Sophomore Switch

by Abby McDonald

  “Anthony is sending me comatose.”

  Yup, it’s Portia. Instead of flushing and walking out, I wait.

  “But he’s social secretary,” another voice adds. “If you’re running for committee, you need him.”

  “You don’t have to tell me,” Portia complains. “Why do you think I’ve been listening to all his dull stories? Between him and that stupid American, dinner was a complete bore.”

  There are giggles and the rustle of fabric and cosmetics. I stand quietly, feeling that tightness back in my chest.

  “Can you believe her dress? It’s not as if . . .” The door swings shut behind them, but some masochistic instinct makes me rush out of the stall and hurry into the hallway after them. I know I won’t hear anything good, but I can’t help wanting to know what they really think.

  I follow Portia’s pink silk at a safe distance until they linger by a dessert table. The main hall is full: the dance floor packed with couples slowly waltzing to the string quartet, while others stand chatting in tight knots. A complicated champagne fountain is set up in the center of the refreshment tables, so I maneuver closer, using the tall arrangement of glasses as cover as I strain to listen in.

  “You’d think they’d have standards about who they let in, especially somewhere like Raleigh.”

  “Maybe it’s an outreach program.” There’s the sound of bitchy laughter.

  “God, do you remember that other American, Rhiannon? She fucked practically half the JCR in just one term.”

  “What is it with them all being so . . .”

  “Slutty?”

  “I was going to be more tactful.” More laughter.

  I shrink back. This was a mistake, I know. I already feel like the trashy outsider without hearing it spelled out by a group of snotty girls.

  “I would understand if she was trying to land a rich husband,” Portia continues, her haughty voice cutting through the background noise like a missile sent to wound me. “But surely she realizes, men don’t marry those kinds of girls!”

  I’m still backing away, but suddenly I hit something solid. There’s a crash, and I spin around to find one of the tuxedoed waiters, his silver tray empty and broken glass shards on the ground between us.

  “Omigod, I’m so sorry!” I breathe, champagne pooling around my toes.

  “It’s quite all right,” he insists, but when I glance up, Portia and her friends are staring right at me, smirks of delight on their pale faces.

  “Did you see that?” One of the other girls laughs, a loud braying sound that attracts way more attention than my tiny mishap. Other people start to look over, and right away I get a flashback to what it was like around campus after Tyler. The whispers. The sneers. That awful black hole in my stomach. Then and now mix in my head until all I know is I’m done. It’s over.

  Through the mess of memories, I finally remember how to walk and slowly edge away from the crowd. I didn’t bring a coat, thank god, so there’s no line for me to wait in: just me and my tiny beaded clutch hightailing it toward the exit. I pass a couple more uniformed door staff, and then I’m out in the freezing night.

  So much for my fairy-tale evening.

  “Yes, Dad, I’m getting plenty of sleep.” I try not to kick my heels against the back of my chair as he runs down the obligatory welfare checklist. “No, I’m not drinking. Or neglecting my work. Yes, I’m eating fine too.”

  Late on Friday night, it’s getting dark out, my desk lamp bathing the room in a soft glow. Morgan is off at a frat party with the rest of her clique, so I decided to take advantage of the peace and get some reading done. My father, already up tomorrow morning, decided to take advantage of the time difference to lecture me a little more.

  “I ran into Kirk Morgan at the tennis club yesterday,” he says in that tone I’ve now come to recognize as trouble. “His boy is a Fulbright scholar, at Princeton.”

  I sigh. “Good for him.”

  “You know, providing you keep your regular results up, there’s really no reason to put this on your résumé.” Dad is trying to be helpful, I know, but I still feel the burn as if he’s scolding me. “And when you’ve done the summer internship . . .”

  “I haven’t heard back about those yet.”

  His laughter booms down the line. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. With your stellar record at Oxford, this is just a hiccup. Who wouldn’t want you?”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “In fact, I was thinking of giving Giles Bentley a call — remember him? We took our pupilages together back in the day. I haven’t seen him in a while, but I think now would be a good time for a drink. He’s senior partner at Sterns, Cahill, and Coutts. Weren’t they one of your picks?”

