Sophomore Switch (15 page)

“Here.” The washed-out girl pops up beside us and pulls an armful of chains from her bag.

“You came prepared?” I ask, hoping she doesn’t just carry them around for everyday use.

“Maybe.” The girl winks. “Here, drape these around you. Don’t worry,” she adds, catching my expression as she laces some handcuffs through the grille and fixes me into them. “They don’t lock; they’re just for effect.”

By now a curious crowd has gathered around us, and I can see staff talking on the phone. Carrie grabs her megaphone and begins to yell.

“Save the women’s health center! Women of Oxford, say no!”

The other girls join in, chanting along until the room is a chorus of loud shouts and stamped feet. I have to admit, it’s kind of exciting to be in the middle of all the drama, although I make sure to shrink back, out of sight behind a pillar. The last thing I need is to get ID’d as part of this.

After about ten minutes of demonstrating, a stern woman approaches from the front desk. She pauses a moment, watching us, then cuts through to reach Carrie. They murmur off to the side, the woman showing her several pages of printed type.

“OK, people, time to clear out.” Carrie returns. The protestors moan. “We’re breaking city bylaws doing this. They’ve called the police, and we’ve made our point now. Come on.” People sigh, but they begin to pack up.

I tug against my handcuffs. They don’t move.

“I can’t,” I whisper, my stomach sinking at warp speed.

“What?” Carrie turns back to me.

“I said, I can’t!” I’m rattling the chains like crazy now, trying to figure out when they locked. They weren’t supposed to lock! “I can’t leave!”

I panic. The rest of the girls are looking over at me, and campus security is heading toward us. But the freaking handcuffs stay clamped around my wrists.

“She’s right!” Carrie suddenly declares with a cry, pumping her fist in the air. “We can’t leave! Not until the board agrees to hear our case!”

“Yeah!” The other girls begin to whoop and holler.

“Not until the female students of Oxford get the welfare services they deserve!”

Oh boy. Carrie’s in full flow beside me, but I just want the ground to open up.

“Not until we’re respected as equals, until the outdated patriarchy in charge of our futures understands that we will not be ignored!”

Security pushes their way through the crowd and takes hold of us.

“Let go of the railing,” a burly guard demands.

“I can’t.” I shrug apologetically. “Seriously.” I rattle the handcuffs for effect as Carrie is hoisted over another guard’s shoulder and carted away.

“Natasha is right,” she screams to the crowd. “We cannot leave!”

They all turn and look at me.

“Natasha! Natasha!” DeeDee begins to chant. The other girls join in. I sink to the floor.

“Natasha! Natasha!”

Invisible. Right.

Carla appears at my door at nine thirty on Friday night with an expression of extreme determination fixed on her face. She pauses for a moment to raise her eyebrow at the sight of me in a bubblegum-pink velour tracksuit, then stalks into the room, snapping gum.

“Get dressed. We’re heading out.” Looking over at the episode of
America’s Next Top Model
that I have playing, she passes me a small envelope. “And then you can tell me how they brainwashed you, but, first, clothing.”

I peer into the envelope and pull out a ticket. “Jared Jameson!” I squeal. “He’s amazing!”

Carla rolls her eyes. “Yeah, whatever. The opening act is already on, so move it.”

I quickly go to my closet and pull down a pair of jeans, my initial excitement — as always — overtaken by rational analysis.

“Your first choice canceled on you, didn’t they?” I ask, shimmying into an outfit. “I mean, I haven’t seen you in ages and then . . .”

Carla sits down on the edge of my bed and shrugs. “Sure, he bailed. So lucky for you, you’re the only one I know tame enough to be into this frat-surf-acoustic-rock stuff. And I was right.”

“Fair enough,” I decide, adjusting my selection from my newly revamped wardrobe. It may cover most of my torso, but the fabric is, well, a little sheer. “How have you been, anyway — did the parliamentary paper turn out all right?”

“It was awesome.” Carla grins. “I got the highest score in class, whipped that stuck-up Lindsay Mayhew’s gold-plated ass.”

“Congratulations.” My makeup is still in place from earlier, so all it takes is for me to locate a jacket and bag, and I’m set to go.

“You won’t need this.” Carla takes the jacket from me, throwing it back on the bed. “It’s, like, seventy degrees out.”

“Old habits.” I smile wistfully, thinking of the crisp February air back in Oxford and the way the tips of my ears would always turn red.

“So, what’s with all of this?” Carla asks as I lock up behind me. “When I saw you last week, you were —” She’s interrupted by Morgan emerging from the stairs, laden down with shopping bags and her oversize slouch bag.

“You’re going out?” Morgan’s eyes light up at the sight of me. “How long will you be?”

“A few hours, perhaps.” I can see her running through her list of potential “workout” partners even as we speak. “The place is all yours.”

“Cool.” She grins. “Oh, hey, you up for some spa time tomorrow? My mom sent a gift card, and I could totally use the de-stress time.”

“Of course, that sounds like fun,” I agree. “I’ve got a lecture scheduled for noon . . .” I pause, the next words emerging from my lips with no small effort. “But I could always skip it.” Breathe, Emily. “This is Carla, by the way.”

“Hey!” Morgan exclaims sunnily, the thought of imminent privacy filling her with joy. “Cool, well, we’ll totes spa.” She starts walking again toward our room before turning back with another important thought. “Em, like, call me when you’re on your way back, OK?”

