"I've taken three years of French. I don't need to be in Introductory French," I explained to the old woman sitting on the other side of the desk, who was quickly becoming one of my least favorite people, right after Jordan. When I got my schedule, I found the school had placed me in Introductory French, which is where I don't belong. But it seems the hag sitting across from me is determined to keep me in there.

"Mr... uh... Hanson, there is nothing we can do. You were not here to take the foreign language placement test, so we have no choice but to put you in Introductory," she told me without looking up from the paperwork she was reading.

"But I live in Oklahoma! How could I get here for a test? No one even told me I had to take one. Can't I take it now?" This was just utterly ridiculous. No one tells me I have to take a test, and somehow that's my fault. Great. Just great.

Her eyes looked at me above the horn rimmed glasses that sat on the brdige of her nose, not amused in the least. "Sir, there is nothing we can do. Take it or leave it. There are hundreds of other students, so please make your decision quickly."

Seeing as how I wasn't going to get what I wanted, I gave up. I huffed out of the office and found myself muttering under my breath, "Obviously the stick up your butt must be irritating you, lady."

So, here I am, sitting in Introductory French, which I could teach better than the actual professor. She has no accent, and when she does attempt an accent, it's on the wrong syllable. Of course, what you can you expect from a woman whose last name is Rodriguez? It seems a bit far from Paris.

I couldn't believe I got stuck in this class. Then again, maybe the one bright spot would the easy 'A' I would get out of it. However, I found myself bored and my eyes wandering around the room. Sitting next to me was a guy about my age, looking like the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. He looked scared, so I thought a little humor might help him out. I leaned over, "Uh... it's really not that bad. She's just butchering the language."

He looked like a deer in headlights. I thought he was going to crawl under his desk for a second, but he recovered with a nervous laugh. "I took Spanish in high school. They told me it would be similar, and that this would be an easy course." He started to relax a bit, but he was definitely high-strung.

"French is similar to Spanish, but don't sweat it. Neither language is that difficult."

The look of astonishment on his face did not go unnoticed, "Yeah, right. I am not one who specializes in languages. I lived in Germany for a few years, but never caught on. I could order a hamburger and that was all."

I laughed, "See, you had all the essentials. French is gonna be a breeze."

He looked a bit puzzled. "I haven't yet decided if you're insane or if you already know the basics of the language."

"Yes, I do. I have taken French for three years. I do know the language pretty well." Even though this guy was cool, I wasn't sure whether I should start spewing out the stories of the mighty Hanson adventures in Paris. The guy seemed to ease quickly. This was the beginning of a great friendship.

For a few seconds the guy flashed back to his high-strung self, "Uh... have you bought the book for this class? I can't find it in the store. Do you think they sold out? Oh, no! How am I gonna pass if I don't have a book?"

"I talked to the woman in charge. They didn't order enough books, so they should get more next week. Stop worrying. The teacher knows, and I doubt she'll penalize you for the school's error."

After professor BonBon finally ended her hour long dissertation on Paris versus New York City, we were freed from her grasp. Scott finally lost that 'Please don't kill me' look in his eye, and we were chatting comfortably. He told me a little about his foreign language background and how he ended up at Berklee.

"My dad always laughed at my wanting to learn the violin. He said it was weak for a man to want to play such an insignificant instrument. Army colonel, nuff said?" He visibly relaxed as he was talking about his family. He was talking about his sister's fear of subway cars when in mid-sentence he stopped to invite me to lunch. "You got a class now? I'm dying for a meatball sub. We can go to the deli down on Arlington."

We grabbed our respective backpacks and headed for the door. Scott ascended down the hallway and to the stairs while chatting about the lack of good hamburgers on airforce bases around the world. "Really, the only good place for a hamburger is in the US. It just doesn't get better than here."

Outside the sun burned into my eyes and I shielded them as I followed Scott down Dorchester Street. I had to laugh a little bit. Here I thought this guy would be quiet and shy but once you got him talking, he just wouldn't shut up. I could see we were going to get along fine. Before I could comment about the hamburger conversation, Scott had already moved on to the state of music education. I jumped in while he was in mid-sentence, "I was self-taught and then moved on to private lessons, but I know a lot of my friends learned musical instruments in school." Scott didn't even seem to notice that I had cut him off.

"Exactly! Music is so important for learning, and it gets thrown to the curb so often!" I was noticing that Scott has Zac's tendency to use large, fluid body motions when he talks. I was just going to have to learn to duck when he got excited.

Scott was still flailing his arms when he turned into the intersection. I freaked and grabbed for his arm. "Scott! There's traffic coming!"

Scott stepped back onto the curb, but looked at me like I had three heads. He calmly turned to me and said, "You're not from the Boston area, are you?"

Oh no, I did it. I shrugged and wished for the world to swallow me up. I wanted so much to have someone to talk to, and now he was going to make fun of me for not being cool enough to cross the street. I wanted to scream. The first week was riddled with people like Jordan, who wanted nothing to do with me. I tried my hardest to stay as normal as possible. Not even going by Clarke once or twice helped. The people who didn't write me off as 'a hick' right off the bat would hear Hanson and squint their eyes suspiciously.

I turned back around, not wanting to hear the verbal abuse from yet another person. Scott grabbed my arm before I could move three feet. "What's wrong? Where are you going?"

"I'm not hungry. I think I'll just go back to my room. I don't feel good," I told him, keeping my eyes focused on the worn Adias I was wearing.

Scott wasn't overly sympathetic, but he was concerned, "I'm sorry, man. I'm just used to Boston traffic. You can pretty much walk out in front of a car if you want to, as long as you're in the crosswalk. The drivers will aim for you, but unless you're someone special you aren't worth that many points and they ignore you."

