Life Swap (10 page)

“OK.” I smile. Sam takes my hand and maneuvers us through the party stragglers up to the top floor.

“See? Quieter,” he says, closing the door of a room that just screams “college student.” I collapse onto the bed and look around. Posters of cars and surf girls in bikinis, stacks of CDs—nothing but typical, average teenage-boy possessions.

I relax, kicking off my shoes. “No bong? Or porn collection?”

“I hid those,” Sam quips, suddenly looking a little nervous. I feel a rush of affection. Maybe he isn't so smooth after all.

Bold, I reach up and take a handful of his shirt. “What was that you said about making out?”

He laughs, leaning down to meet my lips. “I thought you were tired.”

“Not that tired.” I exhale against him and then kiss, tasting beer and something different from Sebastian.

Normal. Teenage. Fun.

I walk back to Raleigh in a total daze. The streets are dark but full of kids on their way to clubs or coming home from the bars, and though I get my usual round of whistles and catcalls, I can't be bothered to glare back.

The scene keeps replaying in my head. Maybe it's because I've sat through so many movies for class or maybe it's just shock, but right now I see the whole thing at a distance, like I'm sprawled out in my dorm room with popcorn and this is just the latest mishap of some adorable romantic-comedy cutie. You know, the ditzy leading girl who keeps falling over herself until the hero picks her up again. Only nobody thinks I'm adorable, and I sure as hell know no hero's going to come along to save me.

What can I do?

The question bounces around all the way home. Nothing I seem to try makes a difference to these people—I just don't blend in. If I was back home with my friends, I wouldn't give a damn what those stuck-up bitches thought, but after a long month of loneliness, I just want a break. The silence, the cold shoulders: they've worn me down, and I'm so freaking sick of feeling low, I could scream.

I don't. Instead, I stop at one of the fast-food carts and fill my mouth with greasy fries, smothered with chili and cheese and enough calories to make a girl faint.

Maybe my mom was right: all those times she said I'd have to face the consequences of my actions. Maybe this is it, my karma, my payback for playing around and bringing shame on my family. God, I remember all those screaming matches we had after the video broke. She couldn't believe that she'd brought me up so badly to turn out a cheap slut, a whore. That's what she says, but whatever. I tried to defend myself at first. I mean, I'm not pregnant or on drugs, and if the video hadn't got out, she wouldn't think any different of me. But I guess having everyone you know email you with shots of your half-naked daughter makes you lose all perspective, because anything I said only made her madder, until we couldn't even stay in the same room without screaming.

And now I get the silent treatment. Money goes into my account every two weeks, but aside from that, I haven't heard a single word from her since I left California. I don't miss her; I just miss what it was like between us, before.

Sighing, I use my late key on the back gate and wander across the quad. It's silent and still, and usually I find that the neat lawns and pretty stone archways calm me down, but tonight I wish it were humming with activity, anything I could be a part of. Cold staircase, empty hall. Emily's room is as depressing as ever, and I collapse in front of my computer and reach for another fry, now soggy and gross. I check email, but as usual there's nothing except junk and the handful of Tyler-related Google alerts, so I boot up my instant-messenger program and send out a silent prayer that somebody's on.

AJ369, magikman, rudeyrude—only boys I used to flirt with. And then I catch sight of the schedule still pinned above the desk and figure there might just be someone who feels as much of an outcast as me. I've got her email and screen-name details somewhere in the exchange paperwork, so I only have to spend ten minutes rooting through every freaking pamphlet they sent before I find it.

When I wake up the next morning, Sam has disappeared and there's nothing but wrinkled navy sheets tangled around me where his body used to be. My jeans are digging into my hip, and the underwire from my bra is squashed against my ribs, but nothing can stop the satisfied grin that spreads across my face when I remember last night. Just as he promised, Sam proved himself to be a complete gentleman, happy to keep things decent.

But oh, can that boy kiss.

Squinting, I catch sight of the digital clock display. Eleven? I never sleep that late! With a start, I sit up.

