Sophomore Switch (10 page)

“Em?” Morgan squints at me from the couch. She’s wearing a draped, glittery top and sitting on a muscular blond boy who is most definitely not Ryan. “You came?”

“Yup.” I remind myself to smile. “What have I missed?”

“Nothing much.” She giggles. “Right, Ben?” He nods, jiggling her on his lap so she squeals and pretends to bat his hands away.

“Stop it!”

“You stop it.”

“I’m serious!”

I wait awkwardly while they flirt until I spy Brooke by the loudspeakers, swaying rhythmically in the middle of a group of guys.

“I’ll see you later.” Leaving Morgan to her hunk, I watch the makeshift dance floor for a moment before approaching. A couple of girls are grinding away like they’re in MTV videos, but the rest look casual enough, nothing but bobbing in time with the loud beat. I can do this.

“Emmy!” Brooke squeals immediately, hugging me tight and pulling me into the group. “I’m so glad you’re here!”

Dancing is a good move. Nobody tries to talk over
the shaking bass, and soon I’m breathless and having something close to fun.

“I need a break,” Brooke calls, miming a drink. I nod, following her out of the tangle of people and through to the crowded kitchen. “Wow,” Brooke gasps, grabbing a red plastic cup from the table by the keg and pushing a space for me beside her. “Cool crowd, right?”

“Right,” I agree, taking my own cup. It is a party, I suppose, and after all that dancing, the beer is cool and refreshing. “Do you go to these often?”

“Every week, sometimes more.” Brooke scans the room quickly. “It’s what college is for.” She grins. “That and fifty grand of student loans.”

I gasp. “That’s terrible!”

“Tell me about it.” She shrugs, her loose red top shimmering with the movement. “So I may as well have as much fun as I can before I’m doomed to earn it all back.”

“Good plan.” I tip my cup to hers in a toast. She quickly downs the rest of hers.

“Screw this, how about some shots?”

I hesitate.

“C’mon, just the one. Trust me, it’ll be fun.”

There it is again, the F-word, dangling just out of reach.

“Sure,” I decide, linking my arm through hers. “Why not?”

“Yay!” she cries, tugging me out onto the back porch. It’s slightly quieter there, and some boys are playing a strange game involving beer cups and Ping-Pong balls. “Sam, you still got that Cuervo?”

I stop with a jolt. I haven’t seen him since the scene at the beach, but I’ve definitely thought of him — and my complete ineptitude. I wonder if he considers me an utter idiot. Thankfully, Sam doesn’t seem to notice any awkwardness. He hugs Brooke and then turns to me.

“Emily.” He grins, blue eyes gleaming. “How’ve you been?”

“Great,” I answer as he pulls me into a long embrace. His jeans actually fit instead of falling around his crotch, and his black shirt makes those ice-blue eyes stand out even more.

“Get a room,” another male voice exclaims, and I draw back to see an athletic-looking guy with close-cropped black hair. He’s tossing a Ping-Pong ball from hand to hand. “Are you in this game or not?”

“Lay off,” Sam calms him. “Let’s give these girls what they came for, OK?”

Brooke blushes. “Hey, Louis.” She grins, broadcasting her crush for everyone to see. His eyes graze her body, and evidently she passes his test because soon he’s chatting and flirting with her.

“So, you ever done tequila shots before?” Sam looks down at me intently.

“Of course.” I laugh, deciding I’ve seen enough films to fake it. “Lime and salt?”

“The lady’s demanding.” He laughs. “I like it. OK, everyone, it’s on!”

He produces a row of shot glasses and lines them up on the edge of the table. Louis fetches the accessories, and
soon I’m staring at the glass of innocuous-looking amber liquid.

“One.” The three of them lick salt from the back of their hands. I follow, half a beat behind. “Two!” Sam yells, downing his shot. I do the same and almost choke from the oily, bitter taste. “Three!” I stuff the lime slice in my mouth, shuddering, and suck hard to rid myself of that awful tequila taste.

“Ugh!” Brooke’s face is screwed up. “Why doesn’t that get any easier?”

“No pain, no gain.” Louis slips an arm around her. “Now what do you say we whip these pussies at beer pong?”

“Emily?” Sam raises his eyebrows. I nod, feeling the strange warmth in my chest as the tequila burns its way down the inside of my body.

“You’ll have to teach me, though.”

“My pleasure.” Sam grins, and I think that perhaps I haven’t ruined it with him after all.

A victorious beer pong game leads to more dancing, and soon the night is a blur of laughter and Sam’s body is pressed warm against me. “I’ll be right back,” I promise, levering myself up from the porch seat when the need for a toilet break can no longer be denied.

“You better.” Sam keeps his fingers intertwined with mine as I back away. “Otherwise I’ll send out a search-and-rescue team.”

With a glow that has nothing to do with alcohol, I go
in search of a free bathroom. It’s a futile task, I know, and eventually I’m resigned to crossing my legs at the back of a long line. Nonetheless, I’m grinning.

He likes me.

“Hey, Ryan!” I call out, seeing a familiar Thermals T-shirt wind its way through the crowd.

“Emily.” He stops, confused. “Having fun?”

“Tons!” I exclaim before I register that his tone is sarcastic. “What about you?”

He shrugs, scruffy in skinny black jeans. “Have you seen Morgan? I kind of need to talk to her.”

“Umm.” I lean back against the wall and try to think. “She was in the lounge last time I saw her, but that was hours ago.”

“Thanks.” He’s gone before I remember what Morgan was doing the last time I saw her — and who she was doing it with. Evidently she’s still at it, because my bathroom line has barely inched forward before Ryan storms back down the hallway, his face set and furious.

“Did you know?” He stops in front of me, glaring, but even behind the anger, I can tell he’s shaken. I shrug uselessly.

“Thanks a lot,” he hisses, disappearing toward the exit. I feel a pang of guilt, but what was I supposed to do? Morgan is my roommate. Besides, it’s none of my business.

What is my business, however, is Sam. I scoot back to his side as soon as I can, sending silent thanks to Morgan and her friends for pushing us together. They’re right: the best way to get over Sebastian is to start seeing somebody
else. As I snuggle closer to Sam, my ex-boyfriend and supposed intimacy issues seem very far away.

“What’s on your mind?” Sam touches my nose lightly.

“Nothing at all.” I smile up at him, determined not to repeat my last mistake.

“You look kind of sleepy.” Pulling me closer, Sam starts to trace light circles on my back. I practically sigh with pleasure. “It’s getting late. You know, you could crash here in my room. We closed off everything upstairs, and it should be quieter up there.”

“I don’t know . . .” Even in my pleasantly tipsy state, I still think of college rape statistics and “safety first” lectures.

“Nothing shady, I promise.” Sam mimes crossing his heart. “Well, unless you count making out.” He grins. I melt. “You’ll be safe, I promise.”

His expression is so sincere that I find myself wavering. The other girls do this all the time and come home with nothing worse than a hangover. Isn’t it my night to cut loose a little?

“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.

Send chat request to user EMLewis.

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.