Sophomore Switch

by Abby McDonald

  “Go ahead.”

  “Cool.” She walks toward him, slow and measured, until she’s close enough to lean up and whisper in his ear. Even in the dim light, I can see his eyes widen as she takes his hand and leads him toward the exit and, no doubt, the backseat of her car.

  I should be more like Carla, I decide, going back to the bar for some water. And Morgan and Lexi too. No illusions, no big drama, just a simple, clear-cut understanding of the male-female dynamic. I was raised on fairy tales, with noble knights and virtuous princesses, but nothing could be further from the truth.

  In short, I need to stop making such a big deal over it.

  Without Carla to charm him, the barman ignores me, serving the men on both sides of me until I feel like climbing over the bar and getting the drink myself.

  “. . . and whatever she’s having.”

  “Huh?” I look up. A boy is staring at me expectantly. “Oh, just some water, thank you.”

  “No problem.” He grins, dark hair cut neat and conservative. “Can’t have you keeling over with thirst.”

  I grin. “Well, it’s very chivalrous of you.” He’s wearing a band T-shirt and jeans: preppy but not too preppy.

  “It’s not a dying art.” He flashes me a smile, and I feel my stomach skip again and —

  Wait, I check myself, Carla’s voice is in my head as if she’s some kind of guardian angel. He’s not being chivalrous; he just wants to get me into bed. But that doesn’t mean I can’t have some (normal, teenage) fun. . . .

  “What’s your name?” I ask, heart suddenly beating double quick as I contemplate what I might just do.

  “Brent,” he says. “Sophomore, econ major, hometown in Oregon.”

  “That’s quite a résumé.” I laugh at his strange introduction.

  He grins again. “You’ve got to get the basics out of the way.”

  “Well, in that case . . .” I pause. I was about to launch into my own list of vital information, but something stops me. I’m still anonymous to him: no name, no history. I sort of like it. “Just think of me as a woman of mystery,” I finally say, wondering if that sounds completely cheesy.

  But Brent is still smiling. “Intrigue, I like it.”

  “So” — I start to speak before I can overthink this — “do you want to go somewhere quieter?”

  He looks surprised, and I would bet good money that surprise turns to shock when I don’t wait for an answer; I just take his hand and lead him down a back corridor. Don’t chicken out, I order myself. You need to do this.

  “Where do you —”

  “I have to go in a second,” I interrupt him with my heart racing faster than I’ve ever felt it. And then I kiss him. Just like that. I reach up, pull his face down to mine, and kiss him, with people streaming past us in a dirty graffitied corridor in a club five thousand miles away from home. His hands move to my waist, and he steps forward until I’m pressed between his body and the wall, my mouth glued to his. My blood is singing and I cling tighter, caught up in the sheer recklessness of the moment. I don’t do this. I’m not that kind of girl. But right now, I am — taking greedy handfuls of his shirt, levering my body closer, arching my hips so I can feel his gasp for breath against my tongue.

  I break away, giddy. “Cheers,” I tell him with a triumphant grin.

  And then I walk away.

  When I get to my class with Professor Elliot, I can tell something’s changed. It took the maintenance crew a while to find cutters strong enough to get through the handcuffs, so I’m twenty minutes late, but when I hurry into the room, Elliot greets me with a big grin instead of her usual frown of disapproval.

  “Ah, Natasha,” she says, getting up from her armchair and grabbing both my arms in a kind of celebratory hug. “Our agent provocateur!”

  “Uh, hi.” I retreat suspiciously. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “Don’t worry about that!” Elliot exclaims. “Carrie has been telling us all about your noble stand.”

  I blink. “She has?”

  “Don’t be modest, Natasha,” Carrie pipes up. She’s smiling at me too, and even the usually bored Edwin has a kind of warm look in his eyes. I swallow self-consciously. After over a month of scowls, this is just creepy.

  “Did you get into a lot of trouble?” Carrie asks, eyes wide. “I tried to wait for you, but they cleared us all out of the building.”

