Sophomore Switch (28 page)

God, I’ve missed the sunshine. After Em and I meet up, we dump our bags in the hotel and hit the beach right away. The moment we step out of the lobby, I turn my face up to the cloudless sky and sigh. “Ahh . . .”

Em giggles. “You had sun in England!”

“That was so not sun.” I close my eyes and try to absorb the warmth into my bones. “That was, like, this pale weak glow pretending to be sun.
This
is the real thing.”

“Did you bring sunscreen?” Em asks, checking her tote. I only met her an hour ago, but already I know she totally wasn’t exaggerating about her organizing kick. We sent digital pics so we would recognize each other coming off our flights, but it’s still a trip to see her with all
that honey-blond hair, a cute little pink shirt — and such a crisp accent.

“Chill.” I grin, pulling my big tortoiseshell shades on. We’re based right across the street from the sand, and the water is sparkling at me like an invitation. “I’m, like, immune to it, remember?”

“Whereas I’ve gone through about three bottles of SPF thirty since I’ve been here.” Em waits for the cross light to turn green, oblivious to the group of college boys who are totally checking her out. “Do you think it’ll be warm enough to swim?”

“Swim, lounge, whatever . . .” I spy a gap in the cars and grab her hand, pulling her into the street.

“Tash!”

“C’mon, you don’t understand: I’ve been dreaming of the beach since the day I left!”

Em laughs and follows me across the street, and soon we’re sprawled under that glorious hot sun. “See, this is what I’m talking about.” I kick off my sneakers and bury my toes in the bleached sand. A sense of total peace sweeps through me. Screw therapy — we should just send stressed people to a tropical island for a couple of weeks. It would wind up costing the same, I’d bet, and there’s none of that “tell me about your parents” crap. “You keep your stuffy libraries and cold cobbled streets — I’ll take sun and ocean any day.”

“You don’t have to convince me.” Em flops backward and stretches, her shirt riding up over her already-golden stomach. “I’m a convert. Oh, I’m dreading getting back to the cold.”

“Sucks to be you,” I agree. She laughs.

“I still can’t believe this is the first time we’ve met! I feel like I’ve known you forever.”

“I know!” I exclaim, stripping down to my navy bikini. “I was scared this would be totally awkward. I worried all the way on the flight I’d hate you.”

“Me too,” she confesses, peeling off her skirt. “Or that we just wouldn’t click, and then we’d be stuck in a hotel room together all weekend.”

“Watching pay-per-view and raiding the minibar just for something to do,” I finish. Then I look at her scarlet bikini and shake my head. “I still can’t get over how different you look. There were photos of you up on the Raleigh website, and now . . .”

“I know.” She blushes. “But I think I like it. People treat me differently now; they don’t just assume I’m serious and boring.”

“Right! And now guys act like I have an actual brain instead of just breasts.” I pause. “Or, at least, the ones who haven’t caught the video do.”

“Oh, Tash.” Em reaches over and squeezes my hand. “Will was a bastard, but they’re not all like that.”

I shake away all thoughts of him. “Say that again.”

“Bastard? Oh, not you too!” She makes a face. “Ryan loved making me swear. I don’t know what it is about my accent.” Her eyes get kind of sad, but she keeps talking before I can say anything. “Anyway, is Tash OK? Or do you prefer Natasha?”

“Natasha is best,” I decide. “Or Tash. But Tasha is
like someone else now. It’s weird, how it just stopped feeling like my name.”

“I think it’s great.” Em lies down, a hand shielding her eyes from the sun. “You get to reinvent yourself, how other people see you.”

“And what about you — is it Em or Emily?”

She pauses. “I don’t know if I’ll get a choice, but for now I like Em. Em’s the girl who has the fun, spontaneous adventures.”

“Like taking off for spring break in Key West.” I hold up my hand for fake high fives. She whoops and hits my palm.

“Spring break, baby!”

We fall back down, giggling.

“But seriously” — Em props herself up on one arm — “what exactly are we doing here? It seems rather extravagant just to take a holiday.”

