Sophomore Switch(17)
Author: Abby McDonald

“Where did you . . . ?” My words fade on my lips. Ice Queen has turned away from me with a sigh, picking daintily through the salad on her gilt-edged dish.

Whatever.

As my opponents for Psi Delta Princess crown will tell you, Natasha Collins is no quitter. I muster strength for one last try and flash my brightest beam right across the table to the red-faced guy with glasses and a yellow bow tie.

“Hi.” I grin. “What’s up?”

He reddens even more. “Umm, nothing. I mean, there is . . . you know, the ball.”

“Right!” I laugh. “It’s a blast. Are you part of the society?”

“Actually, I’m the secretary.”

“Really?” Since there’s nothing else around, I try my best to sound interested. “What do you guys do?”

“Well” — he clears his throat — “the society was established to offer a forum for debate about European policy and culture.” I smile and nod encouragingly as our appetizers are cleared away and replaced with perfect round medallions of beef in a rich cream sauce. “. . . is so crucial, don’t you think?”

“Sorry.” I quickly swallow a mouthful of gratin and look up to find him staring at me expectantly. “What did you say?”

“The power balance in the Bundestag; have you been following the latest developments?”

He’s not kidding — I check.

“Well.” I slowly take a sip of water, running through the entire contents of my mind just in case I have some awesome German political knowledge lurking there. Surprisingly, I don’t. “I must have missed that,” I finally admit.

“The coalition collapse?” Portia leans in, candlelight gleaming off the delicate gold cuff on her toothpick wrist. “Isn’t it a nightmare, Anthony?”

“And the economic ramifications if those socialists get back in.” Anthony is apparently so distressed he has to take a moment to polish his glasses.

“Exactly.” Portia nods. She shoots a sideways glance at me. “You’re so lucky you’re not a politics student; I wish I could just ignore all world events too.”

I pause. As veiled insults go, it’s pretty good.

“What is it you’re studying?” she inquires.

“Politics,” I answer, just to see if she’ll look embarrassed. She doesn’t, instead just giving me another one of those pale smiles and flicking her attention back to Anthony.

“How are Milly and Tom?” she coos. He must be seriously loaded for someone like Portia to give him so much attention.

“Just dandy,” he says with a straight face, and then launches into a long story about country-house weekends and something to do with a sheepdog. I manage to catch Holly’s eye down the table; she grins and shakes her head.

“Be strong,” she mouths, and I figure that even a fairy-tale evening is bound to have some downtime. This just means I can enjoy my food without interruption, right?

By ten, things have picked up. Once dinner is finished (with enough calories to make me pledge to double my gym time), I can escape back to Holly’s group — far away from Anthony, Portia, and their never-ending list of old friends. I swear, between them they seemed to know half the country, and all of them stuck with names like Bunny, Blakey, and (I kid you not) Shotter.

“You should have seen your face.” Holly laughs, dragging me down the hall into a back room where they’ve picked a DJ over Mozart. “You looked so bored!”

“I was!” The heavy bass reminds me of clubs back home, and I start to relax. With the music so loud, nobody’s going to ask me my opinion of western European political reform, or the mortgage markets, or any of the million other topics I know jack about.

“I have to take a break,” I finally yell in Holly’s ear as the beat switches to another crazy jam. I gesture toward the door. “Be right back!”

The hallway is blissfully silent after such loud beats, and I quickly duck through the elegant crowds until I reach the pale marble haven of the women’s restroom. Everything is soft blue and cream — from the tiny, thick towels to the hand lotion — and just breathing in the faint smell of jasmine calms me down. I’ve managed to avoid the rush and slip into a stall right away, but just as I close the door, I hear a group of girls come in.

“God, you’ve got to save me, Venetia.” Arch, plummy vowels drift over to me, and I think I can recognize Portia’s voice. Although half the girls here talk like they’ve got marbles stuffed in their mouths. I always thought My Fair Lady was totally exaggerating. I was wrong.

“Anthony is sending me comatose.”

Yup, it’s Portia. Instead of flushing and walking out, I wait.

“But he’s social secretary,” another voice adds. “If you’re running for committee, you need him.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Portia complains. “Why do you think I’ve been listening to all his dull stories? Between him and that stupid American, dinner was a complete bore.”

There are giggles and the rustle of fabric and cosmetics. I stand quietly, feeling that tightness back in my chest.

“Can you believe her dress? It’s not as if . . .” The door swings shut behind them, but some masochistic instinct makes me rush out of the stall and hurry into the hallway after them. I know I won’t hear anything good, but I can’t help wanting to know what they really think.

I follow Portia’s pink silk at a safe distance until they linger by a dessert table. The main hall is full: the dance floor packed with couples slowly waltzing to the string quartet, while others stand chatting in tight knots. A complicated champagne fountain is set up in the center of the refreshment tables, so I maneuver closer, using the tall arrangement of glasses as cover as I strain to listen in.

“You’d think they’d have standards about who they let in, especially somewhere like Raleigh.”

“Maybe it’s an outreach program.” There’s the sound of bitchy laughter.

“God, do you remember that other American, Rhiannon? She f**ked practically half the JCR in just one term.”

“What is it with them all being so . . .”

“Slutty?”

“I was going to be more tactful.” More laughter.

I shrink back. This was a mistake, I know. I already feel like the trashy outsider without hearing it spelled out by a group of snotty girls.

“I would understand if she was trying to land a rich husband,” Portia continues, her haughty voice cutting through the background noise like a missile sent to wound me. “But surely she realizes, men don’t marry those kinds of girls!”