Actually, I hate diaries. I always start them and promise myself to write in them regularly, and then I inevitably forget at some point down the line. Most of the time, diary writing is an exercise in blunt persistence. I mean, look at this one-I got it from my aunt before I started college (so I could "write down everything about the best years of my life,") and here we are, sophomore year.

Oh jeez. I haven't even introduced myself. Hello, I'm Jenny Kimberley Rider, a sophomore at Amherst College living in Morris Pratt dormitory. I think I'll major in psychology and math, but I haven't declared yet. There's nothing very exciting about my life, and my only entertainment is hearing about or having my own pseudo-romantic experiences here at college. My friends say I'm pretty, but I'm sexually inexperienced. (I've only kissed one guy, ever, and it was mad awkward.)

I'm here at Amherst to work during Orientation. The job isn't anything special, just filing things at the Admissions Office. I've also been leading tours. Mostly, though, I've been occupied by my favorite pastime: boys. I know that sounds like some stereotypical coming-of-age girl novel (girl obsesses about boys, meets a specific boy, falls in love with boy, boy breaks girl's heart, girl learns from the experience and blossoms into a confident and independent woman). Well, sorry, but this diary is just going to be about what I'm thinking about. Here's what I'm thinking about now:

I met this guy. His name is Chad (that name makes me think of boys who pop their collars and write Top 10 Hottest Amherst Girls lists on the Daily Jolt). He has nice eyes (a mellow green-oh how wonderful), dark hair and a confident smirk. He plays hockey. He's a senior. He is totally out of my league.

So I met Chad at the end of last year through work. We chatted a little, he knew my name, I knew his and that was really about it. Well, it turns out he's working Orientation too. Things built up; we'd see each other at Val, he'd wave and we'd say hello to each other, walk to our respective destinations, done. Then we started talking to each other while in line at the salad bar-by the time we'd gotten to the cottage cheese and yogurt, we'd have discussed how spoiled the Chuck Pratt freshmen are, how awkward squad discussions can be, the preposterous words of a particular freshman pariah. After a while, it grew to the point where he'd sit down with me at a table if I was alone, then to the point where he'd sit with me at a table with my friends around. Finally … well, I'll just describe it.

Three days ago, two friends of mine were sitting next to the big windows near the card-swipe counter. Their plates were half-empty by the time I sat down with my tray (bowl of salad, bowl of beef tomato macaroni casserole). One was reading out loud from "Slaughterhouse Five"-I didn't figure it out until I heard "And so it goes." The other kept up sarcastic running commentary. While I raced to finish the salad (but not too fast, because that's just unattractive), I caught a glimpse of Chad walking towards us with his tray. I could tell he hadn't eaten yet because his glasses were full-they were the predictable neon yellow and green sports drinks, ever-present on the trays of male sports players. There was, of course, the set of superficial introductions-the exchange of names, the handshakes, the sincere looks that simultaneously convey a perfunctory intention to get to know each other in the future and the question "How does Person X know Person Y?" (I don't blame my friends–I'm a small nerdy adopted Asian girl with glasses. He's a meathead hockey player. Wait, how did I meet him again?)

Then my friends left; Chad and I sat alone. Val was closing down, and we kept on talking while some of the workers gave us sidelong glances to remind us that we should probably leave soon. I couldn't tell at first if Chad was flirting with me or not; I have such a bad radar for flirt cues. I couldn't stop staring into his eyes and had to fight the urge to say something inane/creepy like "I really like your eyes." (Cue "Silence of the Lambs.") Finally, we were both done, and as we walked towards the clean-up conveyer belt, he took his cell out of his pocket. "Hey, let me give you my number," he said.

Nothing like this has ever happened before. Here's what was going through my head: Why is he giving me his number? Is this supposed to be one of those "Let me give you my number" things? Can't I just look up his number in the directory, or become a creepy Facebook stalker? Does he want my number, too? Does he think I have a car or something, so I can drive him around? I don't have a car …

"Sure. Uh, I've got paper." Oh, how lame. I fished around, took out a piece of scratch paper and a brown Crayola marker (don't ask why-but it was the washable kind) and wrote out "Chad: 413.555.2837" as he dictated integers. I smiled, put the paper and marker back in my purse as we walked over to fling our forks, knives and spoons into the proper slots. (I find it so satisfying to hear that clang of properly thrown cutlery.) He casually flung out a "Give me a call sometime." I haven't called him. Maybe he made a mistake when he gave me his number. Can he ask to take back giving me his number?