Life Swap (23 page)

And then I woke up the next day to find Shannon had a breakdown on
Good Morning America.
One minute she's pimping the DVD box set of
5th Avenue
and her plans to launch a pop career; the next she's weeping into a handy Kleenex. And I don't mean a real face–screwed–up, nose–dripping crying jag; nope, this was a single precious tear gleaming under the studio lights.

“What I don't understand,” she says in her soft Southern drawl, sniffling, “is how a girl could set out to seduce him like that.” Pressing a perfectly manicured hand to her chest, she gazes forlornly into the main camera. “Where I come from, there's something called sisterhood.”

Cue outraged nod from the host. Cue supportive applause. Cue
US Weekly
cover.

And just like that, I was the enemy.

Slinking into Professor Elliot's study for class the next morning, it's as if I'm back at square one. See, usually the most exciting thing that happens around here is student government corruption or, like, a Nobel Prize; give them a sex scandal by a “crazy feminist protestor” and it's front–page news for sure. That
Oxford Student
article read more like something from the
National Enquirer
, so it's no surprise that Carrie is glaring at me with death-ray eyes, Edwin has that look like he's picturing me naked, and Elliot is wearing this expression of total disdain.

“You're late,” Elliot remarks coolly. She jerks her head at the free corner of the couch and picks up her conversation with the other two. I swallow and edge past Carrie, who doesn't make room or even move her books. Slowly, I shift the stack onto a side table and sit down, already full of nervous dread. I figured they would have cooled down by now.

I was so wrong.

“We were just talking about political principles and integrity.” Carrie turns to me with a mean smile. “What do you think?”

“I… umm.” I look down, flushing.

“Because I think that hypocrisy is the worst thing of all. In politicians, I mean. It shows weak character and duplicity. Don't you think so, Susanne?”

I swallow again, shooting a desperate look at Professor Elliot in the hope she'll shut Carrie down and just get on with the class, but instead she nods.

“I agree. And what you have to take into consideration is that these people represent their groups. Their actions can taint whole movements.” Her eyes flick over me.

“Right.” Carrie's lips are thin. “I don't know how they live with themselves.”

I sit, numb, already shrinking into myself. I used to have defenses against this kind of thing: after a couple of weeks of taking crap back in California, I toughened up. I ignored them. But now I've gone soft. Their words cut me, just the way they want them to, and it's all I can do not to cry. Again.

“Why don't you read for us, Natasha?” Elliot says, in a voice that makes it clear that's not a suggestion.

I pull out my pages and try to clear my throat. My essay sucks, I know it does. Nothing Em said on the phone could make me feel any better, so what made perfect sense in the week became these confused, rambling paragraphs. It wasn't my turn to read, so I figured I'd get away with it. I guess I should have known I can't get away with anything.

“You did complete the assigned work, didn't you?”

“Yeah… yes.” I swallow again, trying to keep it together. Fixing my eyes on my paper, I begin to read. I struggle to block everything out, but the words stick in my mouth and I stumble over the sentences, making it sound even worse than it is.

“You know, some of us actually put work into this topic,” Carrie says when I'm done, her voice bitchy. “You shouldn't get to take advantage of that. I mean, where do you start with an argument like that?” She snorts, her face suddenly thin and mean like I've never seen it before. “It would be a complete waste of time to even bother.”

“Now, now, Carrie,” Elliot stops her. “Let's remember that Natasha hasn't been with us very long.” She pauses. “The Oxford way of doing things sometimes just isn't… suitable for everyone. No need to be so hard on her.”

It's seems like she's defending me, but I know better. Elliot has gone back to that “lost cause” thing she was pulling on me at the start of the semester—like I'm not even worth treating as an equal anymore.

Like I'm less than them.

I spend the rest of the hour slowly dying inside. It's not just that they hate me; it's that I finally thought I'd made a new life for myself—a whole new identity. This time around, Natasha Collins was someone people liked, even respected. But now I know the truth, that I can never get past what happened. It doesn't matter how far I go or how hard I try, I'm stuck with it. As long as Tyler and Shannon are out pimping themselves to every celebrity tabloid in town, I'm screwed.

