Sophomore Switch (12 page)

When I find Emily’s first switch survival guide in my inbox the next morning, I decide to start with Natasha version 2.0 right away. She’s linked to items in some preppy stores here and the instruction
Watch everyone carefully!
Also, I’ve been ordered to join a group of some kind as a way of becoming part of a crowd. Let me think, do I want to be a stuck-up hack running for student government or a stuck-up sports girl running for real?

Chill, I remind myself. Just because Portia and her crew are complete jackasses, it doesn’t mean everyone else here is. I’d found Holly, right? So there must be
some
sane people hanging out in the library or dorms. I get up and out of the Raleigh campus with new determination, reading lists taking a backseat for the first time since I arrived. The day is crisp and clear, with a blue sky that reminds me of home — if it weren’t for the mittens and scarf I’m
wearing — and as I walk down the main street into the center of the city, I make sure to look around and make mental notes of the girls here.

Like in any town, they don’t look all the same, but by the time I reach the first store on my list, I can notice a definite trend for messy pinned ponytails, sculpted jackets, and blond hair. Only, instead of the serious California blond I’m used to, this is kind of honey-toned and fake-natural looking. In fact, fake-natural seems to be the theme: from the way their hair seems to be falling out of a style (like they’re saying, “Oh, yes, I’ve been too busy reading Sartre in the original French to bother with such superficial things”) to the neutral makeup in caramel and pale flushed tones that’s still flawless.

Looks like I’ll need some work. I’ve held off the blond thing for ten years now, so there’s no way I’m ruining my brown hair with bleach, but I figure I can master the styles with some pins and practice. And although my makeup routine is like second nature, I can switch foundation for tinted moisturizer, cut the eyeliner, and get some crème blush. So that’s everything above the neck. . . .

For the next couple of hours, I do what I do best. I shop. Bargains, new styles, and cool looks are in my blood, only this is like a reverse experience for me: I look around the store, and if something cute catches my eye, I put it down and find the total opposite. That sparkly black low-draped top? I ditch it for a high-necked Victoriana-style white blouse. A denim skirt with torn edges and a studded belt? I leave it on the rack and go pick out a knee-length plaid pencil skirt.

By the time I’ve got an armful of bags, I’m totally into my new task. It’s not like I’m selling out, I figure, just . . . presenting a different side to me. Everyone always goes on about first impressions counting, and here at Oxford, they seem to matter more than anything. If I can just get people to stop thinking of me as the dumb Californian, then they’d see I’m a pretty cool girl. I mean, I like me!

Besides, every preppy sweater and pair of ballet flats is taking me further from the girl in that hot tub, until soon I can’t see her in my reflection at all. And if I don’t recognize her, chances are nobody else will either.

When I figure I’ve worn out my emergency credit card, I decide to take a coffee break. But walking into my haven of Borders, I pause. In the month of hanging out there, I’ve only ever met that other American. This is so not the place for the new me to start friend-hunting. Turning, I walk right out again and down a paved side street to the other bookstore in town, Blackwell’s. This one is British, based in an old building that probably predates everything in California. There’s a coffee shop on the second floor that is full of dark wood furniture and serious-looking Oxford types. Perfect.

I slip up to the restrooms and quickly change into my first new outfit: a plaid skirt and a pale pink crewneck. I add thick gray tights and a delicate gold charm necklace like the one Portia wore, and I’m good to go. Instant prep. On my way back to get coffee, I even pick up a couple of textbooks to look over for this week’s essay: the ultimate Raleigh girl.

I read in silence for a while, helped along by a slice of cheesecake and an extra-large latte. The room is full of
people, and to my relief, I blend right in. Older men pore over stacks of printed pages, younger boys stare intently at their battered novels, but everyone looks stuffy and, well, British. It’s a kick knowing that nobody would guess from looking at me where I was from or what I’d done, but all the crewnecks in the world don’t make a difference to my reading list. After staring at the same page for ten minutes, I put my pen down with a loud sigh.

“Are you, ah, are you having difficulties with that?” The boy at the next table speaks up, and I look over in surprise. He’s got longish brown hair falling in his eyes and an angular kind of face, but his interested expression seems for real.

“Yup,” I admit. “I can’t figure it out. At this rate I’ll need a tutor just to get to the end of the chapter!”

He smiles, kind of nervous. “Well, in that case . . . I, I do some tutoring.”

“You do?” I brighten.

“Uh-huh.” He clears his throat. “Political philosophy?”

“Right.” I beam, taking in his cord pants and navy pullover. The outfit is kind of nerdy, but I guess nerdy is good in a potential tutor. “I’ve got this feminist professor who’s really laying it on.”

“Elliot?”

“How did you know?”

He shrugs. “I had tutes with her last year, plus she’s the only feminist around.”

“So you’re in your third year?” I ask, taking another bite of cheesecake.

“Yes, I’m a finalist.”

“Oh.” My face falls. “Then you probably won’t have time for anything extra.”

“No,” he quickly replies. “I’ve got some time. It would be a nice break.”

“Tutoring counts as a break?” I laugh. “Sad.”

He gives me a wry smile. “I suppose it is. I’m Will, by the way.” He reaches across to shake my hand.

“Oh right, I’m Natasha.” His hand is soft and kind of delicate: another one of those composer-type guys. “So, do you have any time now, or do I book you, or . . .” I trail off, hoping he’s available right away. This paper is turning out to be a nightmare, and since I threw Elliot’s offer right back at her, there’s no way I can turn up to class with my usual mess.

“I can do a little now, if you want.”

“Awesome!” I beam. “I’ll pay whatever, I just need to get my head around this.”

