped more water, then sniffed his armpit. Damn, I really have to do laundry.
I recoiled with extra theatrics but then turned to stand by his side against the wall. I said, I can smell you from here, and he laughed and said, Right on.
—Yield? I said. I prefer Stop.
—Oh, right, so you’re too sophisticated for Pearl Jam, like everyone else now?
—What does Pearl Jam have to do with anything?
He scratched the red hair sprouting on his chin, then pointed to the word on his shirt. He said, You know this is a Pearl Jam album, right?
I didn’t. I couldn’t even name a Pearl Jam song, though of course I’d heard of the band. I looked at his shoes—big, black boots—then up at his face, to his eyes, which sort of startled me with how light they were. A blast of cold came down the foyer as the song playing melted into another—one I loved. I knew exactly how many seconds I had until it got to the hook.