Life Swap (3 page)

If only I'd known this would happen. Maybe then I'd have thought harder before throwing on my candy-pink bikini and going back to Tyler's that night…OK, who am I kidding? I didn't give it any thought at all. But of course not. I mean, you don't stop and think, “Hmm, do I really want a video of this leaked all over the internet?” every time you hook up with a hot guy. Because, barring a few crazy exhibitionists, the answer will always be no. No, I don't want to be known as the slut who broke up America's Most-Beloved Couple (seriously, they won the
Seventeen
reader survey last year). No, I don't want to see my own tanned and not particularly toned body staring back at me from the supermarket tabloids for weeks. No, I don't want a half hour of drunken fun to be the single defining moment in my whole nineteen-year existence.

Sighing, I grab my shower caddy and head for the bathrooms. I've had weeks to mope about the whole thing, but even I have to admit that being alone and anonymous in England is way better than being a recognizable joke back in L.A. Lathering up my hair under the dribble of lukewarm water, I resolve to be more positive. I managed to get out of the States; now all I have to do is find some kind of social life. It'll just take some effort, right?

Wrapping myself in my huge, terry-cloth robe, I step back out into the communal bathroom. I thought the place was empty, but now that the shower is off, I can hear a kind of muffled sobbing coming from one of the stalls. I pause.

“Hey, are you OK?” I ask.

There's a sniffling sound, and then a thin voice emerges.

“I'm fine.”

“You don't sound fine,” I point out. “Can I get you anything?”

“No.” Another sniffle. “I wish you could, but…” She starts sobbing again.

I gingerly push open the cubicle door and find a girl curled up on the toilet seat, legs tucked tightly against her chest. She's wearing striped pj's and has limp blond hair hanging in her face.

“Really, I'm fine,” she protests, trying to wipe her face with a shirtsleeve. “I just…”

“Don't worry,” I say softly, not wanting to scare her. She looks younger than a freshman, but maybe that's just the distress on her pale face. “Look, my room's just down the hall. I could make you a coffee. Or tea, if you want,” I add, remembering how Brits are about their tea.

“Thanks, but…” She shakes her head and grabs another handful of tissue from the dispenser. “It won't help.”

“Won't help what?” I ask again. “Look, I know you don't think I can help, but maybe I can.”

She takes a deep breath and then looks me in the eye for the first time. Another sniffle, and then her voice comes, so soft I have to lean forward to hear.

“This morning…The condom split. I don't know…I don't know what to do.”

Other people's problems may suck for them, but at least they give you some perspective. It takes me less than twenty minutes to Google the Oxford student services, wait for Holly to dress, and make our way down the twisted, cobbled streets to the offices behind the student union buildings. I've done this with Morgan so many times, I didn't even raise an eyebrow when Holly told me about the boyfriend (older), the sex (bad), and her feelings of general helplessness that were clouding whatever judgment got her into Oxford in the first place.

As it was, she only had to chat to the physician for a few minutes before emerging with her prescription and the glow of somebody who will never, ever have unnecessary sex again. Morgan usually lasts about a week before jumping the next guy, but I'm betting Holly waits longer.

“OK?” I ask, my ass already numb from the cheap Formica seats they have lining the small waiting area.

She nods happily. “Yes. Thank god!”

“Cool.” I look around. The place is empty, littered with flyers and health-awareness posters. “Want to stock up on freebies while we're here?”

Holly blushes, but she goes over to the jar of condoms all the same. I browse the notice board instead. There's no way I'm so much as going to
kiss
a guy while I'm over here. No dating, period.

“Yes, just let me check for you.” A voice emerges from a back room, and then the familiar stocky body of my classmate walks out. I cringe.

“Oh. Hi. Natasha, right?” Carrie looks as uncomfortable as me, frozen by the front desk with an armful of paperwork.

“Yup. Hey.” I give an awkward wave.

