There is so much to eat and drink at Dartmouth. Unlike in Cleveland, there is no struggle for sustenance. A cornucopia of nourishment awaits at every table, café, professor’s house, and dining hall. In fact, there is such an abundance of food, each incoming freshman class gets an all-you-can-eat lobster dinner the second week of the semester. Initially, I was hesitant since I’d never had fancy seafood before. I inspected the red hard shell, poking and prodding at it until Manda Panda showed me how to crack it. I removed the tender white meat and dipped it in the lemon butter sauce. It was love at first bite. What joy. What a delectable delight. It’s the best thing I’ve ever eaten at Dartmouth. I returned so many times, the cafeteria worker remarked disgustedly, “You again,” as she plopped another onto my plate. By the end of the dinner, I was comatose. I laid my head on the table in agony and deep satisfaction. “The Freshman Fifteen is definitely coming for you,” Manda Panda whispered knowingly into my ear. I smiled, not caring. Now, four weeks later, my jeans betray me, bursting at the seams. “Find your ability to stretch,” I implore them jokingly.

I remember the joy of that lobster as I head toward the prayer group to which Bryce has invited me. He has promised fresh-baked cookies, which draw me forward like the Eye of Mordor from Lord of the Rings. “My precious cookies,” I say, imitating Gollum as he pines for the ring. I stop in front of Matthew and tell him where I’m going in case the Christians kidnap me and cut out my beating, pagan heart. “Send help if you don’t hear from me by tomorrow,” I chuckle to myself. “K, byeee, smoocha later,” I say, imitating Manda Panda.

As soon as I arrive, I head straight toward the snack table only to find there are no cookies. Damnit. I am preparing to sit through a two-hour prayer session without any treats when someone emerges from the kitchen carrying a tray of freshly baked peanut butter cookies. I am so happy, I begin clapping proudly until the person carrying the platter stares me down, confused. “Save those claps for Jesus, young lady,” she says haughtily.

I grab the large black Bible on the table and pretend to read, which gives me an excuse to remain standing near the cookies. I nod my head knowingly, as if I’m absorbing something profound while chewing rambunctiously. I’m just about to grab another treat when I notice the words in the book start to crumble and break apart. At first, I think it must be crumbs. I try to wipe them away, but the letters slide down, somersaulting over the edge of the book until only a few letters remain, with gaping white spaces between them on the almost-empty page. They spell out, “Not the call and not your mother’s God.”