Life Swap (6 page)

“Ooh, Chandra!” Brooke does a bad job of pretending to spy somebody across the group. “I've got to catch up with her. You'll be OK?”

“I'll look after her,” Sam promises.

“Cool, I'll catch you later.” She speeds away, leaving me alone with the surf god. I turn and try to look relaxed. He's wearing a pale-blue polo shirt, the same shade as his eyes, and objectively I have to agree with Lexi. He's cute.

“Having a good time?” Sam asks, moving his arm away to brush back his fringe. “I was going to bring you a drink, but…” He gestures to my full cup.

“Oh, right. Thanks anyway.” I busy myself taking a sip.

“You must feel a long way from home.”

I pause. His tone is warm, sincere, and he's looking down like he's actually interested in my response. My nerves unravel a little.

“A little,” I admit. “Everything here is very…relaxed.”

“What?” He grins. “Don't tell me that whole stereotype of uptight English people is actually true!”

I laugh, warming to him. “I'm afraid so. I'm still sort of adjusting.”

“You're doing great so far,” Sam assures me. “Bonfire on the beach, some beers—you'll be a real Californian in no time.”

“Thanks, I think.”

“You want to sit down?”

I nod, and he leads me to a free space on one of the logs. Sam sits close, the side of our bodies pressed together as he tells me about growing up in a small beach town.

“It sounds great,” I say, distracted by the heat of his torso. “We lived in the middle of the countryside, nothing but rolling hills all around. I'm not exactly a beach girl.”

Sam laughs. “I don't know.” He slides his arm back around me and leans closer to whisper in my ear. “You looked pretty cute out there.”

I glance up. He's looking at me with a flirtatious smile, moving his other hand to brush back some of my hair. We're surrounded by people, but that doesn't seem to matter as he slowly tilts down again, this time so that his lips graze the edge of my mouth.

And then I panic.

“I need to find Morgan,” I exclaim, leaping up. “I'll be right back!”

I catch a glimpse of his confusion before I dash away, weaving through the crowd until he's out of sight.

What on earth was that?

I gulp. Shoving my hands deep in my pockets, I drift away from the group. Their noise fades slightly as I near the ocean, settling cross-legged on a stretch of warm sand and watching the inky water.

Why didn't I just kiss him? Morgan was right—I do need to get over Sebastian, so why did I freeze up the moment Sam made a move? Sam is nice, smart enough, and far more attractive than any boy I could find back in England, but no, I had to bolt like a petrified schoolgirl.

I sigh, kicking sand into tiny heaps. Nothing has changed. Sebastian would always complain about how I held back, how I would get so disconnected from being together. The voice in my head never takes a break: it's always analyzing, assessing, pulling me back from the brink of just letting go. And now, thousands of miles away, it's still there. I shiver, suddenly afraid it won't ever go away. Is this just the way I am—doomed to be on the outside of myself forever?

I blink back tears. Some recovery trip this is turning out to be. My family are so busy that they quickly gave up on making me come home; now my father just sends me news items (“because we know what insular attitudes to world affairs they have over there”), my mother makes me email twice a week to check I haven't been shot, and Elizabeth reminds me about skin-cancer statistics. I assure them all that I'm having fun, but…

…Is this really it?

Professor Elliot wants to see me before class. I emailed my new essay over last night, and now there's an ominous note in my mailbox asking me over for “a little chat.” Like I can turn her down.

I meant to read through the summary chapters again to be totally prepped for the meeting, but by the time I'm finished cramming the latest econ chapters and have worked through a nightmare of a worksheet, it's twelve already. So, instead of arriving cool and confident, I turn up five minutes late: red faced from racing across campus, stomach growling in protest at missing breakfast and lunch, and not exactly dressed to impress in my grayest fading sweatpants.

“Natasha.” Greeting me with a raised eyebrow, Professor Elliot ushers me into her cluttered room. She's wearing a mismatched green cardigan over a pair of old tweed trousers, but somehow I still feel like the slob. “Sit down, please. Would you like some tea?”

