Sophomore Switch (9 page)

Portia smiles faintly, as if a real expression would be too much hassle. “Thank you. Yours is . . . cute.”

I blush, suddenly self-conscious. It’s crazy — I used to
be comfortable whatever I was wearing, wherever I was, but now this feels like somebody else’s skin. Like I’m not good enough to be sitting at the starched white linen table, sneaking sideways looks at the other diners to check that I’m using the right gleaming silver fork.

“Where did you . . . ?” My words fade on my lips. Ice Queen has turned away from me with a sigh, picking daintily through the salad on her gilt-edged dish.

Whatever.

As my opponents for Psi Delta Princess crown will tell you, Natasha Collins is no quitter. I muster strength for one last try and flash my brightest beam right across the table to the red-faced guy with glasses and a yellow bow tie.

“Hi.” I grin. “What’s up?”

He reddens even more. “Umm, nothing. I mean, there is . . . you know, the ball.”

“Right!” I laugh. “It’s a blast. Are you part of the society?”

“Actually, I’m the secretary.”

“Really?” Since there’s nothing else around, I try my best to sound interested. “What do you guys do?”

“Well” — he clears his throat — “the society was established to offer a forum for debate about European policy and culture.” I smile and nod encouragingly as our appetizers are cleared away and replaced with perfect round medallions of beef in a rich cream sauce. “. . . is so crucial, don’t you think?”

“Sorry.” I quickly swallow a mouthful of gratin and look up to find him staring at me expectantly. “What did you say?”

“The power balance in the Bundestag; have you been following the latest developments?”

He’s not kidding — I check.

“Well.” I slowly take a sip of water, running through the entire contents of my mind just in case I have some awesome German political knowledge lurking there. Surprisingly, I don’t. “I must have missed that,” I finally admit.

“The coalition collapse?” Portia leans in, candlelight gleaming off the delicate gold cuff on her toothpick wrist. “Isn’t it a nightmare, Anthony?”

“And the economic ramifications if those socialists get back in.” Anthony is apparently so distressed he has to take a moment to polish his glasses.

“Exactly.” Portia nods. She shoots a sideways glance at me. “You’re so lucky you’re not a politics student; I wish I could just ignore all world events too.”

I pause. As veiled insults go, it’s pretty good.

“What is it you’re studying?” she inquires.

“Politics,” I answer, just to see if she’ll look embarrassed. She doesn’t, instead just giving me another one of those pale smiles and flicking her attention back to Anthony.

“How are Milly and Tom?” she coos. He must be seriously loaded for someone like Portia to give him so much attention.

“Just dandy,” he says with a straight face, and then launches into a long story about country-house weekends and something to do with a sheepdog. I manage to catch Holly’s eye down the table; she grins and shakes her head.

“Be strong,” she mouths, and I figure that even a
fairy-tale evening is bound to have some downtime. This just means I can enjoy my food without interruption, right?

By ten, things have picked up. Once dinner is finished (with enough calories to make me pledge to double my gym time), I can escape back to Holly’s group — far away from Anthony, Portia, and their never-ending list of old friends. I swear, between them they seemed to know half the country, and all of them stuck with names like Bunny, Blakey, and (I kid you not) Shotter.

“You should have seen your face.” Holly laughs, dragging me down the hall into a back room where they’ve picked a DJ over Mozart. “You looked so bored!”

“I was!” The heavy bass reminds me of clubs back home, and I start to relax. With the music so loud, nobody’s going to ask me my opinion of western European political reform, or the mortgage markets, or any of the million other topics I know jack about.

“I have to take a break,” I finally yell in Holly’s ear as the beat switches to another crazy jam. I gesture toward the door. “Be right back!”

The hallway is blissfully silent after such loud beats, and I quickly duck through the elegant crowds until I reach the pale marble haven of the women’s restroom. Everything is soft blue and cream — from the tiny, thick towels to the hand lotion — and just breathing in the faint smell of jasmine calms me down. I’ve managed to avoid the rush and slip into a stall right away, but just as I close the door, I hear a group of girls come in.

“God, you’ve got to save me, Venetia.” Arch, plummy vowels drift over to me, and I think I can recognize
Portia’s voice. Although half the girls here talk like they’ve got marbles stuffed in their mouths. I always thought
My Fair Lady
was totally exaggerating. I was wrong.

“Anthony is sending me comatose.”

Yup, it’s Portia. Instead of flushing and walking out, I wait.

“But he’s social secretary,” another voice adds. “If you’re running for committee, you need him.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Portia complains. “Why do you think I’ve been listening to all his dull stories? Between him and that stupid American, dinner was a complete bore.”

There are giggles and the rustle of fabric and cosmetics. I stand quietly, feeling that tightness back in my chest.

“Can you believe her dress? It’s not as if . . .” The door swings shut behind them, but some masochistic instinct makes me rush out of the stall and hurry into the hallway after them. I know I won’t hear anything good, but I can’t help wanting to know what they really think.

I follow Portia’s pink silk at a safe distance until they linger by a dessert table. The main hall is full: the dance floor packed with couples slowly waltzing to the string quartet, while others stand chatting in tight knots. A complicated champagne fountain is set up in the center of the refreshment tables, so I maneuver closer, using the tall arrangement of glasses as cover as I strain to listen in.

“You’d think they’d have standards about who they let in, especially somewhere like Raleigh.”

“Maybe it’s an outreach program.” There’s the sound of bitchy laughter.

“God, do you remember that other American, Rhiannon? She fucked practically half the JCR in just one term.”

“What is it with them all being so . . .”

“Slutty?”

“I was going to be more tactful.” More laughter.

I shrink back. This was a mistake, I know. I already feel like the trashy outsider without hearing it spelled out by a group of snotty girls.

