Sophomore Switch (23 page)

“Tasha?” she repeats, and I wince at the name, sick. I haven’t been Tasha for months.

“What is it?” Carrie takes the newspaper from me and unfolds it, and everything stops.

WOMEN’S CAMPAIGN UNDERMINED BY CELEBRITY SCANDAL
, the headline reads. And underneath, the photograph I know by heart: my bare top to the (hidden) camera as I straddle Tyler in the hot tub, so clear you can see that harmony tattoo on my hip.

It’s over.

I lie awake most of the night, analyzing our kisses from every possible angle. I can still feel Ryan’s hands on my body and his mouth on mine, my veins sparkling with a fierce heat I’ve never known before.

And I know for certain that Sebastian was wrong.

I don’t have a problem with intimacy or issues with physical commitment. I’d thought that everything he said was true, but in the end, it was only true with
him.
Hours ago, I’d been tangled up in Ryan’s body wanting more, not caring about rules or limits or lines that could be crossed. I’d been free, my internal monologue finally quiet. For the first time in my life, there had been nothing but me in my body, feeling every touch without that constant filter of disconnection.

I lie still between my sheets and feel a slow smile spread across my face. The dull fear I’ve been carrying
in the back of my mind for months slips away with every exhaled breath. Sebastian was wrong — I keep repeating it to myself. I’m not doomed to a life trapped inside my own mind. I can feel and act without thinking. I can just be.

I drift back and forth between sleep for a few more hours until my mobile begins to vibrate violently on my nightstand. I pick up, wondering for a moment whether it could be him, but I can’t decipher a single word on the other end of the line.

“Hello?” I kick off my covers and stretch. “Who is this?” There’s nothing but a muffled snuffling sound, and then I hear a voice.

“Em?”

I pause. “Natasha? Is that you?”

There’s a sob, and then, “They hate me. They all hate me!”

“Shhh, it’s all right. Just calm down and tell me what’s wrong.” I sit cross-legged on the bed in my plaid pajamas and try to make sense of her tear-soaked voice. “Natasha? It’ll be OK. What happened?”

“It’s over,” she says, with such resignation in her voice I know that something is terribly wrong. “They know.”

“About . . . ? Oh god!” I gasp.

“The
Oxford Student
ran an exposé,” Natasha continues, “right before the board meeting. Everyone says I’ve ruined the campaign!”

“That’s not true!” I protest hopefully. “I’m sure it won’t make any difference.”

“But it has! They all totally despise me now. God, Em,
you should have seen them. Carrie wouldn’t even look me in the eye, and Professor Elliot . . .” Natasha begins to cry again.

I wait, picking at the bedspread until her tears seem to have subsided. I know how much her escape meant to her, how important it was to start fresh where nobody knew about the scandal. And now . . .

“If it makes you feel any better, I’m completely screwed too,” I offer in a whisper. “I kissed Ryan last night.”

“You and Ryan?” Natasha’s voice lifts a little. “You mean . . . ? No way!”

“I know.” I sigh. In the early dawn light of the morning after, my moment of reckless abandon is edged with fresh guilt. “I’m a terrible person.”

“That makes two of us.”

“No!” I insist firmly. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Not according to Uma. She says now the board can just write off the center as something just for irresponsible sluts.”

“She said that to you?” I blink. “Natasha, that’s awful.”

“That was only the start of it, Em. They were all going on about, like, reinforcing gender stereotypes and setting back the women’s movement. You’d think I repealed
Roe versus Wade
!” She tries to laugh, but her voice is still hollow.

“Well, they’re just narrow-minded, self-righteous bitches!” I say fiercely. I never had a problem with Carrie and her crusades before, but listening to Natasha sound
so alone is heartbreaking. “Don’t pay attention to a word they say.”

“I wish I could, but . . .” Natasha wavers. “What if they’re right? What if I have wrecked the campaign? All that work and — people need that center.”