  “N . . . no.” I carefully take my seat. They’ve even saved the prize armchair for me: the one with padding left and no rogue springs. “It all worked out OK. In the end.” After an extreme charm offensive, that was, the kind I haven’t had to use since I totaled my birthday Beemer two days out of the showroom. Compared to my stepdad, the security guys were a breeze: they hadn’t had years to get immune to my tears. And when I weep, I weep.

  “Well.” Elliot passes tea in a mug that’s not even chipped. “Officially, I obviously can’t condone illegal activity . . .” She smiles again. “But off the record, I must say, I’m proud of you for taking such a bold move. Standing up for something you believe in.”

  “Mhhmm.” I hide behind the mug, feeling like a total fraud.

  “As you’ve been reading, direct protest is a key element of many political philosophies,” Elliot keeps rhapsodizing. “Rousseau’s tenets of civil disobedience, for example, have been hugely influential to the modern protest movement.” This seems like it’s directed at me, so I nod. “But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s return to this week’s topic.”

  She passes us back our essays. I try not to look too eager as I snatch mine and flick through in search of my grade: this one’s got to be good; it’s just got to be. After Will’s tutoring and all my planning, I don’t know what I’ll do if it isn’t. . . .

  Seventy-one.

  Omigod. Seventy-one? I gasp. In Oxford that’s, like, a first-class grade!

  “Well done, Natasha.” Elliot catches my elation and gives me another one of those supportive smiles. What am I, teacher’s pet today? “You’ve made some real improvement. In fact, I know Edwin was due to present, but why don’t you read yours aloud so we can discuss it? Your points were excellent.”

  I pause nervously before beginning, wondering if my work really cuts it, but then I replay her words. Excellent. Real improvement. It’s what I’ve been fighting for ever since I arrived: for them to take me seriously, like I’ve got a right to be here too. Sure, their smiles may be freaking me out, but they’re sure as hell better than all those disdainful frowns.

  With a warm glow of pride, I start to read.

  The tutorial goes like a dream. It’s probably just another normal class for Carrie and Edwin, but for the first time, I’m holding my own. Explaining arguments, defending my ideas — with Will’s expert tuition, I actually understand what they’re going on about. I’m used to getting compliments on my cute outfit or amazing new lipstick, but I think this is really the first time in my whole entire life people are paying attention to what I’m saying.

  “So are you coming to the next meeting?” As we leave Elliot’s study, Carrie falls into step beside me. “We’re assembling for a follow-up on Friday.”

  “I don’t know,” I say, hoisting up my bag full of books. “Are you sure? I didn’t exactly do great the last time out.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Carrie exclaims, following me through a low stone archway toward the library. “You were wonderful. And everyone was very impressed.”

  “Oh, well, I guess . . .” Those magic words bring on another warm glow, and I find myself agreeing. If Carrie’s reaction is anything to go by, maybe it won’t suck as much as the last one did.

  “Let me take your number,” she says in that organized tone, so I happily exchange contact details on the stone front steps. “Uma and I are having a gathering tonight in Jericho,” she adds, naming a pretty area on the other side of the city. “We’d love for you to come.”

  “Maybe. I’ll check what I’ve got planned.” I try to sound nonchalant, even though I al
ready know what’s happening tonight. Laundry.

  “Wonderful.” Carrie’s face has none of the suspicion and eye-rolling impatience it used to. “After all, you’re one of the team now.”

  As she walks away, I wonder if it could really be so simple. Is all it takes to win them over a new wardrobe? Or was it the couple of hours I spent literally tied up with campus security that got me my free pass? Either way, Emily was right. Being a part of a club or team is totally the shortcut to an instant social life.

  I figured that the party would be a Portia-clone-free zone, and when I edge through the doorway into the small ground-floor apartment later that night, I’m right. The place is packed with students, but I can’t hear a single braying accent. Thank god.

  “You came!” Carrie pulls me into a hug. She’s wearing a “My God Hates You Too” shirt over a longer blue sweater, and with the contrasting red scarf in her cropped hair, I’d say she almost looks put together. “This is great. I’ve been telling everyone about you.”

