Sophomore Switch (26 page)

“I have to go, Daddy,” I say quickly. “But it’s great news, it really is.”

“I’ll call when you get the other offers, and we can go through them all.”

I hang up and turn to Ryan with a smile. “I’ve got some news,” I start, but he puts a hand to my lips.

“Me first!”

He’s so full of excitement, he’s practically bouncing up and down. I giggle and thread my fingers through his. “All right, you go.”

“Lowell loved it,” he announces, pulling me to him and punctuating each sentence with a kiss. “He totally loved it. And that’s not all: Julian Morton is here.”

“The director?” I exclaim.

“They go way back.” Ryan laughs, slipping his arms
tightly around my waist and leaning in, trapping me against the wall. “So Morton saw it and loved it too. He wants to mentor us!”

My mouth drops open. Ryan closes it with kisses while my mind reels until at last, I come up for air.

“But . . . What does that mean?”

“It means we’ve got jobs!” Ryan squeezes me tighter. “His new movie starts shooting in June, and he wants us to intern! Paid! We’ll be total slaves, I know, but we’ll get to learn about script writing and direction and a real-live production!” I gasp, swept along by his enthusiasm. “Can you believe it, Em? The whole summer on set together.”

And then I remember.

“Wait, Ryan, I can’t —” But he’s kissing me again, and whatever I need to say can wait. Gripping my waist, he brings my hips hard into him, and for a moment there’s nothing in my mind at all, just the feverish pull of hot mouths and racing blood and —

“Omigod!”

A familiar voice splits through my oblivion. Ryan wrenches himself away and I blink, still dizzy.

“Em?” The voice becomes a screech, and I turn to find Morgan gaping at me in disbelief, Brooke and Lexi flanking her with equally stunned expressions. “What the hell are you
doing
?!”

I don’t bother with my preppy Oxford uniform after that last, awful class with Professor Elliot and Carrie. There’s no point — everyone knows who I really am, so why should I be universally loathed
and
unfashionable? But even though I figured I’d switch right back to my old Uggs and miniskirts, I find I’m holding back from the full-on look. It all seems kind of . . . obvious now. So, instead, I mix it up: working the Hitchcock skirts with casual layers; blending crisp shirts with my distressed denim. It’s not like the other kids here, but it’s not like Tasha either, and when I look in the mirror every day, I feel like what Emily says is true. The girl I’ve been here is part of me too. She’s not just this character I’ve been pretending to play; she’s another side of me — as real as the girl who tears up the clubs and can find every sample sale in Southern California.

Maybe I need to find a way to be both.

Once the dust settles, the last days of my stay creep by pretty much how they started: on my own. Holly hangs out when she can, but her schedule is manic as hell, so most of my final week passes quietly, in libraries or tucked away in my old corner of Starbucks with a book. But instead of being lonely or frustrated like before, I’m weirdly at peace. I have just one more paper due for Elliot, and as another way to make me feel bad, she’s assigned a discussion of modern feminism and an essay question that asks: “Can submitting to male-created standards of sexuality ever be compatible with feminist values?” There’s no way I’m letting her take me down again, so I’m clocking up some serious reading time in my quest to make this my best paper yet — which is why I’m back in an armchair in Borders past nine on Wednesday night, iPod plugged in and a triple-shot macchiato at my side.

Despite the peppy pop soundtrack I’ve got playing, it’s tough going. The reading list is full of books like her own: passing judgment on girls who sleep around and undermine the feminist cause. But the more I read, the more I realize that there’s this gaping void in Elliot’s thesis, in what Carrie and the girls all say. They may be right about the whole “raunch culture” thing being kind of sleazy, all that stripping and soft porn, but there’s one thing they’re not talking about. Desire. It’s like their view of the world is totally sexless, like they’ve never felt that pull of lust low in their stomach or longed for the feeling of somebody’s body hard against theirs.

Sure, I might make mistakes trying to figure that side
of myself out, but at least I’m trying, instead of feeling like it’s sinful and wrong. Isn’t that a good thing? And their stupid superiority kick . . . Is it any wonder none of my friends back home would ever look into feminism, when people like Carrie do nothing but look down on us, like we’re somehow less than them? Maybe if they stopped being so damn judgmental, we’d start realizing it’s not just a straight choice between waving placards and making out with five guys a night on a dare.

I know, it’s not rocket science, but finding another way that Carrie and Co. don’t have it all figured out only makes me feel stronger. And gives me more material for this paper.

I’m deep in my notes when I become aware of somebody standing over me. At first I just ignore them, figuring it’s someone hovering to try and take my comfy seat, but when they don’t move, I finally look up.

It’s Will.

I feel that blade in my chest again. He’s looming awkwardly, striped scarf thrown around his neck and hair falling in his eyes the way it always does. Slowly, I reach up and take out my earphones.

“Can we talk?”

His voice is low and uncertain, but just the sound of it takes me back to the club bathroom and all the awful things he said. I swallow.

“Do I want to hear what you’ve got to say?” I fold my arms carefully and try to glare.

He hunches his shoulders. “I really just want to —”

“So you’re talking to me again?”

“Please.” His eyes meet mine, and they’re forlorn enough to make me soften.

“Whatever. Talk.”

“Here?” He looks around. The corner is full: a large old man in glasses is reading the paper, and on my other side a thin-faced woman sneaks cookies from her bag and sips a cup of tea. I don’t care what they hear.

