Sophomore Switch (3 page)

“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.

If only I’d known this would happen. Maybe then I’d have thought harder before throwing on my candy-pink bikini and going back to Tyler’s that night . . . OK, who am I kidding? I didn’t give it any thought at all. But of course not. I mean, you don’t stop and think, “Hmm, do I really want a video of this leaked all over the Internet?” every time you hook up with a hot guy. Because, barring a few crazy exhibitionists, the answer will always be no. No, I don’t want to be known as the slut who broke up America’s Most-Beloved Couple (seriously, they won the
Seventeen
reader survey last year). No, I don’t want to see my own tanned and not particularly toned body staring back at me from the supermarket tabloids for weeks. No, I don’t want a half hour of drunken fun to be the single defining moment in my whole nineteen-year existence.

Sighing, I grab my shower caddy and head for the bathrooms. I’ve had weeks to mope about the whole thing,
but even I have to admit that being alone and anonymous in England is way better than being a recognizable joke back in L.A. Lathering up my hair under the dribble of lukewarm water, I resolve to be more positive. I managed to get out of the States; now all I have to do is find some kind of social life. It’ll just take some effort, right?

Wrapping myself in my huge, terry-cloth robe, I step back out into the communal bathroom. I thought the place was empty, but now that the shower is off, I can hear a kind of muffled sobbing coming from one of the stalls. I pause.

“Hey, are you OK?” I ask.

There’s a sniffling sound, and then a thin voice emerges.

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fine,” I point out. “Can I get you anything?”

“No.” Another sniffle. “I wish you could, but . . .” She starts sobbing again.

I gingerly push open the cubicle door and find a girl curled up on the toilet seat, legs tucked tightly against her chest. She’s wearing striped pj’s and has limp blond hair hanging in her face.

“Really, I’m fine,” she protests, trying to wipe her face with a shirtsleeve. “I just . . .”

“Don’t worry,” I say softly, not wanting to scare her. She looks younger than a freshman, but maybe that’s just the distress on her pale face. “Look, my room’s just down the hall. I could make you a coffee. Or tea, if you want,” I add, remembering how Brits are about their tea.

“Thanks, but . . .” She shakes her head and grabs another handful of tissue from the dispenser. “It won’t help.”

“Won’t help what?” I ask again. “Look, I know you don’t think I can help, but maybe I can.”

She takes a deep breath and then looks me in the eye for the first time. Another sniffle, and then her voice comes, so soft I have to lean forward to hear.

“This morning . . . The condom split. I don’t know . . . I don’t know what to do.”

Other people’s problems may suck for them, but at least they give you some perspective. It takes me less than twenty minutes to Google the Oxford student services, wait for Holly to dress, and make our way down the twisted, cobbled streets to the offices behind the student union buildings. I’ve done this with Morgan so many times, I didn’t even raise an eyebrow when Holly told me about the boyfriend (older), the sex (bad), and her feelings of general helplessness that were clouding whatever judgment got her into Oxford in the first place.

As it was, she only had to chat to the physician for a few minutes before emerging with her prescription and the glow of somebody who will never, ever have unnecessary sex again. Morgan usually lasts about a week before jumping the next guy, but I’m betting Holly waits longer.

“OK?” I ask, my ass already numb from the cheap Formica seats they have lining the small waiting area.

She nods happily. “Yes. Thank god!”

“Cool.” I look around. The place is empty, littered
with flyers and health-awareness posters. “Want to stock up on freebies while we’re here?”

Holly blushes, but she goes over to the jar of condoms all the same. I browse the notice board instead. There’s no way I’m so much as going to
kiss
a guy while I’m over here. No dating, period.

“Yes, just let me check for you.” A voice emerges from a back room, and then the familiar stocky body of my classmate walks out. I cringe.

“Oh. Hi. Natasha, right?” Carrie looks as uncomfortable as me, frozen by the front desk with an armful of paperwork.

“Yup. Hey.” I give an awkward wave.