  “Yes, but really, you don’t —”

  “I’ll give him a call.” Dad speaks straight over me. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner.”

  “Right.”

  “In fact, why don’t I check if there are any alumni in California? There are a lot of big firms down in L.A. — not that you’ll be doing entertainment law, of course — but it could be good to shake some hands.” I can hear Dad warming to the idea. “If you were on the East Coast . . .” He sighs. “But we should make the most of what we have at the moment. Keep our plan moving forward.”

  I nod on cue, forgetting that he can’t see me. It doesn’t make any difference.

  “Elizabeth has been invited to present at a cardiovascular symposium next month, did she tell you?” His pride is obvious.

  “No, that’s great.”

  “And your mother sends her love, of course. She’s busy with another project — something to do with low-energy lightbulbs in all the village buildings.” I laugh along. “I better leave you to your rest now; it’s getting late. Take care now.”

  “I will. Good night, Dad.”

  “And remember what I said about your résumé —”

  I carefully hang up the phone. Late? On campus, everything is just getting started. I’m the only one left sitting quietly in her room. Alone.

  As I look at my neat belongings and the pajamas already laid out on my pillow, I feel it again: the itch under my skin. The novelty of being away wore off once my first month was over; now every night feels the same. I look over my notes for next week’s classes, make myself a nutritionally balanced meal, watch a classic film on DVD, and make sure I’m tucked up in bed by ten thirty. A few chapters of my novel and then it’s lights-out, and hopefully I’ll be so deep into REM cycle by the time Morgan stumbles back at 2:00 AM that she won’t even wake me.

  I’m so bored I could scream.

  With a burst of energy, I leap up and go to my dresser. Dad’s talk of plans and preparation is suddenly too much. All I seem to do is prepare for a future that is just ahead of me, always out of reach. In school I was getting ready for Oxford: the committees, the student government campaigns, the sport, and the extra projects that would tip me over into the privileged few applicants. Then, as soon as I got to Oxford, it became about life after university. Internships, networking, career strategies.

  Isn’t anything I do for me, right now?

  Quickly, I pull my hair up, exchange my T-shirt for a black vest top, and even swipe on a dab of tinted lip gloss. The desire to be normal is overwhelming, just for one night at least. A party, music, some friends. Not the overachiever — alone again — but a teenage girl out having fun.

  Do I even know how?

  Morgan forwarded me the invite, so I have all the details. I’m out of the building before I have a chance to take it back.

  There are half a dozen noisy parties spilling out along Del Ray Drive by the time I arrive, so I double-check the address Morgan left just to be certain I’m in the right place. It’s a warm night, and students are clustered on the front lawn of a three-story red-brick house, all conversation drowned out by the insistent thump of the “Come git it, git it” track playing over the stereo system. Not that they’re looking for conversation. In tiny skirts
, polo shirts, and lashings of eyeliner, the girls are dressed for battle, and the boys — shoving each other around in a raucous mating ritual — seem to know it.

  I slip past a couple exploring each other’s esophagi and into the din, already feeling out of place. I’m not good in crowds, preferring small groups to the mass of bodies here tonight, but I remind myself why I came in the first place. Normal. Teenage. Fun.

  All right.

  “Morgan?” After a loop through the house, I spot a familiar mane of blond hair in the lounge. I greet her with relief. “Hi, how are you?”

  “Em?” Morgan squints at me from the couch. She’s wearing a draped, glittery top and sitting on a muscular blond boy who is most definitely not Ryan. “You came?”

  “Yup.” I remind myself to smile. “What have I missed?”

  “Nothing much.” She giggles. “Right, Ben?” He nods, jiggling her on his lap so she squeals and pretends to bat his hands away.

  “Stop it!”

  “You stop it.”

  “I’m serious!”

  I wait awkwardly while they flirt until I spy Brooke by the loudspeakers, swaying rhythmically in the middle of a group of guys.

  “I’ll see you later.” Leaving Morgan to her hunk, I watch the makeshift dance floor for a moment before approaching. A couple of girls are grinding away like they’re in MTV videos, but the rest look casual enough, nothing but bobbing in time with the loud beat. I can do this.

