Sophomore Switch(2)
Author: Abby McDonald

Speaking of which . . . the way my classmates are treating me is giving the weather competition in the subzero stakes. Snatches of their conversation drift back to me in the cold wind, but nobody so much as acknowledges my existence.

“Coming to Hall later?” one of the boys asks, pushing back his floppy dark hair.

“No, I’ve got to revise for my collection,” a brunette girl answers, her hair fixed in this weird semi-back-combed ponytail. I’d find it easier to understand if they were speaking Spanish, thanks to my core language requirement and four years of high school “Me llamo”-ing, but right now I’m clueless.

“I’m thinking bin bags for the Bop on Friday,” the athletic blonde adds. OK, so I’m being tactful here; by “athletic,” what I really mean is butch. Cropped hair, baggy sportswear, and if that doesn’t paint a clear-enough picture for you, she has a rainbow badge on her bulky backpack. Hey, I’m not judging. I just don’t see why a same-sex preference has to go hand in hand with complete fashion backwardness. I mean, look at Portia de Rossi: a hot wife and an Elle subscription. It can be done!

“Or maybe —” They duck through an archway into what I think is the mailroom, the old wooden door slamming shut with a hollow thud. I don’t try and follow. There’s only so much cold shoulder I can take, and besides, I know for sure I won’t have any mail. I’ll be lucky if my parents send a single card, such is the shame Tubgate brought upon my family — or so my mom says. They’re so mad, they’re probably redecorating my bedroom as a playroom for my new baby sister-to-be.

Suddenly weary, I weigh the choice between noodles and whatever sludge passes for cafeteria food here. Pulling my jacket tighter, I head for my dorm, squinting against rain now falling in cold slices. I can’t take sitting alone in the huge, portrait-lined dining hall again, and at least Ramen will keep me a size four. Tripping up the bare stone staircase, I heave open my door and collapse onto the bed, ready to wallow.

Damp shoes off, sweatpants on, and Joni Mitchell playing low. There. I’m set. Let the wallowing commence.

But just as I’m about to curl up under the covers and wish myself across the ocean, I take a closer look around. Back in Santa Barbara, I share a place with Morgan — it’s tiny but in this fun block with other students, super-close to the beach. Here I’m living in a single dorm room; wait, make that a prison cell. Faded gray carpet, a hard twin bed . . . I get up and slowly take it all in.

The plain walls are totally clear except for a color-coded study schedule and reading list — pinned to the board so perfectly, she must have used a ruler to arrange them. The desk is set with a sheet of notepaper and two pens at precise right angles. And the nightstand — home to the universal “goodie drawer” — holds only a container of vitamin pills, a pocket pack of Kleenex, and a small dictionary.

I sink back down on the bed, this time in disbelief. I think of my own apartment, overflowing with junk, clothes, and noise, and then look again at this temple of order and precision.

Emily Lewis. Just what kind of freak are you?

2

“. . . And I was like, ‘No way,’ but she says, ‘Hell yeah,’ so we totally started grinding in the middle of the dance floor! Uh-huh . . . No . . . Totally! And, like, he was all crazy jealous . . . Ha! No, totally!”

I shut my eyes tightly, but when I open them, I’m still here: staring at a wall full of foreign photographs while my new flatmate continues her fascinating analysis of modern sexuality.

“No. Way!” she squeals, perfectly audible even in the next room. “Omigod, I can’t believe you let him do that!”

With a sigh, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and survey the task awaiting me. I’ll need cleaning supplies for a start, and some kind of flat edge to scrape the debris off the walls. She probably used Blu-Tack to keep all this up, and I know what kind of grease marks that will leave. Warming to my project as Morgan keeps up her steady stream of “like” and “totally!” in the next room, I methodically begin to peel the layers of magazine clippings and photographs away, bringing order to the chaos until pale cream walls are revealed beneath, soothing and cool.

“Hey, Em!” Morgan pushes the door open without knocking. She’s cocked her head to trap the phone on her shoulder, halfway done painting her nails a violent shade of raspberry. “We’re heading out to eat — wanna come?”

“It’s fine.” I shake my head quietly. “I need to unpack. But thanks.”

“Sure, cool.” Morgan shrugs, but she doesn’t leave. Instead, she turns to the huge vanity mirror, finishing her nails and then starting on a fresh coat of mascara. Her blond hair has platinum highlights and is twisted into loose ringlets that fall halfway down her back, shining synthetic and bright against her pale-blue tank top. With the tan and careful makeup, she looks only half real — like some kind of perfect doll. And she’s not the only one. This city seems to be home to some sort of junior Stepford experiment.

“No, she’s staying.” Morgan’s voice drops as she turns back to the phone. “No . . . uh-huh . . . no, she’s kinda quiet. I know . . . she’s cleaning.”

I ignore her hushed comments and keep working until she leaves, settling into a blissful rhythm of lift, wipe, repeat, and then unpacking my own things, a warm breeze rippling the curtains and a familiar pop song drifting up from the apartment downstairs but nothing else to break my peace. And, at last, my new room is neat and clean, Natasha’s many belongings tucked away under my bed, my clothing and study materials in their place.

There.

I pause for breath, regarding the order I’ve magicked out of thin air and teen-girl offcasts with a warm glow of satisfaction. I can’t concentrate when things are out of place. Everything else about the exchange may be a monumental disaster, but this mess I can control.

My own phone begins to ring, not with the heavy rap music that Morgan’s cell has spewed forth a dozen times already today, but a normal beeping tone.

“Hi, Elizabeth.” I collapse onto my crisp new bedding and notice a stain on the ceiling I’ll have to deal with later.

“Santa Barbara? Emily, have you lost your mind?” My elder sister doesn’t waste time with “How was your flight?” pleasantries, her disapproval echoing clearly down the line from England. “It’s not even Ivy League! What possible use could it be to waste three months in a school for beach bums and party girls?”