By the time I’ve got an armful of bags, I’m totally into my new task. It’s not like I’m selling out, I figure, just . . . presenting a different side to me. Everyone always goes on about first impressions counting, and here at Oxford, they seem to matter more than anything. If I can just get people to stop thinking of me as the dumb Californian, then they’d see I’m a pretty cool girl. I mean, I like me!
Besides, every preppy sweater and pair of ballet flats is taking me further from the girl in that hot tub, until soon I can’t see her in my reflection at all. And if I don’t recognize her, chances are nobody else will either.
When I figure I’ve worn out my emergency credit card, I decide to take a coffee break. But walking into my haven of Borders, I pause. In the month of hanging out there, I’ve only ever met that other American. This is so not the place for the new me to start friend-hunting. Turning, I walk right out again and down a paved side street to the other bookstore in town, Blackwell’s. This one is British, based in an old building that probably predates everything in California. There’s a coffee shop on the second floor that is full of dark wood furniture and serious-looking Oxford types. Perfect.
I slip up to the restrooms and quickly change into my first new outfit: a plaid skirt and a pale pink crewneck. I add thick gray tights and a delicate gold charm necklace like the one Portia wore, and I’m good to go. Instant prep. On my way back to get coffee, I even pick up a couple of textbooks to look over for this week’s essay: the ultimate Raleigh girl.
I read in silence for a while, helped along by a slice of cheesecake and an extra-large latte. The room is full of people, and to my relief, I blend right in. Older men pore over stacks of printed pages, younger boys stare intently at their battered novels, but everyone looks stuffy and, well, British. It’s a kick knowing that nobody would guess from looking at me where I was from or what I’d done, but all the crewnecks in the world don’t make a difference to my reading list. After staring at the same page for ten minutes, I put my pen down with a loud sigh.
“Are you, ah, are you having difficulties with that?” The boy at the next table speaks up, and I look over in surprise. He’s got longish brown hair falling in his eyes and an angular kind of face, but his interested expression seems for real.
“Yup,” I admit. “I can’t figure it out. At this rate I’ll need a tutor just to get to the end of the chapter!”
He smiles, kind of nervous. “Well, in that case . . . I, I do some tutoring.”
“You do?” I brighten.
“Uh-huh.” He clears his throat. “Political philosophy?”
“Right.” I beam, taking in his cord pants and navy pullover. The outfit is kind of nerdy, but I guess nerdy is good in a potential tutor. “I’ve got this feminist professor who’s really laying it on.”
“Elliot?”
“How did you know?”
He shrugs. “I had tutes with her last year, plus she’s the only feminist around.”
“So you’re in your third year?” I ask, taking another bite of cheesecake.
“Yes, I’m a finalist.”
“Oh.” My face falls. “Then you probably won’t have time for anything extra.”
“No,” he quickly replies. “I’ve got some time. It would be a nice break.”
“Tutoring counts as a break?” I laugh. “Sad.”
He gives me a wry smile. “I suppose it is. I’m Will, by the way.” He reaches across to shake my hand.
“Oh right, I’m Natasha.” His hand is soft and kind of delicate: another one of those composer-type guys. “So, do you have any time now, or do I book you, or . . .” I trail off, hoping he’s available right away. This paper is turning out to be a nightmare, and since I threw Elliot’s offer right back at her, there’s no way I can turn up to class with my usual mess.
“I can do a little now, if you want.”
“Awesome!” I beam. “I’ll pay whatever, I just need to get my head around this.”
Will smiles at me. “I’m not that expensive, don’t worry.”
“How about I get us some more coffee,” I offer, reaching for my purse. “And then you can do your thing and make me a genius.”
An hour later, I’m sending silent prayers of thanks to whatever god is listening. Will is a total angel.
“I can’t believe it’s this simple.” I stare at the pages of notes I’ve made, all of them neat, ordered, and making actual sense. “Why didn’t I get this before?”