“I would understand if she was trying to land a rich husband,” Portia continues, her haughty voice cutting through the background noise like a missile sent to wound me. “But surely she realizes, men don’t marry
those
kinds of girls!”

I’m still backing away, but suddenly I hit something solid. There’s a crash, and I spin around to find one of the tuxedoed waiters, his silver tray empty and broken glass shards on the ground between us.

“Omigod, I’m so sorry!” I breathe, champagne pooling around my toes.

“It’s quite all right,” he insists, but when I glance up, Portia and her friends are staring right at me, smirks of delight on their pale faces.

“Did you see that?” One of the other girls laughs, a loud braying sound that attracts way more attention than my tiny mishap. Other people start to look over, and right away I get a flashback to what it was like around campus after Tyler. The whispers. The sneers. That awful black
hole in my stomach. Then and now mix in my head until all I know is I’m done. It’s over.

Through the mess of memories, I finally remember how to walk and slowly edge away from the crowd. I didn’t bring a coat, thank god, so there’s no line for me to wait in: just me and my tiny beaded clutch hightailing it toward the exit. I pass a couple more uniformed door staff, and then I’m out in the freezing night.

So much for my fairy-tale evening.

“Yes, Dad, I’m getting plenty of sleep.” I try not to kick my heels against the back of my chair as he runs down the obligatory welfare checklist. “No, I’m not drinking. Or neglecting my work. Yes, I’m eating fine too.”

Late on Friday night, it’s getting dark out, my desk lamp bathing the room in a soft glow. Morgan is off at a frat party with the rest of her clique, so I decided to take advantage of the peace and get some reading done. My father, already up tomorrow morning, decided to take advantage of the time difference to lecture me a little more.

“I ran into Kirk Morgan at the tennis club yesterday,” he says in that tone I’ve now come to recognize as trouble. “His boy is a Fulbright scholar, at Princeton.”

I sigh. “Good for him.”

“You know, providing you keep your regular results up, there’s really no reason to put this on your résumé.” Dad is trying to be helpful, I know, but I still feel the burn as if he’s scolding me. “And when you’ve done the summer internship . . .”

“I haven’t heard back about those yet.”

His laughter booms down the line. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. With your stellar record at Oxford, this is just a hiccup. Who wouldn’t want you?”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“In fact, I was thinking of giving Giles Bentley a call — remember him? We took our pupilages together back in the day. I haven’t seen him in a while, but I think now would be a good time for a drink. He’s senior partner at Sterns, Cahill, and Coutts. Weren’t they one of your picks?”

“Yes, but really, you don’t —”

“I’ll give him a call.” Dad speaks straight over me. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner.”

“Right.”

“In fact, why don’t I check if there are any alumni in California? There are a lot of big firms down in L.A. — not that you’ll be doing entertainment law, of course — but it could be good to shake some hands.” I can hear Dad warming to the idea. “If you were on the East Coast . . .” He sighs. “But we should make the most of what we have at the moment. Keep our plan moving forward.”

I nod on cue, forgetting that he can’t see me. It doesn’t make any difference.

“Elizabeth has been invited to present at a cardiovascular symposium next month, did she tell you?” His pride is obvious.

“No, that’s great.”

“And your mother sends her love, of course. She’s busy with another project — something to do with low-energy lightbulbs in all the village buildings.” I laugh along. “I better leave you to your rest now; it’s getting late. Take care now.”

“I will. Good night, Dad.”

“And remember what I said about your résumé —”

I carefully hang up the phone. Late? On campus, everything is just getting started. I’m the only one left sitting quietly in her room. Alone.

As I look at my neat belongings and the pajamas already laid out on my pillow, I feel it again: the itch under my skin. The novelty of being away wore off once my first month was over; now every night feels the same. I look over my notes for next week’s classes, make myself a nutritionally balanced meal, watch a classic film on DVD, and make sure I’m tucked up in bed by ten thirty. A few chapters of my novel and then it’s lights-out, and hopefully I’ll be so deep into REM cycle by the time Morgan stumbles back at 2:00
AM
that she won’t even wake me.

I’m so bored I could scream.

With a burst of energy, I leap up and go to my dresser. Dad’s talk of plans and preparation is suddenly too much. All I seem to do is prepare for a future that is just ahead of me, always out of reach. In school I was getting ready for Oxford: the committees, the student government
campaigns, the sport, and the extra projects that would tip me over into the privileged few applicants. Then, as soon as I got to Oxford, it became about life after university. Internships, networking, career strategies.

Isn’t anything I do for me, right now?

Quickly, I pull my hair up, exchange my T-shirt for a black vest top, and even swipe on a dab of tinted lip gloss. The desire to be normal is overwhelming, just for one night at least. A party, music, some friends. Not the overachiever — alone again — but a teenage girl out having fun.

Do I even know how?

Morgan forwarded me the invite, so I have all the details. I’m out of the building before I have a chance to take it back.

There are half a dozen noisy parties spilling out along Del Ray Drive by the time I arrive, so I double-check the address Morgan left just to be certain I’m in the right place. It’s a warm night, and students are clustered on the front lawn of a three-story red-brick house, all conversation drowned out by the insistent thump of the “Come git it, git it” track playing over the stereo system. Not that they’re looking for conversation. In tiny skirts, polo shirts, and lashings of eyeliner, the girls are dressed for battle, and the boys — shoving each other around in a raucous mating ritual — seem to know it.

I slip past a couple exploring each other’s esophagi and into the din, already feeling out of place. I’m not good in crowds, preferring small groups to the mass of bodies
here tonight, but I remind myself why I came in the first place. Normal. Teenage. Fun.

All right.

“Morgan?” After a loop through the house, I spot a familiar mane of blond hair in the lounge. I greet her with relief. “Hi, how are you?”