  “Emmy!” Brooke squeals immediately, hugging me tight and pulling me into the group. “I’m so glad you’re here!”

  Dancing is a good move. Nobody tries to talk over the shaking bass, and soon I’m breathless and having something close to fun.

  “I need a break,” Brooke calls, miming a drink. I nod, following her out of the tangle of people and through to the crowded kitchen. “Wow,” Brooke gasps, grabbing a red plastic cup from the table by the keg and pushing a space for me beside her. “Cool crowd, right?”

  “Right,” I agree, taking my own cup. It is a party, I suppose, and after all that dancing, the beer is cool and refreshing. “Do you go to these often?”

  “Every week, sometimes more.” Brooke scans the room quickly. “It’s what college is for.” She grins. “That and fifty grand of student loans.”

  I gasp. “That’s terrible!”

  “Tell me about it.” She shrugs, her loose red top shimmering with the movement. “So I may as well have as much fun as I can before I’m doomed to earn it all back.”

  “Good plan.” I tip my cup to hers in a toast. She quickly downs the rest of hers.

  “Screw this, how about some shots?”

  I hesitate.

  “C’mon, just the one. Trust me, it’ll be fun.”

  There it is again, the F-word, dangling just out of reach.

  “Sure,” I decide, linking my arm through hers. “Why not?”

  “Yay!” she cries, tugging me out onto the back porch. It’s slightly quieter there, and some boys are playing a strange game involving beer cups and Ping-Pong balls. “Sam, you still got that Cuervo?”

  I stop with a jolt. I haven’t seen him since the scene at the beach, but I’ve definitely thought of him — and my complete ineptitude. I wonder if he considers me an utter idiot. Thankfully, Sam doesn’t seem to notice any awkwardness. He hugs Brooke and then turns to me.

  “Emily.” He grins, blue eyes gleaming. “How’ve you been?”

  “Great,” I answer as he pulls me into a long embrace. His jeans actually fit instead of falling around his crotch, and his black shirt makes those ice-blue eyes stand out even more.

  “Get a room,” another male voice exclaims, and I draw back to see an athletic-looking guy with close-cropped black hair. He’s tossing a Ping-Pong ball from hand to hand. “Are you in this game or not?”

  “Lay off,” Sam calms him. “Let’s give these girls what they came for, OK?”

  Brooke blushes. “Hey, Louis.” She grins, broadcasting her crush for everyone to see. His eyes graze her body, and evidently she passes his test because soon he’s chatting and flirting with her.

  “So, you ever done tequila shots before?” Sam looks down at me intently.

  “Of course.” I laugh, deciding I’ve seen enough films to fake it. “Lime and salt?”

  “The lady’s demanding.” He laughs. “I like it. OK, everyone, it’s on!”

  He produces a row of shot glasses and lines them up on the edge of the table. Louis fetches the accessories, and soon I’m staring at the glass of innocuous-looking amber liquid.

  “One.” The three of them lick salt from the back of their hands. I follow, half a beat behind. “Two!” Sam yells, downing his shot. I do the same and almost choke from the oily, bitter taste. “Three!” I stuff the lime slice in my mouth, shuddering, and suck hard to rid myself of that awful tequila taste.

  “Ugh!” Brooke’s face is screwed up. “Why doesn’t that get any easier?”

  “No pain, no gain.” Louis slips an arm around her. “Now what do you say we whip these pussies at beer pong?”

  “Emily?” Sam raises his eyebrows. I nod, feeling the strange warmth in my chest as the tequila burns its way down the inside of my body.

  “You’ll have to teach me, though.”

  “My pleasure.” Sam grins, and I think that perhaps I haven’t ruined it with him after all.

  A victorious beer pong game leads to more dancing, and soon the night is a blur of laughter and Sam’s body is pressed warm against me. “I’ll be right back,” I promise, levering myself up from the porch seat when the need for a toilet break can no longer be denied.

  “You better.” Sam keeps his fingers intertwined with mine as I back away. “Otherwise I’ll send out a search-and-rescue team.”