Will sends me a supportive grin. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. All the books make things seem far more complicated than they really are. If you just break it down into the main arguments, you’ll be fine.”
“Come on.” I roll my eyes. “Just admit you’re a superbrain and I’d be screwed without you.”
“Natasha, that’s not true! You almost had it on your own, and . . .” He’s flustered and almost blushing.
“Relax, I was kidding,” I reassure him. “But seriously, how do you do it — make sense of everything so easily?”
He plays with his coffee cup. “I don’t know. Remember, I do have an extra year of experience.”
“Right.” I pause. “The finals system here is pretty weird, isn’t it? Back home, we take them at the end of every semester, but you’ve got them all in one go.”
Will nods slowly, like the thought of it is wearing him out. “In the summer, I’ll take eight papers that last three hours each. They’re spaced over a few weeks, but that’s it, my entire university grade.”
I gape. “So if you screw up on the day . . . ?”
“Then I’m done for.” He looks so forlorn, I feel like giving him a hug.
“But you’ll be fine.” I try and lighten the mood. “It’s only dumb-asses like me who would have to worry.”
“You’re not dumb,” he scolds me. “You’re just new to this style of thinking.”
“I wish it was that simple, but with Elliot . . .” I shake my head. “I can’t figure her out.”
Will pauses. “You’ve read her book, haven’t you?” I shake my head. “You should.” He gives this wry grin. “It’s a long rant about the new generation’s betrayal of feminism. How every girl in a short skirt undermines decades of activism — stuff like that.”
“And you believe that?” I shift in my seat, totally uncomfortable. If we’d met two hours ago . . .
But luckily Will just laughs. “Elliot oversimplifies everything. But she’s rather uncompromising. All or nothing, I suppose.”
I sigh. “Anyway, enough about work. I think I’ve got enough notes to manage my essay now. Tell me about you — what do you do for fun here?”
“Fun?” He gives a snort. “As I said, I’m a finalist. This is as close to fun as I’ll get until after my exams.”
“There’s got to be something you do to relax,” I prod, trying to move the conversation on. “You’re not a robot.”
“Well.” He hesitates. “You’ll probably think I’m a loser . . .”
“I won’t! C’mon.”
“I play Scrabble,” Will admits. He looks so sweet, I have to try not to laugh.
“Scrabble?” I repeat dubiously.
“See, I told you.” He sighs.
“No! It’s . . . interesting. I’ve never met somebody who likes it. My friends don’t really go for that kind of thing.” Understatement. If Morgan was here, she’d be cracking up, but there’s something so endearing about Will’s confession. The guys I know back home would never tell me something like that in case it ruined their chances with me, but Will couldn’t be less of a player.
“So why do you like it?” I look at him carefully. He’s pushed up his sleeves to reveal pale forearms and is sitting on the edge of his seat.
He pauses for a long time. “I suppose . . . I suppose I find it relaxing. There’s an order, a pattern to it. I don’t have to think about anything except letters on the board.” He shoots me an embarrassed half smile. “Pathetic, I know.”
“It’s not!” I
insist. “At least you’re doing something. If I want to relax, I just veg out in front of the TV.” It strikes me that Will would have a whole lot in common with Emily, Queen of Order. Then I notice the time.
“Frak!”
Will lights up. “You watch Battlestar Galactica?”
“Hell yes.” I grin. “It’s a total guilty pleasure, but I caught an episode a while back, and ever since, I’ve been hooked.” I think I spy some new admiration in his eyes and wonder why I didn’t drop that into the conversation earlier. Sci-fi shows are prime nerd-bonding material. “Anyway, I have to go. I’ve got to get to the library before it closes.”
“Of course.” Will gets up. “Well, it was nice meeting you.”
I grin at his formality. “You too. And I’ll set up another session next week. You’re on Facebook, right?”
He nods but reaches to scrawl his number on my notebook all the same. “Or even just call, you know, if you have any random questions, or . . . anything.”
