Sophomore Switch

by Abby McDonald

  I don’t. Instead, I stop at one of the fast-food carts and fill my mouth with greasy fries, smothered with chili and cheese and enough calories to make a girl faint.

  Maybe my mom was right: all those times she said I’d have to face the consequences of my actions. Maybe this is it, my karma, my payback for playing around and bringing shame on my family. God, I remember all those screaming matches we had after the video broke. She couldn’t believe that she’d brought me up so badly to turn out a cheap slut, a whore. That’s what she says, but whatever. I tried to defend myself at first. I mean, I’m not pregnant or on drugs, and if the video hadn’t got out, she wouldn’t think any different of me. But I guess having everyone you know email you with shots of your half-naked daughter makes you lose all perspective, because anything I said only made her madder, until we couldn’t even stay in the same room without screaming.

  And now I get the silent treatment. Money goes into my account every two weeks, but aside from that, I haven’t heard a single word from her since I left California. I don’t miss her; I just miss what it was like between us, before.

  Sighing, I use my late key on the back gate and wander across the quad. It’s silent and still, and usually I find that the neat lawns and pretty stone archways calm me down, but tonight I wish it were humming with activity, anything I could be a part of. Cold staircase, empty hall. Emily’s room is as depressing as ever, and I collapse in front of my computer and reach for another fry, now soggy and gross. I check email, but as usual there’s nothing except junk and the handful of Tyler-related Google alerts, so I boot up my instant-messenger program and send out a silent prayer that somebody’s on.

  AJ369, magikman, rudeyrude — only boys I used to flirt with. And then I catch sight of the schedule still pinned above the desk and figure there might just be someone who feels as much of an outcast as me. I’ve got her email and screen-name details somewhere in the exchange paperwork, so I only have to spend ten minutes rooting through every freaking pamphlet they sent before I find it.

  Send chat request to user EMLewis.

  When I wake up the next morning, Sam has disappeared and there’s nothing but wrinkled navy sheets tangled around me where his body used to be. My jeans are digging into my hip, and the underwire from my bra is squashed against my ribs, but nothing can stop the satisfied grin that spreads across my face when I remember last night. Just as he promised, Sam proved himself to be a complete gentleman, happy to keep things decent.

  But oh, can that boy kiss.

  Squinting, I catch sight of the digital clock display. Eleven? I never sleep that late! With a start, I sit up.

  Ouch.

  Falling back onto the bed, I wait for the thump in my head to subside. So this is what a hangover feels like. After a few more minutes, I sit up — far more cautiously this time — and try to ease the tension from my neck. Searching for my shoes, I wonder if I should leave a note for Sam. He’s probably at the gym, and it seems rather rude to just go without a word, but post-kissing protocol is completely beyond me.

  Eventually, I find a scrap of paper and a pen, and then spend another ten minutes deliberating over the contents.

  Hi — last night was fun. E.

  After half a dozen tries, I finally strike the right carefree tone and let myself out. His room is on the third floor of the frat house, and as I make my way down the back stairs, I can see party debris spread throughout every room. Beer cans, empty convenience-food wrappers, and even a few boys, still passed out in doorways and on couches. It looks as if I made my exit just at the right time.

  As I cut through the littered front lounge, something catches my eye. A computer is open on a coffee table, the screen showing photographs in some sort of grid. I move forward to take a closer look.

  PSI DELT DOABLES, the page heading reads. The photographs are of girls — some in a state of undress, mugging for the camera, others obviously asleep — and next to them is written a name and score.

  MANDY LEE, owned by OWEN MICHAELS.

  > 6/10.

  > She scratches!

  CASSIE WILCOX, owned by BRETT ALLSTON.

  > 9/10.

  > Kinky bitch!

  I realize what the grid means and take a step back. They’re keeping score. I wrinkle my face in disdain. Typical frat-boy exploits, I suppose, but still, I don’t know why Sam lives with them. He’s far more . . .

  And then I see it, halfway down the page. A photograph of me, eyes closed, hair spread on familiar navy sheets.

