Sophomore Switch(23)
Author: Abby McDonald

Looks like I’ll need some work. I’ve held off the blond thing for ten years now, so there’s no way I’m ruining my brown hair with bleach, but I figure I can master the styles with some pins and practice. And although my makeup routine is like second nature, I can switch foundation for tinted moisturizer, cut the eyeliner, and get some crème blush. So that’s everything above the neck. . . .

For the next couple of hours, I do what I do best. I shop. Bargains, new styles, and cool looks are in my blood, only this is like a reverse experience for me: I look around the store, and if something cute catches my eye, I put it down and find the total opposite. That sparkly black low-draped top? I ditch it for a high-necked Victoriana-style white blouse. A denim skirt with torn edges and a studded belt? I leave it on the rack and go pick out a knee-length plaid pencil skirt.

By the time I’ve got an armful of bags, I’m totally into my new task. It’s not like I’m selling out, I figure, just . . . presenting a different side to me. Everyone always goes on about first impressions counting, and here at Oxford, they seem to matter more than anything. If I can just get people to stop thinking of me as the dumb Californian, then they’d see I’m a pretty cool girl. I mean, I like me!

Besides, every preppy sweater and pair of ballet flats is taking me further from the girl in that hot tub, until soon I can’t see her in my reflection at all. And if I don’t recognize her, chances are nobody else will either.

When I figure I’ve worn out my emergency credit card, I decide to take a coffee break. But walking into my haven of Borders, I pause. In the month of hanging out there, I’ve only ever met that other American. This is so not the place for the new me to start friend-hunting. Turning, I walk right out again and down a paved side street to the other bookstore in town, Blackwell’s. This one is British, based in an old building that probably predates everything in California. There’s a coffee shop on the second floor that is full of dark wood furniture and serious-looking Oxford types. Perfect.

I slip up to the restrooms and quickly change into my first new outfit: a plaid skirt and a pale pink crewneck. I add thick gray tights and a delicate gold charm necklace like the one Portia wore, and I’m good to go. Instant prep. On my way back to get coffee, I even pick up a couple of textbooks to look over for this week’s essay: the ultimate Raleigh girl.

I read in silence for a while, helped along by a slice of cheesecake and an extra-large latte. The room is full of people, and to my relief, I blend right in. Older men pore over stacks of printed pages, younger boys stare intently at their battered novels, but everyone looks stuffy and, well, British. It’s a kick knowing that nobody would guess from looking at me where I was from or what I’d done, but all the crewnecks in the world don’t make a difference to my reading list. After staring at the same page for ten minutes, I put my pen down with a loud sigh.

“Are you, ah, are you having difficulties with that?” The boy at the next table speaks up, and I look over in surprise. He’s got longish brown hair falling in his eyes and an angular kind of face, but his interested expression seems for real.

“Yup,” I admit. “I can’t figure it out. At this rate I’ll need a tutor just to get to the end of the chapter!”

He smiles, kind of nervous. “Well, in that case . . . I, I do some tutoring.”

“You do?” I brighten.

“Uh-huh.” He clears his throat. “Political philosophy?”

“Right.” I beam, taking in his cord pants and navy pullover. The outfit is kind of nerdy, but I guess nerdy is good in a potential tutor. “I’ve got this feminist professor who’s really laying it on.”

“Elliot?”

“How did you know?”

He shrugs. “I had tutes with her last year, plus she’s the only feminist around.”

“So you’re in your third year?” I ask, taking another bite of cheesecake.

“Yes, I’m a finalist.”

“Oh.” My face falls. “Then you probably won’t have time for anything extra.”

“No,” he quickly replies. “I’ve got some time. It would be a nice break.”

“Tutoring counts as a break?” I laugh. “Sad.”

He gives me a wry smile. “I suppose it is. I’m Will, by the way.” He reaches across to shake my hand.

“Oh right, I’m Natasha.” His hand is soft and kind of delicate: another one of those composer-type guys. “So, do you have any time now, or do I book you, or . . .” I trail off, hoping he’s available right away. This paper is turning out to be a nightmare, and since I threw Elliot’s offer right back at her, there’s no way I can turn up to class with my usual mess.

“I can do a little now, if you want.”

“Awesome!” I beam. “I’ll pay whatever, I just need to get my head around this.”

Will smiles at me. “I’m not that expensive, don’t worry.”

“How about I get us some more coffee,” I offer, reaching for my purse. “And then you can do your thing and make me a genius.”

An hour later, I’m sending silent prayers of thanks to whatever god is listening. Will is a total angel.

“I can’t believe it’s this simple.” I stare at the pages of notes I’ve made, all of them neat, ordered, and making actual sense. “Why didn’t I get this before?”

Will sends me a supportive grin. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. All the books make things seem far more complicated than they really are. If you just break it down into the main arguments, you’ll be fine.”

“Come on.” I roll my eyes. “Just admit you’re a superbrain and I’d be screwed without you.”

“Natasha, that’s not true! You almost had it on your own, and . . .” He’s flustered and almost blushing.

“Relax, I was kidding,” I reassure him. “But seriously, how do you do it — make sense of everything so easily?”

He plays with his coffee cup. “I don’t know. Remember, I do have an extra year of experience.”

“Right.” I pause. “The finals system here is pretty weird, isn’t it? Back home, we take them at the end of every semester, but you’ve got them all in one go.”

Will nods slowly, like the thought of it is wearing him out. “In the summer, I’ll take eight papers that last three hours each. They’re spaced over a few weeks, but that’s it, my entire university grade.”