Sophomore Switch (5 page)

I push past the girls, and once I’m out of the damp winds, I make straight for the Starbucks at the back of the store. It’s totally pathetic, I know, but after coming here every night for a week straight, I’ve settled into a routine. First, I stake my claim on one of the prize armchairs. They’re arranged in a little nook, back from the café, and if you can believe it, winning one takes strategy and determination. Sometimes I have to hover, annoying the customers before they give them up, but tonight I spy a free one and only have to slip past an old guy before he can grab it. Stripping off my winter gear, I leave it draped over the seat to mark my territory and then wander back into the main bookstore area to gather my distraction.

Usually, I speed right past the magazine racks, but tonight some masochistic instinct makes me stop and look, and there they are on the cover of
US Weekly.
“Tyler and Shannon: Wedding Bells?” the cover screams, under a photo of them on the red carpet, grinning for everything they’re worth. With a gulp, I take a copy, facedown, and browse the new fiction aisles for a good ten minutes before I can bring myself to settle in my armchair and look at the piece.

“Rumors . . . sources close to the couple . . . body-language expert claims . . .” It’s nothing new, I realize. Just the same old breathless speculation, fueled this time by Shannon’s confession to a “close friend” that she dreams of a spring wedding. But just as I think I’m free and clear, I turn the page and there it is.

You’d think by now I’d be used to the sight of my own pixilated body. You’d be wrong. I still taste metal
in my mouth when I look at the picture: half naked for the (hidden) camera as I straddle Tyler in the hot tub, so clear you can see the harmony tattoo I got on my right hip with Morgan in freshman year. It doesn’t matter that under the water, I’ve still got my bikini panties on, or that I didn’t go all the way with him. No, that picture is all that matters — and the fifteen minutes of giggly, drunken footage that wound up online showing my face, and B cup, to the world.

See, this is the reason I couldn’t stay in California, the reason that no matter how much time goes by, I can’t escape that night. Because every time something happens in Planet Tyler and Shannon, they drag it up again.

And those two are total publicity whores.

Ever since the first season of the reality show
5th Avenue: The Real Gossip Girl,
when America’s teens fell in love with the charming bad boy Tyler and sweet Shannon, who’d been crushing on him, like, forever, the two of them managed to build whole careers out of being themselves. Think the kids from
Laguna Beach
and
The Hills
did good? LC and Heidi have got nothing on these guys. Their on-off flirtation lasted Tyler’s whole senior year, so when they finally got together (at an oh-so-spontaneous loft party in Williamsburg), the audience and press went crazy. Would Tyler reform for his high school sweetheart? Could their love last the distance to UC Santa Barbara for college? Tune in to Tyler’s spin-off show next season to find out!

I know all this now, but before fall, I only had a hazy recall of
5th Avenue
’s complicated plot — and the audience’s
fierce devotion to dear, sweet Shannon. So when I met Tyler hanging out with some friends at a college party and he hit on me hard, I figured they’d split. Anyway, he invited me back to his off-campus apartment for some hot-tub time, and through my alcoholic blur I figured what the hell? He was cute and seemed totally sweet, and there were no cameramen around. Wouldn’t I have to sign some kind of release before they were allowed to put me on TV?

Yup. Naïve and wasted, what a great combination. There were hidden cameras on the deck, and refusing to sign the release only meant the producers blurred out my face when they broadcast the clips — but not when they leaked the footage online.

He may have been a great kisser, but trust me, I would have needed an orgasmic night with screen god Chris Carmel for it to be worth these kind of consequences.

I toss the magazine aside and go get a latte and a cupcake, trying to shake off my blast from the past. One day (soon I hope), the country will get bored of those talentless posers and move on to something way more important, like Brad and Angelina’s rumored split or Jessica’s new diet, but until then? I’m in exile. It seems so stupid when I lay it out like this. Some people can’t go home because they offended the government or risked their lives for justice. I’m banished because of five Jell-O shots and a guy who was way more take than give when it came to . . .

