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Natural Habitat: Chuck E. Cheese.

Species: Showtunicus Lionkingus

Distinguishing Characteristics: Dressed in “fancy clothes,” i.e., shiny, artificial fabrics. Will chatter on and on about all the musicals he/she has seen. Often sings songs from said shows, particularly “I Dreamed a Dream” from Les Miserables, which the Showtunicus Lionkingus invariably calls “Les Miz.” (Note: On return trips, is never seen without a yellow-and-black Playbill.)

Natural Habitat: The sound track section of Borders.

Species: Nasticus Pervertus

Distinguishing Characteristics: Trench coat, greasy hair, and dark sunglasses. Will sit across from the most attractive teenage girls (who happen to be the only attractive travelers) and leer silently. Has the uncanny ability to give one the willies.

Natural Habitat(s): Porn shops and playgrounds.

Bridget and I didn’t talk much during the trip because we were all too acutely aware that simply hearing the voices of teenage girls gives Nasticus Pervertus a boner. We couldn’t get to the Port Authority and off that bus fast enough.

“So you know where you’re going, right?” Bridget asked.

“I know.”

“Just take the one or the nine straight up to 116th Street, the Columbia University stop.”

“I know.”

“Don’t get off any sooner.”

I sighed. “Did you swallow my mom?”

Bridget giggled. “Remember, I’ve got my cell and you can meet me at Union Square if the Snake March, like, sucks.”

“It won’t suck,” I assured her.

Famous last words.

I was about to head for the subway when Bridget turned and asked me a question that, quite frankly, startled me.

“Like, whatever happened with you and Columbia?”

“What? How did you—?”

“Last summer, remember? You had your big moment with Paul Parlipiano at the coffee shop.”

“Oh, right,” I said. I had totally forgotten that I had ever told Bridget about Columbia.

“So, what happened? Did you end up applying there?”

Bridget has never lied to me. Never, ever, ever. So the least I could do was return the favor. Wasn’t I going to have to face the truth within the next five to thirty days, anyway?

“Yeah, I did,” I said. “I’m still waiting to hear.”

Bridget raised an expertly tweezed eyebrow. “Your parents are going to, like, kill you.”

The truth hurts, doesn’t it?

“Go get her,” I said.

“Oh,” she said, rubbing her palms together. “I will.”

Throughout the twenty-minute trip uptown, I hoped and wished and prayed that it was the first of countless times I’d be taking this ride in the future. I didn’t feel the least bit nervous about traveling by myself. I felt like I knew where I was going, even though I had never been to the address Paul Parlipiano had e-mailed me, the one I had printed out and clutched inside my coat pocket like a talisman. I wasn’t freaked out by the ride, simply because I was too busy imagining what it would be like if I got into Columbia and Paul Parlipiano became my fabulous gay best friend in New York City, the Will to my Grace. We would go shopping at swanky shops on Fifth Avenue that neither of us could afford! We would squeal with delight and hit the dance floor whenever we heard the intro to Erasure’s “Chains of Love”! We would dish about boys we liked and bitch about ones we didn’t! We would be more devoted, dependable, and dedicated to each other than any mere boyfriend could ever be!

This fantasy would prove to be even more far-fetched than the one that involved us getting married and having many babies.

PACO HQ was a graduate student’s apartment. I buzzed the intercom three times before anyone responded.

“What?” said a very shrill female voice.

“Uh . . . I’m here for the Snake March.”

“You sure?”

“Uh . . . yeah.”

She buzzed me up without saying another word.

The door to apartment 3B was open, but I could barely make it inside because there were protest signs on the floor and leaning against the walls blocking the doorway. WE WALK FOR THOSE WHO CAN’T, said one. WALKING NEVER HURT ANYONE, said another. These slogans were hardly any better than the ones on the lame