  “You have?” My dubious reply is lost as she drags me back to the kitchen, where DeeDee, Uma, and Louise are picking at chips and dip.

  “Natasha!” DeeDee pushes right through the others to greet me. “That was so amazing what you did at the lecture halls.”

  “Umm, thanks.”

  “It’s like I’ve been saying.” Flicking back her limp ash-blond hair, DeeDee puts a hand on my shoulder, like I’m part of her argument. “We have no alternative but to make a stand . . .”

  And she’s off, babbling bossily about protest and South Africa and civil rights. I duck out from under her arm and get a drink and some chips, all the time smiling along like I’m totally with them on whatever they’re saying.

  “I’m just going to . . .” I gesture back out to the party, but Uma and DeeDee are now talking in way heated voices about majority oppression, so I take the chance to slip out unnoticed. These girls seem nice enough, but, boy, do they get wound up over things they can’t control.

  I wander awhile through the party, getting a feel for this scene. It couldn’t be further from Raleigh, that’s for sure. Instead of posh kids in carefully distressed designer gear standing around talking about Miffy and Butters, everyone here is in jeans and seems totally relaxed: chilled out chatting on couches or sitting in circles on the floor. Uma and Carrie have decorated the place with big maps and foreign objects like carvings, and there are ethnic cushions and fabrics everywhere. Upstairs I even find a group sitting around a hookah pipe smoking shisha in the small terra-cotta-painted bedroom. One of them offers me a smoke, but I politely decline and back out of the room, pretty sure my teetotal pledge should extend to unidentified substances.

  “Will?” I suddenly catch sight of a familiar floppy hairstyle down the hallway and bound toward him. “What are you doing here?”

  Will’s got the same semi-nerdy style going on as the last time I saw him: worn cords and an Oxford shirt, but I can’t help thinking he looks kind of good under all that awkwardness. “Natasha?” He gives me a hesitant wave, which I smother with a hug as soon as I reach him. “I have a class with Uma and —”

  “You’re amazing!” I declare, pulling away. But not before I’ve had time to clock the taut body he has beneath that loose shirt.

  “Well, I, ah . . .” Will looks super-embarrassed at the compliment. I think he actually blushes.

  I laugh. “Your tutoring! I got a seventy-one on that essay, can you believe it?”

  He lets out a breath and relaxes. “Congratulations! You deserve it.”

  “Couldn’t have done it without you.”

  “Of course you could have.” Will frowns, pushing back his dark hair in what I can tell by now is a nervous gesture. “You knew that material even before I —”

  “Enough!” I decide. “Not that I don’t want to hear how amazing I am, but this is a party, right? Besides, I’ve had kind of a killer week.”

  “I heard about your brush with the law.” Will’s eyes wrinkle into the cutest grin.

  “You did?” I groan. “Oh man, I was hoping it wouldn’t get out!”

  “Are you joking? That sort of stunt has front-page news written all over it.”

  I gulp. “You haven’t said anything to anyone, have you? Because I really don’t want it getting out, and —” My panic must have shown, because Will puts a hand on my arm and reassures me.

  “Don’t worry, it should be fine.” He looks at me for a long moment. “I’m surprised. I would have thought you’d want the publicity — for the campaign.”

  I pause. “I guess I don’t like the spotlight, that’s all.”

  That and the fact my anonymity is the most precious thing I have in the world.

  “Well, I can understand that.” Will pushes both hands deep in his pant pockets. “I’m not particularly good with attention either.”

  “You, shy?” I joke. “No way!”

  “So . . .” He sways from one foot to the other and looks at me again from under that smooth, dark hair. I have to admit, he’s looking way adorable tonight. So adorable, that half of me starts picturing us together, walking hand in hand through Oxford’s cute cobbled streets and —

  Then the other half hits me over the head with a clue. I made myself a promise. No. Dating. Period.

  I force myself back into friend mode. “Oh, hey, I think I saw some board games downstairs. Want to see if they’ve got Scrabble?”

  Will rewards me with a smile. “Absolutely.”

