Beware of Love in Technicolor Read Online Free Page B

As for me, I was eager for classes to get started. I was taking two writing classes, intermediate French, and a computer programming class for the beginner. That last one sounds ambitious, but my father was a computer whiz, so I figured I could breeze right through it and get a science credit with minimal effort. Not a single class started before 10 am.
                  Molly and I went to the dining hall together in those early days; it was better than going alone. Gripped with fear by the dreaded “Freshman Fifteen,” I was known to tote my own bottle of fat-free ranch dressing from my tiny fridge and back again at mealtime. I ate mostly salad and Cap’n Crunch for two weeks. That, coupled with long walks around campus every day, worked in my favor. Instead of gaining weight, I dropped nearly ten pounds.
                  Weight has always been one of those issues for me that won’t go away. I know, not terribly original, but what can I say? McDonald’s introduced the Happy Meal in my hometown on my seventh birthday, for Christ’s sake.
                  So when I explained my new found slimness to my mother over the pay phone in the lobby of the Pit, she instructed me to take my Mastercard and get myself to the nearest mall. She hated the thought of her daughter swimming in too-large clothing like some kind of Dickensian co-ed.

Chapter Two
     
     
     
     
                  Campus is a large, sprawling display of classic New England brick buildings, with young, modern structures cozying up to the more formal designs in a seemingly random, patchwork manner. As I mentioned earlier, there is the requisite clock tower and rolling green lawns, with wooded trails snaking around buildings and over babbling brooks. The library sits like the Buddha in the center of it all. There were at least four or five separate clusters of dormitories forming a sort of crescent around the edge of our little academic world, not including the on-campus apartments or married housing. And the parking lots. Lots and lots of parking lots.
                  On the edge of campus, heading up Main Street, a little downtown area sort of sneaks up you. It is much cuter now than when I was there, but it was charming nonetheless. It held a quaint diner, a pizza pub, and a little Chinese restaurant, among other mom-n-pop establishments. There was a store called Memories which sold candles and incense and clever greeting cards. I used to spend oceans of time finding just the right card to send to Penny as she began her new life at college in Massachusetts.
                  Behind Main Street was a small shopping plaza, which held a grocery store, a drugstore, a bakery, and a Burger King. It was not so charming.
                  On the sidewalk separating campus from town there was a bus stop. This is where I found myself, credit card burning a hole in my back pocket, the next time I spoke to John Cunningham.
     
     
    ***
     
     
                  We were two weeks into our freshman year. I was less than impressed with the experience at this juncture. I didn’t know what I was doing in this little town, when I had always envisioned myself as more of a city girl. I was having a hard time warming up to the girls in the Pit. There was one girl, Gretchen, who I liked. She was a friendly blonde from Wisconsin; my dad would have said she was built like a brick shithouse. She went on to play hockey for the US Olympic team in 1996.
                  But she and I really didn’t have anything in common more than the concurrent bouts with insomnia and a love for the grainy reruns of The Dick Van Dyke Show at 2am on the old console television in the study lounge across from my room.
                  It was a Tuesday, mild for late September. I was reading the latest issue of the Boston Phoenix , an alternative newspaper with the best club listings and music