Luckily，the ones I started takiog， like voice and articulation and creative writing，kept me busy and absorbed. Once in a while， I saw people in the study lounge wholooked like they actually bought their clothes in a store instead of at a garage sale，but they were usually hunched over their computers for hours （wearing invisible butobvious Do Not Disturb signs）. So I closed my door at night and quietly tried to recitemonologues ，draft plots for short stories and deal with one of my roommates，whowas mostly interested in applying gobs of punky makeup to her face，looking in themirror every second and going out to flirt with guys.<br> At night，when I briefly left my room to go to the bathroom or use the vendingmachine， I began to notice that a scruffy little group （especially a guy who wore awool ski cap and a girl who was always draped in Iong，flowy hippie gear）wouldgather every night in the hallway. They held miniature poetry slams， played guitarsand listened to discs I had never heard before. They talked about human injusticesin some countries，while they lolled around for hours on the beaten brown carpetthat blanketed the wide hallways of our one-hundred-year-old stone dorm.<br> I didnt get these people. My high-school friends and I never read poetry to-gether or jammed，let alone talked about politics. When we wanted to have fun，wewent to the mall or saw a movie. And when we talked，we talked about guys——oreach other. It occurred to me that even if these people invited me to hang out withthem， I wouldnt know what to say. "How late is the library open？" seemed reallylame.
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