Life Swap (8 page)

“So you're a first-year? I mean, freshman,” I correct myself.

“Yup.” Carla comes to a halt by a crowded coffee stand. “Hey, Rico, what's up?”

“Nothin' much, girl.” The boy on duty wipes his hands on his apron and gives Carla an adoring smile. “You want your usual?”

“Sure, and…” She turns to me expectantly.

“Oh, a latte would be great. Decaf,” I add, remembering my sister's lectures about caffeine being one step away from crack when it comes to addiction.

“Doesn't that negate the whole point of coffee?” Carla laughs before turning back to Rico. “But you heard her.”

“Coming up.” He sets to work, the machine spluttering away as Carla surveys me.

“So, do you just hang out in libraries taking pity on us poli sci kids?”

I smile self-consciously. “I suppose so. The guardian angel of democracy essays, that's me.”

“And there's no catch?” Carla is still looking like she's testing me.

“Why would there be?”

She smirks. “You're new to town, I can tell.” I must look puzzled, because she adds, “In Southern Cali, there's always a catch. Don't worry.” She takes our coffees and pays the boy. “You'll learn.”

“Oh.” I sip my drink carefully. “So what's the catch to this?”

“The coffee?” Carla raises an eyebrow. “Straight swap: your notes for the drink.”

“I can live with that,” I agree, warming to her boldness.

“Cool.” She strides off again at double speed, leaving me rushing to catch up. “Now tell me about Oxford—full of entitled jackasses, am I right?”

I can tell my dress is all wrong before we even get inside. We're waiting in the street by the hotel for the rest of Holly's friends, and snaking down the block are groups of guys in tuxedos and girls tripping along in heels and long gowns; only thin wraps protecting against the cold night air. At first, I was feeling smug because these outfits are seriously Miss Teen Ohio, covered in sparkles and asymmetrical necklines, but after watching a parade of identi-girls slip by, my gorgeous Gucci doesn't feel so special anymore. The skirt is short, for a start, and although the fabric is draped black silk and totally classy, it doesn't seem to make up for the amount of leg I have on show. At least, not judging by the smirks that other girls are shooting in my direction.

“You look wonderful.” Holly catches my nervous look, but her comment just makes me feel more self-conscious. If she thinks I need reassuring at all, then it must be clear I'm totally out of place.

“So do you,” I'm quick to add. And she does—even if her turquoise gown could have used fewer sequins along the bustline. Holly's hair is pinned up in tiny curls, and her eyes have a sweep of shimmer. It took us an hour getting ready with curling irons and eyelash curlers, but I always love that part.

It strikes me that the preparation may be the most fun I'll have all night, but I push the thought away and turn to the guy next to me in line to try and make conversation. “It's James, right?” He's the one with rusty red hair, now slicked back and neat to match the crisp lines of his tuxedo. I swear, put any guy in the black-and-white combo and they get cute.

“Yes.” He shoves his hands into his jacket pockets, and I wait for something more, but there's nothing.

OK, the silent type. I can work with that.

“This is my first Oxford ball.” I make sure to smile, despite the fact I'm shivering violently in my thin gold shrug. “Do you go to many?”

“At least one a term.” James looks at me with what I'm afraid is amusement.

“That must be cool, having so many big parties. Back home we don't really do the formal thing, but there were way more smaller events.” He nods politely. “Like, you guys only seem to have those bops every month.” I name the weird costume parties they have in the Raleigh bar. “But we have dorm parties and beach things and…” I can see his eyes flickering around for someone to save him, so I give up and wait in silence as the line inches forward until finally we make it inside to the joy of heating.

“Come on!” Holly drags me through the main lobby and down a hallway draped with heavy fabric flags. The rooms are standard Oxford decor, paneled in dark wood and hung with stern oil paintings, but they've gone all out for the ball. There are huge vases of red and purple fresh flowers everywhere, silver platters of canapés, and a bunch of silent wait staff circulating. I can hear classical music playing and think what Morgan would say if she could see me now. We've been emailing and IM-ing since I got here, but the time difference makes me feel even farther away. All she does is ask about guys and then boast about how much she's hooking up. Sometimes it feels like there's way more than just an ocean between us.

