I should have known tagging along with Clint to the dance would be trouble. He lived across the hall and was one of those guys with a permanent mischievous grin on his face.
He nodded at a pair of girls across the dance floor who were facing away, “Alright, so what’s your name going to be?”
“What?” I asked, since he knew my name was Tim.
“Dude,” he said plaintively, “it’s a game. We’re never going to see them again, so make up a name. Come on.” Impatiently he dragged me over to the pair who turned just as we arrived. Clint froze, and his grin faded.
“Paul? Is that you?” the blond one asked. “I didn’t know you came here.”
“Uh, yeah, hi,” he stammered.
“This is my friend Jenny,” she said quickly, “and who’s your friend?” The blond was cute, and her brunette friend was even cuter.
Clint’s grin returned as he thumbed in my direction, “Oh yeah, this is one of the guys on my hall. Christy meet Basil. Basil, this is Christy.” Both girls smiled and said hi. And I was Basil for a dance, or so I thought.