Life Swap (13 page)

He keeps his head down, glued to the display. “Just a couple more.”

“You know, these were only supposed to take an hour.” I begin to gather the folders they've all abandoned nearby.

“It takes as long as it takes.”

Fifteen minutes later, my patience is wearing a little thinner. Usually I can admire anal attention to detail, and it's not that I have anywhere else to be, but I can't help thinking that this is setting a dangerous precedent: my precious schedule is under threat.

“That's enough,” I say in a pleasant voice, moving so I block the shot. Ryan looks up, glaring, but I refuse to be swayed. I carefully make sure everything has been saved and stored, and reach over to turn off the camera.

“But—”

“You got the shot,” I assure him. “You got the shot five times over, at the very least.”

Ryan lets out an irritated breath, eyes clouding over. “You can't just—”

“Is this what it's going to be like?” I stand my ground. “Because we've only got a few weeks for filming, not forever.”

Scowling, Ryan turns away and begins to pack up.

“I'm sorry.” The words are out of my mouth before I take a chance to consider them, but when they linger between us, I know I've made the right decision. I can't take another few weeks of this: we need to clear the air. I take another breath and continue. “About what happened with Morgan. I knew, well, I knew she wasn't being completely honest with you. I understand if you hate me for that.”

Ryan doesn't look at me for a minute, but I stand my ground and wait. At last, he stands up straight and meets my eyes. “It's not your fault,” he says quietly. “I mean, it's not like we're friends.” His expression is tired, as if he doesn't want the reminder of what's happened. I can understand. I wanted to get away from Sebastian so much that I crossed the Atlantic.

“Yes, but…” I don't want to say anything bad about Morgan, so I just shrug. “I would want to know. If it was me, I'd want to know everything.”

He nods slowly, the sun shining like a halo behind his closely cropped hair. Finally, a little tension seems to ease out of his posture. “OK.” He nods at the trolley we've loaded with equipment, and I realize that the moment is over. “Help me take everything back to the equipment room?”

I follow him, arms full, across the campus. It's always full of people, but today was another hot, sunny day, so the girls are still out in force: sprawled in packs on the quads and benches in their tiny skirts and even the odd bikini, while boys pretend to play soccer and basketball nearby. I think of Oxford, the neat lawns adorned with
KEEP OFF THE GRASS
placards until well into summer so we have to scurry down the long, tiled pathways. I begin to smile.

“What's up?” Ryan says, seeing my expression.

I shrug, embarrassed. “Nothing. It's just…I never realized what a difference the weather could make.”

“Seriously? I thought you Brits were always going on about it.”

I laugh. “Yes, about the difference between rain and sleet, or drizzle. But here you've got all this sunshine…It just seems like people are actually happier, that's all.”

Ryan shoots me a look as we enter the arts building. “Too much good weather is a dangerous thing. Stay in California and you'll see what I mean—some people are so laid-back, it's hard to get anything done.”

“You mean worse than your lot?” I tease.

“You have no idea.” He grins. “Hang on.” He fumbles with the keys to the equipment room. “Now, have you got everything?”

“All accounted for.” I brandish the list, ticked off and double-checked.

He shakes his head with a grin. “OK, so maybe you
should
go lie out in the sun some more.”

“Maybe I will,” I say, considering the possibility. After all, I can get my class reading done just as well on the front lawn as in a library.

“But don't be late tomorrow,” he calls in my direction as I leave. “And don't ever touch my camera again!”

When I arrive at the protest meeting on Thursday, there's already a group of people chatting at the front of the room. Most of them are activist types, with dreadlocks or painfully unfashionable hempy clothes, but they all seem totally relaxed and friendly with each other. I sidle in and take a seat near the back, pulling out some reading so I don't look awkward and alone.

“Hello, everyone.” Carrie arrives in ratty denim and some serious boots and calls for attention. So she's the boss here; I should have guessed. I mean, she acts like the defender of all feminism in our classes—all she's missing is the cape and mask. “Thanks for making it today; we've got a lot to talk about.”