Streaming video lasts forever.

I grab my bag and head for the door as soon as class finishes, but I'm still not fast enough to lose Carrie.

“I want to talk to you.” Her chunky boots echo after me in the narrow stone cloisters. I keep walking. “I said—” She catches up with me, grabbing my arm and pulling me around to face her.

“Don't.” I hate it but my voice breaks on that single word. I can't hold it together much longer.

Carrie stares back, unflinching. “I hope you realize what you've done. The board should have backed us up right away, but instead they're taking some time to think about it.” She snorts. “What am I saying? It's not as if you even care.”

“I care,” I say quietly. “I do, I—”

“Yeah right,” Carrie drawls, mocking me. “As if someone like you could ever understand. You're too busy fucking any boy who shoves a drink in your direction to even think about somebody else.”

And with a final glare, she stalks away.

I spend the rest of the day holed up in my room, splitting my time between triple–chocolate chunk cookies, vintage
Gilmore Girls
downloads, and crying. I can't bear feeling this way again, but the only thing I've got on my side this time around is time: just fourteen days left now until I can get the hell out of here. I never figured I'd think of California as a blessing, but being old news back home totally beats being the scandal of the week here. In California I'm just a stupid slut; here I'm a betrayal of the feminist cause.

It's ten thirty and I'm thinking about rolling into bed when there's a soft knock at my door. I stay slumped on a heap of cushions on the floor and wait for them to leave.

“Natasha?” I hear Holly's voice. “Natasha, are you there?”

With a sigh, I pull myself up and open the door a couple of inches. “Hey,” I say listlessly. She's dressed up to go out, in cute pumps and a fitted magenta top over jeans. I avoid eye contact. “What's up?”

“We had plans, remember?” Holly's staring at me expectantly. I blink.

“But…” I can't believe she acting like nothing's changed.

“But nothing.” Her tone is gentle but firm, and before I can stop her, she's pushed past me into the room. “I've been looking forward to this all week. You're coming, no questions.”

“No way.” I cross my arms. “You can't seriously expect me to go out.”

She begins to riffle through my wardrobe. “I'm not letting you wallow in here alone. Have you even left the room today?”

“Yes.” I pout. “I went to my tute, and it was just… I can't.”

“Even more reason to have some fun.” Holly pulls out my favorite blue dress and tosses it to me. “You've got ten minutes, and then I don't care if you're still in that tracksuit.”

I sigh. “Holly.” She looks at me. “It's cool you're doing this, really. But…” I give a weak shrug, already feeling tears well up again. “I don't know if I can face them.”

She's at my side right away, pulling me into a hug. “Of course you can,” she reassures me, her small frame solid, holding me up. “And if it's awful, then we'll leave, all right? But you have to try. You can't let them win.”

“But I'll be out of here soon.” I sniffle, feeling super–pathetic. “Why should I even bother?”

“Because I won't let you stay like this.” Holly's eyes are usually sweet, but right now they've got steel in them. “You made me face what was happening to me; now it's my turn to do the same for you.”

“You totally won't leave me in peace, will you?” I realize, already reaching to switch on my flat iron. Holly gives me an impish grin.

“Not at all.”

The club is a short walk from Raleigh, set up over two floors with a tiny bar upstairs and a dark cavern of a dance floor down below. I feel eyes on me as soon as we walk in, but Holly just takes my hand and drags me through the crowd to a free spot by the bar.

“There,” she announces. “Not so bad, don't you think?”

I don't answer, slowly taking off my coat and scarf. I wonder how long I can go before making my escape. Fifteen minutes? Ten, maybe? Holly spots some girls from her crew team, and I wind up standing silent while they babble about practice and race times. She keeps turning to check that I'm OK, her face all sympathetic and concerned, so I just fake a smile and nod along. It's not her fault I can't be saved.