“What brings you . . . ?” Carrie glances from me, to the physician’s door, to where Holly is helping herself to a liberal supply of condoms. “Oh, right.” She gives me a knowing look. Of course the dumb Californian would be stocking up on birth control.

I control my flicker of irritation and try and make nice. “You work here? That’s great.”

Carrie looks surprised. “Yes, I volunteer. But not for long. They’re closing the place down at the end of March.”

“They are?” I look around again. “Why?”

“No funding.” Carrie gives a bitter laugh. “The benefactors leave thousands to the rowing clubs and libraries, but we get nothing. Typical, isn’t it?” She takes a paper from the desk and hands it to me.
SAVE WOMEN’S SERVICES
, the Day-Glo orange flyer protests.

“Is there anywhere else in town to get this stuff?” I ask, worried. I may be planning to give nuns competition
in the chastity stakes, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be concerned for everyone else.

“That’s not the point.” Carrie folds her arms, already defensive. “That’s only half of what we do here. There’s a support hotline and a night safety group and —”

“I get it,” I cut her off quickly. She’s got an angry gleam in her eye, and I don’t want to be on the other end of it. “Well, good luck.” I put the flyer down and pick up my bag. “I hope you pull it off.”

She turns back to her paperwork, while Holly and I push through the smudged glass doors onto the street. Students stream by on bikes, long striped scarves around their necks, and a bunch of Japanese tourists hover by the gates of the college next door.

“So . . .” I start, turning to her kind of awkwardly. Now that she’s OK, Holly probably has plans. “You’re all set?”

“Yes.” Holly smiles shyly. “I only have to go to the chemist’s.”

“Cool, I’ll just —”

“Would you come with me?” Holly asks suddenly. “And then maybe, I know this great café nearby. We could get something to eat?” She looks at me hopefully. “I mean, you probably have things to do, but . . .”

“No! I mean, I don’t. I’m free.” I smile back, pulling my scarf tighter and thanking the god of coincidence for sending me a possible friend. “I’d like that.”

Apparently the international office doesn’t subscribe to my standards of what constitutes a proper education, because by the end of the week, I find myself sitting halfway back in a cavernous lecture hall while our professor addresses us on the challenging topic that is screenwriting for mainstream movies.

“By now, you’ll all have had time to look over our next script.” He’s relaxed and charming, and far too tan. I’m immediately suspicious. Real professors should have spent their lives buried in dark, dusty libraries, researching papers and striving for expert status. They shouldn’t have time to develop a healthy, outdoorsy glow, let alone advanced social skills. “So let’s hear what you think.”

I look around. The half of the room that is actually paying attention and not checking their cell phones,
doodling notes, or chatting softly to the person nearby are looking through a sheaf of papers. I tentatively raise my hand.

“Ah, an eager critic.” He bares his gleaming teeth at me.

“No, actually, I don’t have the pages,” I hurry to explain. “I just arrived on exchange.”

“Well.” He pauses to assess me before gesturing dramatically. “Can anyone help out our British friend here?”

The students nearby reluctantly make a show of shuffling their pages. It doesn’t help that my neatly pressed skirt and short-sleeved shirt make me look like a tax auditor stranded among their beach-party ranks, but eventually a boy sitting a few empty seats away leans over and hands me the script.

“Thank you,” I whisper, grateful for rescue.

“No problem, I had a spare set.” He has dark eyes and cropped dark hair, slouching low in his seat wearing disheveled black jeans and a fitted navy T-shirt with a cartoon robot printed across the front. “You’re from England, right? What brings you over here?”

I look distractedly back to the front of the class, torn. Professor Lowell is still talking, something about presentation and formatting, and I don’t want to miss it. “England, yes,” I say quickly. “I’m just here for the rest of the term.”

“Cool.” He grins a boyish half smile, and I’m reminded again that shining white teeth seem to be a basic constitutional right over here. “You picked a great class. Lowell really knows his stuff.”