Beware of Love in Technicolor Read Online Free

buildings now behind us.
                  Standing on the platform were Ben, Alex, and the others, including some people I had not yet met. Next to Ben was a rather large boy who looked as out of place among the group as I did. He wore a black Depeche Mode t-shirt, black Levi’s, and a silver, metal ankh on a satin cord around his neck. I noticed his Doc Martens right away.
                  Alex met my eyes as Molly and I approached, and suddenly lifted Ben’s t-shirt and tickled him, which set off an embarrassing scene of tickle-wrestling between the two. I did my best not to flinch at the display, though I may have snuck a peek at his very flat abs.
                  The others busied themselves with chit-chat about hometowns and summer jobs. I looked around for someone to talk to, but even Molly was involved in conversation with the dark-haired guy.
                  “You don’t look like the camping and hiking type,” Depeche Mode said to me. He leaned in, and said it as if it were a secret between the two of us.
                  “I could say the same about you,” I retorted, though a small smile did creep across my lips. I was relieved to have someone, anyone, to talk to.
                  “And you’d be correct,” he finished. He was six feet three, a full foot taller than me, and at least two hundred pounds. I held out my hand, and introduced myself.
                  “I’m Greer,” I said.
                  “John.”
                  “Nice ankh,” I said with a sarcastic lilt. For some reason, this guy made sense in the sea of Hackey sacks and hippies. I sensed I could be myself.
                  “You are the first person to know what this is,” he said, fingering the jewelry hanging from his neck.
                  “I’m familiar with the contents of the punk rock starter kit,” I teased. He laughed.
                  “What are you doing here?” he asked outright.
                  “My roommate, Molly,” I answered, motioning toward the little mouse. “You?”
                  “Ben was my roommate during orientation back in June,” he told me. We both gazed at the spectacle of Alex and Ben for a moment.
                  “Not to sound too tired and cliche,” he said, turning back to me and flashing a Cheshire cat grin. “But where are you from?”
                  And so it continued for nearly twenty minutes until it was time to enter the theater. It turned out John and I had grown up only forty-five minutes from one another, and had even hung out at the same mall.
    I sat watching Pippin with Molly on my left, John on my right. I stared straight ahead and watched the lanky blonde girl on stage sing her heart out for a group of ill-mannered freshmen, and I wondered where exactly this strange experience was going to take me.
     
     
    ***
     
     
    After the performance, we funneled out of the theater and into the fading sunlight of the early September evening. People milled about, fulfilling the architect’s dream for his cement platform, and discussed the next plan for the first Saturday night at college. Nobody suggested the Freshman Jamboree.
    The upperclassmen were scheduled to move into the dorms the following day, but there were plenty of students already moved into their fraternity and sorority houses, off-campus apartments, and such. A number of parties were rumored to be taking place, and deciding which to attend was the biggest problem now facing the group of eighteen and nineteen year olds I now stood a part of.
    “I just want to get drunk!” Alex exclaimed emphatically.
    Though I am essentially an ethnic mutt, when it came to heritage in our household, the Irish had all the luck. This being the case, alcohol held no allure for me, no sense of rebellion.
    I liked beer and wine, and was crazy for the