Life Swap (7 page)

“Yup, the weather does suck,” I admit. “But Oxford is amazing—all the old buildings, the history…”

“…the sadistic rowing instructors.” Another guy arrives at our table in time to finish my sentence. “Did you hear what Milton wants us to do next week?”

And with that, I'm buried in the middle of a raging debate on rival crew teams and Raleigh's chances of success. As their enthusiastic conversation surrounds me, I feel a glow of warmth that has nothing to do with the overheated room. Professor Elliot is wrong—I'm not here for the easy way out. I can do this. I know I can.

After my mini-breakdown at the beach, I don't accept any more of Morgan's invitations. As much as I want to get along here, I can't bear the thought of that panic or uncertainty again, so by the end of my third week, I'm back in a perfectly structured routine, every hour from eight until five neatly accounted for—thanks to my wall-chart organizer. Morning runs, library sessions, classic film watching, and, of course, classes; if I ever get lonely or start to question what I'm doing here, all it takes is a quick glance above my desk at the daily schedule to calm myself down again.

In addition to Professor Lowell's screenwriting session, Natasha is also signed up for a range of core curriculum and film modules. The core material is a breeze: the sort of basic education requirements I could complete in my sleep, but to my surprise, the film work is actually interesting—full of ideas and concepts I've never come across before, everything from the business side of the industry to sociological readings of performance and script. Throwing myself completely into the work, I can almost see why someone would voluntarily choose to study it.

As the rush of students around me stampedes toward the door of my only morning lecture, I take a moment to check I have all the photocopied notes and reading suggestions. I'm finally adjusting to the size of this place, with cavernous lecture halls full of earnest film geeks and slacker students. My days of personal debate with my tutor are on hold for now, but the anonymity is refreshing. I see the same faces from some of my other classes: emo boy, perky girl, and Ryan, but nobody expects anything more than a smile or nod from me. I used to have to always be the one with the superior argument or insightful comment, but here I only have to show up.

It's the first time people have ever expected so little from me.

I finally finish double-checking my books and slip into the aisle, bumping straight into somebody else. “Excuse me,” I apologize, still fastening my bag.

“No problem,” a familiar voice drawls, edged with the slightest hint of sarcasm.

My head snaps up and I find Ryan in front of me, slouched in a maroon print hoodie and regarding me with extreme impatience.

“Oh, it's you.”

“Could you sound any more thrilled?” His face twists into a half smile. “You're giving my ego a bruising.”

“I don't think your ego needs any more help from me,” I mutter, and then wish I could take it back. Ever since I found out Ryan was Morgan's other half, I've fought to keep things civil between us. I may never have had a roommate before, but I presume not fighting with her boyfriend is part of the basic requirements.

Ryan looks amused at my comment but lets it pass. “We're meeting at four, right?”

“Right,” I agree. I've been working extra-hard to get my rewrites finished; we start filming next weekend, after all. “I booked us a study room at the library.”

His face wrinkles. “Want to just get a coffee instead? The library's dead.”

“Exactly. It'll be easier to concentrate there.”

“Whatever. See you then.” He saunters away, and I just wonder how much more reluctant his expression will get when he hears my proposals.

When I get back to the apartment, there's a hair tie on the door handle and not-too-subtle moans emerging from inside. Again. Apparently Morgan has a penchant for lunchtime sex, preferring to burn off calories rather than consume them. She also prefers not to limit herself to her room. I hoist my bag up again and walk slowly back down to the street. It's bad enough that Ryan is a fixture in all my classes, but does he really have to take over my personal life too? I mean, I don't know what—

Wait a minute.

I pause, frozen on the sidewalk outside. Ryan had just been in class with me at the main campus. I power walked to the transit stop and caught a shuttle bus straightaway, so even if he drove himself, he still wouldn't have had time to get through traffic and get naked with Morgan by the time I got back.

She wasn't with him.