Ouch.

Falling back onto the bed, I wait for the thump in my head to subside. So this is what a hangover feels like. After a few more minutes, I sit up—far more cautiously this time—and try to ease the tension from my neck. Searching for my shoes, I wonder if I should leave a note for Sam. He's probably at the gym, and it seems rather rude to just go without a word, but post-kissing protocol is completely beyond me.

Eventually, I find a scrap of paper and a pen, and then spend another ten minutes deliberating over the contents.

After half a dozen tries, I finally strike the right carefree tone and let myself out. His room is on the third floor of the frat house, and as I make my way down the back stairs, I can see party debris spread throughout every room. Beer cans, empty convenience-food wrappers, and even a few boys, still passed out in doorways and on couches. It looks as if I made my exit just at the right time.

As I cut through the littered front lounge, something catches my eye. A computer is open on a coffee table, the screen showing photographs in some sort of grid. I move forward to take a closer look.

PSI DELT DOABLES, the page heading reads. The photographs are of girls—some in a state of undress, mugging for the camera, others obviously asleep—and next to them is written a name and score.

I realize what the grid means and take a step back. They're keeping score. I wrinkle my face in disdain. Typical frat-boy exploits, I suppose, but still, I don't know why Sam lives with them. He's far more…

And then I see it, halfway down the page. A photograph of me, eyes closed, hair spread on familiar navy sheets.

I can't believe it.

Backing away from the screen, I slam the front door behind me and practically race down the street. How could he? I break into a jog, not caring about the thunder in my head or what a madwoman I must look like in last night's clothes. What is it with these boys, acting as if sex is the single greatest achievement in all humanity? First Sebastian, pushing me with his hints and nudging until I nearly gave in just to get it out of the way. And now Sam, treating me as if I'm just another notch on his bedpost—when technically I wasn't even
in
his bed!

Am I a particularly bad judge of character, or are they all like this?

I finally slow down, out of breath. Four out of ten.
Four out of ten.
It's not as if I'd feel any better had he given me a more complimentary score for my imaginary sexual performance, but the low mark is salt in my now-gaping wound. Do I seem like somebody who would be bad in bed? Shaking my head, I stop myself before I get pulled down that line of reasoning and instead return to the important matter of Sam. All those sweet comments and nice-guy lines were just a lie; he must have been laughing at me the entire time. And I fell for it.

I'm supposed to meet Ryan and the film-class crew after lunch for our first meeting, but there's no chance at all I can manage that, even after picking up a grande extra-shot latte en route to my room. I refuse to use my meager energy reserves to dwell on bastards and their bastardly stunts, so after a shower and some food, I throw myself into “research”: passing the day in a blur of Ben & Jerry's Phish Food and all the bad romantic-comedy movies I've been saving. Reese. Kate. Julia. They never have to put up with this.

Four out of ten. The website. His grading. Everything about it makes me feel cheap, but more than that—naïve. Did he pick me out because I seem so clueless? Was the fact I'm so clearly out of place part of my appeal? I can't help thinking that Morgan or Brooke would never get fooled like this. Even in their drunken states, those girls are ten times more streetwise than me. I may be able to evaluate an emerging democ racy's chances of political consolidation, but they know how to handle guys, to joke around and have fun.

Another movie finishes, and I slouch over to my computer, my envy of the breezy California girls growing. They're at ease here, among the tans and teeth. This is their territory, not mine. I've been keeping it together with schedules and study plans, but the moment I try to venture out into the world, my careful control falls apart. At the beach, at the party—I end up bumbling around, making an idiot of myself. I'm so used to finding order in the midst of chaos, but this time I just can't seem to work it out. I have no rule book to help me fit in, no study guide for the finer points of being an early twenty-first-century California teen…

A beeping from my instant-messenger program catches my attention. There's a box flashing on my screen.

I frown, running through the list of classmates or Oxford contacts it could be. And then it strikes me. Tasha. Natasha Collins—the girl whose bed I'm sleeping in, whose life I inherited.