Sophomore Switch(31)
Author: Abby McDonald

“Who is it?”

“My father.” I sigh. Lectures and career planning are the last things I want right now.

“So don’t take it.”

My thumb traces the “accept call” button. “I can’t just not pick up.”

Carla snorts. “You mean you’ve never blown off your parents?” She shakes her head in disbelief. “Forget everything I said: hair, makeup, do whatever it takes. You need to try something different.” In one swift movement, she takes my phone and hits the “reject” button. “There.” She hands it back. “Problem solved.”

I gulp, wondering what Dad will think. Would he be worried, or just assume I’d fallen asleep studying again?

“Stop that,” Carla warns me, as if she can hear my worrying. “This is a stress-free zone. ’K?”

“’K,” I echo meekly, as the crowd begins to chant and cheer. The poor folksinger has departed, heralding Jared’s imminent arrival.

“Let’s get to the front,” Carla decides, grabbing my hand, “and see if we can’t find a cute boy to amuse you for a few hours.”

I decide not to disagree.

“The trick is not to expect anything.”

An hour later, Jared has finished playing his set, I’m breathless and sweaty, and Carla and I are fighting for sink space in the bathroom. Eager to round out my education beyond Morgan and Co.’s simple hookup philosophy of dating, I ask her for advice.

“Expect nothing,” I say, endorphins from the show still lingering in my bloodstream.

“I mean, absolutely nada.” Carla reapplies a layer of bold pink lipstick. “’Cause if you have zero expectations, they won’t disappoint. Although usually they find a way to do that too,” she admits.

“What do you mean by expectations, exactly?” I push damp strands of hair off my forehead and wish, yet again, that my limp style had a little more volume.

“Like, everything,” Carla explains. “Don’t expect him to call, don’t expect that he likes you. Don’t expect anything besides the fact he wants to get in your pants.”

“But surely he would like me a little if he was flirting with me or kissing —”

“Jesus, you really are clueless.” Carla looks at me with sympathy. “They’re college guys — they want to get laid, that’s all. And sure, once in a million you’ll find a guy who maybe cares about getting to know you before he gets laid, but the end goal is still the same.”

“Oh.”

“It’s not all bad.” She sees my disappointment. “As long as you remember that, you can get what you want too.” She blots her lips one final time. “Like, I’m a total make-out slut, and sometimes I feel bad ’cause that’s all I want from them. But then I remember they only want one thing too, so, you know, their problem.”

I watch my reflection and wonder if it’s really that simple. I assumed that Sam liked me because he spent time talking and flirting, but in the end sex was all that mattered. And as for Sebastian . . . I sigh.

“Depressing, right?” Carla shoots me a twisted smile in the mirror. “I’m hoping they grow out of it. It’s cool for now, but one of these days I’m going to want a guy for more than rolling around in the backseat of my car, and then I’ll be bitching nonstop.”

“But perhaps it’s better to be honest,” I muse before we go back out into the noise of the club. “Rather than having these big fantasies about love and relationships.”

“Right.” Carla quickly scans the room until she spots the cute blond boy she’d been flirting with all through the show. “You good on your own for twenty or so?”

“Go ahead.”

“Cool.” She walks toward him, slow and measured, until she’s close enough to lean up and whisper in his ear. Even in the dim light, I can see his eyes widen as she takes his hand and leads him toward the exit and, no doubt, the backseat of her car.

I should be more like Carla, I decide, going back to the bar for some water. And Morgan and Lexi too. No illusions, no big drama, just a simple, clear-cut understanding of the male-female dynamic. I was raised on fairy tales, with noble knights and virtuous princesses, but nothing could be further from the truth.

In short, I need to stop making such a big deal over it.

Without Carla to charm him, the barman ignores me, serving the men on both sides of me until I feel like climbing over the bar and getting the drink myself.

“. . . and whatever she’s having.”

“Huh?” I look up. A boy is staring at me expectantly. “Oh, just some water, thank you.”

“No problem.” He grins, dark hair cut neat and conservative. “Can’t have you keeling over with thirst.”

I grin. “Well, it’s very chivalrous of you.” He’s wearing a band T-shirt and jeans: preppy but not too preppy.

“It’s not a dying art.” He flashes me a smile, and I feel my stomach skip again and —

Wait, I check myself, Carla’s voice is in my head as if she’s some kind of guardian angel. He’s not being chivalrous; he just wants to get me into bed. But that doesn’t mean I can’t have some (normal, teenage) fun. . . .

“What’s your name?” I ask, heart suddenly beating double quick as I contemplate what I might just do.

“Brent,” he says. “Sophomore, econ major, hometown in Oregon.”

“That’s quite a résumé.” I laugh at his strange introduction.

He grins again. “You’ve got to get the basics out of the way.”

“Well, in that case . . .” I pause. I was about to launch into my own list of vital information, but something stops me. I’m still anonymous to him: no name, no history. I sort of like it. “Just think of me as a woman of mystery,” I finally say, wondering if that sounds completely cheesy.

But Brent is still smiling. “Intrigue, I like it.”

“So” — I start to speak before I can overthink this — “do you want to go somewhere quieter?”

He looks surprised, and I would bet good money that surprise turns to shock when I don’t wait for an answer; I just take his hand and lead him down a back corridor. Don’t chicken out, I order myself. You need to do this.

“Where do you —”

“I have to go in a second,” I interrupt him with my heart racing faster than I’ve ever felt it. And then I kiss him. Just like that. I reach up, pull his face down to mine, and kiss him, with people streaming past us in a dirty graffitied corridor in a club five thousand miles away from home. His hands move to my waist, and he steps forward until I’m pressed between his body and the wall, my mouth glued to his. My blood is singing and I cling tighter, caught up in the sheer recklessness of the moment. I don’t do this. I’m not that kind of girl. But right now, I am — taking greedy handfuls of his shirt, levering my body closer, arching my hips so I can feel his gasp for breath against my tongue.