  EMILY LEWIS, owned by SAM RICH.

  > 4/10.

  > English — enough said.

  I can’t believe it.

  Backing away from the screen, I slam the front door behind me and practically race down the street. How could he? I break into a jog, not caring about the thunder in my head or what a madwoman I must look like in last night’s clothes. What is it with these boys, acting as if sex is the single greatest achievement in all humanity? First Sebastian, pushing me with his hints and nudging until I nearly gave in just to get it out of the way. And now Sam, treating me as if I’m just another notch on his bedpost — when technically I wasn’t even in his bed!

  Am I a particularly bad judge of character, or are they all like this?

  I finally slow down, out of breath. Four out of ten. Four out of ten. It’s not as if I’d feel any better had he given me a more complimentary score for my imaginary sexual performance, but the low mark is salt in my now-gaping wound. Do I seem like somebody who would be bad in bed? Shaking my head, I stop myself before I get pulled down that line of reasoning and instead return to the important matter of Sam. All those sweet comments and nice-guy lines were just a lie; he must have been laughing at me the entire time. And I fell for it.

  I’m supposed to meet Ryan and the film-class crew after lunch for our first meeting, but there’s no chance at all I can manage that, even after picking up a grande extra-shot latte en route to my room. I refuse to use my meager energy reserves to dwell on bastards and their bastardly stunts, so after a shower and some food, I throw myself into “research”: passing the day in a blur of Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food and all the bad romantic-comedy movies I’ve been saving. Reese. Kate. Julia. They never have to put up with this.

  Four out of ten. The website. His grading. Everything about it makes me feel cheap, but more than that — naïve. Did he pick me out because I seem so clueless? Was the fact I’m so clearly out of place part of my appeal? I can’t help thinking that Morgan or Brooke would never get fooled like this. Even in their drunken states, those girls are ten times more streetwise than me. I may be able to evaluate an emerging democracy’s chances of political consolidation, but they know how to handle guys, to joke around and have fun.

  Another movie finishes, and I slouch over to my computer, my envy of the breezy California girls growing. They’re at ease here, among the tans and teeth. This is their territory, not mine. I’ve been keeping it together with schedules and study plans, but the moment I try to venture out into the world, my careful control falls apart. At the beach, at the party — I end up bumbling around, making an idiot of myself. I’m so used to finding order in the midst of chaos, but this time I just can’t seem to work it out. I have no rule book to help me fit in, no study guide for the finer points of being an early twenty-first-century California teen. . . .

  A beeping from my instant-messenger program catches my attention. There’s a box flashing on my screen.

  Request to chat from totes_tasha.

  Accept/decline?

  I frown, running through the list of classmates or Oxford contacts it could be. And then it strikes me. Tasha. Natasha Collins — the girl whose bed I’m sleeping in, whose life I inherited.

  Accept.

  EMLewis: Hello? Is this Tasha?

  totes_tasha: yup hey

  EMLewis: How are you?

  totes_tasha: i’m cool. just saw your screen name and thought I’d say hey.

  totes_tasha: how’s school? />
  totes_tasha: is morgan driving u crazy??

  EMLewis: She’s . . . fine. She’s been very friendly.

  totes_tasha: ha. u hate her i can tell.

  EMLewis: No, really, she’s been great.

  EMLewis: Are you settling in over there? Your tutorials are going well?

  totes_tasha: umm . . .

  totes_tasha: not exactly

  EMLewis: ?

  totes_tasha: that prof elliot is on my case. i just can’t seem to get things right for her.

  totes_tasha: and what’s with all the stuck-up bitces here?

  EMLewis: bitces? Oh, right, bitches. Are you having problems then?

  totes_tasha: kinda

  EMLewis: Thank God!

  totes_tasha: ??

  EMLewis: No, I mean, that’s not a good thing, but I was worried I was the only one.

  EMLewis: I’m having problems too.

  totes_tasha: what kinda stuff?

  EMLewis: I just can’t seem to fit in. My film partner is being difficult, and last night was awful.

