The girls’ smoking dorm is right next to the boys’ smoking dorm, and so we notice those boys first. We’ve all arrived at the same time, but somehow everyone (many of us are New Yorkers) already seems to know each other. I am the baby. We come up with code names for the boys we think are cute, and for the ones we don’t. One boy is called Busted Sofa because of a middle part that makes his head look like, well, a busted sofa. Another is called Spicy Poultry because he’s good-looking but in a generic, bland way. One boy is tall and smart and later in the summer will steal my father’s hat from a party at my parents’ house. Our favorites, though, our favorites, are a pair of fraternal twins who are, together and apart, so handsome and adult-looking that I am sure they are ageless vampires. Giving them nicknames would be like giving nicknames to the sun and the moon and so we don’t.