Life Swap (2 page)

“No, she's staying.” Morgan's voice drops as she turns back to the phone. “No…uh-huh…no, she's kinda quiet. I know…she's
cleaning.
”

I ignore her hushed comments and keep working until she leaves, settling into a blissful rhythm of lift, wipe, repeat, and then unpacking my own things, a warm breeze rippling the curtains and a familiar pop song drifting up from the apartment downstairs but nothing else to break my peace. And, at last, my new room is neat and clean, Natasha's many belongings tucked away under my bed, my clothing and study materials in their place.

There.

I pause for breath, regarding the order I've magicked out of thin air and teen-girl offcasts with a warm glow of satisfaction. I can't concentrate when things are out of place. Everything else about the exchange may be a monumental disaster, but this mess I can control.

My own phone begins to ring, not with the heavy rap music that Morgan's cell has spewed forth a dozen times already today, but a normal beeping tone.

“Hi, Elizabeth.” I collapse onto my crisp new bedding and notice a stain on the ceiling I'll have to deal with later.

“Santa Barbara? Emily, have you lost your mind?” My elder sister doesn't waste time with “How was your flight?” pleasantries, her disapproval echoing clearly down the line from England. “It's not even Ivy League! What possible use could it be to waste three months in a school for beach bums and party girls?”

“It's not my fault,” I argue, kicking my bare feet in the air. I may as well get in a few toning exercises with the criticism. Constructive use of all available time, that's the key. “Professor Tremain forgot about my application. He didn't send it until after the deadline, and by then all the good universities were booked. I was lucky to get this place at all. They've already started term.” I gave silent thanks for whatever slutty prank had sent Natasha fleeing to England. Morgan had babbled about hot tubs and TV stars when I first arrived, but I'd been too jet-lagged and bitter to pay much attention.

“Lucky?” Elizabeth exclaims. I hear the sound of pans clattering and picture her in her sleek granite kitchen, whipping up a three-course meal after a fifteen-hour shift at the hospital. “You shouldn't have gone at all. Your second year isn't time to slack off, you know. It's when you should be going to extra classes, getting involved in student politics and debate.”

“I know.” I'd heard this all before. Elizabeth was repeating my father's lecture practically word for word.

“So why jeopardize everything by disappearing?” Elizabeth switches from disapproval to exasperation as a kettle hisses. “I don't understand.”

“It's not such a big deal.” I neatly avoid the question. “Study-abroad programs are a legitimate enrichment activity. It'll show I'm resourceful and adaptive to change.”

“Of course they are.” Elizabeth sighs. “But what possible enrichment are you going to find in that place? It's hardly Harvard.”

Harvard. Just the mention of it burns. I'm supposed to be there right now, walking through neat red-brick quads to seminars on international relations and political philosophy, surrounded by the most brilliant minds in the country. I had it all planned out, right down to my study schedule and lecture list. The pamphlet is in my suitcase, tucked inside a travel guide to Boston my father gave me for Christmas. I suppose I won't be needing them now.

“…Will you? Emily?”

“Hmmm?” I blink out of the reverie.

“I was saying that it's not too late; you could come home. Go back to Oxford.”

“But my place is taken already. The other girl is there.”

“We'd be able to work it out, I'm sure.” Elizabeth munches on something. “Dad said he could find you a room to rent in Oxford until you get your old one back; you could go to all your classes as normal. He would even give you a living allowance.”

“I'm sure he would.”

“Don't say it like that.” She sighs again. “He's just concerned. We all are. This isn't like you at all.”

“And what is like me?” I ask, wary.

“You're responsible, focused.” Elizabeth tries to make it sound like a good thing. “You wouldn't just take off and risk your grades, your chance at a good internship.”

“I've already applied for the internships, and besides, why is everyone so sure they know what I'll do? I'm eighteen years old, not some middle-aged spinster!”

“Spinster?” Elizabeth perks up. “Emily, is this about Sebastian? Because—”

“It's not about him!”

“Fine.” She sighs again. “Just think about it, OK? It wouldn't be like you were admitting defeat.”