It probably makes me a terrible person, but a small smile spreads across my face at the thought. Ryan acts as if he knows everything, but Mr. Know-It-All doesn't know this. And I'm not about to tell him.

“So, what's the verdict?” Ryan collapses in the seat opposite me and shoots me a wary look. Unlike the creaking old bookcases and dark wood back at Raleigh, the library study room here is small and bright. I've set out the table with copies of my changed script, as well as plain notepads, pens, and bottled water. Everything is planned for this to be as quick and painless as possible.

“Why don't you take a read through it and then we'll talk?” I pass him a stack of pages I've had bound in a blue folder. He gingerly takes one between his thumb and forefinger as if it's toxic. I pretend to scan through a textbook while he reads, but I can't help sneaking looks across the table to try to gauge his reaction. He's pulled another seat next to him and kicked off his Converses, resting the pages on his brown cords. I thought he was one of the hipster boys, with those black skinny jeans and plaid shirts, but today he's looking more nerdy in a stripy knit vest.

I wonder who Morgan was with.

Time stretches on. He clears his throat and I glance up, but his face is entirely free from emotion, giving me no hint at all what he thinks. Despite myself, I'm nervous. Ryan's original script was the story of a boy who finds some of his grandfather's old letters and is inspired to make changes in his life: admitting how he feels to his long-term crush, finally breaking away from an old friend who's become a bad influence. It's a sweet concept, but Ryan tried so hard to be unconventional that he forgot that conventions exist to give the story structure and conflict.

“You killed the grandfather?” Finally finishing, Ryan looks over at me, his expression still hard to read.

I nod. “This way, he's got a reason to follow the advice. It's emotional blackmail.”

Ryan narrows his eyes thoughtfully. “And you moved the scenes with his crush around.”

“We went through that in class.” I try to keep my voice gentle. I can tell he's liable to get defensive. “I know you don't want the romance to be the main focus, but they're the best scenes. You want them to be the dramatic high point.”

There's a long pause. Ryan looks back down at the script and flicks his pencil against the edge of the table.
Tap-tap-taptap
. It echoes in the tiny space.
Tap-tap-taptap
.

“Can you not do that?”

Tap-tap-taptap.

I glare at him. He smirks back.

“Relax,” he tells me. I sigh, pulling my hair back into a tighter plait.

“The changes?” I remind him.

“Sure, whatever.” His voice is so nonchalant, I can't believe it.

“‘Whatever'?” I repeat. “I thought this was the most important thing in your life.”

“Lowell's always telling us to get distance from our work.” Ryan begins to smile now that he knows he's annoying me. And just for good measure, he begins with the pencil again.
Tap-tap-taptap
. I have to fold my hands together to stop myself reaching out and snatching it from him.

“We start shooting on Saturday,” he says, as if I don't already have a schedule mapped out, complete with time for delays and weather problems. Not that there's any weather in California. “The first few days will probably be working out the kinks, getting light and sound figured.”

“Fine.” I run my eyes down the long, long list of prefilming tasks I've been making. Another boy from class, Mike, is supposed to be producing, but I only needed one look at his red-rimmed eyes and bagful of snacks to decide I'd better run this myself if I want anything done. “Here.” I tear off the bottom of the page—the least necessary things—and pass it to him. “You'll need to get these sorted before we start.”

Ryan folds the paper carelessly and throws it in his bag.

“It's important,” I remind him. “You won't get anyone working without clear schedules and a shot-by-shot plan.”

“Already covered,” he drawls, surprising me. “Don't look at me like me that. I've been planning this longer than you.”

“Well, all right.” I frown. “I think that's it.” I'd set aside another hour for this meeting, expecting tantrums and ultimatums at the very least.

“Cool, I'll see you by the equipment room on Saturday.” Ryan pulls his shoes back on and slings his bag over his shoulder. “Nice work on the rewrites.”

He's gone before I recover from the parting compliment.