  With a glow that has nothing to do with alcohol, I go in search of a free bathroom. It’s a futile task, I know, and eventually I’m resigned to crossing my legs at the back of a long line. Nonetheless, I’m grinning.

  He likes me.

  “Hey, Ryan!” I call out, seeing a familiar Thermals T-shirt wind its way through the crowd.

  “Emily.” He stops, confused. “Having fun?”

  “Tons!” I exclaim before I register that his tone is sarcastic. “What about you?”

  He shrugs, scruffy in skinny black jeans. “Have you seen Morgan? I kind of need to talk to her.”

  “Umm.” I lean back against the wall and try to think. “She was in the lounge last time I saw her, but that was hours ago.”

  “Thanks.” He’s gone before I remember what Morgan was doing the last time I saw her — and who she was doing it with. Evidently she’s still at it, because my bathroom line has barely inched forward before Ryan storms back down the hallway, his face set and furious.

  “Did you know?” He stops in front of me, glaring, but even behind the anger, I can tell he’s shaken. I shrug uselessly.

  “Thanks a lot,” he hisses, disappearing toward the exit. I feel a pang of guilt, but what was I supposed to do? Morgan is my roommate. Besides, it’s none of my business.

  What is my business, however, is Sam. I scoot back to his side as soon as I can, sending silent thanks to Morgan and her friends for pushing us together. They’re right: the best way to get over Sebastian is to start seeing somebody else. As I snuggle closer to Sam, my ex-boyfriend and supposed intimacy issues seem very far away.

  “What’s on your mind?” Sam touches my nose lightly.

  “Nothing at all.” I smile up at him, determined not to repeat my last mistake.

  “You look kind of sleepy.” Pulling me closer, Sam starts to trace light circles on my back. I practically sigh with pleasure. “It’s getting late. You know, you could crash here in my room. We closed off everything upstairs, and it should be quieter up there.”

  “I don’t know . . .” Even in my pleasantly tipsy state, I still think of college rape statistics and “safety first” lectures.

  “Nothing shady, I promise.” Sam mimes crossin
g his heart. “Well, unless you count making out.” He grins. I melt. “You’ll be safe, I promise.”

  His expression is so sincere that I find myself wavering. The other girls do this all the time and come home with nothing worse than a hangover. Isn’t it my night to cut loose a little?

  “OK.” I smile. Sam takes my hand and maneuvers us through the party stragglers up to the top floor.

  “See? Quieter,” he says, closing the door of a room that just screams “college student.” I collapse onto the bed and look around. Posters of cars and surf girls in bikinis, stacks of CDs — nothing but typical, average teenage-boy possessions.

  I relax, kicking off my shoes. “No bong? Or porn collection?”

  “I hid those,” Sam quips, suddenly looking a little nervous. I feel a rush of affection. Maybe he isn’t so smooth after all.

  Bold, I reach up and take a handful of his shirt. “What was that you said about making out?”

  He laughs, leaning down to meet my lips. “I thought you were tired.”

  “Not that tired.” I exhale against him and then kiss, tasting beer and something different from Sebastian.

  Normal. Teenage. Fun.

  I walk back to Raleigh in a total daze. The streets are dark but full of kids on their way to clubs or coming home from the bars, and though I get my usual round of whistles and catcalls, I can’t be bothered to glare back.

  The scene keeps replaying in my head. Maybe it’s because I’ve sat through so many movies for class or maybe it’s just shock, but right now I see the whole thing at a distance, like I’m sprawled out in my dorm room with popcorn and this is just the latest mishap of some adorable romantic-comedy cutie. You know, the ditzy leading girl who keeps falling over herself until the hero picks her up again. Only nobody thinks I’m adorable, and I sure as hell know no hero’s going to come along to save me.

  What can I do?

  The question bounces around all the way home. Nothing I seem to try makes a difference to these people — I just don’t blend in. If I was back home with my friends, I wouldn’t give a damn what those stuck-up bitches thought, but after a long month of loneliness, I just want a break. The silence, the cold shoulders: they’ve worn me down, and I’m so freaking sick of feeling low, I could scream.