“But we need it,” I insist. “I need the time to recover, and you need the time to figure out you’ve got to take the internship in L.A.”

“Tash!” Em’s eyes cloud over again. “We’ve been through this. I want the law job!”

“I know.” For somebody so smart, she sure is being dumb. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t want the film gig too.” And I have forty-eight hours to convince her, before she goes back to Oxford and snaps into old Emily mode. I have a feeling I wouldn’t like old Emily much.

“You of all people should understand,” she scolds me.
“I can’t pretend to be somebody I’m not. That was never the point of all this.”

“I know,” I repeat, my voice totally sweet. “Which is why you need to admit you want to explore the film thing more. So you’re not lying to yourself.”

I wanted this vacation as breathing space for me, but the minute Em filled me in on her career crisis, I knew I had to do something. She may not see it yet, but this weekend could set her whole path in life. It’s up to me to make sure that path leads to happiness, cute boys, and creativity, and not a nervous breakdown by the time she’s twenty.

I fix her with my best knowing look. She doesn’t budge. “Whatever.” I roll over and make like I don’t care. “But you’re the one who keeps telling me about how this switch makeover thing is about finding new sides of our identity and, like, not letting other people’s expectations define our identities.” I’m quoting her own emails back at her, and she totally knows it. “So I’m just going to chill here, and then we’re going to dinner and maybe a club. But if you feel like emailing Lowell and telling him you’ve changed your mind, just let me know.”

Em scowls. “I won’t.”

“Whatever you say.” I hide a grin. She’s totally going to crack — I can tell.

I bust out my blue dress again for our night out, safe in the knowledge that what was kind of trashy by Oxford standards is practically a nun’s habit when it comes to Key West.

“And, anyway, who gives a damn about being sexy or not,” Em declares, linking her arm through mine and pulling me into the bar with nothing more than a quick flash of our fake IDs. “It’s not like we’re going to pick up a guy and take him back for a threesome!”

I giggle. “Tell that to them! Drunk college dudes aren’t exactly rational.”

We blink, adjusting to the dim light. I figured the bar was kind of upscale, in sleek blue and silver, but still it’s packed with rowdy groups of guys downing shots and girls stripped to bikini tops gyrating on the dance floor.

I pause, the noise and loud hip-hop beats overwhelming me. Everywhere I look there are flashing lights and drunk, squealing girls. “Maybe I should have rethought this whole spring break thing.” I was only away a couple of months, but somehow I forgot it was like this. Guys looking you up and down so blatantly, girls glaring at the competition. I gulp. “We could do that pay-per-view thing and —”

“No way.” Em pulls me firmly toward the bar. “We’re reacclimatizing you to your old habitat.”

“We’re what?”

“This is the horse, and you’re getting back on it.”

I should have figured Em wasn’t to be disobeyed; she has us perched at the bar with a couple of drinks in under ten seconds.

“Nonalcoholic,” she yells at the campiest barman I’ve even seen. His shirt is sheer and stretched so tightly across his chest you can see every ridge of muscle. Em turns to me. “No offense, but this isn’t the sort of place I want to get drunk in.”

I clock at least three jocks in football shirts looking at her hungrily. “Good call.”

“So what shall we toast to?” Em looks at me over the fruity cocktails, her face flushed and glowing. I’m struck by how far she’s come — not far enough, for sure, but still she’s got a look in her eyes I swear I never saw in any of those old photos: happy, relaxed.

“The switch!” I exclaim loudly, trying to feel like I can blend back in here.

“The switch!” she echoes, plucking a cherry from the top of her glass and biting into it. “And the strangest three months of my life.”

I toast along, but I hear the past tense in her tone. “So . . . You haven’t heard from Ryan?”

Em sighs. “Nope, and I doubt I ever will.”

“You could call him, you know,” I suggest, watching her carefully. “Or email, or even just text.”

She shrugs kind of listlessly. “It won’t make a difference; there’s no point. God, how pathetic am I? First Sebastian, then Sam, and finally Ryan. I’m doomed to be alone.”

“Who was this Sebastian guy, anyway?” I take a sip of my drink. “Maybe I met him.”