Never mind.

I’m smothering my coffee with cinnamon and nutmeg
when an American voice behind makes me turn. “Hey.” A blond guy is hovering near the condiment stand, kind of stocky in an NYU sweater. “Don’t I know you?”

I freeze. No, no, not here. Not so soon. My heart is suddenly speeding as I prepare for the worst.

“Yes, it’s you.” He nods, features smoothing out again. “McKenna’s economics lectures. You sit by the window, right?”

God, the relief that flows through me is nearly more than I can take. I manage to breathe and grip my coffee mug. “Sure,” I force out, waiting for my heart to slow. “That’s me.”

“Cool.” He nods. His eyes slowly drift down my body as he checks me out, and right away I wish I’d thrown on some sweats before I left. I’m still dressed to party, in tight dark jeans and a clinging black jersey top. I take a step back.

“So which college are you at?” Blond Boy’s smile is wider now, showing plenty of teeth.

“Magdalen,” I lie, deciding I don’t want him knowing anything about me.

“I’m at Balliol.” He edges closer. “Oxford’s a trip, right?”

“Totally,” I reply lightly. “Anyway, I’ve got a ton of reading to do.” I force myself to flash him a grin before I grab my coffee and scoot back to my corner. I’ve been avoiding the Americans ever since I arrived. They seem to think sharing a place of birth gives us an automatic bond, but as much as I want friends, I can’t risk them recognizing me.

“Tough reading assignment.” I’m only a few pages into a new romance novel when another seat gets vacated and Blond Boy collapses next to me. He laughs at my book. “I’ve got eight chapters of UN procedures to get done tonight.”

“Oh.” I feel irritation flare. This is my place — my sanctuary.

“The professor’s a complete ass.” Kicking his feet onto the low table, Blond Boy starts to dominate the space: spreading out his notes, pulling his sweater off. I feel invaded. “I interned at the UN last summer, and this guy knows jack about the place, but what can I do? I mean . . .”

He keeps talking awhile as I sip my coffee and try to think of a way out. It’s ironic, I know — I’ve been longing for company all week, then the moment someone actually talks to me, I can’t shut them up fast enough. But he’s not just anyone; barely a minute in, I can tell he’s an obnoxious jock like all the others I left in California. So, with a flash of inspiration, I don’t say a thing. I just reach for my headphones and plug back in, looking back down to my book as if he doesn’t even exist.

And I’m alone again.

I’ve never had to share my space. There’s my sister, of course, but we always had separate rooms, and by the time I reached the age where an inalienable right to bathroom time was necessary, she’d already left for her time at Oxford; the pink-tiled sink was mine alone. When it was my turn to go to university, I moved into my box of a room and refitted the lock on the door. I even managed to schedule myself around peak shower hours so I had the communal bathroom to myself.

Now solitude is a thing of the past.

“The blue or the green?” Morgan fishes a couple of skimpy vests from a shopping bag and dangles them in front of the two girls who are sprawled over my bed, flicking listlessly through fashion magazines. Apparently, Natasha had an open-door policy, so now her stereo is
thundering with a rock song; the floor is littered with folders, shoes, and accessories, and there’s nothing I can do to hold back the chaos. Despite all my best efforts, Morgan is undeniable — the only concession I’ve won is that she keeps Ryan out of the way while I’m around.

“I like the blue,” says Lexi, a petite blonde with arms no thicker than my wrist.

The other girl, equally skinny with big dark eyes, looks up. “Yeah, it matches that bangle you got last week.”

Morgan lights up. “I didn’t think of that. Brooke, you rock!”

I turn another page of my textbook. I’ve long since finished studying; the amount of time required to achieve a perfect score in every one of Natasha’s classes is less than I would spend in the gym at Oxford, but I always recheck my notes, just in case.

“I love this song,” Lexi declares, twisting onto her back and kicking her tanned legs in time with the heavy rap track that comes on. “Justin and me made out to it for the first time.”

