Sophomore Switch (8 page)

“The changes?” I remind him.

“Sure, whatever.” His voice is so nonchalant, I can’t believe it.

“‘Whatever’?” I repeat. “I thought this was the most important thing in your life.”

“Lowell’s always telling us to get distance from our work.” Ryan begins to smile now that he knows he’s annoying me. And just for good measure, he begins with the pencil again.
Tap-tap-taptap.
I have to fold my hands together to stop myself reaching out and snatching it from him.

“We start shooting on Saturday,” he says, as if I don’t already have a schedule mapped out, complete with time for delays and weather problems. Not that there’s any weather in California. “The first few days will probably be working out the kinks, getting light and sound figured.”

“Fine.” I run my eyes down the long, long list of prefilming tasks I’ve been making. Another boy from class, Mike, is supposed to be producing, but I only needed one look at his red-rimmed eyes and bagful of snacks to decide I’d better run this myself if I want anything done. “Here.” I tear off the bottom of the page — the least necessary things — and pass it to him. “You’ll need to get these sorted before we start.”

Ryan folds the paper carelessly and throws it in his bag.

“It’s important,” I remind him. “You won’t get anyone working without clear schedules and a shot-by-shot plan.”

“Already covered,” he drawls, surprising me. “Don’t
look at me like me that. I’ve been planning this longer than you.”

“Well, all right.” I frown. “I think that’s it.” I’d set aside another hour for this meeting, expecting tantrums and ultimatums at the very least.

“Cool, I’ll see you by the equipment room on Saturday.” Ryan pulls his shoes back on and slings his bag over his shoulder. “Nice work on the rewrites.”

He’s gone before I recover from the parting compliment.

With time to spare before a graduate screening of short films, I linger in the library and browse the social science sections for a little pleasure reading. I organized for my Oxford professors to email me the assignments so I can be certain that I don’t miss too much, but sometimes it’s nice just to wander the stacks and see what catches my eye. Picking out a couple of books on democracy, I find a quiet area with some desks and couches and settle in.

But I can’t concentrate. Usually I can put a book in my hands and be oblivious to the world. It’s a great skill for studying, but for some reason my superpowers aren’t working today. Every movement, every sound: they all catch my attention, and soon I’m watching the people around me closer than my work. Back in Oxford, libraries are silent and sacrosanct, but here people don’t seem to care about keeping quiet. Two boys in sports shirts are complaining over their notes, a blond girl bobs her head in time to her iPod, and two girls are giggling together
behind a stack of books. Their desk is spread with candy wrappers, magazines, and colored pens, and studying looks like the last thing on their minds as they hiss at each other.

“Shhh, she’ll hear.”

“No way.”

I glance around and find the object of their gossiping. A girl is curled up in the corner, her dark hair cut short and choppy with pink streaks. She’s utterly absorbed in her book, so much so that she hasn’t noticed the strip of toilet tissue stuck on the bottom of one chunky boot, fluttering in the air-conditioned breeze. The gossips giggle again, louder this time, and the girl looks up. She shoots a defiant look at them but doesn’t see what they’re laughing about and tries to turn back to her book.

“Excuse me.” I lean over and catch her attention. She stares at me with a hint of suspicion. I smile apologetically and gesture to her foot. “You’ve got . . .”

“Oh!” She plucks it off. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” I give her a weak grin and nearly turn back to my book, but something about her lack of concern for the whispering makes me pause. “I like your hair,” I say shyly. I could never have the nerve to do something so bold — or permanent.

“And I” — she surveys my shirt and plain jeans — “don’t like anything about your outfit. Except your earrings, they’re kind of cool,” she adds with a grin.

I should be insulted, but her comment seems more sincere than anything I’ve heard all week from Morgan or Lexi. She’s wearing black jeans and a shirt in purple
and green, a leather cuff on her wrist, and silver bullets in her ears.

“Nobody gets them,” I say, toying with the tiny metal symbols. I’m about to launch into an explanation, but the girl nods, her eyes thickly lined with purple ink.

“A thunderbolt and an owl — that’s from the Greeks, right? Zeus and his daughter Athena.”

I grin, surprised. “Right!”

“What classes are you taking?” She nods at my books.

“Film,” I admit. “These are just for fun.”

“Huh.” Studying me, she pauses, then holds out her hand. “I’m Carla. Carla Reyes.”

“Emily Lewis.” I shake, feeling strange at the formality.

“Good to meet you.” She grins. “Now, I better get back to this.” She glares at the thick textbook. “Parliamentary democracies won’t learn themselves.”

I deflate a little. My brief chat with Carla is the sum total of my social interaction that week. “Wait, is that Tsebelis?” I ask, turning over the textbook.

“You know it?”

“Intimately.” I grimace at the memory. “It killed me last term.”

“So you know what the hell they’re going on about with comparative factors and all that?”

“It took a while, but yes.” I nod. “I could lend you my notes, if you want.”

Carla bounces up. “Seriously?”

“I’ve got them all on my computer.” I shrug. “I could print you off a copy. And if you’re studying that, you’ll probably need the material on Lijphart and Sartori as well.”

“Girl, you’d be saving my butt.” Talking at full volume now, Carla grins at me and sweeps her notebooks into a purple patent bag. “Let’s go.”

I decide that even Morgan doesn’t have enough stamina to still be naked back in our room, so I follow Carla out of the building.

“You know, you’re the first person who hasn’t asked me about my accent,” I realize, hurrying to keep up as she strides ahead down the busy pavement.

She shrugs. “I figure everyone came here from someplace else.”

“Did you?”

Carla snorts. “Do I look like one of those girls?” She shakes her head, hair shimmering in the sun. “L.A.,” she explains. “Inglewood. I wanted to stay and go to UCLA, but this place offered more scholarship money.”

“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.