“You would have definitely. He lives right next door to me.”

I choke.

“No way!” Spluttering, I reach for a wad of napkins and dab at my streaming nose. “Robin Thicke dude is your ex?”

Em looks puzzled. “I gave him that CD for Christmas.”

I laugh, not believing this. “Oh god, honey. You are so better off without him. I hate to break it to you, but he slept with, like, three different girls every week.”

Her mouth drops open. “Really?”

“Honest.” I shake my head, tears still in my eyes. “And none of them sounded happy, if you know what I mean.”

“Tash!”

“I heard everything,” I swear. “I wish to god I hadn’t, but that’s the truth.”

She presses her lips together, like she’s trying not to laugh.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing. Just . . . I suppose it was a lucky escape.” She finally grins. “That I didn’t sleep with him, I mean. If what you heard was true.”

We fall about in hysterics, laughing so hard I nearly lose my balance and fall off my seat.

“And I never met him,” I gasp, shoulders shaking. “I know what noise he makes when —” I can’t even get the words out. “But I never even laid eyes on him!”

“Whoa there.” The guy behind me grabs my arm just before I slip to the floor. “Easy does it.”

“Thanks!” I gasp, gripping on to the rim of the bar for safety.

“No problem.” He flashes a grin at me, blond and cute and eager looking.

I turn back to Em.

“Go on,” she whispers. “Back on the horse, remember?” I shrug, but she widens her eyes and kicks me, hard.

“Oww!” I hiss, but she doesn’t quit, so with a sigh, I swivel back to him.

“Hey,” I start, since it’s clear Em won’t be happy with anything less than a conversation. “Thanks again for helping me out.”

“That’s cool.” He runs one palm over the top of his head, like he’s checking every tuft of sun-bronzed hair is in place. “These places can get way out of control.”

“Uh-huh.” I nod, immediately bored. I think of Will and feel that clench again in my chest, but Will is an ocean away and out of my life.

“Dude!” Suddenly another guy appears. He’s short and stocky like a baseball player, with a beer in his hand and wearing a pale-blue shirt soaked with sweat. “You know who this is, right?” He looks at me, mouth wide open. “It’s her. You know, from the video. With what’s-his-name.”

Blond Boy’s eyes slowly spark. “No way, it is you!”

I feel Em’s hand on my back. She’s already standing, ready to go, but I don’t move. I knew this was coming, but I figured I’d be panicked, sick, like I’ve always been.

No more.

“You liked the show?” I ask, calmly taking another drink. It’s strange, but I don’t feel threatened or exposed.

“Totally!” They snigger, kind of disbelieving. “Man, you were so hot.”

“I played that clip, like, all the time.”

“Lovely,” I say, totally sarcastic, but they’re too busy panting to notice.

“And when you did that twisty thing, with your hips?” It only took a moment for the cute, chivalrous one to become a leering jackass. “I tried to make my girlfriend watch, but she dumped my ass. Frigid bitch.”

“Dude, I remember!”

“Ha, I know, right!”

I roll my eyes at Em. She’s watching me, all concerned, but I’m fine. Finally.

“So, you, like, up for a replay?” They look at me, only part joking.

“I’ve got, like, a hundred bucks on me,” Jock Guy adds.

I raise my eyebrows.

“I’ve got another two hundred,” Blond Boy says quickly. Like it makes a difference.

“You know what . . . ?” I pause, biting my lip as I pretend to think over their amazing offer. They lean closer.

“No.”

And then I take both our drinks and upend the glasses over their heads.

“Let’s go, Em.” Slipping down from my stool, I take my purse and shoot a look back at the guys. They’re soaked, sickly sweet syrup dripping down their fronts, and Blond Boy even has a paper umbrella lodged in his now-not-so-perfect hair. I laugh. “I always like to meet my fans,” I yell behind us as Em tows me away.

And then I blow them a kiss.

We’re still laughing by the time we get back to the hotel, tripping over our heels and clinging to one another in glee.

“And the look on their faces . . . !” I gasp, fumbling in my clutch bag for the room card.