Sophomore Switch (6 page)

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 with 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, 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 sides 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 need to find Morgan,” I exclaim, leaping up. “I’ll be right back!”

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?

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.

“Natasha.” Greeting me with a raised eyebrow, Professor Elliot ushers me into her cluttered room. She’s
wearing a mismatched green cardigan over a pair of old tweed trousers, but somehow I still feel like the slob. “Sit down, please. Would you like some tea?”

“Umm, no. Thank you,” I add, looking nervously around as she begins to fill a small kettle and set out a mug. I know Oxford likes to make a big deal about the informal students-staff vibe, but if I’m in trouble, I’d rather she just give it to me straight. Elliot fusses with her drink for a couple of agonizingly long minutes as I wait. I can see my essay on her table, covered in red marks. My stomach gets tight.

“Now . . .” Settling in an armchair, Elliot finally turns to me. “How are you finding it here?”

“Fine,” I answer. “Good, I mean.”

I don’t mention that it’s been the longest, loneliest three weeks of my life.

“Good.” Elliot nods. “And you’re managing the workload all right?”

“Well” — I hesitate — “I’m trying. It’s a pretty different system from the one back home.”

“I can imagine.”

“But I’m working really hard and doing everything I can to keep up,” I find myself explaining anxiously. Buried in the Global Exchange small print had been a clause saying that both colleges could kick us out if we didn’t meet their “minimal academic criteria.” There’s no way I’m letting that happen.

“And I can tell,” Elliot reassures me. “But I think perhaps we should look at doing something different with you.”

I blink. “What?”

“From now on, I’ll be setting you different work from Carrie and Edwin.” She continues, “You’ll still be a part of the tutorial group, and you’re more than welcome to tackle their reading lists, but for your own essays, I think we’ll set you something more suitable. A little less . . . challenging.” She shoots me a smile that’s supposed to be comforting, but I’m still stuck on her words. Different. More suitable. Less challenging.

I’m being demoted.

“Does that sound good to you?”

“Sure,” I manage. “But . . .” I swallow, suddenly feeling tears well up. “Were they really that bad? My essays, I mean.” I think of the hours I’ve been slaving over her reading lists: battling to find sense in modern themes of feminism or crazy theoretical constructions of the perfect society. I know I’m not anywhere near my classmates, but I didn’t think I was doing so bad.

Elliot laughs lightly. “We don’t think about things in those terms here. But if you really must know, your work has been . . . fine.”

A rush of relief floods through me: she can’t send me home on “fine.” But then I think about what she’s saying.

“So why change things?” I try to keep my voice steady, embarrassed to feel so emotional over a dumb reading list.

Elliot looks surprised. “I thought you’d be happy to take the pressure off. This way, you get to have some more fun, really enjoy this exchange the way you want.”

The way I want.

I fold my hands carefully. “It’s been fine,” I lie. “I can manage.”

Elliot doesn’t look convinced. “It’s all right to admit it, Natasha.” She gives another little laugh. “I know this isn’t your usual style, so why not take the new assignments and have fun? I’m trying to do you a favor here. My other students would kill for an opportunity like this.”