1. Note: This was in the last batch of prose, but this is a newer version—my bad.
Please disregard the last one.
Aaron, our RA, is about five or six important years older than us, though it seems
He has well groomed facial hair, glasses that look sleek and no larger than
absolutely necessary, and a broad-shouldered physique that suggests running or cycling
or swimming or something like that.
He looks like bookishness that’s aged well, and at
the moment, he’s issuing a ban on peanuts.
“Peanuts,” he says.
“No peanuts, peanut butter, peanut powder, peanut oil, peanut
products, or products containing peanut products.
Some people here can be very, very
And maybe you aren’t, but either way it’s not a good idea because even if you
keep them to yourself, maybe a little peanut grease ends up on a doorknob and gets
So don’t buy anything like that from the vending machines.
If you have
any with you, please, hand it in.
You’ll get it back at the end of the month.”
I zone out a bit once or twice and admire the blue hue of the carpet.
entirely sure what I’m doing here, but I rarely am.
This isn’t college, but it’s like it.
It’s a summer program called Johns Hopkins
Center for Talented Youth (or CTY, for those who either find the full name cumbersome
or feel self-conscious about classifying themselves as “talented youths”).
teenagers roughly ages 12-16 are chosen by test scores and spend a summer month
studying at a college.
My parents had urged me to do it to me the year before to help my college