“It’s all you’re getting.”

Will moves to the chair next to me, stumbling past a low table and the stacks of books littering the space. I don’t move to help him. I feel stiff with anger, but part of me can’t help wishing he’ll say something to make this right.

“So?” I ask when he’s sitting down. I’ve got my book still in my lap, like I could ignore him whenever I want. I grip it to hide the fact that my hands are shaking like crazy.

Will swallows. He toys nervously with the cuff of his jacket. “I’m sorry,” he says at last. “And, ah, I didn’t mean it — what I said. I’m sorry.” He looks at me and I see he means it. He knows he’s wrong, he’s sorry, and it’s everything I wanted to hear, but . . .

But it doesn’t matter.

I blink.

“I was awful, I know, but I was just so angry.” He’s still talking, still looking at me with those dark brown eyes, but the metal in my chest doesn’t melt away. I don’t hurt any less. “I know you hate me. I’m just . . . sorry,” he finishes, miserable, and stays there, watching me hopefully.

“I don’t hate you,” I say, closing the book. My hands aren’t shaking anymore. I know how this is going to end.

“You don’t?” His expression picks up.

“No,” I say, just damn tired of it all. “I’m disappointed. You let me down.”

He nods quickly. “I know I did.”

“No, you don’t get it.” He thinks all it takes is some apologetic words and we’ll be cool again, but I know now it’s not enough. “You bailed. You made this about you — everything was falling apart, and all you cared about was what? The fact I didn’t fuck you?” My voice is low but ice. He flinches.

“Tasha —”

“My name is Natasha,” I interrupt coolly. “And the things you said to me, you totally meant them.” I sit up straight. Proud. “So this won’t work, OK? I can’t have people in my life who are too weak to step up and deal with who I am.”

He doesn’t argue. He just sags back in his seat, and I know I’m right. If he really wanted me, he’d fight. If he really didn’t care about Tyler and the video, he’d show some damn backbone, instead of just watching while I grab my stuff and walk away.

Alone.

Even with all the drama since the board meeting, I still haven’t forgotten the real reason any of this matters, so after I print my paper and leave it in Professor Elliot’s mail cubby the next morning, I head over to the cold stone
buildings that house the Oxford admin staff. A stuck-up secretary won’t let me near any of the board without an appointment, so I wait an hour in the dreary gray lobby until one of them comes by.

“Excuse me.” I leap up the minute I see a familiar face exit one of the offices. It’s one of the librarian-type women, wearing the same baggy cardigan from the meeting, or one exactly like it. I don’t pause on why someone would buy one, let alone two, of those ugly things and race after her. “Do you have a minute? I really need to talk to you.”

“I’m sorry.” She barely looks at me. “I’m terribly busy.”

“But this won’t take long.” I plant myself in front of her. “Please.”

Her eyebrows lift, and I can tell she recognizes me. Those thin lips purse even more.

“Please,” I say again, pouring everything into that one word, and something must have slipped past that iron shell around her heart, because she finally relents.

“Well, all right. But just a minute.”

“Thank you!” I follow her eagerly back to her office. It’s as drab as she is, with worn green carpet and faded watercolors. There are a couple of fancy diplomas on the wall, and I snatch a quick glance as I pass to catch her name. Dr. Alison Aldridge.

“Take a seat.” Dr. Aldridge gestures at a hard, tall-backed seat. I obediently take it. “So, Natasha.” She finds a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and puts them on, looking at me over the top of the rims. “What can I do for you?”

“Umm.” I’m suddenly nervous. Going face-to-face with someone from the board seemed like a good idea back in my dorm room, but now that I’m here, it’s pretty daunting. “I was wondering what you’re planning to do, about the health center.”

“The board will announce their decision shortly.” Dr. Aldridge folds her hands primly.

“I know,” I apologize. “I just had to come and make sure . . .” I gulp, my mouth dry. “I don’t want what happened to make a difference to our case.”

“What happened?” She arches her eyebrows again, like a challenge, and I realize I can’t dance around the issue anymore.

“With me.” I take a deep breath, looking at her dead-on. “The video and the newspaper story. I need to know it won’t affect your decision. Because it shouldn’t.” I lean forward, stressing every word. “Everything in our presentation was true: the girls here need that center. It’s a matter of principle.” Her lips twitch, so I sigh. “I know, right? You’re probably thinking I don’t know the first thing about principles, and that’s OK. But what you all don’t seem to get is this is the real world. The girls here are in college, they’re legal, they’re going to have sex, they’re going to get raped. And closing the health center isn’t going to change that — it’s just going to take away the resources they need to deal with it all.”

I let out a breath and stand. “That’s all I had to say. Thanks for the time, I guess.”

I’m halfway to the door when I hear her clipped voice behind me. “We’ll keep funding it.”

“What?” I turn back.

“The center. Tomorrow we’ll announce a continuation in funding.” Dr. Aldridge nods slightly. “I appreciate your coming to see me.” She pauses. “It seems Professor Elliot was wrong about you.”

“Elliot?” I repeat.

A smile is playing on the edge of her lips. “She talked to me, you know. After the meeting. Urged me not to let the actions of a . . . well, we don’t need to go into that,” she corrects herself. “But I see now she misjudged you.”

There’s another pause, and I wonder just what Elliot said about me.

“I was one of the first, you know,” Dr. Aldridge adds.