  EMLewis: I spent the night with this boy . . .

  totes_tasha: !!!!

  EMLewis: No, not like that!

  totes_tasha: o

  EMLewis: And I thought he really liked me, but this morning I found out he put me on this horrible conquest website.

  totes_tasha: wait a mo. you got owned by a psi delt?

  EMLewis: :-(

  totes_tasha: aww hon, don’t worry. easy mistake.

  EMLewis: But I just feel so stupid!

  totes_tasha: u feel stupid? everyone here thinks i’m a dumb ass. i made a fool of myself at a ball tonight & there’s no way i’ll ever live it down.

  EMLewis: I’m sorry.

  EMLewis: Sigh. Some cultural experience this is turning out to be.

  totes_tasha: so what’s ur secret? to blending in i

  mean.

  EMLewis: In Oxford? It’s easy. You just act superior and fake as if you know all of their intellectual crap. Everybody’s pretending, in the end.

  totes_tasha: sounds too easy.

  EMLewis: No really, it’s that simple. If you look like them and read the books they do, it’s easy to blend in.

  totes_tasha: so is that what you’re doing over there?

  EMLewis: . . . Not exactly.

  totes_tasha: :-)

  EMLewis: I just like to have things sorted out, you know? But the people here are just so RELAXED. I’ve been trying to work on a script with this guy, Ryan, but he’s being difficult and

  totes_tasha: morgan’s ryan?

  EMLewis: They broke up last night, I think.

  totes_tasha: lemme guess — he found her cheating.

  EMLewis: How did you know?

  totes_tasha: everyone knows. that’s what morgan does.

  EMLewis: Oh. Well, now he’s angry at me because I didn’t tell him. What do I do?

  totes_tasha: same thing u told me — go along with his bullshit and pretend.

  EMLewis: That’s too vague! I need specifics.

  totes_tasha: like what? there aren’t any rules.

  EMLewis: God, I wish there were!

  totes_tasha: ha seriously. that would so make life easier. like a guidebook for life.

  EMLewis: You know . . .

  EMLewis: That’s not a bad idea.

  totes_tasha: ???

  EMLewis: We should do that for each other.

  EMLewis: Things to say, what to wear. A complete switch survival guide.

  totes_tasha: haha should have guessed.

  EMLewis: What do you mean?

  totes_tasha: nothing. just, well, i figured you were . . . organized.

  EMLewis: :shrugs:

  totes_tasha: u know, it’s not a bad idea . . .

  EMLewis: Being organized?

  totes_tasha: the switch guide. think about it — i can tell you how to be me, and you can make me someone who fits in here.

  EMLewis: But could we really do that?

  totes_tasha: why not?

  EMLewis: You don’t know me — I could never be like these girls, not even if I tried.

  totes_tasha: hello, remember me? the hot-tub girl?!

  EMLewis: Oh, right. That. Yes . . . Morgan mentioned something. . . .

  totes_tasha: exactly. so about this switch guide . . .

  totes_tasha: where would I start? hypothetically. if we were doing it.

  EMLewis: Hmmm . . .

  EMLewis: I’m not sure.

  EMLewis: Maybe with the way you dress? If you look like the girls here, then you’d be really out of place in Oxford.

  totes_tasha: totes.

  totes_tasha: so what do i change?

  EMLewis: I’ll send you some links to photographs. You’ll need a Raleigh jumper, for a start. And some shirts and jeans. But not those low-rise or skinny jeans. These need to be

  totes_tasha: boring?

  EMLewis: No, normal. And if you wear makeup like Morgan, you’ll need to tone it down. Very natural.

  totes_tasha: right: boring.

  EMLewis: Do you want my help or not?

  totes_tasha: sorry.:-(it’s been a bad day. go on.

  EMLewis: Sigh. That’s OK. I know how you feel.

  totes_tasha: sucks, doesn’t it? i thought this switch would make everything better.

  EMLewis: I know! But instead, it complicates everything even more.

  totes_tasha: u want my advice?

  EMLewis: Please.

  totes_tasha: get morgan to take u shopping. you’ve got some cash, right?

