Life Swap (16 page)

“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're all falling about 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 Natasha 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:
  

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.

“You're not listening.” Lulu stares fiercely at her clenched hands, and I feel a shiver of pride. This was supposed to be a fight scene—full of rage and shouting—but two nights ago, I woke up at 3:00
AM
with the words dancing around my head, and I realized it didn't need to be so loud at all. The emotion, the intensity, it would all be more dramatic if they played it quiet and tense. I was right.

“And…cut! Let's run that again, this time from the second angle.” Ryan doesn't look up from his screen the entire time, preferring to watch the digital version to the flesh and blood in front of him. I've learned by now that it doesn't matter to him what real life looks like, only what comes across on the display.

We don't have time scheduled to capture the scene from a different angle, but I let him take it, just the same. I may have put my foot down in the beginning, but I know now that there's no point standing in his way. Yes, he's stubborn and argumentative, but more than that, he's got
vision.
Ryan sees this film in a way I never could. To me, it's linear, the narrative weaving smoothly through shots and scenes. Beginning, middle, end. But to him, it's a multidimensional entity. His dark eyes see angles and panoramas, subtext and symbolism.

“Got it.” With a curt nod, Ryan reviews the scene again and finally stands back from the monitor. Taking a deep breath, he runs his hands over his head and blinks.

“Take a break,” I urge him, walking over while the cast members unwind. In rumpled jeans and a faded gray shirt, he looks as if he hasn't slept for days.

“We've got tons left to do.”

“And there's time,” I assure him. “You really think I'd let you run over?”

Ryan musters a weak smile. “Maybe not.”

“Exactly. Besides,” I add, in case he thinks I'm getting soft, “if you have a nervous breakdown now, we'll never get the editing done.”

“Good point.”

I push him gently over to the bench and retrieve the Mountain Dew/Twinkie combination that seems to be his only fuel. “Eat. Drink. Breathe.”

Ryan nods listlessly, and I can tell he's still analyzing the previous scene from a dozen angles.

“It's never going to be perfect,” I remind him, perching on the edge of the seat. “We just don't have the time for that—or the resources.”

“I know.” He munches the snack slowly. “I just want it to be…as near to perfect as possible.”

It strikes me as something of a role reversal: me preaching “good enough” while he strives for flawless. “There are just too many variables,” I agree, watching the cast and crew kick back. “If we were able to handpick the team…”

“So I didn't have to direct
and
be cameraman.” Ryan sighs.

“And I didn't have to produce, as well as write. Although,” I add, “I think I'd probably produce regardless. You know I couldn't stand around and watch someone else in charge.” Ryan laughs, and for a moment we're united: us against the forces trying to hold our baby film back. I sneak a look over at him, shoulders hunched, and wish I could say something to set his mind at ease—to reassure him that the film will work out wonderfully, that Morgan was an utter fool to cheat on him, that he's worth so much more than—'

I gulp. What on earth am I thinking?

“Well, we don't—have the time and equipment, I mean.” Forcing my voice to stay even, I finish upbeat and positive. “So it'll just have to be what it is.”

Turning to me, Ryan pauses. “Do you, do you think it'll be good?”

The uncertainty in his voice surprises me. “Good? It's going to be amazing!” He lets out a breath. “Can't you see it?” I ask.

A shrug. “I guess, I just…I get so wrapped up in a project from the inside, I can't get an objective look.”

“Trust me,” I say forcefully. “I'm more than objective, and I know it's going to be great.”

I know that you're great
, I add silently, despite my brain flashing a vivid red warning sign.

He smiles at me again, this time with a little more spark in his eyes, and I can't help but feel a swell of pride. I managed to make him feel better.

“OK. You're the boss.”

“Damn right, I am.” I shift under his gaze and leap up. “Now back to work, you lazy boy.”

“Yes sir!” With a mock salute, Ryan lopes back to the camera, and I wonder if he's still hurt over what happened with Morgan. He hasn't said a word about it since my demi-apology, but for all I know, his exhaustion is from pining after her.

It's pointless of me to even care, but I hope not.

Morgan, unfortunately, hasn't forgotten about her ex. We're at the beach later that afternoon, ostensibly to relax and do some reading, but I soon discover that Morgan is anything but relaxed.

“What's up?”

I barely have time to close my eyes and feel the late-afternoon sun seep into my bones before she nudges me.

“Nothing much.” I trace idle circles in the sand. “It was a rather hectic day.”

“Oh yeah?” Morgan flicks another textbook page over. Lexi and Brooke are in class for a change, so it's just the two of us. “Isn't that supposed to be done already?”

“Two days ago,” I agree. But all my other advances must be having some effect, because instead of getting stressed about missed deadlines and contingency plans, I feel relatively calm. As far as study is concerned.

“So how is he?” Morgan regards me over her shades.

“Ryan? Fine, I suppose.” I try to keep my voice even. I really don't want to be talking about him with her.

“C'mon, you must know something. Is he seeing anyone?” Morgan's voice is far too interested for somebody who claims to be so unconcerned. “Lulu said she saw him getting coffee with Maura.”

“I don't know anything about that.” I feel a sharp dig at the thought of them together.

“But has he said anything about me?”

“Not that I heard.”

“You must have seen them together, on the movie.” Morgan keeps pushing. “Did it look like there's something going on? Were they touching a lot or making eye contact, ‘cause—”