“I'm not coming home,” I tell her determinedly, the memory of Sebastian giving me new resolve. “I…like it here.”

“You do?”

“Yes,” I say carefully. “My roommate is really nice, and there are lots of interesting courses I can take.”

“Oh.” She pauses. “Well, I guess you know what you're doing….”

“I do.” I finally let my legs drop, thirty repetitions later.

“Then look after yourself. And call Dad. He's worried.”

“I will. Love you.”

“You too.”

I roll over and catch sight of the exchange information pack on the desk. I haven't yet brought myself to look at my class schedule, despite what I told Elizabeth. I can only imagine what Natasha—amateur lingerie model and table dancer (according to the photographs on the wall)—was signed up for. Intro to Early Education, probably, or Remedial English.

But flicking through the stapled pages, I see with horror that I'd overestimated her. Film Crit: The Modern Blockbuster? Teen Movies: Brat Pack and Beyond?

The girl is a bloody film major?

I catch a shuttle bus from our apartment and then practically power walk across campus to catch the international office before it closes. It's one thing to alienate my family, risk my chance of a top-five law firm internship, and voluntarily spend twelve weeks in a confined space with Morgan, but take that joke excuse for a class schedule? Even I have my limits.

All around me, tanned and happy students are sauntering in the sunshine, completely oblivious to my plight. It's a mass of activity I'm still adjusting to; there are four hundred undergraduates at Raleigh, but here they number closer to twenty thousand. I've gone from recognizing every face I pass to being completely lost in a sea of tanned strangers.

But to my surprise, I don't feel as alone as I expected. In fact, weaving my way through the crowds, the ocean sparkling in the distance, I find a strange sense of satisfaction begin to form. This anonymity, this freedom, is something new for me. I can't cross the Raleigh campus without somebody stopping me to talk about classes or events, but here nobody shows a flicker of interest as I by. I could be anyone, not just Emily Lewis, future lawyer and study fiend, the person I have been half my life. As far as anyone here knows, I could be somebody who usually does things like this: a girl who takes off to the other side of the world, a reckless adventurer.

Reckless…I have to give a hollow laugh at that. The first truly adventurous thing I do in my entire life, and it's because of a boy. Pausing in the afternoon sun, I remember my sister's comments and what Sebastian had said, just a week ago, the night he broke up with me. Because I was a control freak. Because I was afraid of intimacy. Because the conversation was taking place
on
my bed, instead of
in
it, wearing more clothing than he would have liked. Other girls would have gone out and spent too much money on a low-cut dress or cut their hair off to show how spontaneous they were, but not me. No, I had to pick up the phone the very next morning when that Global Exchange lady rang, and I had to tell her yes. Yes to the last-minute switch. Yes to California. Get me out of England.

As much as I—and my liberated, post-third-wave feminist self—hate to admit it, my sister was right. This is all because of Sebastian.

Ignoring the dull fear in my chest that comes whenever I think of what he said, I cut past a group of boys in too-low denim tossing a Frisbee around and push into the air-conditioned cool of the International Students building. It didn't matter how I ended up here: I'm stuck. Until April. I suppose I might as well make sure I get a proper education while I'm here, at the very least.

So this is what studying is like.

Don't get me wrong, I've worked hard before. Exams, term papers, finals—just because I'm not an honor student or anything, it doesn't mean I haven't put the time in. But there's a huge difference between cramming stuff you kind of know (but just need to know better) and working flat out for three days trying to get your head around concepts you haven't even heard of. And even then, after all that work, knowing your paper still sucks.

I'm back in Professor Elliot's badly lit study, this time with only a couple of other students for company/camouflage. Sporty girl and blond boy, aka Carrie and Edwin. Yes, Edwin. They call their kids things like that here. Anyway, I'm bundled up in my warmest sweater because for some reason, English people are, like, morally opposed to heating, and it's still raining: gray and gloomy outside the slim windows. Carrie has just finished reading her essay aloud, which involved a lot of phrases like “basic ideological dichotomies” and “inherent value systems,” and now Professor Elliot is looking at us expectantly.

