Asher arrived at the meeting with a small gaggle of girls he picked up on the walk over to the building and spoke with them now in a soft, sweet tenor accompanied by some hand gestures indicative of theater majors. A name tag with his name on it was pinned carefully along the seam of the chest pocket on his powder blue shirt. There were few things worse than poking holes through new articles of clothing, in his opinion, but he liked seeing everyone's name. He and the girls were fortunate enough to grab some seats on the sofa before all the rest were taken and time really flew with them to talk, but their conversation fizzled out along with the rest of the chatter when an older man stepped into the center of the room.

Then began the housekeeping and listened without enthusiasm. Security and safety stuff, blah, blah, blah, guns- Oh, yes. Guns. There wasn't much of a gun culture where he was from, so he blamed it on that southern stereotype of the gun-toting cowboys or whatever and dismissed it. He crossed his legs, knee over knee, and drummed his fingers on his thigh until the president was finished. Then the dark-haired senior stepped forward. She had some text on her shirt, but it wasn't his first inclination to read it until he heard some snickers.

"Wait, I don't get it," One of his girl friends whispered to him, "What does her shirt mean?" Jesus Christ, she was serious.

Asher placed his hand on top of hers, put on a smile and shrugged. "I honestly have no clue," He whispered back, "And I meant to say- I love what you do with you hair. So pretty." That distracted her and they carried on like that under the speaker for a while. He missed most of it, but he had no interest paintball anyway. When he turned his attention to Emily (he also thought her laundry list of nicknames was weird, but he was going to ask her about it later), she was going on about Whitehall. He was living in Whitehall. What she was describing was some exceptional kind of bullshit, a sentiment which was made clear by the disgust plainly written over his face. The rest of the warnings she issued just confused him, mostly. Like, what was in the greenhouse that could be dangerous? A cactus? Whatever. 

Seniors. Asher wished mightily that Freshmen hazing wasn't a thing at this school. Her reaction wasn't reassuring. Whatever. The girls he was with decided to leave and he said goodbye to each of them with a kiss in the air by their cheeks. With them gone, he had to find someone else to talk to lest he bore himself to death. He had to find his roommate anyway. Asher mingled around the students in the room, passing out compliments and greetings as he stole glances at their name tags, until he came across a girl with amazing hair drinking some punch. He was instantly drawn to her like a magnet.

"Your hair is gorgeous," He told her with firm enthusiasm, "No, seriously. You probably get this all the time, huh? May I touch? My hands are clean, I promise." Even as he asked, he reached out to gently brush the curls with the tips of his fingers. "Oh my god. I can't stand it. So pretty." He jolted as if pinched. "Oh, I'm sorry. I'm Asher. I should have said that first. Oh, and your name, of course. What's your name?" Hazel eyes dipped down from her head to the front of her shirt in search of a name tag, if she chose to wear it.