Will smiles at me. “I’m not that expensive, don’t worry.”

“How about I get us some more coffee,” I offer, reaching for my purse. “And then you can do your thing and make me a genius.”

An hour later, I’m sending silent prayers of thanks to whatever god is listening. Will is a total angel.

“I can’t believe it’s this simple.” I stare at the pages of notes I’ve made, all of them neat, ordered, and making actual sense. “Why didn’t I get this before?”

Will sends me a supportive grin. “Don’t be so hard on
yourself. All the books make things seem far more complicated than they really are. If you just break it down into the main arguments, you’ll be fine.”

“Come on.” I roll my eyes. “Just admit you’re a superbrain and I’d be screwed without you.”

“Natasha, that’s not true! You almost had it on your own, and . . .” He’s flustered and almost blushing.

“Relax, I was kidding,” I reassure him. “But seriously, how do you do it — make sense of everything so easily?”

He plays with his coffee cup. “I don’t know. Remember, I do have an extra year of experience.”

“Right.” I pause. “The finals system here is pretty weird, isn’t it? Back home, we take them at the end of every semester, but you’ve got them all in one go.”

Will nods slowly, like the thought of it is wearing him out. “In the summer, I’ll take eight papers that last three hours each. They’re spaced over a few weeks, but that’s it, my entire university grade.”

I gape. “So if you screw up on the day . . . ?”

“Then I’m done for.” He looks so forlorn, I feel like giving him a hug.

“But you’ll be fine.” I try and lighten the mood. “It’s only dumb-asses like me who would have to worry.”

“You’re not dumb,” he scolds me. “You’re just new to this style of thinking.”

“I wish it was that simple, but with Elliot . . .” I shake my head. “I can’t figure her out.”

Will pauses. “You’ve read her book, haven’t you?” I shake my head. “You should.” He gives this wry grin. “It’s a long rant about the new generation’s betrayal of
feminism. How every girl in a short skirt undermines decades of activism — stuff like that.”

“And you believe that?” I shift in my seat, totally uncomfortable. If we’d met two hours ago . . .

But luckily Will just laughs. “Elliot oversimplifies everything. But she’s rather uncompromising. All or nothing, I suppose.”

I sigh. “Anyway, enough about work. I think I’ve got enough notes to manage my essay now. Tell me about you — what do you do for fun here?”

“Fun?” He gives a snort. “As I said, I’m a finalist. This is as close to fun as I’ll get until after my exams.”

“There’s got to be something you do to relax,” I prod, trying to move the conversation on. “You’re not a robot.”

“Well.” He hesitates. “You’ll probably think I’m a loser . . .”

“I won’t! C’mon.”

“I play Scrabble,” Will admits. He looks so sweet, I have to try not to laugh.

“Scrabble?” I repeat dubiously.

“See, I told you.” He sighs.

“No! It’s . . . interesting. I’ve never met somebody who likes it. My friends don’t really go for that kind of thing.” Understatement. If Morgan was here, she’d be cracking up, but there’s something so endearing about Will’s confession. The guys I know back home would never tell me something like that in case it ruined their chances with me, but Will couldn’t be less of a player.

“So why do you like it?” I look at him carefully. He’s
pushed up his sleeves to reveal pale forearms and is sitting on the edge of his seat.

He pauses for a long time. “I suppose . . . I suppose I find it relaxing. There’s an order, a pattern to it. I don’t have to think about anything except letters on the board.” He shoots me an embarrassed half smile. “Pathetic, I know.”

“It’s not!” I insist. “At least you’re doing something. If I want to relax, I just veg out in front of the TV.” It strikes me that Will would have a whole lot in common with Emily, Queen of Order. Then I notice the time.

“Frak!”

Will lights up. “You watch
Battlestar Galactica?
”

“Hell yes.” I grin. “It’s a total guilty pleasure, but I caught an episode a while back, and ever since, I’ve been hooked.” I think I spy some new admiration in his eyes and wonder why I didn’t drop that into the conversation earlier. Sci-fi shows are prime nerd-bonding material. “Anyway, I have to go. I’ve got to get to the library before it closes.”

“Of course.” Will gets up. “Well, it was nice meeting you.”

I grin at his formality. “You too. And I’ll set up another session next week. You’re on Facebook, right?”

He nods but reaches to scrawl his number on my notebook all the same. “Or even just call, you know, if you have any random questions, or . . . anything.”

“I will.” Packing up my notes, I see he’s still hovering out of his seat. “Umm, bye?” I don’t know if I should hug him good-bye like I’m used to, or what.

“Good-bye.” He looks as awkward as me. Finally, he sticks his hand out again. I shake it.

“Later.” I turn away and quickly bounce down the stairs and out onto the street. Finally, some luck! He’s awkward but an angel for sure, sent to save me from academic oblivion. I grin, thinking of his blushes and cute politeness. Any other guy would have hit on me, but not Will. And in my new outfit, he didn’t think I was one of those short-skirted underminers of feminism. The switch survival is working out just great.

So great that when I pass a couple of students with flyers outside the library, I pause. They’re signing people up for a protest group against the closing of the women’s health center — that thing Carrie was going on about the other week. Didn’t Emily say that getting involved with a group would be good for me?

“It’s a vital cause for all Oxford women.” A short girl with cropped hair thrusts a leaflet at me. “We’re meeting Thursday lunchtime, in conference room B.”

I add my name to the chart.

“Wonderful,” she exclaims. “Bring all your friends.”

“Sure,” I agree, taking the slip of paper and heading into the library. I might not have any friends to bring, but I may as well show up.

Hell, it’s not like I have any other plans.