“I think you're over here, next to James, and I'm across with Ellen…” Holly reaches the long dining room and takes a quick look at the seating chart before ushering me over to my place. “I'm so glad we picked the first dinner session. Last year we signed up for later, but they ran over and we were completely famished.” She's glowing, utterly at ease in the stiff, starched surroundings. “This way we get drunk on complimentary wine before the dancing.” I laugh along, still weirded out by being offered drinks instead of sneaking them with fake IDs. Not that I'll be drinking tonight. My post-Tubgate rules are still set in stone: no drinking, no dating, no R-rated YouTube clips.

An older man hits the ceremonial gong with a small metal hammer, and we all take our seats. A trio of stiff-looking boys gives a speech welcoming us, then there's a smattering of polite applause and the room is full of buzzing conversation. I look around eagerly as the first course is brought out. It's so different from any event I've been to, the sense of history and privilege as thick as the scent of hyacinths in the air. Holly is out of talking range, seated on the other side of the table and three places down; Mr. Talkative himself, James, is next to me, and on my other side is a super-skinny blond girl in an ice-pink dress.

“Hi,” I greet her with a grin. “I'm Natasha, from Raleigh.”

She offers a limp hand for me to shake. “Portia,” she replies, “Christ Church.” She doesn't seem to be wearing any makeup (but I know how much time and effort that takes), and her gown is a plain sheath, simple and totally sophisticated. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Pleased to meet you too,” I echo. A waiter leans over me to pour a glass of wine. “Not for me,” I say quickly, “but thanks anyway.” He ignores me, and when it comes to Portia's turn, she simply places one elegant hand over the top of her glass and he moves on. Minus one point for me and my babbling.

“I love your dress,” I say. James is leaning down the table to another group, laughing loudly, so it's Ice Queen or nothing.

Portia smiles faintly, as if a real expression would be too much hassle. “Thank you. Yours is…cute.”

I blush, suddenly self-conscious. It's crazy—I used to be comfortable whatever I was wearing, wherever I was, but now this feels like somebody else's skin. Like I'm not good enough to be sitting at the starched white linen table, sneaking sideways looks at the other diners to check that I'm using the right gleaming silver fork.

“Where did you…?” My words fade on my lips. Ice Queen has turned away from me with a sigh, picking daintily through the salad on her gilt-edged dish.

Whatever.

As my opponents for Psi Delta Princess crown will tell you, Natasha Collins is no quitter. I muster strength for one last try and flash my brightest beam right across the table to the red-faced guy with glasses and a yellow bow tie.

“Hi.” I grin. “What's up?”

He reddens even more. “Umm, nothing. I mean, there is…you know, the ball.”

“Right!” I laugh. “It's a blast. Are you part of the society?”

“Actually, I'm the secretary.”

“Really?” Since there's nothing else around, I try my best to sound interested. “What do you guys do?”

“Well”—he clears his throat—“the society was established to offer a forum for debate about European policy and culture.” I smile and nod encouragingly as our appetizers are cleared away and replaced with perfect round medallions of beef in a rich cream sauce. “…is so crucial, don't you think?”

“Sorry.” I quickly swallow a mouthful of gratin and look up to find him staring at me expectantly. “What did you say?”

“The power balance in the Bundestag; have you been following the latest developments?”

He's not kidding—I check.

“Well.” I slowly take a sip of water, running through the entire contents of my mind just in case I have some awesome German political knowledge lurking there. Surprisingly, I don't. “I must have missed that,” I finally admit.

“The coalition collapse?” Portia leans in, candlelight gleaming off the delicate gold cuff on her toothpick wrist. “Isn't it a nightmare, Anthony?”

“And the economic ramifications if those socialists get back in.” Anthony is apparently so distressed he has to take a moment to polish his glasses.

