Life Swap Page 4
“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.
Emily
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 blond 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 hoards 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?”
I smile with relief. Americans and royalty…“Yes, he’s English.”
“British men are so hot.” She sighs. “They’re way classier than guys here.”
I stifle a laugh, thinking of crew drinking sessions. If Brooke could see a man facedown in his own vomit wi
th his underpants on his head, she wouldn’t think the Brits were so distinguished.
“So what are British guys like in bed?” Lexi flips over and fixes me with a mischievous look.
“You know…” I take a nonchalant sip of water. I wouldn’t know. “What are American men like?”
She smirks. “The usual.”
“We should fix Em up,” Morgan decides, surveying the surrounding prospects with a predatory stare. “They’ll go crazy for your accent.” She pauses and tilts her head. “You know, I’m surprised you haven’t dated anyone yet. These guys are usually pretty fast when it comes to fresh meat.”
“Not with me.” I manage a grin.
“And it’s not like you’re ugly,” she adds, bluntly assessing me. “Although you could use a tan and a suit that isn’t so, you know, functional.” I purse my lips a little. My navy two-piece isn’t up to Morgan’s dental-floss standards, but I’m not really in the mood to let the whole beach see my buttocks. “Chill,” she says, seeing my reaction. “I was just saying…”
“No, it’s fine.”
“Anyway, you want to go get a soda?” She nods in the direction of a beachfront snack stand.
“OK.” I pull on my khaki shorts and start to button my shirt, but stop when I see Morgan’s look. Apparently you’re supposed to wander onto the street with your body in plain sight over here. I compromise to local culture and leave my navy shirt undone, while Morgan and Lexi reapply lip gloss, smooth down their hair, and pull on embellished flip-flops.
“Get me a Coke, please.” Brooke lies back and yawns. “Diet.”
“And you’ll keep an eye on our stuff?” I ask. Lexi and Morgan exchange another look.
“It’ll be fine.”
We head up the beach, Morgan and Lexi sauntering along as if this is a catwalk. I can feel everyone looking over as we pass: the girls giving quick judgmental glances, and the boys all staring for longer. I shiver. Something about how blatant it all is makes me nervous, like I really am nothing more than a block of meat. Suddenly I’m painfully aware of my pale, pale skin and “functional” bathing suit.
“How about Christian?”
I tune back in to the girls’ banter.
“Hell no! Remember what happened at Christmas?”
“Right. Ali? Lulu gave him a good rep.”
“Maybe but, like, she’s not exactly an expert.”
“Ha, so true.”
“Ooh, there’s Sam.” Morgan looks toward the snack stand. “Cute.”
“And single,” Lexi notes.
“And no psycho exes.”
“Or STDs.”
“Perfect,” Morgan decides. She takes my arm and propels me forward. “You can get him to take you to the new Jennifer Aniston movie.”
“I what?” I don’t have time to ask what she means because I suddenly find myself in front of a tall boy with spiky, wet blond hair. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of fluorescent surf shorts and a shark’s tooth necklace.
“Hi, Sam,” Lexi and Morgan chorus.
“Hey.” Sam’s face widens into a broad grin. “What’s up?”
“Nothing much,” Morgan chirps. “Just showing Em here around. She’s from England,” she adds helpfully.
Sam looks at me with new interest. “England, cool.”
I nod. Morgan nudges me.
“Hi,” I say, attempting not to stare at his chest. Surely he has to be on steroids to have that sort of definition?
“So how do you like it here?”
“Oh, it’s lovely.” I realize that my accent has become more defined and arched. Another few weeks and I’ll sound like I’m aristocracy.
“We’ll catch you later, at the bonfire, right?” Lexi interrupts, flicking her hair back.
“Absolutely.” Sam nods.
“Awesome.” Lexi beams, and then Morgan drags me away.
“Perfect,” she decides. “Now he’s had a look at you, he has time to ask around. And tonight you can make a move.”
“Look, guys, really—”
“Come on, Em!” Lexi scolds me. “What are you going to do, just mope around after your ex? Have some fun.”
“It’s not like he won’t be out getting whatever he can,” Morgan adds, pulling a couple of cans from the drinks cooler.
“And you could do worse than Sam. He’s a sweetie.”
I stand mute against the onslaught and stare at a rack of sweets. Their world of casual hookups is a galaxy away from the awkward friends-but-maybe-more scene I know. To just start flirting with a random stranger? You might as well ask me to solve nuclear fusion. Even with Sebastian, we only got together romantically after six months of fraught friendship and silent pining. There are plenty of girls who can go pull a guy on the dance floor or in a dark corner of a bar, but no matter what continent I’m on, I am certainly not one of them.