“Umm, no. Thank you,” I add, looking nervously around as she begins to fill a small kettle and set out a mug. I know Oxford likes to make a big deal about the informal students-staff vibe, but if I'm in trouble, I'd rather she just give it to me straight. Elliot fusses with her drink for a couple of agonizingly long minutes as I wait. I can see my essay on her table, covered in red marks. My stomach gets tight.

“Now…” Settling in an armchair, Elliot finally turns to me. “How are you finding it here?”

“Fine,” I answer. “Good, I mean.”

I don't mention that it's been the longest, loneliest three weeks of my life.

“Good.” Elliot nods. “And you're managing the workload all right?”

“Well”—I hesitate—“I'm trying. It's a pretty different system from the one back home.”

“I can imagine.”

“But I'm working really hard and doing everything I can to keep up,” I find myself explaining anxiously. Buried in the Global Exchange small print had been a clause saying that both colleges could kick us out if we didn't meet their “minimal academic criteria.” There's no way I'm letting that happen.

“And I can tell,” Elliot reassures me. “But I think perhaps we should look at doing something different with you.”

I blink. “What?”

“From now on, I'll be setting you different work from Carrie and Edwin.” She continues, “You'll still be a part of the tutorial group, and you're more than welcome to tackle their reading lists, but for your own essays, I think we'll set you something more suitable. A little less…challenging.” She shoots me a smile that's supposed to be comforting, but I'm still stuck on her words. Different. More suitable. Less challenging.

I'm being demoted.

“Does that sound good to you?”

“Sure,” I manage. “But…” I swallow, suddenly feeling tears well up. “Were they really that bad? My essays, I mean.” I think of the hours I've been slaving over her reading lists: battling to find sense in modern themes of feminism or crazy theoretical constructions of the perfect society. I know I'm not anywhere near my classmates, but I didn't think I was doing so bad.

Elliot laughs lightly. “We don't think about things in those terms here. But if you really must know, your work has been…fine.”

A rush of relief floods through me: she can't send me home on “fine.” But then I think about what she's saying.

“So why change things?” I try to keep my voice steady, embarrassed to feel so emotional over a dumb reading list.

Elliot looks surprised. “I thought you'd be happy to take the pressure off. This way, you get to have some more fun, really enjoy this exchange the way you want.”

The way I want.

I fold my hands carefully. “It's been fine,” I lie. “I can manage.”

Elliot doesn't look convinced. “It's all right to admit it, Natasha.” She gives another little laugh. “I know this isn't your usual style, so why not take the new assignments and have fun? I'm trying to do you a favor here. My other students would kill for an opportunity like this.”

“So why not give it to them?” I ask before thinking.

She glances away, and then it hits me. To her, I'm just the dumb Californian, the party girl who doesn't need to be here. She knows it doesn't matter if I flunk, because I'll just go back home to my film classes. The other kids actually need to work hard, to be smart, to succeed. But not me.

The truth stings me hard behind my rib cage. My work is “fine,” but she's still writing me off just because I wear cute skirts and keep my hair blown out. It's clear she's never seen
Legally Blonde.
Aren't smart people supposed to be above this kind of blatant discrimination?

“I can manage,” I finally repeat in an icy voice, before she can confirm my worst suspicions. “I'd rather do the same as the others.”

Elliot studies me for a minute. “Fine,” she agrees, obviously bemused. “But you might want to spend some time reading MacKinnon and Dworkin, in addition to next week's books. There were some rather gaping holes in your argument.”

“Right,” I answer quietly.

“And maybe you should get copies of Edwin's essay, to have a better idea of structure and summary.”

“OK.” I nod, wondering how to ask the boy for a favor when he's never said a word to me, except to attack my opinions.

“Right.” Elliot's forehead crinkles slightly. “I suppose that's everything, then.”

“Good.” I reach for my folder. “I've got to get a drink before the tutorial. I'll be right back.”

I flee before she can see me cry.

