Parallel

this). With three thousand college students stuffed into an auditorium that seats twenty-five hundred, it’s a raucous, borderline chaotic affair. By the time the houselights come on afterward, I’m both hoarse and deaf from all the screaming.
    “Should we go to Toad’s till close or skip it and get pizza instead?” Michael asks us as we’re inching toward the door after the show. Getting thousands of people into the building was a lot easier than getting them out.
    “Pizza,” I reply. “I’m too tired to dance.”
    “Ooh, pizza sounds good,” Caitlin says. “I haven’t eaten since lunch.”
    “Yorkside or Wall Street?” Michael asks, pulling out his phone.
    “Yorkside,” we say in unison.
    “Cool. I’ll text Ben.”
    Caitlin and I exchange a glance. She feigns a yawn. “Actually, on second thought, I think I’ve passed hunger and descended into sheer exhaustion. I’m just gonna head home.”
    “You sure?” Michael asks, slipping his hand into mine as we descend Woolsey’s front steps. Throngs of costumed revelers spill out onto the sidewalk and into the intersection of College and Grove as uniformed campus security guards try in vain to break up the crowd, which moves toward York Street in a Toad’s-bound mass. “All roads lead to Toad’s!” I hear someone shout.
    “Yeah, I’m sure.” Caitlin puts on a smile. “You guys have fun.”
    “Brunch tomorrow?” I ask.
    “Definitely.” She squeezes my hand and heads off down the sidewalk.
    Michael’s phone buzzes with a text. “Looks like it’s just you and me,” he says. “The lovebirds are calling it a night.”
    Yorkside is packed when we get there, so we split up. Michael goes to the counter for our pizza, and I claim a booth near the back.
    “I hope you like pepperoni,” Michael says as he approaches the table, balancing two paper plates and a pitcher of beer. He’s holding our cups between his teeth.
    “Who doesn’t like pepperoni?” I lift a slice off the plate and take a bite. Hot, gooey mozzarella sticks to the roof of my mouth.
    “So what’d you think of the show?” he asks, biting into his own slice.
    “I thought it was awesome. You?”
    He nods as he chews. “Loved it. It’s one of those quintessentially Yale things, you know?” He takes another bite, and a glob of pizza sauce sticks to his upper lip. “I used to make fun of that stuff,” he says. “A capella groups, theme parties, singing at football games. But then I got here and realized how cool all of it is.” Then, with a laugh: “Utterly dorky, but cool.”
    “I didn’t even know any of it existed until I got here,” I say as I try not to stare at the sauce on his lip.
    “So what sold you?” he asks.
    “Sold me?”
    “On Yale,” he says. “What convinced you to apply?”
    “Oh . . . ,” I falter. The reasons I didn’t want to apply pop into my mind, reasons that seem more like excuses now. “Academics, I guess.” When in doubt, go with the lamest, most generic reason ever. “What about you?”
    “Lacrosse. And the fact that it was a hundred and one miles from my house.”
    “Lucky number?”
    He laughs. “I had a minimum distance requirement. I had to be at least a hundred miles from home. Lucky for me, now it’s more like a thousand.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “My mom moved the summer after my freshman year.” Then, casually: “To Atlanta, actually.”
    I blink. “Your mom lives in Atlanta ? Where?”
    “Lilac Lane,” he says, drawing out his vowels. His attempt at a Southern accent sounds like Crocodile Dundee on sedatives.
    “I meant, what neighborhood? And why didn’t you tell me before?”
    “I don’t know anything but the street address,” he replies. “And I haven’t mentioned it because I generally don’t.” His tone doesn’t invite a follow-up question, but for once I don’t let that deter me.
    “But you know I’m from there, right?” As I say this, it crosses my mind that he might, in fact, not know that. What else have I assumed he knows that he actually doesn’t? Ohmigod, he doesn’t even know my last name. I rack my brain, trying to come up with a single instance where I’ve heard him use it, and can’t come up with one. Mortifying.
    “Yes, silly. Of course I know you’re from there. I was planning to mention it eventually, I just hadn’t yet.” This explanation is laughably lame, but I opt not to point it out.
    “How much time do you spend there?” I ask him.
    “Last year, I only