“Have you trained him yet?” Morgan asks, stripping off her T-shirt and wandering back to her room for another bra. That’s another thing I miss about living alone: the absence of naked breasts at every turn.

“In progress,” Lexi answers with a gleam. “Less drool now, thank god.”

“Eww!” Brooke squeals. “Why do you even bother?”

“’Cause he’s totally hot, that’s why.” Rolling her eyes, Lexi gets up and begins to browse my wardrobe. “It’s my service to the world. His future girlfriends will thank me.”

“What about this?” Morgan interrupts, pirouetting in the blue top. Her black bra is clearly visible underneath.

“Trashy.” Lexi spares another glance from
Glamour
’s riveting spring editorial shoot.

“Well, yeah, but, like, sexy-trashy or slut-trashy?”

“Sexy-trashy,” Brooke assures her. The distinction is lost on me.

“Awesome. Then we’re good to go.”

“You coming, Em?” Brooke asks, looking over. “They’re having a beach volleyball tournament, and there’ll be a bonfire later.”

“Don’t bother.” Morgan sighs. “All she does is study.”

I blink. Usually I wouldn’t care what my roommate says, but something in her tone sparks me into gear. Two weeks since I arrived, and she thinks she knows me? “I’ll come,” I say, almost before I reach a decision.

Morgan spins around, surprise spilling across her face. “You will?”

“Sure,” I agree, letting the textbook fall shut and reaching for my pack of aspirin to ease the low ache in my head. So far, I’ve only been down to the shore to assess a jogging route, but color-coding my screenwriting research can wait. And didn’t “making the most of the exchange opportunity” extend to integrating with the local culture? “Let’s go.”

An hour later, I’m settled in the midst of a colony of blankets, towels, and tanning lotion. Despite it being late January, the afternoon is warm and sunny, the ocean is sparkling blue, and the beach is packed with perfect,
tanned flesh. Global warming has its perks, I suppose. As I look around, it’s clear that anyone who lectures about America’s obesity epidemic has obviously not visited Santa Barbara during winter term. Stationed on prime territory next to the volleyball courts, I have a full-circle view of sweaty players, bronze-chested surfers, and the hordes of svelte, bikini-clad girls batting their fully made-up lashes at both.

“Can you believe what Susie did to AJ?” Lexi carefully rubs oil into her calves.

“I know, right?”

“In front of everyone — and with Patrick!”

Their conversation drifts around me as I stroke swirls into the sand. I feel like an anthropologist buried deep within an alien culture as I try to decipher the significance of each squeal and comment. Instead of lowering their voices for a particularly scandalous piece of gossip, Lexi’s and Morgan’s voices seem to carry, and a group of younger girls nearby look over with envy.

“I don’t know, he was kind of annoying. Always hanging around, like a lost little puppy.”

“Morgan!”

“What? I’m just saying, I’d get sick of it too.” Morgan turns and looks down at me over the huge white rims of her sunglasses. For all the deliberation over her outfit, she’s now stripped down to a tiny pink bikini, matched with an anklet and lip gloss. I wish I could say that her style was out of place, but from the look of the ranks of college girls spread out around us, she’s underaccessorized. “What about you, Em?”

“Hmm?” I lift my head slightly.

“Any guys around?”

I pause, trickling grains through my fingertips, and feel the familiar pang at the thought of Sebastian. To my relief, it stings less than it used to. Maybe one day it won’t sting at all.

“There was,” I say at last, “but we broke up just before I came here.”

“That sucks. What happened?”

“Nothing in particular,” I answer quietly. Just the fact that I’m emotionally crippled. “It didn’t work out.”

“Come on, details.” Brooke opens a bag of fat-free, sodium-free, and no doubt taste-free crisps and offers it around. “How did you meet? How long were you together? Spill.”

Nibbling one, I try to keep my tone light. “He lives next door to me, we went out for three months, and can you pass me the water?”

Brooke tosses the bottle at me. “So did he have a cute accent, like Prince William?”