Life Swap (17 page)

“Morgan!” For somebody who has slept with at least four different boys since her breakup, she's awfully curious about “the loser ex.” “I don't know anything. I'm the last person he'd talk to about that sort of thing.”

“Whatever.” She rolls over. “It's not like I care.”

“Right.”

After another hour on the sand, we get back into Morgan's car and go to meet Brooke and Lexi at the Psi Delt house. After what happened the last time I set foot on their property, I'm none too keen to return, but Morgan insists.

“No choice, Em.” Turning into the driveway, she checks her hair in the mirror and reapplies lip gloss. “Brooke says Louis has been, like, pulling away from her. She totes needs our support.”

“Fine.” I sigh, pulling myself out of the car. “But I can't stay long.”

“Awesome.” She shoots me a smile and skips up the front steps. “In and out, I promise.”

We find them on the back porch with a group of the frat brothers and a stack of empty beer cans. Lexi is perched on the swing seat looking supremely bored, while Brooke watches intently as Louis plays a game of pool.

“Hey, girl!” Morgan sashays over and loudly kisses Brooke on both cheeks. She's glowing from the sun and dressed in a swinging short white skirt under her UC sweatshirt, so I'm not surprised to see all the boys look over. I am, however, surprised to see Louis drag his attention away from the game and give Morgan a long, lingering hug. I edge over to Lexi.

“Did you see that?” she asks in a hushed tone. “This is gonna get
in-ter-est-ing.
”

I settle beside her, unnerved by the glee in her tone. I hope she's wrong. Out of all the girls, Brooke seems to be the most genuinely sweet; watching her heart get ripped apart is not my idea of a spectator sport.

“So, what's happening, guys?” Morgan drapes herself across the pool table. Even as I watch, Brooke seems to fade into the background. Alone, she's pretty, but Morgan just has a way of effortlessly dazzling that makes all other girls seem washed out and ordinary. It's no wonder Louis is showing off for her, trying to make a difficult shot.

“Way to go!” Squealing, Morgan presses herself against him in a celebratory hug, and I wonder for the first time if her show is quite so effortless. If it were anybody else, I'd say they were out to steal Louis. But this is Morgan—she wouldn't try that with her best friend's boy.

Would she?

Half an hour later, I'm amazed at my own naïveté. Morgan isn't just trying to take Louis; she's succeeding. Easily. Cheerleading every point of the game, Morgan ingratiates herself with Louis, until soon he's showing her how to take shots herself: leaning over with his hands on her waist and whispered jokes in her ear. Brooke has long since given up trying to hold her ground; she now slumps on a spare seat by the doorway, watching them with a resigned expression that makes me think perhaps she's seen this all before.

“Couldn't have done it without you, babe!” Ultimately victorious in the superhuman match of wit and skill, Louis picks Morgan up and swings her in a wide circle, her skirt flaring up to reveal bright pink knickers. Brooke slips inside, invisible. I follow.

“Having fun?” Her voice is edged with bitterness. She stands by the kitchen sink and runs cold water.

“I…I'm sorry.” I don't know what to say to her. It seems like we're both stuck with Morgan, whether we like it or not.

Brooke shrugs, pulling her sweatshirt cuff down. “Not your fault.”

“Yes, but…it's not right.”

She laughs. “I don't know why I expected it to be different this time. Morgan's just…Morgan. This is what she does.”

“Why do you put up with it?” I hop onto a counter and drum my heels against the cabinet. “Can't you say something?”

“And then what? It would make no difference.” Brooke looks out of the back window. “I'd just feel worse for bringing it up.”

“So she's done it before?” Morgan's account of her hookup code certainly didn't include boy stealing and betraying her friends.

“Oh, yeah, tons of times.” She sighs. “It's just how it is with her. Like, always a competition.” Brooke's face twists slightly. “She and Tasha were always up against each other, before…You know about Tyler, right?” I nod. “Anyway, sometimes she doesn't like them all that much—she just wants to be the one to win them. Prove she's the best.”

“That's terrible,” I say honestly.

