It's eight o'clock Sunday morning, and instead of still being blissfully unaware of my surroundings and sleeping until mid-afternoon like I would prefer to be, I'm in the stairwell of my dorm, talking to my mom on my cell phone. The crazy woman who brought me into this world decided it was a wise idea to call her teenage son at seven-fifteen in the morning on a weekend, and I've been stuck on the phone with her since.

So far, she's updated me on every move every member of our family has made, asked my opinion on a new haircut (which I don't freaking care about, especially not this early in the morning), and asked me at least six times if I'm making sure all my food is kosher. That last part is really beginning to get on my nerves. Her voice in general is starting to get on my nerves.

"So, Danny," I hate when she calls me that. "Are you getting good grades?"

"I've been here for six days, Mom."

"Well, that's no reason to not be succeeding. I'll bet you're at the top of your class." This woman makes no sense. "What about your roommate? How is he?"

"They're all fine."

"They? Are you in a group home, or something?"

"No, Mom." I sit down on a stair, resting my forehead on my hand. "I live in a quadruple. Remember?"

"Oh, yes, that's right. What are your roommates' names?"

"Jack Kelly, Dave Jacobs, and Spot Conlon."

"Really? Jacobs? Is he Jewish?"

I shake my head. "Uh, yeah, I think so."

"Well, isn't that nice. Have you made many friends?"

"Outside of my roommates, there's Racetrack, who lives across the hall from me, and there's Dutchy, and he lives one floor down. Dutchy's really cool, Mom. He's smart, and he's funny... oh, and he does photography. He's really good at it, too. He showed me some of his stuff. It's amazing. He's like, the next Ansel Adams or something."

"That's nice. Well, Danny, have you met any nice, Jewish girls yet?"

Ah, yes. The beginning of the infamous when-are-you-getting-married-I-need-grandchildren rant. It's been going on since I was eleven. It's a little tedious. "Uh, no, Mom. I've kinda been focusing, um, on my studies, and stuff."

"Oh." She doesn't even bother to try to hide the disappointment in her voice. "Well, Danny, I need to get going. Mrs. Liebowitz's daughter, Abby, you know her, the sweet, pretty girl up the street... Anyway, it's her birthday and I figured I'd make her a little something." Typical Jewish mom. Guilt-trip your son about getting married, and then go cook.

"Okay, Mom. Love you. Bye." I hang up before she has the opportunity to go off on another tangent.

Sighing, I lean back on the stairs and close my eyes. Despite being as exhausted as I am, I know I'm never going to be able to get back to sleep. So I head back to my room and grab my running shoes, and meander on out to the courtyard for a jog.

I used to run all the time back at home, just because it felt good. There's this really big park over by my house, and I used to run through there almost every day. If it wasn't raining, sometimes I'd bring my sketchbook and sit down and draw up elaborate stories featuring the people in the park. I loved it.

But one day, at the beginning of my freshman year, there was a group of guys from my high school playing football, and I guess I spent too long... well, shall we say, studying them. They noticed me, and soon what was a game of football became a good, old-fashioned fag-bashing. This continued all throughout that year and up through the middle of sophomore year, until I transferred here to Pulitzer's. Since that first day, I haven't run unless I was running from somebody.

Today, however, I have no one to run from. Today I can run just because it feels good. And I do. I run around the campus until I'm nearly collapsing. I'm completely out of breath, and my shirt is soaked through with sweat. I pull it off, and lay down in the wet grass.

I laugh to myself, because I feel so fucking good. I lay my head back on the ground and close my eyes, still smiling.

My eyes open a short while later to the sound of rapid, repetitive clicks. I lift my head up and look around, getting used to the brighter sunlight, and see Dutchy over by the garden, taking pictures. As I sit up, he looks over.

"Hey." He slings his camera around his neck, then plops down beside me. "What're you doin' out here so early?" He says this as if one commonly finds teenage boys passed out and shirtless in the gardens at this school.

"Running," I tell him, still grinning. "What about you?"

"Taking pictures." Dutchy lifts his camera up and waves it at me.

"Okay, that was a dumb question." We both laugh. I look down at my watch, noting that it's ten-thirty. I've been gone far longer than I expected.

"You hungry? They're serving breakfast now. Sunday's usually pretty good."

We sit at breakfast, discussing the end of my first week at J.P.'s. Eventually, Dutchy asks why I came so late in the year.

"Well, I was changing schools anyway... and my art teachers had been bugging me since the fourth grade to apply here when I was in high school, and so I figured, it's now or never, so why the hell not?" I take a bite of my fruit, which isn't really all that satisfying after a long run, but nothing else looked all that appetizing, either.

"How come you were changing schools? Moving, or something?"

"Or something, yeah." I shove another forkful of fruit into my mouth, in hopes I will not have to answer any more questions.

"Well, what's the 'or something'?"

I swallow, grimacing. "Um... Honestly, I'd rather not talk about it. At least not yet."

"Okay..." He looks at me quizzically, but then appears to drop the issue. "So, how come you got up so early this morning?"

"My mother decided to call at, like, seven, to tell me all about my grandma's water aerobics class, and the new haircut she's thinking of getting, and to pester me about meeting girls."

"Pester you?"

"Yeah. Apparently, I was supposed to get married and start reproducing shortly after birth."

Dutchy nearly chokes on his orange juice. He makes the cutest faces when he's trying not to die. Okay, no, not really.

"Man. I wish my mom would try and push me into relationships. Then I wouldn't feel so bad." He pushes away the few shaggy strands of hair that hang in his face. "She wants to keep me at home with her forever."

"Wanna trade?"

We both start laughing so hard that the teachers at the next table shoot us dirty looks. That only succeeds in making us laugh harder.

"God damn, Specs," Dutchy says when he catches his breath. "I don't know how I survived here before you came along."

Me either.