Sophomore Switch (19 page)

“Oh, yay!” I clap my hands together. “Can we stop for ice cream first?”

Will stares at me in disbelief. “It’s practically freezing out.”

“So?”

“So, I don’t understand why you eat so much ice cream. You’re always complaining about how cold it is!”

“Whatever. It’s like a basic good.” I draw on my rudimentary econ skills. “My demand isn’t affected by external factors.”

“Fine, we’ll go to G&D’s.” We detour down a narrow
side street to the local ice-cream chain. Inside, I drool over the display of pie and candy.

“One cup of blue ribbon and a cup of double chocolate brownie with chocolate topping,” Will orders for the both of us.

“Thanks.” I beam, linking my arm through his as we exit the store. To tell the truth, it’s the first time since grade school I’ve been good friends with a guy, and just good friends. I mean, I have guy friends, but in the back of my mind, I always know that they want to hook up with me or that I want something to happen with them.

And even though technically that’s what’s happening with Will, it feels different. He’s happy just to hang out and let me be myself, no demands or anything. I wish it was so easy for me: sometimes I have to sit on my hands to keep from reaching over to him or pushing that hair out of his eyes, but so far I’ve stayed strong. This is too good to mess up.

Chat request from
totes_tasha.

Connecting
. . .

totes_tasha:
yo, em!

EMLewis:
Hey! What’s up?

totes_tasha:
look at you, all americanized :-) next thing you’ll b sayin “dude” and “awesome.”

EMLewis:
:blushes:

totes_tasha:
no, it’s way cute. anyway, u know any 2-letter words beginning in “x”?

EMLewis:
Hmmm.

EMLewis:
Xi? That’s all I can think of. You know, there are sites online for this.

totes_tasha:
but that would be cheating!

totes_tasha:
sigh, don’t worry. i’m losing by, like, 100 points already.

EMLewis:
Will again?

totes_tasha:
will again.

EMLewis:
. . .

totes_tasha:
nothing new to tell. it’s driving me crazy.

totes_tasha:
aaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!

EMLewis:
Awww. Hugs!

totes_tasha:
thanx :-) anyway. how’s the film going? killed ryan yet?

EMLewis:
Not yet.

EMLewis:
He’s actually been so much better to work with. We’ve got the last stretch of filming left, then it’s editing and then, argh, the final screening.

totes_tasha:
at the end of the semester, right? save me a copy — i want to see this masterpiece.

EMLewis:
Will do!

totes_tasha:
so any plans for your big birthday?

EMLewis:
How did you know about that?!

totes_tasha:
lil thing called the global exchange info pack :-)

totes_tasha:
so, any crazy parties planned? i bet morgan will fix something awesome.

EMLewis:
Actually . . .

EMLewis:
I sort of haven’t told her.

totes_tasha:
??

EMLewis:
She was threatening something about State Street and tequila for Lexi’s birthday, and I don’t really want any of that.

totes_tasha:
ha smart move. i don’t remember half of what happened on my 19th.

EMLewis:
I’ll be keeping things low-key.

totes_tasha:
just b sure 2 have fun!

EMLewis:
Will do.

EMLewis:
Listen, do you know if . . .

totes_tasha:
?

EMLewis:
Never mind. I better get going. I’m due for class.

totes_tasha:
xoxo

EMLewis:
Bye!

I told Natasha the truth; with the whirl of classes, filming, and Morgan’s hectic social calendar, I barely notice my birthday until the day arrives. March 5. Nineteen years old. I didn’t give much thought to how I’d celebrate this year, but I would never have pictured being here, doing any of this. In fact, if anyone even mentioned film studies, blond hair, and denim miniskirts, I would have classified them as clinically insane.

“You got some packages.” Morgan wanders in with the mail. She’s still dressed in her nightwear of ultra-short shorts and a skintight vest, but that doesn’t seem to stop her roaming around our apartment block. “Anything special?”

“Probably just books from home,” I answer breezily.

“Oh.” Her face falls, and she drops the parcels on the counter. “God, I wish I didn’t have to go home this weekend.”

“Mm-hmm,” I murmur noncommittally, speed-reading a textbook.

“I mean, it’s just their twentieth wedding anniversary.” Morgan keeps whining as she pulls on a jumper. “And everyone knows my dad has had, like, tons of affairs.”

I try not to roll my eyes. After the Psi Delt man-snatching show, I’ve tried to keep a little distance from Morgan. With our shopping trips and tanning sessions, I’ve been lulled into thinking we could be friends; now I see how she treats Brooke, I’m not so certain that’s something I want.

“OK, so I’m heading out now.” The announcement demands attention, so I look up from my book.

“Have a wonderful time.” I try to smile. Morgan beams back, pulling on a baseball hat and clutching her pillow. Apparently her “wandering around the apartment” outfit is also suitable for travel.

“Call me with gossip,” she demands, hugging me good-bye, then hoists a huge duffel bag out the door.

“Will do!”

I wait by the front window until I see her convertible drive away before I turn to my presents. Soon the brown paper and padded envelopes are peeled away: Mum sent money, Elizabeth sent a concise legal dictionary, and my dad has given me an expensive-looking fountain pen set, complete with calligraphy nibs and ink. I lay them out on my desk. Looking at them — sitting beside my sunscreen and a stack of DVDs — I feel a strange pang I can’t quite decipher.

My mobile rings, and I answer to find an unfamiliar
American squeal echoing down the line. “Happy birthday!”

“Who is — wait, Natasha?” I ask, pushing the gifts into a drawer.

“Who else!”

“Oh, wow, hi!”

“It’s weird, talking in person, right?” She laughs. “You sound just like I thought!”

“You mean, English?” I tease.