Brooke just shrugs again. “It's like with Ryan, she wanted him because he usually dates smart girls, you know?” I raise my eyebrows. “She wanted to show she could get anyone. And sure, she liked him, but not enough to, you know…”

“Be faithful,” I finish for her.

“Right.” Brooke gives me a weak smile. “You learn to live with it. She just can't help herself.”

It seems to me that keeping your hands off somebody else's boyfriend is a rather simple thing to manage, but for whatever reason, Brooke is standing by her. “If you say so.”

Finally placing her water glass down, Brooke sends one last look to the backyard. “Want to get out of here?”

I nod. The whole afternoon has been nothing but tension, small betrayals, and inevitable awkwardness. I'm more than ready to leave. “You just lead the way.”

“I'm done with this stack.” Licking the final envelope, I seal it shut and pass them down the table to Carrie. The whole group has taken over the warm back room at Blackwell's, stuffing campaign packets in prep ara tion for our big showdown with the board in a couple of weeks.

“Great.” She checks off a box. “Why don't you take a break before the next batch?”

“No, I'm good.” I shrug, taking another stack of letters and relaxing back into the battered brown leather couch. “I'm in a groove now, and, anyway, I kind of like the taste of mail glue.”

We fall back into companionable silence: Carrie, Uma, and me with the envelopes while Mary and Louise do some reading for class. We have a kind of rotating schedule now, some girls showing up just to drink coffee and talk if there's no work to be done right away, or just hanging out to work in a crowd when the library gets too much. I love it. The room is lit by cozy lamps, and as well as friendly faces, I have a constant supply of caffeine to get me through the afternoon. It's way better than those cold library carrels, plus I find I actually get more work done when I don't have to go take breaks at the vending machine or blast my iPod just to wake myself up.

“Has anyone done the Okin reading?” It's starting to get dark outside the paned windows by the time Louise takes off her glasses and rubs her eyes. She's almost hidden from view behind a table stacked high with books. “The material on justice and the family? I need a summary, but I just don't have the time.”

“Sorry.” Uma sticks another address label on and adds the envelope to our already-impressive pile. “Law, remember?”

“Right. And DeeDee is in a tute.” Louise sighs. Out of all of us, only a couple are taking the same classes. “What about you, Natasha–have you covered it yet?”

“Hmm?” I look up. “Okin. Who was he again?” I'm hopeless with names, and the dead theorists all blur together for me. In the end, Will had to come up with a color code for me to keep them apart: red for right wing, blue for libertarian, pink for feminist-friendly.

“She,” Louise corrects. “Susan Moller Okin. She critiqued Rawls from a feminist perspective.”

“Oh, right!” I exclaim. “We did her a couple of weeks ago. Basically, her work forced Rawls to incorporate the idea of family as, like, integral to social justice.” I quickly run down the main points.

“So Rawls responded?” Louise scribbles furiously.

“Yup. He caved–clarified that the family isn't exempt, it's the first school of justice, all things must be equal. Wait, there's a good quote…” I think hard. “OK, ‘Unless there is justice in the family, women will not be able to gain equality in any other sphere.'–” Ha. Tell that to my mom: still organizing Frank's laundry for the maid and throwing those way over-the-top dinner parties for him to woo new clients. She hasn't earned a dime her entire life, but she works more than most people just to keep the household going and my stepdad happy.

“You're the best,” Louise swears, shooting me a grateful smile. I glow.

“Anyone want more coffee?” I ask, getting up and stretching out my shoulders. A chorus of “No thanks” and “I'm fine” follows, so I take my time wandering the bookshelves and picking out some interesting titles before re-caffeinating and buying a couple of slices of cake with five forks.

“Lost Girls.”
Carrie spots the title of Elliot's book when I get back. “Have you read that yet?”

“No, I figured I should take a look.” E specially since my professor used to think I was one of those lost girls, wandering helplessly around and, like, blinded by my mascara.

“It's quite good,” Mary adds, looking up from her thick chemistry textbook. “Quite an old-school perspective, but then when I see those girls in Playboy T-shirts…” She gives this kind of long, disapproving sigh. The other girls all nod along. “It all makes so much sense.”

