“So, you guys did go to Pepperdine’s Judicial Clerkship Institute, right? I mean, I don’t remember either of you, but I figure you had to have.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Matthew stated, nonplussed. From my end, I tried to move the conversation away from the horror camp.

“So, how did you like living in Boston?” I said, eking out a feeble attempt at conversation change.

“You guys!!! I cannot believe you didn’t go. It was only the most amazing, critical, experience for an incoming clerk,” Evan gasped, definitely not making me feel better.

“I’ve just never heard of it. What is it?” Matthew implored. Evan sighed indignantly.

“Well, like a dozen judges—all federal of course—mostly appeals judges from the ninth circuit come and tell you basically how to be an amazing clerk. You really should have gone. I can’t believe Columbia didn’t tell you about it. And Yale—what do they even teach you there? Harvard insists that its clerks—and most Harvard grads get the clerkship of their choice—go to the institute.” He smiled smugly, lending the air of having rested his case. It turned out to be his opening statement.

“Well, I guess we’re screwed,” Matthew said, refusing to look up from his chicken wings.

“Well, you aren’t necessarily screwed, but you’re definitely going to have trouble,” Evan diagnosed. “I mean, Professor Chemerinsky—the Chemerinsky—even taught a course called Troubleshooting—When Westlaw and Lexis Just Aren’t Cutting It!”

“Chemerinsky isn’t all that,” Matthew replied. “Maybe I’d have gone if Professor Sunstein were there. Noah Feldman, perhaps. But Chemerinsky? No thanks.”

What? I’d have gone if Owen Wilson were there. Luke Wilson perhaps.

Undeterred, Evan proceeded to recite the CliffsNotes version of the institute. It was in between the Rationale Rodeo and Stare Decisis Swamp that I started feeling faint.

Forty-five minutes later, Matthew was barely sitting up, staring numbly as if roofies had been involved. I wish I’d been roofied. That way I would have been able to black out this entire experience. Instead, I fell into a spiral, freshly convinced I’d fail at the clerkship. What was the best experience for everyone else would be the worst for me.

From that day forward, I vowed never to break bread with Evan again. My resolve weakened a little, though, when I heard a muffled voice from around the corner while awaiting the elevator. Could it be Evan? Or worse—the judge? Sitting on the floor, in the dark, was Matthew whispering into his cell phone.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” I said, backing away. Since our famed bonding lunch, Matthew and I had barely spoken a word to each other. This was due to apathy rather than dislike—he seemed to have exactly zero things to say.