Sophomore Switch(33)
Author: Abby McDonald

And she’s off, babbling bossily about protest and South Africa and civil rights. I duck out from under her arm and get a drink and some chips, all the time smiling along like I’m totally with them on whatever they’re saying.

“I’m just going to . . .” I gesture back out to the party, but Uma and DeeDee are now talking in way heated voices about majority oppression, so I take the chance to slip out unnoticed. These girls seem nice enough, but, boy, do they get wound up over things they can’t control.

I wander awhile through the party, getting a feel for this scene. It couldn’t be further from Raleigh, that’s for sure. Instead of posh kids in carefully distressed designer gear standing around talking about Miffy and Butters, everyone here is in jeans and seems totally relaxed: chilled out chatting on couches or sitting in circles on the floor. Uma and Carrie have decorated the place with big maps and foreign objects like carvings, and there are ethnic cushions and fabrics everywhere. Upstairs I even find a group sitting around a hookah pipe smoking shisha in the small terra-cotta-painted bedroom. One of them offers me a smoke, but I politely decline and back out of the room, pretty sure my teetotal pledge should extend to unidentified substances.

“Will?” I suddenly catch sight of a familiar floppy hairstyle down the hallway and bound toward him. “What are you doing here?”

Will’s got the same semi-nerdy style going on as the last time I saw him: worn cords and an Oxford shirt, but I can’t help thinking he looks kind of good under all that awkwardness. “Natasha?” He gives me a hesitant wave, which I smother with a hug as soon as I reach him. “I have a class with Uma and —”

“You’re amazing!” I declare, pulling away. But not before I’ve had time to clock the taut body he has beneath that loose shirt.

“Well, I, ah . . .” Will looks super-embarrassed at the compliment. I think he actually blushes.

I laugh. “Your tutoring! I got a seventy-one on that essay, can you believe it?”

He lets out a breath and relaxes. “Congratulations! You deserve it.”

“Couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Of course you could have.” Will frowns, pushing back his dark hair in what I can tell by now is a nervous gesture. “You knew that material even before I —”

“Enough!” I decide. “Not that I don’t want to hear how amazing I am, but this is a party, right? Besides, I’ve had kind of a killer week.”

“I heard about your brush with the law.” Will’s eyes wrinkle into the cutest grin.

“You did?” I groan. “Oh man, I was hoping it wouldn’t get out!”

“Are you joking? That sort of stunt has front-page news written all over it.”

I gulp. “You haven’t said anything to anyone, have you? Because I really don’t want it getting out, and —” My panic must have shown, because Will puts a hand on my arm and reassures me.

“Don’t worry, it should be fine.” He looks at me for a long moment. “I’m surprised. I would have thought you’d want the publicity — for the campaign.”

I pause. “I guess I don’t like the spotlight, that’s all.”

That and the fact my anonymity is the most precious thing I have in the world.

“Well, I can understand that.” Will pushes both hands deep in his pant pockets. “I’m not particularly good with attention either.”

“You, shy?” I joke. “No way!”

“So . . .” He sways from one foot to the other and looks at me again from under that smooth, dark hair. I have to admit, he’s looking way adorable tonight. So adorable, that half of me starts picturing us together, walking hand in hand through Oxford’s cute cobbled streets and —

Then the other half hits me over the head with a clue. I made myself a promise. No. Dating. Period.

I force myself back into friend mode. “Oh, hey, I think I saw some board games downstairs. Want to see if they’ve got Scrabble?”

Will rewards me with a smile. “Absolutely.”

I follow him downstairs, half of me congratulating myself on being strong in the face of adorable cuteness, and the other half chanting, “Stupid! Stupid!” over again. This split personality thing sure is tiring.

We stay tucked in a corner of the lounge for the rest of the evening. He beats me at Scrabble three times, but that’s only because he’s using crazy fake words like xi and qi instead of, you know, real words. But even though it’s the kind of night all my old friends would think is totally lame, I don’t think I’ve had this much fun in forever. The angry feminists mellow after a couple glasses of wine, and soon they keep dropping by to give me game suggestions to try and beat Will (because apparently language acquisition is totally gendered), and we all lose it, laughing when the only words I can make from my letters turn out to be dirty ones, so the board gets covered with nipple and phallus.

And Will . . . Oh boy, am I in trouble. The more we talk, the more his awkwardness melts away, and soon all I can think about is how cute he looks when that chunk of hair falls in his eyes and those lush eyelashes and —

Bad Tasha. Down, girl.

See, I made that “no dating” pledge for a good reason, but as the hours drift by, I can’t help wondering if it’s really so important. I mean, sure, fooling around was what got me into this mess in the first place. And yes, I’m so used to bouncing from guy to guy that I don’t think I’ve gone more than, like, a week without hooking up since I was fifteen and started filling out my tank tops. And OK, it’s been kind of great not worrying about guys while I’ve been here, and rushing out without checking my makeup, and not obsessing over every tiny look and flirtation and —

Yeah, I know. Sigh. It doesn’t matter how great Will is. I’ve got to stick to my pledge.

No. Dating. Period.

18

Now that I’ve committed to the switch survival guide, my list of accomplishments is growing. Of course, I haven’t undergone a complete personality transplant, so those accomplishments are neatly recorded in my journal, but technicalities aside, I have plenty to be proud of. What started as a way to blend into the California crowds has somehow become much more important — a way to transform my life into something less rigid, more carefree. The more I try to break my control-freak habits, the more I realize just how ordered I need everything to be, and that’s not a good thing. I’m eighteen years old; surely I shouldn’t be so set in my ways?