When dusk settles, we pack up and drive over to a more secluded stretch of shoreline where a crowd of people are already clustered around a bonfire. I tail silently as the girls greet their friends, recognizing faces from around our block of flats and names from Morgan’s gossip.
The night is warm, and people are sprawled on the sand in college sweatshirts and skirts; some couples already intertwined, while the party girls shriek and flit between groups.
“Glad you came, right?” Brooke passes me a red paper cup of Coke. I nod, deciding that was more a statement than a question.
“It was kind of weird for me adjusting when I was a freshman.” Brooke’s face glows in the reflection from the fire as she watches the crowd. “I’m from this super-tiny town in Idaho,” she adds in a whisper. “But I always wanted to go to college in California, so I figured everything out pretty quickly. You’ll have fun if you just, you know, go with it.”
“Hey, England.” Sam comes up behind us and drapes an arm over my shoulder. I stiffen.
“Ooh, Chandra!” Brooke does a bad job of pretending to spy somebody across the group. “I’ve got to catch up with her. You’ll be OK?”
“I’ll look after her,” Sam promises.
“Cool, I’ll catch you later.” She speeds away, leaving me alone with the surf god. I turn and try to look relaxed. He’s wearing a pale-blue polo shirt, the same shade as his eyes, and objectively I have to agree with Lexi. He’s cute.
“Having a good time?” Sam asks, moving his arm away to brush back his fringe. “I was going to bring you a drink, but…” He gestures to my full cup.
“Oh, right. Thanks anyway.” I busy myself taking a sip.
“You must feel a long way from home.”
I pause. His tone is warm, sincere, and he’s looking down like he’s actually interested in my response. My nerves unravel a little.
“A little,” I admit. “Everything here is very…relaxed.”
“What?” He grins. “Don’t tell me that whole stereotype of uptight English people is actually true!”
I laugh, warming to him. “I’m afraid so. I’m still sort of adjusting.”
“You’re doing great so far,” Sam assures me. “Bonfire on the beach, some beers—you’ll be a real Californian in no time.”
“Thanks, I think.”
“You want to sit down?”
I nod, and he leads me to a free space on one of the logs. Sam sits close, the side of our bodies pressed together as he tells me about growing up in a small beach town.
“It sounds great,” I say, distracted by the heat of his torso. “We lived in the middle of the countryside, nothing but rolling hills all around. I’m not exactly a beach girl.”
Sam laughs. “I don’t know.” He slides his arm back around me and leans closer to whisper in my ear. “You looked pretty cute out there.”
I glance up. He’s looking at me with a flirtatious smile, moving his other hand to brush back some of my hair. We’re surrounded by people, but that doesn’t seem to matter as he slowly tilts down again, this time so that his lips graze the edge of my mouth.
And then I panic.
I catch a glimpse of his confusion before I dash away, weaving through the crowd until he’s out of sight.
What on earth was that?
I gulp. Shoving my hands deep in my pockets, I drift away from the group. Their noise fades slightly as I near the ocean, settling cross-legged on a stretch of warm sand and watching the inky water.
Why didn’t I just kiss him? Morgan was right—I do need to get over Sebastian, so why did I freeze up the moment Sam made a move? Sam is nice, smart enough, and far more attractive than any boy I could find back in England, but no, I had to bolt like a petrified schoolgirl.
I sigh, kicking sand into tiny heaps. Nothing has changed. Sebastian would always complain about how I held back, how I would get so disconnected from being together. The voice in my head never takes a break: it’s always analyzing, assessing, pulling me back from the brink of just letting go. And now, thousands of miles away, it’s still there. I shiver, suddenly afraid it won’t ever go away. Is this just the way I am—doomed to be on the outside of myself forever?
I blink back tears. Some recovery trip this is turning out to be. My family are so busy that they quickly gave up on making me come home; now my father just sends me news items (“because we know what insular attitudes to world affairs they have over there”), my mother makes me email twice a week to check I haven’t been shot, and Elizabeth reminds me about skin-cancer statistics. I assure them all that I’m having fun, but…
…Is this really it?
Tasha
Professor Elliot wants to see me before class. I emailed my new essay over last night, and now there’s an ominous note in my mailbox asking me over for “a little chat.” Like I can turn her down.
I meant to read through the summary chapters again to be totally prepped for the meeting, but by the time I’m finished cramming the latest econ chapters and have worked through a nightmare of a worksheet, it’s twelve already. So, instead of arriving cool and confident, I turn up five minutes late: red faced from racing across campus, stomach growling in protest at missing breakfast and lunch, and not exactly dressed to impress in my grayest fading sweatpants.