He laughed at that, but I didn't really get it. Scott saw that I was confused and grabbed my arm to pull me back into the street. "Let's go. I'll explain inside. I'm hungry."

I followed him but not without checking both ways before stepping into traffic. Old habits die hard, I guess.

"Blue 42! Blue 42! Rover, sit! Hike!"

Not the typical sounds of a dorm, I suppose, but that's what I heard as I made my way down the hall. I adjusted the strap of my backpack on my shoulder, which was weighed down with all the French books, which had finally come in, I just bought in the student center. Who would have thought that an intro level language class would require five books?

"Oh! Incomplete! Incomplete!" A tall guy with shoulder-length dark hair wearing a hat backwards got down on one knee, giving the hand signal for an incomplete pass as the ball sailed over his friend's head. I stood there, smiling at the sight of the guy on one knee that I forgot the ball was still in the air. Luckily, my face stopped it from traveling any further down the hall.

"Man! I'm sorry! You're not hurt, are you?" The other guy made his way towards me, and picked the nerf football up off the floor.

"Nah, I'm not hurt. It did take me by surprise, though." I extended my hand. "I'm Isaac."

"Eric," the boy said, shaking my hand. "But everyone calls me Scooby. And that dude down there," he said, pointing to the dark-haired guy, "is my roommate, Roach. Roach! Get your ass down here and apologize to Isaac for hitting him in the face with the football!"

"What?" He rose to his feet, a perplexed expression on his face.

"I SAID, get your ass down here and apologize to our new friend. You almost took him out," Eric, er- I mean, Scooby told him.

"Man, sorry about that," Roach said, making his way towards me. "Guess I don't know my own strength. But you're not hurt, so it's all good. Name's Mike," he said, extending his hand. "But you can call me Roach. Everyone does."

"Isaac," I replied, shaking his hand. "How'd you get the name Roach?"

"Believe it or not, it's my last name."

"Really?"

"Yeah. It sucked royally in the first grade when the kids made fun of me. But then I hit 6'5" and it became cool. What about you? Got a cool nickname?" he asked.

"Not unless 'Ike' somehow became the definition of cool."

"We can work with 'Ike.' Let's see..." Scooby said, scratching his head. "Eureka! We'll call you Ikester. You like?"

"Sure. Sounds good," I told him, smiling. Of course, I had fibbed a little bit earlier. Ike isn't my only nickname. However, those queer names your family comes up with aren't meant to shared with others. The guys back home called me 'Hanson,' but I just don't feel comfortable with anyone here calling me that for reasons I can't seem to explain. So, Ikester will have to do. "Dare I even ask how you got the nickname Scooby?"

He laughed. "I know everything there is to know about the cartoon 'Scooby-Doo'. It's only the best show on television. Roach and I are gonna have our own radio show here on campus. It's gonna be on at 6:30 am," Scooby told me.

"Yeah," Roach joined in. "And there's gonna be this part called 'Stump Scooby,' and people are gonna get to call in and try to ask a question about the show that Scooby can't answer."

I smiled, and for the first time since I've arrived at Berklee, I began to feel at home. I had to get used to the sometimes grating accent the two had, but we were quick friends. It was not odd to hear Scooby and Roach yelling down the hallway for me, "Yo, Ikestah! We're heading to the slop house, you comin'?"

The cafeteria, with its... interesting array of food, was conveniently named the slop house - for obvious reasons. Not only was the food quite gross, but the workers were not very personable. They don't seem to be able to add well, either. Many times, students were overcharged for the simplest foods. I tried to show my respect by being polite and trying to start a conversation, but they looked at me with contempt and sent me on my way with my overpriced, undernourishing food.

Scooby and Roach took to me like Zac and Taylor do. I was the older, more mature one while Scooby and Roach reeked havoc on the RAs. One of their favorite ways to piss off our RA, Shane, was to toss the nerf football around in the hallway. Everytime Shane caught them he would say, "My little frosh dudes, must you do that? Some poor, unsuspecting sucker walking down the hallway is going to get hurt."

So I suppose it was inevitable that as we tossed the ball around, Roach would once again let it fly over Scooby's head just so it could connect with Shane's face. And even though I knew we were in trouble, I couldn't help but laugh. "Are you guys aiming for our heads? First me, now him. I know you want to meet your floormates, but I think this is a bit dramatic."

"Hey, Scoob, he made a funny. Ikester, you're a good guy," Roach said, walking over and giving me a high five.

"Dudes, I'm gonna have to confiscate this for awhile. You're gonna hurt someone." And with that, Shane picked up the ball and walked away, humming "Crash into Me."

Scoob turned to me. "He is obsessed. Dave Matthews is good, but I think humming songs just as they come into daily life is a bit odd, no?"

Roach rolled his eyes at his roommate. "You're one to talk about obsession, Scoobs. Besides, he's got our goods, so you know what this means. We're gonna have to find a way to steal the ball back. A bit of Mission, Impossible - if you will."

"Oh? What did you have in mind?" I asked, debating whether or not to worry yet. If there was one thing Roach knew how to do, it was stir up trouble.

"Nothing yet, but be prepared. I'll come up with something, so don't worry your pretty little head about that," Roach replied, cracking his knuckles.

"Oh, I know you'll come up with something. I'm not worried about that. What I am worried about is how much trouble we'll get into."

"Oh, Ikester," Scooby said, putting an arm around my shoulder. "You worry too much. Life is for the living, man. Loosen up. These are the last few years we'll spend as kids. Milk it for all it's worth, man. So, what do you say? You in or out?"

I looked back and forth between the two. I suddenly felt like I was at home, and Tay and Zac were trying to talk me into something that would no doubt be fun, but only end up getting us in trouble, too. And now, just like I always did at home, I caved. "Okay, okay... count me in."