“Hell yes, though I can hear some American coming through . . .”

“No way!”

“See?” I hear background noise of people and traffic, and picture Natasha freezing outside a library. “So,” she continues as if she’s known me forever, “has Morgan sprung a party on you yet?”

“No, it’s all still top secret. I don’t think anyone but Carla knows.”

“Even so, you’ve got to do something special. Remember your whole plan — loosen up, have some fun? I’d say your birthday is the perfect time.”

“Maybe . . .”

“Definitely! Anyway, I’ve got to run, but I wanted to say ‘Happy birthday’ in person.”

“That’s so sweet,” I say, touched. “What about you, how are you doing?”

“I’m great. I’m just heading out to meet Will; we’re going on a quest.”

“Really? That sounds . . . adventurous.”

“Seriously! If you don’t hear from me again, send search parties, OK?”

“OK.” I laugh. “Have fun!”

“You too!” She rings off, no doubt to embark on her wild adventure. I can’t help being slightly envious. Of course, the reasons for her trip to England are awful, but Natasha has taken to her new identity in Oxford with such ease, it makes me feel a little pathetic. She’s off saving the women’s health center and winning over Carrie and Co. while I’m just trying to relax.

A small noise makes me turn back to my computer. I click through to my email, wondering if it’s more birthday wishes and —

Sebastian.

I don’t move for a moment. I just sit there, frozen in front of my screen. I can’t believe it. Now he chooses to get in touch? After all this time? Now, when finally the emptiness in my chest has gone, when I don’t replay everything he said?

Now, when I’m over him?

I click through to open the message and scan the few short lines.

No apology, no “I miss you,” just a clutter of words that strip away all that wonderful time and space I’ve put
between us. I haven’t thought of him in weeks, but those few lines take me right back to a year ago, before we were a couple, when he and I held our own private birthday party. He copied me the whole series of
West Wing
for my gift, and we’d stayed up all night in the student common room, snuggled deep into the old armchairs. It was the most fun I’d ever had on my birthday, and the first time I began to think we could ever be more than just friends.

I stay frozen for a moment, until a voice breaks through my thoughts.

“Hey, what’s up?”

I blink. Carla is standing in my doorway.

“Hope you don’t mind, but it was open.” She’s dressed for the beach, in shorts and a lime-green T-shirt.

I nod slowly, part of me still back in Oxford in that student lounge.

“Happy birthday!” Carla tosses me a heavy bag. She’s grinning, with a worrying gleam in her dark eyes.

“Thanks,” I say slowly, pulling out a pile of dark rubber material. I look back at her in confusion.

“It’s a wet suit, dumb-ass!” Carla takes it from me and shakes it out to reveal the shape.

“Umm, thanks?” My eyes flick back to the screen. Back to Sebastian’s message.

“We’re going surfing. Well, you are. I’m just going to watch. And laugh.” Carla pushes my laptop screen closed and spins my chair around until I’m facing her. “It’s your gift. I mean, you can’t be a real California girl until you hit the waves.”

“But I’ve never —”

She cuts me off. “Which is why my friend Nick is giving you a lesson. C’mon, let’s go.”

Carla collects my beach things and drags me to her car. We’re meeting her friend at an “awesome” surf beach farther down the coast, so I let her talk all the way onto the freeway, her voice a soothing chatter as I rest my head against the cool window and try to recapture my California calm. As strip malls and dry brush speed by, I think about how Sebastian chose to contact me. MySpace. One step up from a Facebook wall posting, but far below email. Or, god forbid, an actual letter.

Did I not even deserve a bloody email?

“OK, spill.”

I snap back to the present and find we’re parked off-road in front of a long expanse of golden sand. The water stretches, vivid blue, all the way to the horizon, and I can see other surfers already bobbing in the shallows.

Carla turns off the radio and stares at me, worried. “This is the anniversary of your birth, and you’re sitting there looking like your dog died.” She frowns. “He didn’t, did he?”

“What?”

“Your dog. Die. OK, obviously not.” She pulls her hair back into an electric blue tie. “But something’s wrong, right?”

I get out of the car and begin to pull on the wet suit, but she keeps fixing me with that concerned look. “It’s my ex,” I admit eventually. “He emailed. Today. No wait,” I
quickly correct myself with a wry smile. “He sent me a MySpace message.”

“Ouch.” Carla exhales. “You still into him?”

“No!” I exclaim quickly. “That’s just it, I’m not.” I tug harder at the wet suit, stuck around my thighs.

“Asshole,” Carla declares, pulling on her sunglasses.

“No . . .”

“Asshole,” she insists, taking pity on my flailing limbs and pulling the wet suit over my shoulders. “Seriously, it’s typical. The minute you get over someone, it, like, triggers an international beacon. ‘Warning: she’s happy! Red alert!’ and just like that, he gets back in touch.”

I manage a smile, just imagining the sirens. “Like the bat signal.”

“Exactly. Don’t even think about it,” she orders me. “Today is about having fun, not angsting over your selfish jackass ex.”

“Yes sir!” I mock salute her.

“Damn right.” She adjusts my zipper and stands back, surveying me proudly. “There, you’re ready.”

For something so beloved by slackers and beach bums, surfing definitely takes a lot of work. After jumping into an upright position on the sand for what seems like hours, Nick finally takes me to the shallows to try it properly.

“Remember, you’ve got to feel for the wave. Be a part of the ocean!” He’s standing knee-deep in water in a pair of red trunks, his dark hair buzz-cut short and a string of beads around his neck. In short, he is a walking surf stereotype.

“Part of the ocean,” I repeat, sitting astride the surfboard. With Nick calling instructions (and Carla lounging on the sand), I cautiously paddle farther out.

“Now wait!” he calls.