With time to spare before a graduate screening of short films, I linger in the library and browse the social science sections for a little pleasure reading. I organized for my Oxford professors to email me the assignments so I can be certain that I don't miss too much, but sometimes it's nice just to wander the stacks and see what catches my eye. Picking out a couple of books on democracy, I find a quiet area with some desks and couches and settle in.

But I can't concentrate. Usually I can put a book in my hands and be oblivious to the world. It's a great skill for studying, but for some reason my superpowers aren't working today. Every movement, every sound: they all catch my attention, and soon I'm watching the people around me closer than my work. Back in Oxford, libraries are silent and sacrosanct, but here people don't seem to care about keeping quiet. Two boys in sports shirts are complaining over their notes, a blond girl bobs her head in time to her iPod, and two girls are giggling together behind a stack of books. Their desk is spread with candy wrappers, magazines, and colored pens, and studying looks like the last thing on their minds as they hiss at each other.

“Shhh, she'll hear.”

“No way.”

I glance around and find the object of their gossiping. A girl is curled up in the corner, her dark hair cut short and choppy with pink streaks. She's utterly absorbed in her book, so much so that she hasn't noticed the strip of toilet tissue stuck on the bottom of one chunky boot, fluttering in the air-conditioned breeze. The gossips giggle again, louder this time, and the girl looks up. She shoots a defiant look at them but doesn't see what they're laughing about and tries to turn back to her book.

“Excuse me.” I lean over and catch her attention. She stares at me with a hint of suspicion. I smile apologetically and gesture to her foot. “You've got…”

“Oh!” She plucks it off. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” I give her a weak grin and nearly turn back to my book, but something about her lack of concern for the whispering makes me pause. “I like your hair,” I say shyly. I could never have the nerve to do something so bold—or permanent.

“And I”—she surveys my shirt and plain jeans—“don't like anything about your outfit. Except your earrings, they're kind of cool,” she adds with a grin.

I should be insulted, but her comment seems more sincere than anything I've heard all week from Morgan or Lexi. She's wearing black jeans and a shirt in purple and green, a leather cuff on her wrist, and silver bullets in her ears.

“Nobody gets them,” I say, toying with the tiny metal symbols. I'm about to launch into an explanation, but the girl nods, her eyes thickly lined with purple ink.

“A thunderbolt and an owl—that's from the Greeks, right? Zeus and his daughter Athena.”

I grin, surprised. “Right!”

“What classes are you taking?” She nods at my books.

“Film,” I admit. “These are just for fun.”

“Huh.” Studying me, she pauses, then holds out her hand. “I'm Carla. Carla Reyes.”

“Emily Lewis.” I shake, feeling strange at the formality.

“Good to meet you.” She grins. “Now, I better get back to this.” She glares at the thick textbook. “Parliamentary democracies won't learn themselves.”

I deflate a little. My brief chat with Carla is the sum total of my social interaction that week. “Wait, is that Tsebelis?” I ask, turning over the textbook.

“You know it?”

“Intimately.” I grimace at the memory. “It killed me last term.”

“So you know what the hell they're going on about with comparative factors and all that?”

“It took a while, but yes.” I nod. “I could lend you my notes, if you want.”

Carla bounces up. “Seriously?”

“I've got them all on my computer.” I shrug. “I could print you off a copy. And if you're studying that, you'll probably need the material on Lijphart and Sartori as well.”

“Girl, you'd be saving my butt.” Talking at full volume now, Carla grins at me and sweeps her notebooks into a purple patent bag. “Let's go.”

I decide that even Morgan doesn't have enough stamina to still be naked back in our room, so I follow Carla out of the building.

“You know, you're the first person who hasn't asked me about my accent,” I realize, hurrying to keep up as she strides ahead down the busy pavement.

She shrugs. “I figure everyone came here from someplace else.”

“Did you?”

Carla snorts. “Do I look like one of those girls?” She shakes her head, hair shimmering in the sun. “L.A.,” she explains. “Inglewood. I wanted to stay and go to UCLA, but this place offered more scholarship money.”