  I follow him downstairs, half of me congratulating myself on being strong in the face of adorable cuteness, and the other half chanting, “Stupid! Stupid!” over again. This split personality thing sure is tiring.

  We stay tucked in a corner of the lounge for the rest of the evening. He beats me at Scrabble three times, but that’s only because he’s using crazy fake words like xi and qi instead of, you know, real words. But even though it’s the kind of night all my old friends would think is totally lame, I don’t think I’ve had this much fun in forever. The angry feminists mellow after a couple glasses of wine, and soon they keep dropping by to give me game suggestions to try and beat Will (because apparently language acquisition is totally gendered), and we all lose it, laughing when the only words I can make from my letters turn out to be dirty ones, so the board gets covered with nipple and phallus.

  And Will . . . Oh boy, am I in trouble. The more we talk, the more his awkwardness melts away, and soon all I can think about is how cute he looks when that chunk of hair falls in his eyes and those lush eyelashes and —

  Bad Tasha. Down, girl.

  See, I made that “no dating” pledge for a good reason, but as the hours drift by, I can’t help wondering if it’s really so important. I mean, sure, fooling around was what got me into this mess in the first place. And yes, I’m so used to bouncing from guy to guy that I don’t think I’ve gone more than, like, a week without hooking up since I was fifteen and started filling out my tank tops. And OK, it’s been kind of great not worrying about guys while I’ve been here, and rushing out without checking my makeup, and not obsessing over every tiny look and flirtation and —

  Yeah, I know. Sigh. It doesn’t matter how great Will is. I’ve got to stick to my pledge.

  No. Dating. Period.

  Now that I’ve committed to the switch survival guide, my list of accomplishments is growing. Of course, I haven’t undergone a complete personality transplant, so those accomplishments are neatly recorded in my journal, but technicalities aside, I have plenty to be proud of. What started as a way to blend into the California crowds has somehow become much more important — a way to transform my life into something less rigid, more carefree. The more I try to break my control-freak habits, the more I realize just how ordered I need everything to be, and that’s not a good thing. I’m eighteen years old; surely I shouldn’t be so set in my ways?

  Balancing my PowerBook on my knees, I block out Ryan’s monologue about dramatic climax and write another quick email to Natas
ha running down the small victories that make up my new self.

  Lectures skipped: 5

  Grades I’ve dropped as a result of missing said lectures: 0

  Shopping trips: 3

  Fitted polo shirts purchased: 4 — in pale blue, yellow, pink, and white

  New average time I arrive for events: 5 minutes late

  Amount of guilt I feel at turning up late: Minimal

  Parties attended: 3

  Parties enjoyed: 1

  Number of times I’ve missed my father’s calls: 2

  Number of times I’ve read a magazine or the internet during his call: 4

  Boys kissed: 2

  I emphasize that last statistic with mixed pride. In addition to the boy at the Jared Jameson show, I also hooked up (to use native parlance) with somebody else at a frat party over the weekend. Although it was fun, my initial reckless thrill is fading. I can see what Carla and Morgan like about this type of casual dating culture, but I’m not sure it’s for me. Without the buzz of risk, there’s nothing but a strange boy’s tongue in my mouth and a faint sense of unease, as if my heart knows I shouldn’t be kissing just random strangers.

  I hit Send as Ryan yells “Action!” and the actors come to life. Peter wanders carefully over to the park bench where Lulu waits.

  “I was looking everywhere for you.” Peter tilts his head just right, looking at Lulu as if she’s the center of his universe.

  “So?” Lulu sighs, heavy and tired. “Haven’t you said enough?”

  They play the scene just perfectly, the exact mix of jaded hope I was aiming to get across. I’ve rewritten my first draft of the script a dozen times by now. Professor Lowell warned us that a script is never finished until the final edit is over; until then, it’s a work in progress. I didn’t believe him at first, determined to get it perfect straightaway, but the words end up sounding so different when they’re spoken out loud. I’ve been constantly making tiny alterations to fit as we go on, but instead of getting tired of all the changes, I relish them: falling deeper into the characters and story with every correction.