People settle down, and I can see that aside from a couple of angel-faced boys in skinny jeans, the room is full of girls. Strident, political-looking girls who probably boycott lipstick and heels on principle. I send silent thanks that I picked the dullest, most functional outfit possible: a plain navy corduroy skirt (that actually covers my knees) and a crisp shirt and sweater.

“First of all, I'm Carrie, and this is Uma.” She points to the petite girl in an Amnesty pullover. “As you all know, the Oxford board has decided, in all their wisdom, to shut down the most vital resource we have: the women's health center.” Carrie nods at her companion.

“This isn't just about the center itself,” Uma continues, her voice lilting with a faint Indian accent. “But the fact that women's services are the first thing to get cut: before sports funding, before entertainment budgets. Oxford is breaking its commitment to the welfare of its female students, and we can't just stand idly by and let them.”

There's a rumble of agreement, and even I see it's pretty lame to cut our services before, like, the cable subscription.

“We want to put together a group to make women's voices heard, any way we can.” Carrie folds her arms. “That means emails and letters, postering, handing out leaflets, and even demonstrating.”

A girl farther down my row waves her hand in the air, rattling with an armful of beads and bangles.

“Yes?”

“What about fund-raising?” she asks. “Wouldn't it be a better use of time to actually raise the funds to keep the center open?”

Carrie exchanges a look with Uma. “It would, if we had time to raise half a million pounds.”

“Oh.” Her faces falls.

Carrie shrugs. “I'm not going to lie, people. This is a last resort. They slipped it in the last budget meeting and gave Judy and Sue only one month's notice. We don't have the time or resources to make up the shortfall ourselves, but you know what? We're not going down without a fight.”

Another rumble.

“The board thinks they can just sweep this under the rug, like our welfare doesn't matter. Well, not on my watch.” Carrie's voice rings with determination. “We're going to make our voices heard. We're going to make a difference!”

“Yes!” It's an easy crowd, but I'm impressed with the way she's riling them up.

“So, let's all split into groups and come up with some ideas. Ten minutes of brainstorming, people, then let's share!”

The room clatters with the sound of chairs getting dragged around. I turn hesitantly to the girls beside me.

“Hey.” I lift my hand in a wave. We pull ourselves into a circle and quickly run through the introductions. Mary is one of the dreadlocked girls, in ripped tights and a chunky sweater. Louise glares out from behind thick black-rimmed glasses, and DeeDee has a super-bossy look to her thin face, like she's always in charge.

“So, ideas.”

I was right—nobody has a chance to speak before DeeDee opens her notebook and begins to underline a heading, already acting like our leader.

“We could have a march,” Mary suggests, “or a rally, with speakers.”

DeeDee notes it down.

“I still think Jo was right—we need to look at fund-raising,” Louise complains. “Even if it's just to cover demonstration costs. Remember when we did the campaign against Nestlé? I spent a fortune on photocopies.”

“Plus, it could work with the board,” I speak up. “Like, show them we respect their budgeting and everything. When we wanted to throw a spring break concert at school back home, they totally said no until we matched their costs.”

The three girls look at me.

“But we've got no way of raising that amount of money,” DeeDee eventually informs me. “Bake sales and car washes don't really work over here.”

“You could do a college calendar,” I suggest, with a flash of inspiration. “They sell out right away. Just pick the hottest Oxford girls and have them pose in, say, college scarves and bikinis all over the city. Low cost, high return!” I sit back, happy. The UC Honeys calendar was always one of the biggest fund-raisers back home: I came
this
close to making March until Cammi Sanders got enlarged from C to double-D and beat me at the last minute.

“Bikinis?” Louise repeats, rolling the word around like it's a dirty word. “You want us to save the women's health center by whoring out our bodies?”

I pause. “Whoring? What? This'll be fun.”