“That's terrible!” Holly exclaims. We're sitting in the corner of the crowded Raleigh bar that evening—her with a white wine, me with a Diet Coke (my teetotal pledge still working)—and, at last, I can vent. “What did you say?”

“What could I say?” I shrug off my sweater and raise my voice to be heard over the loud rock song on the jukebox. The bare stone walls of the bar are adorned with old oars and sports photos, and it's full with students crammed around small wooden tables. “She already thinks I'm a moron. I should have just taken the easy option; now I'm stuck with her hard-core assignments and I can't take it back.”

“You'll be fine,” Holly assures me, and even though she has no idea about my scholastic inaptitude, I let myself believe her. “It's always hard at first. It took me a whole year to get my head around the format for my organic chemistry essays. I had to retake my exams.”

I don't have a year, but I figure I've been moaning long enough. The last thing I want is to be a drag and risk boring my only friend. “What about you?” I have a drink and try to make my voice happy. “What's up?”

“Nothing new,” Holly muses, biting her bottom lip. “Aaron is still calling me. He doesn't know about…”

I pat her shoulder. “And you don't have to tell him.”

She nods. “I know, but I still feel bad.”

“Don't. He was the jerk who got you into this in the first place.” Not that I'm bitter and jaded when it comes to guys.

Holly seems to pick up on my tone. “Have you ever had a scare like that?”

“No,” I admit thankfully. “But even if I needed to get Plan B or whatever, I wouldn't feel guilty. That's just screwed up, like you should be sorry for having sex.”

Holly grins. “See, now I know you've been taking Professor Elliot's classes.”

“No way, really?” I laugh. “Tell me if I get as bad as Carrie—she's impossible. Everything's a freaking male conspiracy to, like, keep us in the bonds of submission or something.”

“Umm, I know!” Holly exclaims. “Last year she kept the JCR meeting running three hours talking about how the college shouldn't subscribe to the
Sun.
” I look blank. “This newspaper,” she explains, “they run topless models on page three.”

“Weird.”

“The paper or Carrie?”

“Both! Seriously,” I say, “what's with her? I mean, she gets so angry over everything.”

“I don't know.” Holly sighs, taking a sip of her wine. “But there are tons of people like that here, campaigning over everything. It's a breeding ground for future politicians.”

“Egalitarian,” I quip. Morgan or Brooke would have teased me, but Holly takes it for granted that we both know what I mean.

Holly brightens. “I nearly forgot, there's a European Affairs Society ball this weekend—you should come!”

“A ball?” I see visions of chandeliers and string quartets.

“They're so much fun,” she promises, eyes wide and eager. “It's a great excuse to dress up, and there's a dinner. We could go shopping.”

“Will it be stuck-up?” I hedge. Dealing with the preppy brats around Raleigh is enough for me.

“No more than usual.” Holly shrugs. “Anyway, balls are part of the Oxford experience. You can't come here and not go to one.”

She sounds so bossy, I grin.

“OK.” I'm already thinking of the perfect dress I have, the one I wore to my senior prom. I never usually do formal gowns twice, but this one is Gucci and gorgeous and took three weeks of begging the stepfather before he buckled. “I'm in.”

“Great!” Holly beams, before a group of students in scarves and coats bundle around our table and loudly greet her.

“You know we've got practice at six tomorrow?” A guy with pink cheeks and floppy brown hair throws his coat on top of mine.

“And Milton says we're doing weight-training all next week,” adds a petite redhead, almost spilling her beer.

“He'll kill us all!” Holly groans. She turns to me. “Everyone, this is Natasha. Ellen, Alex, James.” She nods at each person in turn. I wave, and they offer assorted hellos.

“So where are you from?” asks the guy crammed next to me. Alex, I think it is.

“L.A. originally.” I smile, glad to be buried in the middle of a crowd for the first time in what seems like forever. “But I go to school just up the coast.”

“California!” The redhead sighs longingly. “Beaches, sunshine…”

“Surfing,” Alex adds. “What on earth are you doing here?”

I giggle. “It's cool to have a change.”

“Bloody freezing, you mean.”