“The board won’t pay attention to stupid gossip, trust me.”

“But what am I supposed to do? The group, they were my friends, but now . . .” Another sniffle. “They never want to speak to me again.”

“Then that’s their loss.” I hug my toes to keep them warm and try to think of something, anything, to make her feel better. “You’re worth ten Carries, hot tub or no hot tub.”

“You don’t have to say that.”

“I know, but it’s true. Look at what you’ve managed to achieve — you went to Oxford! You’ve been getting firsts in your essays; you contributed to a great campaign.” I try to make my enthusiasm cross the continent between us. “You’re the bravest person I know, Natasha. All I’ve had to do is dye my hair and turn up late a few times, and even then I managed to mess up.”

“Don’t you start.” She sniffles, a slight smile to her voice. “Or we’ll both be a wreck.”

“Score one more for team Global Exchange.”

“So come on, tell me what happened with Ryan.” I hear the sound of movement, as if Natasha is shifting around in her room. “Morgan sure won’t be happy.”

“Which is why I’m not going to tell her,” I say in a hushed voice, ever mindful of the short hallway
separating our rooms. “Can you imagine? I think she’d cut off my hair in my sleep or something.”

“Good move,” Natasha agrees. “She swears she switched some girl’s conditioner for hair removal cream when she hooked up with her boyfriend.”

“I better buy new products,” I mutter darkly.

Natasha laughs. “So you’ll keep it on the down-low for the rest of the time? There’s only another two weeks left, thank god.”

“Two weeks,” I echo slowly. It’s crept up on me so gradually, I’ve hardly seen it coming.

“And? Ryan? I need details to distract me from my misery, remember.”

I snuggle deeper under the cover, happy to change the subject. “There’s nothing much to tell,” I begin, a little coy. I’m not used to girl confessionals. Or, in fact, having anything to confess. “We were kissing — finally — and then I realized that Morgan could walk in at any moment. I haven’t heard from him yet, but we’re supposed to be working on the edits all day.”

“He’ll call,” Natasha says with a confidence I wish I shared.

“You don’t know that.” Part of me hopes he will, but the other side knows it’ll just make things more complicated.

“Sure I do. I’m surprised he took so long to make a move, but now that he has, he’ll totally follow through. He’s one of the good ones.”

“Wait, you saw this coming?”

“Well, duh!” She laughs. “Honestly, Em, I could tell
from the way you got so mad at him that something was going to happen.”

I blink, wondering how it could be so obvious to her when it caught me utterly by surprise. “Thanks for letting me know.”

“You guys had to do your own thing.”

“You mean like you and Will?” I draw out his name. She sighs.

“I haven’t heard from him tonight. I saw him at the meeting, but by the time the group was done yelling at me, he was gone.” Her voice gets quieter. “Do you think he’ll hate me too?”

I let out a long breath. “I hope not.”

There’s silence.

“You know the funny thing?” I muse, leaning my head back against the wall. “I thought I’d feel worse than this. I know she’s supposed to be my friend, and I do feel guilty about everything, but, well . . . I sort of think it was worth it.”

“I can tell from your voice. Don’t I get any details?”

I can’t stop the grin that spreads across my face just thinking about Ryan and his arms and his mouth . . .

“No.” I pull myself together. “Sorry, but I don’t kiss and tell.”

“That means it was hot. You would have so told me details if it wasn’t hot.”

“Maybe . . .” I feel myself blush.

“Ha, that’s awesome, Em.” Natasha sounds genuinely pleased for me.

“It’s not! I stole Morgan’s boy.”

“You didn’t steal him,” Natasha reminds me. “And Morgan is . . . Well, if she didn’t care enough to keep him, you shouldn’t beat yourself up, OK?”

I pause. “I thought she was your friend.”

Natasha sighs. “She was, back then, but . . . I don’t know. I feel like I don’t know her at all. Or she doesn’t know me, or something. Anyway, you have nothing to be sorry about.”

