“I need that. Please,” I say, thinking about Mom and how she’s often saying similar phrases to me. Mom would love them.

“You’re cool, kid,” Chloe says. “You got one week to get us a rough storyboard. Next week, we’ll meet and discuss. A hive mind, if you will.” She hands me her phone. “Give us your number, but don’t abuse ours. This is your one warning.”

I nod quickly. She means business.

As I pack up my supplies, Sofía asks, “You busy? Have you had a chance to try the paninis at the Watering Hole?”

“What’s the Watering Hole?”

Chloe buries her head in her hands. “You haven’t been to the Hole? It’s the hub underneath the Campus Center. Filled with cafés and places to grab food.” She grabs on to my arm. “Come, we must educate you.”

And educate me they do.

The Watering Hole is a carousel of food vendors from Middle Eastern to Mexican to French—I already plan to wait in line for a strawberry Nutella crepe—to your standard-issue deep-fried American fare. Chloe and Sofía don’t hold back, either. They order me to find us a table, and I watch them navigate the frenzy with ease. It seems like everyone there knows them, and they’re easily able to cut through the crowds to grab platters of falafel and hummus, enchiladas and citrus guacamole, paninis with melty cheeses and caramelized onions sticking out, and an actual mountain of boneless chicken wings smothered in a tangy honey lime sauce.

Sofía loses herself in uncontrollable laughter when they return, trays piled high with food. “You should see your face,” she says. “Priceless.”

I can’t exactly tell them that all that food scares me or how much I want it all—and that it might lead me to the bookstore to find a box of laxatives.

“Dig in,” Chloe says, but it’s more like order. “Better be fast, or you won’t get any.”

“You know what would make this better?” Sofía holds her fingers up to her lips and sucks in a quick breath.

“You’re gonna corrupt this baby.” Chloe smacks Sofía’s arm. Then she lowers her voice and leans in closer to the table. “You smoke?”

“Totally,” I lie.

Chloe pout-smiles. “This one’s adorable. With a terrible poker face. It’s okay,” she reassures me. “We just thought we’d offer. Nothing like spreading the love.”

“I’ve always wanted to try it,” I admit.

“It really heightens my creativity,” Sofía says.

Chloe mumbles, “Lucky.”

“I’m down,” I say earnestly.

“Look at us, corrupting young minds,” Chloe says. “An-y-way, where you from?”

“New York, just outside the city,” I say, tooling with the food on my plate. “What about y’all?”

“Y’all?” Chloe says. “What’s a Southern word doing in your mouth?”

“Gender-inclusive,” I say.

“Nice.” Chloe smiles. “I’m from New Orleans.” The way she pronounces Nawlins is friendly, comforting. “Sofía is a Masshole from Bahston.”

Sofía elbows her. “You love Boston.”

“I love the legal weed dispensaries,” Chloe says. “Much easier to get product than New York. And the variety! And the amount of shops. It’s the only win over New York. Sorry, Sof.”