“Then you’ll feel like crap,” she says matter-of-factly. “But it won’t be; it’ll rock. I mean, is it really going to be any worse than their movie?” Carla nods toward the clique of gum-snapping girls who have sat passing notes and copies of InStyle in the back of every class.
“Good point.” I try to relax. “And besides, I’ve only been studying film for two months. I’m never going to be as good as the others.”
“There you go.” Carla grins. “It’s all about perspective.”
“And rationalizing the bad things away,” I agree, before being swept up into an enthusiastic hug. “Ryan!” I catch my breath as he releases me.
“Ready for battle?” he says. Then his eyes widen as he takes in my outfit. “Wow. Uh, I mean . . .” He swallows. “You look great, Em.”
“Thanks,” I say breezily, but inside I’m dancing. Somehow I don’t mind being objectified when it’s Ryan — and he’s doing it with such blatant admiration. “You’re looking rather dapper yourself.”
“Why thank you,” he jokes, adjusting the smart jacket he’s wearing over that favorite Thermals T-shirt and jeans. “I figured I’d better make an effort. You know Lowell’s invited industry guests, right?”
“What?”
Ryan nods, glancing around. “People he knows from studios, some agents.” He’s trying to sound nonchalant, but I can sense nerves radiating from his body. I slip my hand into his and squeeze it gently.
“We’ll be fine.”
“Sure you guys will,” Carla agrees. “I mean, your obsessive film-geek perfection plus Em’s planning. How can you fail?”
My grip on Ryan’s hand grows tighter as we sit through the other films. Some are terrible, some are fun, and although privately I think ours is far better than any of them, I can’t help but wonder if I’m blind to the reality of the situation. After all, somewhere along the way, hundreds of people thought that Blonde Ambition should get a theatrical release. What if this is our Blonde Ambition?
Oh god.
Finally, I see our opening credits flash up on-screen. Ryan’s entire body goes tense, and I find it hard to breathe. It dawns just how important this project is to me. For what must be the first time in my life, I don’t care about my class grade, only about everybody around me. I want them to love it the way I do, to believe in the story I worked so hard to create.
I mean to keep watch on Carla’s face and study her reactions, but before I know it, the scenes are flying past on that big screen and then it’s over. I can hardly believe it: two months of work for just those few minutes in the spotlight, our piece over quicker than it takes to cook a bowl of pasta or give my computer a thorough clean.
“Well?” I hear Ryan’s low whisper.
“I don’t know,” I breathe back, dazed, as the audience bursts into applause. I twist around in my seat to try and gauge the general reaction. They’re smiling and clapping, but is it sincere? Are they just being polite, the way I applauded some of the terrible films? I can’t tell, but when I force myself to look over at Carla, she’s beaming.
“You guys!” she exclaims. I gulp.
“Really?”
“Seriously.” She nods, eyes sparkling. “Would I lie to you? Wait, I would, but I’m not, I swear!”
I slowly exhale. “That was . . .”
“Terrifying,” Ryan finishes from my other side. We sit in silence for a moment, adrenaline still dashing through my bloodstream. “Come on.” He finally gets up. “We still have to face the real critic.”
My pocket begins to vibrate. I check the caller: it’s my father. “I’ll catch up with you.” I push Ryan down toward the front of the room, then retreat through the crowd to the hallway outside.
“Dad, hi!” I exclaim, overflowing with happiness. “They liked it — our film! We just had the screening, and it went really well, I think. I hope!” I know I’m babbling, but I want him to understand that this is a success. My time here hasn’t been the waste he thinks it is.
“Of course it did, Emily.” He sounds more relaxed than usual. “Well done.”
“I didn’t think we’d get it done in time.” I keep talking, the fluorescent-lit beige corridor striking me as the wrong place to celebrate such a victory. “But we’ve been working all week and —”
“That’s wonderful,” he interrupts. “But I’ve got even better news. You got a letter in the post this morning, and I’m sure you can guess what it says.”
“You opened my mail?” I try to keep up, but I can’t help glancing back toward the auditorium, wondering what Lowell is saying.
My father laughs. “I knew you’d want to hear right away. You got it!”
“Got what?” I watch two of the gum-snapping girls from my class stalk out of the doors, obviously displeased. “What are you talking about?”
“Your internship, silly. With Sterns, Cahill, and Coutts. I’m sure you’ll get other offers, of course, but this is the big one.”
“The big one,” I echo, only half listening.
“It looks like my time on the golf course with Giles paid off, eh? Not that your sterling record didn’t have anything to do with it, but every little bit helps. Now, I’ve already started looking into flats you can rent for the summer, something in the city, I think, perhaps Pimlico or Marylebone. Perhaps even buy outright if the price is right; you’ll be needing somewhere after you graduate, and if I cosign your mortgage . . .”