“I will.” Packing up my notes, I see he’s still hovering out of his seat. “Umm, bye?” I don’t know if I should hug him good-bye like I’m used to, or what.
“Good-bye.” He looks as awkward as me. Finally, he sticks his hand out again. I shake it.
“Later.” I turn away and quickly bounce down the stairs and out onto the street. Finally, some luck! He’s awkward but an angel for sure, sent to save me from academic oblivion. I grin, thinking of his blushes and cute politeness. Any other guy would have hit on me, but not Will. And in my new outfit, he didn’t think I was one of those short-skirted underminers of feminism. The switch survival is working out just great.
So great that when I pass a couple of students with flyers outside the library, I pause. They’re signing people up for a protest group against the closing of the women’s health center — that thing Carrie was going on about the other week. Didn’t Emily say that getting involved with a group would be good for me?
“It’s a vital cause for all Oxford women.” A short girl with cropped hair thrusts a leaflet at me. “We’re meeting Thursday lunchtime, in conference room B.”
I add my name to the chart.
“Wonderful,” she exclaims. “Bring all your friends.”
“Sure,” I agree, taking the slip of paper and heading into the library. I might not have any friends to bring, but I may as well show up.
Hell, it’s not like I have any other plans.
From: totes_tasha
To: EMLewis
Subject: switch survival 1.0
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
ok, the first secret is that “california casual” totes isn’t casual at all. before you leave the room in the morning, you’ll need to blow-dry your hair and put your makeup on — even if you’re just going to the gym. like, it doesn’t matter if you’re just wearing a sweat suit (cute and fitted, obvs), you’ve got to be shiny and sleek, that’s just the way things work. maybe cut out some study or get up earlier?
xoxo
p.s. do I really have to stop wearing my uggs? i know the girls over here don’t go for them, but they’re sooooo comfortable and it’s “bloody freezing” as u brits would say.
From: EMLewis
To: totes_tasha
Subject: re: switch survival 1.0
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
And I swore I’d never be one of those girls who spends half an hour on her makeup every day . . .
Now for your guide: agree with people. I don’t just mean smiling and nodding along with whatever they’re saying, I mean fake enthusiasm a little more. The thing about the students at Oxford is that a lot of them are self-important and egotistical — they’ve spent most of their lives being told how wonderful they are, and they like to keep that going. So if somebody’s off on a long rant or lecture, actively agree. Make murmurs of assent, say “Right” and “Exactly what I was thinking” a few times, and they’ll think you really do know what they’re talking about. Also, start reading the news headlines online and scanning the main arguments: the people you’re around are very into current affairs and politics, so you’ll need to be able to bluff your way through discussions.
I hope everything’s working out. I told my father that I needed new textbooks and screenwriting programs, so he’s letting me use the credit card. I’m going shopping with Morgan whenever she’s done in the shower: wish me luck!
Hugs,
Em
P.S. Unfortunately, Uggs aren’t really Oxford. Stick to low-heeled leather boots, and if you’re getting cold, try layering two pairs of tights: one patterned over one opaque. You’ve got earmuffs, right?
Natasha was right: Morgan is the undoubted queen of local shopping. All it takes is a morning on State Street with her, Lexi, and that emergency credit card for me to be transformed. I draw the line at anything uber-slutty, of course, but even taking into account my “must cover my crotch” rule of taste and decency, the pair of them still manage to outfit me in a complete range of skintight jeans, little polo shirts, miniskirts, and sneakers.
“I still say you need some time in the tanning salon.” Morgan assesses me again from her seat at the nail parlor.
I shake my head. “No, thank you. The dye and nails are more than enough.” My thin strawberry-blond hair is now definitely more blond than strawberry; blow-dried out in a full, straight mass. All I need is a pair of Ugg boots and a small, yappy dog, and Emily Lewis could, “like, totally” pass for a native. If I don’t open my mouth, that is.
