Quiet People

The beans crunch in the bean bag chair as I shift to better survey the room. The comforter dangling off my lofted bed at a slight angle creates a curtain in front of my desk where my mother’s computer, mine for the next three weeks until I get my own, hums in its new home.  A picture of my family and a Koosh ball bookend the computer. The opposite side of the room remains empty for one more night until my roommate arrives. Thumps through the hallway indicate the presence of additional hallmates.

“So this is college life,” I think to myself. I hear a knock on the door. Whether the knock corresponds to a human or an object that has escaped its owner’s control, I am unsure, but I answer the door anyway. 

A girl about my age stands outside, her long pink pony tail bouncing as energy escapes her body. “Hi, I’m Amanda, the advisor for the hall,” she says. “Some girls from the hall are having dinner together in the dining hall at 6:30 and I wondered if you might like to join us.”

“Yeah, that would be great!” I say and try to imitate the bounce in her stance and the chirp in her voice. I paste the biggest smile I can find onto my face while I try to think of more words. “I look forward to…” I say but realize that she is already knocking on the next door.

“First encounter of being an outgoing person: check,” I tell myself. Tonight will be even more of an opportunity. In high school, everyone knew I was quiet. If I said something, it might be one of the few things I said so it had to be really good. Now that I am at college and no one knows me, I have the opportunity to be a new person with a different personality. I just have to remember to talk. 

At 6:20, I pick out my new college t-shirt that my parents bought me at the bookstore this morning, smooth down my hair, and review conversation topics. What city are you from? What is your major? Do you know anyone else yet? What activities do you think you’ll get involved in? 

At 6:25 PM, I step into the hallway, prepared to talk to anyone I might see. Both to my relief and to my dismay, the hallway is empty so I proceed to the dining hall. 

The dining hall entrance is deafening and students swarm to enter as if the answers to their final exams were contained inside. I swipe my card and navigate to the food options. Do I want pizza, pasta, salad, chicken with vegetables, baked goods, or any of the other plethora of choices I might not be able to see behind the lines snaking from each station? 

“I could talk to any of these people,” I tell myself, “but they won’t remember it if I don’t.” I decide to save my talking for my hallmates who will remember me, but a sense of doubt sweeps over me as I put off the inevitable. At some point, if I’m going to be outgoing, I have to talk to people. 

I decide on pizza and add some salad. The idea of unlimited pizza is quite a plus of being in college now. I grab a cookie and search for the girl with the bouncing pink pony tail. After navigating through a deafening crowd at the ice cream machine and still managing not to speak to anyone, I spot the pony tail and head towards it.

“Hi,” I say. “My name’s Sarah.” The overly large smile is again pasted on my face and I make sure the words exit at a reasonably audible level.

“I’m glad you found us,” Amanda says and introduces me to seven other girls at the table. I sit down at an open spot and the conversation returns to sorority rush, which I learn is happening next week. The girls all seem to already be preparing for it even though I have just heard about it. I listen and tell myself that it’s an unfortunate conversation topic. On the next topic, I will have lots to say, I think, so I wait. Someone sees a car get backed into out the window and the topic switches to a flat tire that another girl had on the way to campus. 

“Okay,” I tell myself. “You also just moved in today. You can add to this conversation.” The conversation flies to another girl who dropped a suitcase down two floors of stairs as I try to think of something to add. Then it leapfrogs again and again between my hallmates while I still have not said a word. This is not how I planned for this to go. How do people who talk so much do it?

“Sarah, what room are you in? Have you met your roommate yet?” Megan, who sits next to me, asks.

“I’m in 342, at the end of the hall,” I say. “My roommate is coming tomorrow.” By this point, my overcooked smile is no longer available and I say the words so softly that Amanda, who sits two seats away, has to ask me to repeat the information about my roommate.

“Cool,” Megan says. “I look forward to visiting room 342.”

I give a shy smile and remain silent for the rest of dinner. At least I responded to one question. The first night is weird and I will meet other people, but doubt has invaded my plan. If I can’t even come up with conversation with my hallmates on the first night when I haven’t exhausted any topics, how can I be an outgoing person? 

I hang back as my hallmates return to the dorm. Fireworks of laughter come from their group ahead of me, but I am not part of it. Fireworks of disappointment are the only ones I am experiencing right now. 

Megan drops the scrunchy she has been stretching in her hand and bends down to pick it up.  Our eyes meet before I avert my gaze and pretend that I don’t see her even though it’s obvious I do. She takes her time picking up the scrunchy and examining a butterfly until I have caught up with her.

“So you’re going to be the quiet one on the hall?” she says. I shrug, hesitant to already take on this title, but with no evidence to defend against it.

“I like quiet people,” she says. “They’re thoughtful.”

“Thank you. I look forward to getting to know you this year,” I say. My enthusiastic, yet quiet, smile returns and I decide it’s time for plan B, the plan that includes remaining the quiet, thoughtful person that I am.