The barbecue offered scratchy country music from a boom box and a few folding chairs, the kind with thick strips of plastic that stick to your skin. In time, we were all introduced. The fisherman’s name was Walt. The hotdog eater was Jackson. Maxine introduced herself and explained that we were coworkers at the university’s admissions office, where we spent our days talking to potential students or, more often, their parents. Neither of us liked our job, but we had nothing else in the way of skills or interests. The only thing we’d accomplished was college itself—it made sense that we’d turn around and peddle it to others.

Surprisingly, Maxine took an interest in Walt, who was not as chubby as he’d originally appeared and who looked rather handsome in a baseball cap and aviators. She usually went for the lanky, artistic type—men who made their living painting murals or assembling sequined finger puppets for the arts center. She admitted to liking men who were interesting, not because she liked interesting men, but because dating interesting men made her feel interesting by proximity. While Maxine and Walt talked, Jackson let his hand hover over my lower back and attended to my cup of beer. I was giddy as he delivered paper plates loaded with warm strawberries and sweaty cheese cubes the color of duck feet. When he tried to feed me buffalo wings I told him I was a vegetarian. He looked at me as if I’d confessed to something shameful, like a case of chlamydia or an affinity for hair bands. It was a look I knew well. My mother had given it to me when I first told her I was giving up meat. “But, darling,” she’d said, “vegetarian households always smell like pee.”

Before long, Maxine and Walt came up to Jackson and me. “We’re going back to town,” Maxine said, grabbing at Walt’s hand. “You guys need a ride?”

“I’ve got my truck,” Jackson offered. “I can take us back in a little bit.” He looked at me for approval. Part of me wanted to stick to the original plan, which was to get ice cream sandwiches and watch a horror movie at Maxine’s place. But Maxine looked so excited and Jackson smelled like something familiar, maybe pine trees or rain, and so I said okay.

Jackson drove a tan pickup. I sat in the passenger seat with a six-pack of warm Coors at my feet and a tackle box on my lap. From the rear-view mirror dangled a red air freshener in the shape of a naked lady, the word CINNAMON stamped in cursive across her breasts.

“So you’re some sort of scholar, is that right?” Jackson asked. We were on a highway going what was probably too fast.

“Not exactly,” I said. “It’s more like sales than anything else. It’s just I sell college instead of snake oil.”

“Still, you’re on campus all day. Makes you something of an academic.”

“My mother would love to hear you say that,” I said, and then immediately panicked. Why had I mentioned my mother? Men hated when you mentioned parents. If they had their way, every woman would be an orphan. I pressed my hand to the vent—hot air was coming out. “So what do you do?” I asked, trying to change the subject.