“Sure, if you want to look freakishly pale . . .” Lexi pipes up from my other side. She’s getting blood-red varnish painted on her toenails, to match the new lipstick she bought.
“I’m fine,” I insist.
“Maybe just go for some tinted moisturizer?” Morgan bargains. “’Cause you really do look like you haven’t been outside in, like, forever. No offense.”
“None taken.”
“But those Pumas were a cool find.” Her gaze travels over me, and I get the distinct impression that she’s seeing me as a collection of parts rather than a whole person. “We made a great start.”
Start? I pretend to study my one finished hand, wondering what on earth else is in store for me. Despite the fact that my reflection is now shiny and very blond, I still don’t feel any different from the old, non-trendy me. In fact, I have to force myself not to stare anxiously at my watch as the meeting time for our film group draws ominously near.
Which reminds me that in addition to the dubious honor of being a newly owned Psi Delt Doable, I’m also not exactly riding high in my study partner’s good books.
“So,” I begin hesitantly, wondering how much warning I need, “what happened at the party the other night — with Ryan, I mean. He looked rather upset.”
Morgan pauses. “Omigod, you didn’t hear? He freaked out. It was crazy.”
“So crazy,” Lexi echoes.
“I can’t believe you missed it.” Morgan brightens, wriggling her toes in the small bowl of warm water. “It was so scandalous.”
“Because he saw you with . . . Ben, was it?”
“Right. But it’s not like we were even doing anything!” she exclaims. “Just hanging out. I mean, did he expect me to be a total nun?”
I think of her lunch-hour “workouts” and stay quiet.
“And technically you never said you were exclusive,” Lexi points out, her lip-gloss wand wavering midway to her mouth.
“I know!” Morgan flips back her hair dramatically. “So anyway, I was just chilling out with Ben — and there were tons more people there too; it wasn’t like we were on our own — and Ryan comes storming in, totally mad.” I get the sense she’s taking some dramatic license here, but she’s in full narrative flow, so never mind. “And he’s all, ‘What are you doing with him?’ So I’m like, ‘Is it any of your business?’ A
nd he goes, ‘Uh, yes, I’m your boyfriend.’ And I just laugh like, ‘Whatever.’” Morgan finally pauses for breath. “And then he starts going on about honesty and trust, and I’m like, ‘Enough.’ Right?”
“Right.” Lexi nods.
“You were there?” I ask as the silent Chinese woman finishes my nails and retreats. I say a “thank-you” to her back.
“No, but she called me, like, minutes later.”
“It was so terrible!” Morgan demands our attention again. “I was a wreck.”
“Total wreck,” Lexi confirms, head bobbing.
“I mean, how could he be so mean?”
I blink.
“And yelling at me in front of everyone.” She pouts. “Where does he get off thinking like he owns me? I mean, that’s not how we do things here.”
“How do you do things?” I spy the opportunity for some inside information. “With dating and boys, I mean.”
“Oh, everything’s totally casual,” Morgan pronounces. “Like, unless you’ve been dating forever and you’ve both said you’re exclusive, then you can hook up with whoever you want.”
“But you wouldn’t, like, sleep with other guys,” Lexi adds. “That would just be skanky.” I swear I see her shoot a sideways glance at Morgan, but she seems unconcerned.
“So if I’d hooked up with Ben — if — then it would have been totally legit,” Morgan insists. “If I’m exclusive, I don’t cheat, but we weren’t, so it’s not cheating.”
“That makes sense.” I’m surprised at just how straightforward Morgan’s dating logic actually is. I feel a short pang of guilt for thinking she was a heartless bitch.
“I know.” She looks at me as if to say, “Keep up.” “Ryan was just mad I blew him off to go to the party in the first place. And he loves the drama. Like, I swear he’s just playing out this big script in his head, and I was around at the right time to be the main part.”
Sophomore Switch Page 9