“What brings you…?” Carrie glances from me, to the physician's door, to where Holly is helping herself to a liberal supply of condoms. “Oh, right.” She gives me a knowing look. Of course the dumb Californian would be stocking up on birth control.

I control my flicker of irritation and try and make nice. “You work here? That's great.”

Carrie looks surprised. “Yes, I volunteer. But not for long. They're closing the place down at the end of March.”

“They are?” I look around again. “Why?”

“No funding.” Carrie gives a bitter laugh. “The benefactors leave thousands to the rowing clubs and libraries, but we get nothing. Typical, isn't it?” She takes a paper from the desk and hands it to me.
SAVE WOMEN'S SERVICES
, the Day-Glo orange flyer protests.

“Is there anywhere else in town to get this stuff?” I ask, worried. I may be planning to give nuns competition in the chastity stakes, but that doesn't mean I can't be concerned for everyone else.

“That's not the point.” Carrie folds her arms, already defensive. “That's only half of what we do here. There's a support hotline and a night safety group and—”

“I get it,” I cut her off quickly. She's got an angry gleam in her eye, and I don't want to be on the other end of it. “Well, good luck.” I put the flyer down and pick up my bag. “I hope you pull it off.”

She turns back to her paperwork, while Holly and I push through the smudged glass doors onto the street. Students stream by on bikes, long striped scarves around their necks, and a bunch of Japanese tourists hover by the gates of the college next door.

“So…” I start, turning to her kind of awkwardly. Now that she's OK, Holly probably has plans. “You're all set?”

“Yes.” Holly smiles shyly. “I only have to go to the chemist's.”

“Cool, I'll just—”

“Would you come with me?” Holly asks suddenly. “And then maybe, I know this great café nearby. We could get something to eat?” She looks at me hopefully. “I mean, you probably have things to do, but…”

“No! I mean, I don't. I'm free.” I smile back, pulling my scarf tighter and thanking the god of coincidence for sending me a possible friend. “I'd like that.”

Apparently the international office doesn't subscribe to my standards of what constitutes a proper education, because by the end of the week, I find myself sitting halfway back in a cavernous lecture hall while our professor addresses us on the challenging topic that is screenwriting for mainstream movies.

“By now, you'll all have had time to look over our next script.” He's relaxed and charming, and far too tan. I'm immediately suspicious. Real professors should have spent their lives buried in dark, dusty libraries, researching papers and striving for expert status. They shouldn't have time to develop a healthy, outdoorsy glow, let alone advanced social skills. “So let's hear what you think.”

I look around. The half of the room that is actually paying attention and not checking their mobiles, doodling notes, or chatting softly to the person nearby are looking through a sheaf of papers. I tentatively raise my hand.

“Ah, an eager critic.” He bares his gleaming teeth at me.

“No, actually, I don't have the pages,” I hurry to explain. “I just arrived on exchange.”

“Well.” He pauses to assess me before gesturing dramatically. “Can anyone help out our British friend here?”

The students nearby reluctantly make a show of shuffling their pages. It doesn't help that my neatly pressed skirt and short-sleeved shirt make me look like a tax auditor stranded among their beach-party ranks, but eventually a boy sitting a few empty seats away leans over and hands me the script.

“Thank you,” I whisper, grateful for rescue.

“No problem, I had a spare set.” He has dark eyes and cropped dark hair, slouching low in his seat wearing disheveled black jeans and a fitted navy T-shirt with a cartoon robot printed across the front. “You're from England, right? What brings you over here?”

I look distractedly back to the front of the class, torn. Professor Lowell is still talking, something about presentation and formatting, and I don't want to miss it. “England, yes,” I say quickly. “I'm just here for the rest of the term.”

“Cool.” He grins a boyish half smile, and I'm reminded again that shining white teeth seem to be a basic constitutional right over here. “You picked a great class. Lowell really knows his stuff.”

“He seems to.” I try to follow what the great professor is jotting on the whiteboard.