“Exactly.” Portia nods. She shoots a sideways glance at me. “You're so lucky you're not a politics student; I wish I could just ignore all world events too.”

I pause. As veiled insults go, it's pretty good.

“What is it you're studying?” she inquires.

“Politics,” I answer, just to see if she'll look embarrassed. She doesn't, instead just giving me another one of those pale smiles and flicking her attention back to Anthony.

“How are Milly and Tom?” she coos. He must be seriously loaded for someone like Portia to give him so much attention.

“Just dandy,” he says with a straight face, and then launches into a long story about country-house weekends and something to do with a sheepdog. I manage to catch Holly's eye down the table; she grins and shakes her head.

“Be strong,” she mouths, and I figure that even a fairy‑tale evening is bound to have some downtime. This just means I can enjoy my food without interruption, right?

By ten, things have picked up. Once dinner is finished (with enough calories to make me pledge to double my gym time), I can escape back to Holly's group—far away from Anthony, Portia, and their never-ending list of old friends. I swear, between them they seemed to know half the country, and all of them stuck with names like Bunny, Blakey, and (I kid you not) Shotter.

“You should have seen your face.” Holly laughs, dragging me down the hall into a back room where they've picked a DJ over Mozart. “You looked so bored!”

“I was!” The heavy bass reminds me of clubs back home, and I start to relax. With the music so loud, nobody's going to ask me my opinion of western European political reform, or the mortgage markets, or any of the million other topics I know jack about.

“I have to take a break,” I finally yell in Holly's ear as the beat switches to another crazy jam. I gesture toward the door. “Be right back!”

The hallway is blissfully silent after such loud beats, and I quickly duck through the elegant crowds until I reach the pale marble haven of the women's restroom. Everything is soft blue and cream—from the tiny, thick towels to the hand lotion—and just breathing in the faint smell of jasmine calms me down. I've managed to avoid the rush and slip into a stall right away, but just as I close the door, I hear a group of girls come in.

“God, you've got to save me, Venetia.” Arch, plummy vowels drift over to me, and I think I can recognize Portia's voice. Although half the girls here talk like they've got marbles stuffed in their mouths. I always thought
My Fair Lady
was totally exaggerating. I was wrong.

“Anthony is sending me comatose.”

Yup, it's Portia. Instead of flushing and walking out, I wait.

“But he's social secretary,” another voice adds. “If you're running for committee, you need him.”

“You don't have to tell me,” Portia complains. “Why do you think I've been listening to all his dull stories? Between him and that stupid American, dinner was a complete bore.”

There are giggles and the rustle of fabric and cosmetics. I stand quietly, feeling that tightness back in my chest.

“Can you believe her dress? It's not as if…” The door swings shut behind them, but some masochistic instinct makes me rush out of the stall and hurry into the hallway after them. I know I won't hear anything good, but I can't help wanting to know what they really think.

I follow Portia's pink silk at a safe distance until they linger by a dessert table. The main hall is full: the dance floor packed with couples slowly waltzing to the string quartet, while others stand chatting in tight knots. A complicated champagne fountain is set up in the center of the refreshment tables, so I maneuver closer, using the tall arrangement of glasses as cover as I strain to listen in.

“You'd think they'd have standards about who they let in, especially somewhere like Raleigh.”

“Maybe it's an outreach program.” There's the sound of bitchy laughter.

“God, do you remember that other American, Rhiannon? She fucked practically half the JCR in just one term.”

“What is it with them all being so…”

“Slutty?”

“I was going to be more tactful.” More laughter.

I shrink back. This was a mistake, I know. I already feel like the trashy outsider without hearing it spelled out by a group of snotty girls.

“I would understand if she was trying to land a rich husband,” Portia continues, her haughty voice cutting through the background noise like a missile, sent to wound me. “But surely she realizes, men don't marry
those
kinds of girls!”

I'm still backing away, but suddenly I hit something solid. There's a crash, and I spin around to find one of the tuxedoed waiters, his silver tray empty and broken glass shards on the ground between us.