“You think the sacrifice of your integrity and sexual identity is a price worth paying?”

I can't believe them. “No, I just—”

“Really, Natasha.” Mary shakes her head. “If that was a joke, it's not funny.”

“But—”

“Objectification of women is part of the reason we need the center to begin with.” DeeDee completes the circle of disapproval. “To create a safe, nonjudgmental space away from patriarchy.”

The trio sits back, staring at me with disgust like I'm one of those big, bad patriarchs.

“Sorry.” I find myself blushing, even though I have no idea what the hell they're getting so wound up about. “I, umm, I didn't think.”

Note to self: in this crowd, bikinis equal, like,
napalm.

“So do we have any other real suggestions?” DeeDee asks, ignoring me completely. Louise and Mary start talking about information packs and write-in campaigns, while I sit quietly and wait it out until Carrie claps her hands and calls us all back together.

“OK, what have we got?”

“Well, I think we should go with the personal angle,” a girl with dangling gold earrings starts to speak. I realize with a shock that she's the first black person I've seen in any of my college meetings or classes. Way to go on the diversity front, Oxford. “We need to prevent them from thinking of the center as an abstract body and start relating it to women's lives.”

“You mean like personal testimonies?” Uma asks.

“Right. Our literature needs to have the stories of the girls who've used the center, so people can see everyone benefits from it.”

“I like that.” Carrie nods. “How many people here would be willing to share their experiences?”

Almost everybody raises their hand.

“I use the safety bus to get home.”

“Me too. And I use the center for, you know, contraception.”

“My friend used the rape hotline when she got attacked last year.”

“And it's easier to get the morning-after pill there—my college doctor couldn't get me in for an appointment until the next day, and by then…it's too late.”

Soon we're flooded with everyone's stories.

“OK, I think we've got enough!” Carrie tries to get control back, but they keep talking until DeeDee pierces through the noise with a sharp whistle. She turns to Carrie with a smug grin.

“Anything else?” They spend ten minutes running through other plans and then bickering over the color of paper to use for their flyers. I begin to lose interest as the orange-versus-green debate stretches out, until another voice pipes up from the back.

“But isn't this all redundant, rearranging deck chairs on the
Titanic
? We need to make a statement, some thing bold.”

“Like what?” Carrie doesn't seem thrilled at the threat to her authority.

“Like a sit-in.”

I turn. The girl is heavy in an all-black outfit that totally washes out her complexion. “We can occupy the lecture halls,” she announces. “Then they'll have to take notice.”

Carrie is unimpressed. “It's too risky. These things have a way of leaking out.”

“Not if we do it right now,” the girl insists. “That famous astronomer is visiting today, so there will be lots of people around. Media, even. It's the perfect opportunity.”

“Come on,” DeeDee butts in. “You heard her, we need to get noticed.”

“OK, OK, everyone, settle down.” Carrie sighs. “Let's take a vote. Everyone in favor of possibly alienating direct action…?”

There's a loud chorus of “ayes.” Maybe everyone else was as bored of the debate as I was: they all seem eager to get out and just do something.

Carrie purses her lips. “Then I suppose it's settled.”

“Let's go!” the goth girl cries.

People grab their things and make for the exit, but I linger behind. Getting all hyped up to chant slogans and march around in circles isn't really my style; this seems like a good moment to just slip away. I came, I participated, I checked the box; now it's time for real work.

I follow them as far as the library lobby and then cut a left, but before I make it to the doors, Carrie plants herself in front of me.

“Natasha, I thought that was you.” She looks at me, confused. “What are you doing here?”

“You know, I figured I'd check out your campaign.” I wave a bunch of flyers as evidence.

“That's great!” Her face kind of relaxes. “I didn't think this was your sort of thing.”

I bet she didn't.

“Well, it's kind of an important cause, so…” I'm not lying—the angry feminists may have sucked all the life out of the thing, but I do actually see their point.