“OK,” I agree with a smile. At least she’s being vaguely considerate, rather than just inviting him over the moment I step out to get dinner.

“Hmmm.” Carla watches me as we step into the lift. “Spa time, salon, fancy sweats . . . I’m guessing there’s a good reason for all this?”

“There is.” I feel a faint sense of elation, just happy to be leaving my work behind and going out. Small victories, I know, but they matter. I haven’t had a headache in a week.

“Figured. You would have to offer me a ton of money to get me playing nicely with that roommate of yours.”

“She’s not so bad,” I find myself protesting as Carla leads me across the parking lot to a battered red car. “She’s just . . . different.”

“That’s what they say about serial killers.” Carla heaves the driver’s door open and reaches across to open my side, sweeping stacks of CDs and junk-food wrappers off the seat.

“Right.” I laugh, climbing in. “One of these days, she’ll snap and stab me with a nail file.”

There’s a queue snaking down the street when we arrive, but Carla just flashes a grin at the doorman and strides straight past them all.

“Have fun, C.” He winks at her as we pass through the main doors. I realize that he hasn’t even checked our IDs.

“You know everyone,” I observe with a little awe. “The boy at the coffee cart, the security at the dorm . . .”

Carla shrugs. “I’ve done enough shitty jobs in my time to appreciate them: waitressing, retail, you name it. We’re invisible to the kids in this town.” She peels off her purple cardigan to reveal a short black shirtdress with a chunky belt. “C’mon, you can buy me a beer.”

The club is dark and full of students, the floor sticky underfoot, and the scent of beer and sweat in the air. Even though it’s sort of ridiculous to be sneaking into a club when I’m legally allowed to drink back at home, I still feel a thrill of rebellion for getting away with it. Score another point for the new, spontaneous Emily Lewis.

Carla charges through the crowd toward the bar, so I don’t have time to take in the scene; I need only follow in the wake created by her thick boots and lethal elbows.

“Sorry, sorry,” I mutter, trying to keep up. Emerging from the pack, I gasp for air and attempt to catch the
barman’s attention, but he’s already heading straight toward Carla as if he’s her long-lost friend.

“Girl, where’ve you been?” he exclaims, skin reflecting blue under the stage lights.

“Around.” She grins nonchalantly and proceeds to catch up, while I turn back to the crowd for some vital observations.

Carla was right — whereas in England, Jared Jameson has a reputation as being sensitive acoustic music, over here he seems to be the preserve of frat boys in team jumpers and, of course, their denim-miniskirted girlfriends. Groups of guys are well on their way to being drunk, the room filled with noise despite the fact that a fragile folksinger is currently trying to hum her way through a set up onstage.

“Poor girl.” I sigh, watching her fumble a chord in front of the wholly unconcerned crowd.

“You kidding?” Carla passes me a bottle of beer. “She should be grateful it’s not a game night. They usually keep the TVs on right through the opening act.”

“Charming.” I sip my drink carefully.

“So c’mon.” Carla nudges me. “Spill. What’s up with the new look?”

I give a rueful grin. And there I was thinking I’d evaded questioning. “Call it an experiment.”

“In . . . ?”

“In being a little less . . .” I search for the perfect word. That’s it. “Perfect. And organized and good.”

Carla takes a swig and leans back against the bar. “I can’t say I get the hair and makeup thing, but good luck to you.”

“Thank you.” I smile, relieved that she doesn’t think I’m completely mad to want to change. My thigh suddenly starts to vibrate, so I flick up the display on my phone. Daddy. I waver.

“Who is it?”

“My father.” I sigh. Lectures and career planning are the last things I want right now.

“So don’t take it.”

My thumb traces the “accept call” button. “I can’t just not pick up.”

Carla snorts. “You mean you’ve never blown off your parents?” She shakes her head in disbelief. “Forget everything I said: hair, makeup, do whatever it takes. You need to try
something
different.” In one swift movement, she takes my phone and hits the “reject” button. “There.” She hands it back. “Problem solved.”

I gulp, wondering what Dad will think. Would he be worried, or just assume I’d fallen asleep studying again?

“Stop that,” Carla warns me, as if she can hear my worrying. “This is a stress-free zone. ’K?”

“’K,” I echo meekly, as the crowd begins to chant and cheer. The poor folksinger has departed, heralding Jared’s imminent arrival.

“Let’s get to the front,” Carla decides, grabbing my hand, “and see if we can’t find a cute boy to amuse you for a few hours.”

I decide not to disagree.

“The trick is not to expect anything.”

An hour later, Jared has finished playing his set, I’m
breathless and sweaty, and Carla and I are fighting for sink space in the bathroom. Eager to round out my education beyond Morgan and Co.’s simple hookup philosophy of dating, I ask her for advice.

“Expect nothing,” I say, endorphins from the show still lingering in my bloodstream.

“I mean, absolutely
nada.
” Carla reapplies a layer of bold pink lipstick. “’Cause if you have zero expectations, they won’t disappoint. Although usually they find a way to do that too,” she admits.

“What do you mean by expectations, exactly?” I push damp strands of hair off my forehead and wish, yet again, that my limp style had a little more volume.

“Like, everything,” Carla explains. “Don’t expect him to call, don’t expect that he likes you. Don’t expect anything besides the fact he wants to get in your pants.”