The art center’s main hall offered no respite from the grand welcome. Representatives of various student organizations lined the walls, a sea of tables and enthusiasm. Apollo braced himself, wading out into the center of the hall, hoping equidistance would make him invisible. Zed trailed behind him, her sandals dragging on the floor. Apollo welcomed her. Together, they would escape this madness.

They couldn’t, Apollo quickly realized. Their early departure from the welcome speeches had marred them. They were the only ones in the hall. Recruitment was their destiny. Within seconds, Zed was lured in by the free sweatpants offered by Blue Cross, Blue Screen, a Christian programming club. Apollo quietly absconded, but then found himself at the table for the 1500 Club. The club, represented by three austere white guys, was mysterious. Their table was covered in a black cloth, but the surface was bare; they didn’t even have flyers. The eyes of each rep were hidden behind a pair of hideous transition lenses, the frames of their glasses embarrassingly pedestrian, clearly bought either on sale or in absentia, likely by their mothers.

“What are you guys about?” Apollo asked.

“We all have SAT scores of 1550 or higher,” one of them answered.

“Why?”

“Why were our scores high, or why do we unite because of our scores?” another answered. Apollo knew that a different one had spoken, but he couldn’t bring himself to look at them directly. They were boring, existentially.

“Why are you a group?” he asked, eyeing other tables over his shoulder.

“Smart people just belong together,” the first one told him.

“Guess I won’t be joining you then,” Apollo said, shirking off. Kai would have appreciated that burn, he thought, eager to tell Zed.

“Did you get 1550 or higher?” someone shouted from behind Apollo.

“I got into college,” he replied under his breath.

He eventually found himself in front of the table for the African American Student Union. The organization was represented by two black girls, both clad in jeans and black T-shirts emblazoned with AASA, stylized in green, red, and black letters.

“Are you guys Pan-Africanists?” Apollo asked, worried.

“No, we just haven’t updated this T-shirt in like twenty years. We’ve been off that multicultural Kumbaya shit for a minute, though,” one of the girls informed him in a casual drawl. “I’m Cherise,” she added, offering a handshake. Apollo accepted. Her grip was firm. She reminded him of Sol.

“I’m Apollo,” he replied.

“Apollo, please do not let this hooligan ruin your impression of our organization,” the other girl interjected in a nasally tone. “The rest of us have home training.”

Apollo laughed, unsure how to respond. “So, what do you do?” he inquired.