There we stand about to fly
Peeking down over land,
What was that moment for which we lived
Without a parachute about to dive?
It’s a warm, misty night in Wellesley, MA, July 1995. The campus has been hijacked by hundreds of geeky, freaky, smart, talented teenaged misfits from all over the globe. The girls all seem to be brilliant and beautiful and Jewish and from New Jersey. The boys all seem to be dorky and funny and from everywhere. I’m from about an hour north. My roommate, Sharfie, is from the DC area. My new best friends are from Wisconsin and California and North Carolina and Rhode Island, and by the end of the three-week session I will have a collection of awkwardly scrawled phone numbers and achingly sincere promises to write.