“Any thoughts?” she asks as I try to avoid eye contact. This is becoming a routine for me, but maybe that's not so bad. Aren't routines supposed to give your life structure and purpose?

“Well, actually yes.” Edwin speaks up right away, flicking back a few pages to the start of his notes and launching into an attack of everything Carrie just said. “…And finally, she's completely overstating the intrinsic value of democracy as an end.”

“But of course it has value!” Carrie bursts out. “Are you saying we shouldn't have a say in our government?”

“Of course not.” Edwin sighs. He's tall and aristocratic-looking like a lot of the boys here, with faintly blushed cheeks and a kind of delicate look about him, like he's a temperamental classical composer or something. “But by giving it a sort of lexical priority, you risk overlooking other important factors.”

“What about you, Natasha?” Elliot interrupts them, staring straight at me with her sharp blue eyes. I haven't even heard of “lexical priority,” but there's no escape. “What was your take on the essay question?”

If this were one of the romantic-comedy movies I've studied, this would be the point where I'd speak up with some insightful comment that would win everyone over and show how my hard work and pluck have paid off.

But it's not.

“Umm.” I blink quickly at my own essay. “I kind of agreed with what the Davies book said. About the different faces of power?” I pause, looking quickly around for signs that I'm on totally the wrong track. I get nothing, so I stumble on. “Like, how real power is getting someone to do what you want without them even knowing it?”

Carrie sighs, her hair pulled back with a brightly patterned green scarf. “It's nothing but speculation whether any of the factors actually applied, or to what extent, or…”

She keeps going, rattling off a long list of the ways I'm wrong, while I sink lower in my seat and feel myself blush. I never minded being shown up in class before, but somehow this is different: the small room, the look on their faces. Carrie and Edwin seem exasperated, like they could be coming up with a Middle East peace plan if it weren't for me.

“…Really, Lancing covers all of this in his first chapters.” Carrie looks at me impatiently. “Didn't you get a chance to read him?”

“I…No,” I admit. Covering just the main texts on the list had taken dawn-to-dusk effort. I'd barely left the library except for food and sleep. And yes, I was still on a Ramen diet. “Sorry,” I add, hating myself even as the words leave my mouth.

Carrie exchanges a look with Edwin.

“No need to apologize, Natasha,” Professor Elliot says calmly. “Davies's arguments are certainly relevant here. In fact, one might say that even considering Lancing's objections, he still offers the best way to approach the topic.”

I cringe. The only thing worse than coming off as a total dumb-ass is having the teacher try and stick up for me.

“Now, Carrie, if we can just go back and talk about your first point…”

Luckily, I get to keep quiet for the rest of the class, throwing in the odd murmur of agreement or worried frown based on if the others seem to agree. They're too busy trying to score points off each other to notice. I swear, if I hadn't already pegged Carrie for a lesbian, I would put money on her and Edwin hooking up soon: the way they keep firing arguments back and forth practically screams “unresolved sexual tension.” But anyway, at least they're too wrapped up in tearing each other to pieces to deal with me, and soon the hour is up and I can escape back to my room and the comforting fact that I have a whole four days until my next class torture session. That's one good thing about Oxford, I guess: their weird study system means I only have two of those brutal discussion groups a week. Lectures seem to be optional, so that just leaves me with reading. Tons of reading.

Kicking off my damp sneakers, I collapse onto my bed and look around the room, which is now way more livable since I started pinning up photos and tear sheets from
Cosmo
and
Elle.
It's only 5:00
PM
and I'm getting restless. After all that time in the library, I want to go out, do something, party! But what? In California I had tons of stuff to do and loads of friends to do it all with, but here…I sigh. Here I'm treading dangerously close to social leper territory.

It's not like I haven't tried. I went down to the college bar the other night to meet people, but after hanging around on the edges of crowds while the preppy kids all ignored me, I gave up. The other Americans and international students must have the same problem, because they all seem to keep to their own cliques. They may seem to be total nerds, but I can't risk them recognizing me from Tubgate, so that leaves me back at square one: alone in my dorm room with nothing but the last season of
Heroes
on DVD for company.