“And you need to take your own advice,” I add. “They’re not right, Tash. You don’t deserve any of what they’re saying.”

There’s another pause. “I’m sorry,” she says softly, “for dumping all this on you. I didn’t know who else to call.”

“It’s fine, honest. You know you can call anytime.”

She sniffs. “You’re the only one who understands what I’m going through, trying to be somebody else.”

“Trying to be a different part of yourself,” I correct, but she doesn’t seem to hear me.

“I have to go now. I have work I’ve got to do for tomorrow’s class. Oh god,” she says. “Professor Elliot. She was there; you should have seen the way she looked at me!”

“Shhh, it’ll be OK.”

“Yeah, well . . .” Natasha swallows. “I guess it’s only two more weeks, right?”

“Right.” I bite my lip. “Two more weeks and then we’re home.”

I let myself back into the room with that thought still heavy in my mind. Just two more weeks, and then it’s
back to reality — to study schedules and dense philosophical arguments, to my parents, to the old Emily Lewis. Only two more weeks. It should be a comfort, but now I’m really not so sure.

I arrive late after selecting the perfect outfit of effortless chic, and by the time I reach the editing suite, my stomach is fluttering with nerves. All morning I’ve been running through scenarios in my mind: what if he regrets it or never wants to speak to me again . . . ?

I gather my strength and finally edge into the room. Ryan leaps up, his polo shirt a flash of maroon against dark baggy cords.

“Em, hi.” There’s an awkward pause, and I attempt to smile.

“Ryan. Hey.” I swallow. The room suddenly feels far smaller than it was yesterday. Barely six feet across and stacked with audiovisual equipment, there’s absolutely no possibility of avoiding his cloudy eyes. Or not touching.

“Hi,” he says again, and when I turn back from closing the door, he’s only inches away. Softly, he reaches out and cups my cheek. I don’t move, my heart suddenly racing. And then he leans in and kisses me, slow and gentle and everything I’d spent the night reliving.

I relax a little into his arms, and we stay that way for a glorious moment: close but barely moving, his lips light on mine.

“So we’re OK?” he asks, breath warm in my ear. I shiver slightly.

“We’re OK,” I echo, practically glowing. So much more than OK.

“’Cause we’ve got a ton of work to do.” Drawing away with a grin, Ryan scoots a chair in close to the screen and moves a pile books off the other for me. “This has to be perfect for Friday.”

“How about we just settle for brilliant?” I perch next to him, close enough for our thighs to touch. I can’t believe it, but I’m hyperaware of his body, even through layers of cords and my skirt.

“I could live with that.” He reaches for a laminated sheet. “Now, according to your schedule, we need to finish act two today.”

“You’re using that?” I ask, surprised. I haven’t seen my planner in weeks — since I decided it was far more stress to try to keep to the plan than just give up and let him work at his own pace.

“Of course.” He grins. “It’s got everything worked out. And color coded. And spill resistant.” I blush. “No, it’s great! I’m usually a mess by now, but you’ve really kept me on track.”

“Well, thank you. I’m glad my control-freakery is good for something.”

“You’re not a control freak.” Ryan’s eyes are soft and sincere. I look away. “No, listen to me, you’re not. So, you like to plan.” He shrugs. “It’s just part of who you are. And it’s great for some things: producing, editing, writing scripts. You talk like it’s such a bad thing, and maybe you take it too far sometimes, but you shouldn’t try and ditch it altogether.”

I nod slowly. “It’s just a slippery slope, you know? One minute I’m working out my study schedule, and the next I have everything planned — right down to bathroom breaks and sleeping. I find it hard to just let go.”

“You don’t say,” Ryan kids. He strokes my hair and leans in to drop a quick kiss on my forehead. “We’ll get you to that happy medium, don’t worry.”

“In fourteen days?” I ask, reminded yet again how close I am to the end.

“No problem.”