Life Swap (15 page)

“Who is it?”

“My father.” I sigh. Lectures and career planning are the last things I want right now.

“So don't take it.”

My thumb traces the “accept call” button. “I can't just not pick up.”

Carla snorts. “You mean you've never blown off your parents?” She shakes her head in disbelief. “Forget everything I said: hair, makeup, do whatever it takes. You need to try
something
different.” In one swift movement, she takes my phone and hits the “reject” button. “There.” She hands it back. “Problem solved.”

I gulp, wondering what Dad will think. Would he be worried, or just assume I'd fallen asleep studying again?

“Stop that,” Carla warns me, as if she can hear my worrying. “This is a stress-free zone. ‘K?”

“'K,” I echo meekly, as the crowd begins to chant and cheer. The poor folksinger has departed, heralding Jared's imminent arrival.

“Let's get to the front,” Carla decides, grabbing my hand, “and see if we can't find a cute boy to amuse you for a few hours.”

I decide not to disagree.

“The trick is not to expect anything.”

An hour later, Jared has finished playing his set, I'm breathless and sweaty, and Carla and I are fighting for sink space in the bathroom. Eager to round out my education beyond Morgan and Co.'s simple hookup philo sophy of dating, I ask her for advice.

“Expect nothing,” I say, endorphins from the show still lingering in my bloodstream.

“I mean, absolutely
nada.
” Carla reapplies a layer of bold pink lipstick. “'Cause if you have zero expectations, they won't disappoint. Although usually they find a way to do that too,” she admits.

“What do you mean by expectations, exactly?” I push damp strands of hair off my forehead and wish, yet again, that my limp style had a little more volume.

“Like, everything,” Carla explains. “Don't expect him to call, don't expect that he likes you. Don't expect anything besides the fact he wants to get in your pants.”

“But surely he would like me a little if he was flirting with me or kissing—”

“Jesus, you really are clueless.” Carla looks at me with sympathy. “They're college guys—they want to get laid, that's all. And sure, once in a million you'll find a guy who
maybe
cares about getting to know you before he gets laid, but the end goal is still the same.”

“Oh.”

“It's not all bad.” She sees my disappointment. “As long as you remember that, you can get what you want too.” She blots her lips one final time. “Like, I'm a total make-out slut, and sometimes I feel bad ‘cause that's all I want from them. But then I remember they only want one thing too, so, you know, their problem.”

I watch my reflection and wonder if it's really that simple. I assumed that Sam liked me because he spent time talking and flirting, but in the end sex was all that mattered. And as for Sebastian…I sigh.

“Depressing, right?” Carla shoots me a twisted smile in the mirror. “I'm hoping they grow out of it. It's cool for now, but one of these days I'm going to want a guy for more than rolling around in the backseat of my car, and then I'll be bitching nonstop.”

“But perhaps it's better to be honest,” I muse before we go back out into the noise of the club. “Rather than having these big fantasies about love and relationships.”

“Right.” Carla quickly scans the room until she spots the cute blond boy she'd been flirting with all through the show. “You good on your own for twenty or so?”

“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 grafittied 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. Stand ing 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 doesn'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 already 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.