Sophomore Switch(32)
Author: Abby McDonald

I break away, giddy. “Cheers,” I tell him with a triumphant grin.

And then I walk away.

17

When I get to my class with Professor Elliot, I can tell something’s changed. It took the maintenance crew a while to find cutters strong enough to get through the handcuffs, so I’m twenty minutes late, but when I hurry into the room, Elliot greets me with a big grin instead of her usual frown of disapproval.

“Ah, Natasha,” she says, getting up from her armchair and grabbing both my arms in a kind of celebratory hug. “Our agent provocateur!”

“Uh, hi.” I retreat suspiciously. “Sorry I’m late.”

“Don’t worry about that!” Elliot exclaims. “Carrie has been telling us all about your noble stand.”

I blink. “She has?”

“Don’t be modest, Natasha,” Carrie pipes up. She’s smiling at me too, and even the usually bored Edwin has a kind of warm look in his eyes. I swallow self-consciously. After over a month of scowls, this is just creepy.

“Did you get into a lot of trouble?” Carrie asks, eyes wide. “I tried to wait for you, but they cleared us all out of the building.”

“N . . . no.” I carefully take my seat. They’ve even saved the prize armchair for me: the one with padding left and no rogue springs. “It all worked out OK. In the end.” After an extreme charm offensive, that was, the kind I haven’t had to use since I totaled my birthday Beemer two days out of the showroom. Compared to my stepdad, the security guys were a breeze: they hadn’t had years to get immune to my tears. And when I weep, I weep.

“Well.” Elliot passes tea in a mug that’s not even chipped. “Officially, I obviously can’t condone illegal activity . . .” She smiles again. “But off the record, I must say, I’m proud of you for taking such a bold move. Standing up for something you believe in.”

“Mhhmm.” I hide behind the mug, feeling like a total fraud.

“As you’ve been reading, direct protest is a key element of many political philosophies,” Elliot keeps rhapsodizing. “Rousseau’s tenets of civil disobedience, for example, have been hugely influential to the modern protest movement.” This seems like it’s directed at me, so I nod. “But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s return to this week’s topic.”

She passes us back our essays. I try not to look too eager as I snatch mine and flick through in search of my grade: this one’s got to be good; it’s just got to be. After Will’s tutoring and all my planning, I don’t know what I’ll do if it isn’t. . . .

Seventy-one.

Omigod. Seventy-one? I gasp. In Oxford that’s, like, a first-class grade!

“Well done, Natasha.” Elliot catches my elation and gives me another one of those supportive smiles. What am I, teacher’s pet today? “You’ve made some real improvement. In fact, I know Edwin was due to present, but why don’t you read yours aloud so we can discuss it? Your points were excellent.”

I pause nervously before beginning, wondering if my work really cuts it, but then I replay her words. Excellent. Real improvement. It’s what I’ve been fighting for ever since I arrived: for them to take me seriously, like I’ve got a right to be here too. Sure, their smiles may be freaking me out, but they’re sure as hell better than all those disdainful frowns.

With a warm glow of pride, I start to read.

The tutorial goes like a dream. It’s probably just another normal class for Carrie and Edwin, but for the first time, I’m holding my own. Explaining arguments, defending my ideas — with Will’s expert tuition, I actually understand what they’re going on about. I’m used to getting compliments on my cute outfit or amazing new lipstick, but I think this is really the first time in my whole entire life people are paying attention to what I’m saying.

“So are you coming to the next meeting?” As we leave Elliot’s study, Carrie falls into step beside me. “We’re assembling for a follow-up on Friday.”

“I don’t know,” I say, hoisting up my bag full of books. “Are you sure? I didn’t exactly do great the last time out.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Carrie exclaims, following me through a low stone archway toward the library. “You were wonderful. And everyone was very impressed.”

“Oh, well, I guess . . .” Those magic words bring on another warm glow, and I find myself agreeing. If Carrie’s reaction is anything to go by, maybe it won’t suck as much as the last one did.

“Let me take your number,” she says in that organized tone, so I happily exchange contact details on the stone front steps. “Uma and I are having a gathering tonight in Jericho,” she adds, naming a pretty area on the other side of the city. “We’d love for you to come.”

“Maybe. I’ll check what I’ve got planned.” I try to sound nonchalant, even though I already know what’s happening tonight. Laundry.

“Wonderful.” Carrie’s face has none of the suspicion and eye-rolling impatience it used to. “After all, you’re one of the team now.”

As she walks away, I wonder if it could really be so simple. Is all it takes to win them over a new wardrobe? Or was it the couple of hours I spent literally tied up with campus security that got me my free pass? Either way, Emily was right. Being a part of a club or team is totally the shortcut to an instant social life.

I figured that the party would be a Portia-clone-free zone, and when I edge through the doorway into the small ground-floor apartment later that night, I’m right. The place is packed with students, but I can’t hear a single braying accent. Thank god.

“You came!” Carrie pulls me into a hug. She’s wearing a “My God Hates You Too” shirt over a longer blue sweater, and with the contrasting red scarf in her cropped hair, I’d say she almost looks put together. “This is great. I’ve been telling everyone about you.”

“You have?” My dubious reply is lost as she drags me back to the kitchen, where DeeDee, Uma, and Louise are picking at chips and dip.

“Natasha!” DeeDee pushes right through the others to greet me. “That was so amazing what you did at the lecture halls.”

“Umm, thanks.”

“It’s like I’ve been saying.” Flicking back her limp ash-blond hair, DeeDee puts a hand on my shoulder, like I’m part of her argument. “We have no alternative but to make a stand . . .”