We've been there maybe half an hour when I see a familiar floppy hairstyle looming above the crowd. My heart catches. Will. He winds through the crowd after a couple of other kids in my direction, and I feel like collapsing with relief. He came, like we planned. Even though he must have seen the newspaper, he still came.

“Hey!” I cry out, beaming. He pauses, seeing me for the first time, and then his face twists. He looks away. “Will?” I say, already feeling a sharp pain punch through my chest, but he just lowers his head and keeps moving, passing me and quickly loping down the stairs. I sag against the bar stool, trying to remember how to breathe.

No, not him.

And then my body is moving like I don't get a say, following him down the stairs and around into the unisex bathrooms. The tiles are dark with strips of mirror, and I wait by the sinks for him to emerge, shaking with nerves. Maybe he didn't see me. Maybe he just really needed the bathroom. I gulp.

There's a flush, and then he comes out of a stall right in front of me. He looks up and flinches.

“Will?” My teeth are clenched tight to stop me from crying. He steps around me and begins to rinse his hands. “What's going on?”

“You tell me.” His voice is quiet, and he's still not looking at me.

I swallow. “You haven't called me back.”

“No.” Now he's taking a paper towel and carefully drying each hand like it's some kind of ritual.

“So what's… ?” I choke. “Why are you being like this?” The door swings open and a blast of music follows a couple of girls in. I ignore them. “Will, talk to me.”

“What is there to say?” Everything about him is shut off: blank stare, hard jaw. And then he softens, just for a moment. “Unless it's not true. It isn't, right, Natasha? It's somebody else. They got it wrong.”

He's looking at me hopefully, brown eyes wide. But I can't lie to him.

“What happened, with the newspaper and Tyler…” I try to explain. “It was a long time ago, and I didn't say anything because I didn't want you to think…”

But Will's face has shut down again, and I can see the hurt, so clear.

“Think what, Tasha, that you were some kind of fame–hungry whore?”

I freeze.

“Or maybe you didn't want me to know you were leading me on, just using me.”

“This wasn't about you!” I cry, but he won't listen.

“God, when I think what a fool I've been…”

“Please, Will—”

“You must think I'm so pathetic not to even date me.” His eyes are like ice. “I mean, you're happy to fuck anyone else who comes around!”

I gasp. This isn't Will—this is some kind of stranger. I don't know this guy.

He goes to leave, but then turns back for a moment, and when he speaks, every word is dripping with contempt. “You know, I'm glad we never got together. Who knows what I would have caught?”

I stumble back against the wall as he disappears out into the club. I can't move. I can barely even breathe. My reflection is just a daze of skin and hair and teeth, and, god, I can still hear that last shot.

Who knows what I would have caught.

I lurch into a free cubicle and fall onto my knees, but there's nothing but dry heaves. I'm shivering, alone, and nothing matters because this is how it's always going to be. Every guy, every time.

It hurts too much to stay there thinking, so I stumble out and back up to the bar. A cute boy with stubble appears to take my order like he can read my mind, and within ten seconds I have a vodka in front of me. And another. The burn makes me shudder after so long, but then it brings a numbness down my body and I know I'm on the right track. Screw my pledge, screw changing, screw Will. I may as well enjoy what they think I already am.

I find Holly on the tiny dance floor with the crew girls and quickly get into the beat. All I care about is escaping the sharp pain lodged inside my chest, but the drinks and the heavy bass aren't working. I can still feel it. I can still hear Will's voice. I dance harder, throwing my body around as if I'm just a few steps away from numb oblivion, but still I know deep down it won't work.

Then I feel a touch against my arm. I turn, half hoping it's Will, come back to apologize and make things right, but it's only a blond boy, hair ruffled in the way they do here; dark shirt; jeans. I swallow back my disappointment and turn away, but he's dancing closer, moving his body to try and match my beat. I let him. He's looking at me with interest, attraction, and maybe if I focus on that, I'll forget the way Will's eyes were so cold.