“He worked at Fox for a while in the nineties, development,” he continues enthusiastically. “Rumor has it he was the one who bought
Speed
and—”

“Look,” I stop him apologetically, “I really appreciate your help, but this is all new to me, and I don't want to get behind…”

“Sure.” He studies me for a moment and then leans away, leaving me to despair over my lack of social skills and quickly skim-read this script I'm supposed to be so well acquainted with.

Twenty minutes later, I've reread the script, made copious notes, and now I'm sitting, bemused at the outpouring of praise that's coming from the class. Surely we haven't been reading the same thing?

“…And the characterization was great.” A thin emo boy sweeps back his slice of fringe and finishes his critique, which turned out to be light on any actual criticism. I'm itching to add to the discussion, but something holds me back. After all, I only watch films for an escape, some entertainment. I don't know anything about this topic, and while Lowell may have asked for our instinctive reactions, I always think opinions need to be backed up with research and facts. Otherwise, what use are they?

“And I really liked the part where he confesses his feelings,” a girl with funky, cropped red hair adds, her expression wistful. “It was so romantic.”

I can't help but give a little snort of laughter. Quickly, I try to disguise it with a cough, but it's too late. Lowell swings around from his place at the front table and fixes his stare on me.

“Our Brit!” he exclaims. “Care to add anything?”

I pause, looking around cautiously.

“Come on, now, don't be scared,” Lowell prompts. “We'll go easy on you.”

“Well,” I begin, flicking back to the beginning of my notes, “I don't really agree.”

“With who?”

“With anyone.” I give an awkward shrug, feeling curious eyes on me. “It just didn't work for me. Take the scene you were just talking about.” I nod at the redhead. “It wasn't believable at all. His lines were far too polished.”

Lowell gives a chuckle, and the dark-haired boy turns back to me.

“But you're totally missing the point,” he objects, restlessly tapping his pen against the side of his seat. “If he's been waiting for years to tell her how he feels, then it would be polished, right? He's been rehearsing his words in his head forever.”

“No, I don't think it would work like that,” I say, my confidence building. “If anything, it would make them
more
scattered—I mean, nothing ever comes out the way we plan, does it? And if she's supposed to mean so much to him, then having the scene play so perfectly just sort of dilutes the emotional impact. We don't get to see any of his fear or anxiety.”

I remember sitting dumbly on the bed as Sebastian told me it was over. There had been so much I wanted to tell him, but I hadn't been able to say a word. I just sat there, picking at the fraying edge of the bedspread as my relationship slowly unraveled.

“Interesting point.” Lowell nods. “So—”

“And that scene shouldn't even be so early in the story,” I continue, trying to banish all thoughts of Sebastian. “It's the emotional climax of the whole piece, but it comes so soon that we don't care enough about the characters yet.”

“But it's not a love story.” Emo boy sighs. “The romance isn't the main theme. And isn't it better that the script is being different, not having the weepy scene at the end like all those chick flicks?”

I might have left it at that, just let the class carry on now that I'd contributed my part, but there was just enough condescension in his tone to make me keep talking.

I happen to like “chick flicks.”

“Perhaps, but this isn't innovative—it's bad,” I exclaim. “The whole structure is a mess, there's no journey or tension. Things just happen!”

“What do you know about structure?” the boy next to me asks, his voice even.

I remember my layperson status and blush. “I might not have studied film, but narrative structure is universal. I mean, it goes all the way back to the Greeks and classic literature.” I look to Lowell for confirmation. He inclines his head slightly in what could be a nod, so I press on. “There has to be something the characters want, and then obstacles in their way before they get it. This script has that, but in such a messy way, there's no real reason to care what happens.” I send silent thanks for those years of dull Classics lessons I had to take in school. Memorizing Latin verbs was torture, but I always loved the great myths and legends.
The Odyssey
, Hercules, Theseus and the Minotaur. There's a strange kind of order to the tales: a world where everyone is doomed to tragedy and death. There are few happily-ever-afters, but I found the tales satisfying all the same.