  EMLewis: Yes.

  totes_tasha: cool, then have her & lexi take you out. get your hair & nails done, buy the outfits she says. if anyone can make you look like a UCSB girl, it’s morgan.

  EMLewis: And then what?

  totes_tasha: let go a lil.

  totes_tasha: or at least pretend. if u walk around like everything’s serious and dull, then people will get bummed out.

  EMLewis: So I should have a personality transplant?

  totes_tasha: haha, no it’s cool. just smile and act like you don’t care. go with the flow. party. have fun.

  EMLewis: I’ve been trying!

  totes_tasha: so what went wrong??

  EMLewis: I don’t know. No matter what I try, it doesn’t make a difference. And just when I thought things were working out with Sam, he betrayed me to his frat buddies.

  totes_tasha: sam? aww, he’s a player.

  EMLewis: Morgan said he was nice.

  totes_tasha: morgan thinks any guy with a 6-pack is nice.

  EMLewis: Yes, I’m realizing that.

  totes_tasha: look, we’re both in the same place right now. we want to fit in and have fun, but nothing so far has worked out.

  EMLewis: Right.

  totes_tasha: so why don’t we try something different? it’s just for the semester.

  totes_tasha: don’t know about you, but i can’t stand being so frakking lonely.

  EMLewis: :hugs: It’ll be OK.

  totes_tasha: i know, because i’m going to figure how to blend in. if you help me.

  EMLewis: All right. I’m in.

  EMLewis: After all, how much worse can this get?

  totes_tasha: haha, good point.

  EMLewis: I’ll email you some material tonight.

  totes_tasha: and tomorrow u go shopping w/ morgan?

  EMLewis: Sigh. If I have to.

  totes_tasha: awesome.

  totes_tasha: this’ll work, i can tell.

  totes_tasha: laters!!

  EMLewis: x

  When I find Emily’s first switch survival guide in my inbox the next morning, I decide to start with Natasha version 2.0 right away. She’s linked to items in some preppy stores here and the instruction Watch everyone carefully! Also, I’ve been ordered to join a group of some kind as a way of becoming part of a crowd. Let me think, do I want to be a stuck-up hack running for student government or a stuck-up sports girl running for real?

  Chill, I remind myself. Jus
t because Portia and her crew are complete jackasses, it doesn’t mean everyone else here is. I’d found Holly, right? So there must be some sane people hanging out in the library or dorms. I get up and out of the Raleigh campus with new determination, reading lists taking a backseat for the first time since I arrived. The day is crisp and clear, with a blue sky that reminds me of home — if it weren’t for the mittens and scarf I’m wearing — and as I walk down the main street into the center of the city, I make sure to look around and make mental notes of the girls here.

  Like in any town, they don’t look all the same, but by the time I reach the first store on my list, I can notice a definite trend for messy pinned ponytails, sculpted jackets, and blond hair. Only, instead of the serious California blond I’m used to, this is kind of honey-toned and fake-natural looking. In fact, fake-natural seems to be the theme: from the way their hair seems to be falling out of a style (like they’re saying, “Oh, yes, I’ve been too busy reading Sartre in the original French to bother with such superficial things”) to the neutral makeup in caramel and pale flushed tones that’s still flawless.

  Looks like I’ll need some work. I’ve held off the blond thing for ten years now, so there’s no way I’m ruining my brown hair with bleach, but I figure I can master the styles with some pins and practice. And although my makeup routine is like second nature, I can switch foundation for tinted moisturizer, cut the eyeliner, and get some crème blush. So that’s everything above the neck. . . .

  For the next couple of hours, I do what I do best. I shop. Bargains, new styles, and cool looks are in my blood, only this is like a reverse experience for me: I look around the store, and if something cute catches my eye, I put it down and find the total opposite. That sparkly black low-draped top? I ditch it for a high-necked Victoriana-style white blouse. A denim skirt with torn edges and a studded belt? I leave it on the rack and go pick out a knee-length plaid pencil skirt.