“What do you mean?” I ask carefully, thinking of my own Playboy logo shirt. It's a cute shade of baby blue and perfect for working out.

“You know, that some women are as much an enemy of feminism as the misogynists.” Mary looks at me quizzically. “I mean, think of raunch culture–all those stripper workouts and full bikini waxes–”

“As if women really should be emulating porn stars,” Louise mutters. I shift uncomfortably. Morgan and me did cardio striptease a couple of times at the gym. It didn't herald the end of the world. As far as I know.

“You must have seen far more of this than us,” Carrie interrupts. “California's the home of the bleached-blond-babe standard of beauty, isn't it?” They all look at me expectantly, like the fact I'm a brunette totally makes up for my hometown.

“I don't know.” I try and stay casual, suddenly aware that I'm on pretty dangerous ground. I remember Emily's order to agree with them. “It's not a big deal, right? I mean, if we–if those girls enjoy that kind of thing, where's the harm?”

Carrie snorts. “They don't enjoy it. They've just been brainwashed into thinking they need to be sexual objects.”

“That
Girls Gone Wild
thing, for instance,” Louise adds through a mouthful of cake. “Writhing around half naked on-screen for somebody else's amusement. You can't tell me that they've made a genuine, intelligent informed choice to act that way. It's ridiculous.”

I tense up. “You don't know that.”

“Oh, come on, Natasha!” She laughs. “Have you seen them–drunk and squealing? They're pathetic.”

“Girls would never act that way if they could just stop and think about it.” Carrie rolls her eyes. “I'd like to think we're all together in this, but they're part of the problem. You know, sometimes I swear I just want to weep for my gender.”

I keep quiet and eat more cake, trying to hide my unease. They're talking like anyone who gets drunk and has a good time is just some mindless doll, totally in the thrall of the evil misogynistic mass media, or whatever Uma keeps going on about. Well, I'm one of those girls, and I'm not brainwashed!

I scowl some more at my coffee cup. All those times I've gone out with Morgan and our girls–to clubs, bars, parties–they weren't just about men. They were about dancing, having a good time.

Right?

“It's a good book,” Carrie continues. “You should get it.”

“Maybe.” I look dubiously at the stern gray cover and its promise of “uncompromising debate.”

“Ah, hello, girls. I mean, women.” I look up to find Will hovering, flustered in the doorway. I take a quick breath of relief. Thank god, something to distract from the “Brainwashed California Blonds” lecture.

“Hey, Will.” I bob up from my seat and go over to hug him hello. “What's up?”

“Nothing new.” He unwinds his long, stripy scarf. “How's the campaign going?”

“Pretty good.” I nod toward the table. “We've stuffed a ton of envelopes, so hopefully all the board members will have had time to read our pamphlet before the presentation.”

“That's great. Is there anything you need me to do?”

“Thanks, but I think we're all set.” He's so cute, offering to help.

“Well, in that case…” He produces two tickets from the pocket of his navy jacket with a flourish. “They're showing a great film at the Playhouse in half an hour. I stopped by to see if you wanted to come.”

“That sounds cool.” I grin, leaping at the chance to escape the group before Carrie starts another rant. “Let me just get my stuff.”

I bundle up and say my good-byes, that angry feeling gone as quickly as it came. I can't really hold it against them for thinking drunk American party girls are evil tools of oppression. I mean, it's not like they've ever actually met one of them. Aside from me, of course, but that's different. They have no idea I'm one of the girls they keep trashing, and I don't want to think about what would happen if they did.

“So how's the Scrabble master?” I tease as we head down the cobbled street. Lights are threaded through tree branches, twinkling in the dark. “Made anyone cry today?”

“No.” Will gives me an evil grin. “But I did beat my sister by two hundred points this morning online.”

“Dude, she's fourteen!” I shove him playfully.

“So, this way she'll learn about losing and good sportsmanship.”

I laugh. “I forgot to ask, what's this movie about?”

“It's Russian,” Will begins. My heart sinks. “An experimental film in black and white about the futility of existence and–” He suddenly cracks up and starts laughing. “You should see your face!”