Sophomore Switch(4)
Author: Abby McDonald

As much as I — and my liberated, post-third-wave feminist self — hate to admit it, my sister was right. This is all because of Sebastian.

Ignoring the dull fear in my chest that comes whenever I think of what he said, I cut past a group of boys in too-low denim tossing a Frisbee around and push into the air-conditioned cool of the International Students building. It didn’t matter how I ended up here: I’m stuck. Until April. I suppose I might as well make sure I get a proper education while I’m here, at the very least.

3

So this is what studying is like.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve worked hard before. SATs, term papers, finals — just because I’m not an honor student or anything, it doesn’t mean I haven’t put the time in. But there’s a huge difference between cramming stuff you kind of know (but just need to know better) and working flat out for three days trying to get your head around concepts you haven’t even heard of. And even then, after all that work, knowing your paper still sucks.

I’m back in Professor Elliot’s badly lit study, this time with only a couple of other students for company/camouflage. Sporty girl and blond boy, aka Carrie and Edwin. Yes, Edwin. They call their kids things like that here. Anyway, I’m bundled up in my warmest sweater because for some reason, English people are, like, morally opposed to heating, and it’s still raining: gray and gloomy outside the slim windows. Carrie has just finished reading her essay aloud, which involved a lot of phrases like “basic ideological dichotomies” and “inherent value systems,” and now Professor Elliot is looking at us expectantly.

“Any thoughts?” she asks as I try to avoid eye contact. This is becoming a routine for me, but maybe that’s not so bad. Aren’t routines supposed to give your life structure and purpose?

“Well, actually yes.” Edwin speaks up right away, flicking back a few pages to the start of his notes and launching into an attack of everything Carrie just said. “. . . And finally, she’s completely overstating the intrinsic value of democracy as an end.”

“But of course it has value!” Carrie bursts out. “Are you saying we shouldn’t have a say in our government?”

“Of course not.” Edwin sighs. He’s tall and aristocratic-looking like a lot of the boys here, with faintly blushed cheeks and a kind of delicate look about him, like he’s a temperamental classical composer or something. “But by giving it a sort of lexical priority, you risk overlooking other important factors.”

“What about you, Natasha?” Elliot interrupts them, staring straight at me with her sharp blue eyes. I haven’t even heard of “lexical priority,” but there’s no escape. “What was your take on the essay question?”

If this were one of the romantic-comedy movies I’ve studied, this would be the point where I’d speak up with some insightful comment that would win everyone over and show how my hard work and pluck have paid off.

But it’s not.

“Umm.” I blink quickly at my own essay. “I kind of agreed with what the Davies book said. About the different faces of power?” I pause, looking quickly around for signs that I’m on totally the wrong track. I get nothing, so I stumble on. “Like, how real power is getting someone to do what you want without them even knowing it?”

Carrie sighs, her hair pulled back with a brightly patterned green scarf. “It’s nothing but speculation whether any of the factors actually applied, or to what extent, or . . .”

She keeps going, rattling off a long list of the ways I’m wrong, while I sink lower in my seat and feel myself blush. I never minded being shown up in class before, but somehow this is different: the small room, the look on their faces. Carrie and Edwin seem exasperated, like they could be coming up with a Middle East peace plan if it weren’t for me.

“. . . Really, Lancing covers all of this in his first chapters.” Carrie looks at me impatiently. “Didn’t you get a chance to read him?”

“I . . . No,” I admit. Covering just the main texts on the list had taken dawn-to-dusk effort. I’d barely left the library except for food and sleep. And yes, I was still on a Ramen diet. “Sorry,” I add, hating myself even as the words leave my mouth.

Carrie exchanges a look with Edwin.

“No need to apologize, Natasha,” Professor Elliot says calmly. “Davies’s arguments are certainly relevant here. In fact, one might say that even considering Lancing’s objections, he still offers the best way to approach the topic.”

I cringe. The only thing worse than coming off as a total dumb-ass is having the teacher try and stick up for me.

“Now, Carrie, if we can just go back and talk about your first point . . .”

Luckily, I get to keep quiet for the rest of the class, throwing in the odd murmur of agreement or worried frown based on if the others seem to agree. They’re too busy trying to score points off each other to notice. I swear, if I hadn’t already pegged Carrie for a lesbian, I would put money on her and Edwin hooking up soon: the way they keep firing arguments back and forth practically screams “unresolved sexual tension.” But anyway, at least they’re too wrapped up in tearing each other to pieces to deal with me, and soon the hour is up and I can escape back to my room and the comforting fact that I have a whole four days until my next class torture session. That’s one good thing about Oxford, I guess: their weird study system means I only have two of those brutal discussion groups a week. Lectures seem to be optional, so that just leaves me with reading. Tons of reading.

Kicking off my damp sneakers, I collapse onto my bed and look around the room, which is now way more livable since I started pinning up photos and tear sheets from Cosmo and Elle. It’s only 5:00 PM and I’m getting restless. After all that time in the library, I want to go out, do something, party! But what? In California I had tons of stuff to do and loads of friends to do it all with, but here . . . I sigh. Here I’m treading dangerously close to social leper territory.

It’s not like I haven’t tried. I went down to the college bar the other night to meet people, but after hanging around on the edges of crowds while the preppy kids all ignored me, I gave up. The other Americans and international students must have the same problem, because they all seem to keep to their own cliques. They may seem to be total nerds, but I can’t risk them recognizing me from Tubgate, so that leaves me back at square one: alone in my dorm room with nothing but the last season of Heroes on DVD for company.