I listen to him ramble about property-value appreciation and the right neighborhoods while I try to take the news in. So I did it, after all. The prized internship is mine, and I’m one step further along in my five-year plan. California hasn’t ruined my chances: I’m still set for a summer beavering away in the offices of one of the most prestigious law firms around, and after that they’re almost certain to offer me a job.
The future unfolds before me in that corridor: certain, secure, and clear as if I’d mapped it out on my miniature whiteboard with indelible ink. Summer, then my final year in Oxford, then a move down to London and that well-located flat Daddy is so intent on buying. Everything is just as I planned.
“That’s wonderful,” I say, a new sense of satisfaction mingling with the elation from before. Everything is just as I planned. “It all worked out.”
“Of course it did! It’s like I always told you: you’ve just got to follow the plan.” He’s so proud, I can hear it beaming in every word.
“Thank you.” I feel a weight ease, that creeping discomfort that’s loomed whenever I think about going home. Now I know how everything will be, I don’t have to panic. I don’t have to worry anymore.
The doors slam open again, and I look up to see Ryan barreling toward me, a huge grin on his face.
“I have to go, Daddy,” I say quickly. “But it’s great news, it really is.”
“I’ll call when you get the other offers, and we can go through them all.”
I hang up and turn to Ryan with a smile. “I’ve got some news,” I start, but he puts a hand to my lips.
“Me first!”
He’s so full of excitement, he’s practically bouncing up and down. I giggle and thread my fingers through his. “All right, you go.”
“Lowell loved it,” he announces, pulling me to him and punctuating each sentence with a kiss. “He totally loved it. And that’s not all: Julian Morton is here.”
“The director?” I exclaim.
“They go way back.” Ryan laughs, slipping his arms tightly around my waist and leaning in, trapping me against the wall. “So Morton saw it and loved it too. He wants to mentor us!”
My mouth drops open. Ryan closes it with kisses while my mind reels until at last, I come up for air.
“But . . . What does that mean?”
“It means we’ve got jobs!” Ryan squeezes me tighter. “His new movie starts shooting in June, and he wants us to intern! Paid! We’ll be total slaves, I know, but we’ll get to learn about script writing and direction and a real-live production!” I gasp, swep
t along by his enthusiasm. “Can you believe it, Em? The whole summer on set together.”
And then I remember.
“Wait, Ryan, I can’t —” But he’s kissing me again, and whatever I need to say can wait. Gripping my waist, he brings my hips hard into him, and for a moment there’s nothing in my mind at all, just the feverish pull of hot mouths and racing blood and —
“Omigod!”
A familiar voice splits through my oblivion. Ryan wrenches himself away and I blink, still dizzy.
“Em?” The voice becomes a screech, and I turn to find Morgan gaping at me in disbelief, Brooke and Lexi flanking her with equally stunned expressions. “What the hell are you doing?!”
From: totes_tasha
To: EMLewis
Subject: just an idea . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
hey,
so, the end is nigh, but i was thinking, we totally need to hang out. what do you think about a tiny detour before we head home? spring break in florida is, like, a rite of passage. you could fly in for a couple of days before going on to england, and i could do the same in the other direction. how about it? i could really use a vacation before facing everyone back home, and there’s no way we can go home without meeting in real life!
xoxo
From: EMLewis
To: totes_tasha
Subject: re: just an idea . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Oh, boy, sign me up. Things have got really complicated here — I’ll need a holiday whatever happens.
Talk soon,
Em
I don’t bother with my preppy Oxford uniform after that last, awful class with Professor Elliot and Carrie. There’s no point — everyone knows who I really am, so why should I be universally loathed and unfashionable? But even though I figured I’d switch right back to my old Uggs and miniskirts, I find I’m holding back from the full-on look. It all seems kind of . . . obvious now. So, instead, I mix it up: working the Hitchcock skirts with casual layers; blending crisp shirts with my distressed denim. It’s not like the other kids here, but it’s not like Tasha either, and when I look in the mirror every day, I feel like what Emily says is true. The girl I’ve been here is part of me too. She’s not just this character I’ve been pretending to play; she’s another side of me — as real as the girl who tears up the clubs and can find every sample sale in Southern California.
Maybe I need to find a way to be both.
Once the dust settles, the last days of my stay creep by pretty much how they started: on my own. Holly hangs out when she can, but her schedule is manic as hell, so most of my final week passes quietly, in libraries or tucked away in my old corner of Starbucks with a book. But instead of being lonely or frustrated like before, I’m weirdly at peace. I have just one more paper due for Elliot, and as another way to make me feel bad, she’s assigned a discussion of modern feminism and an essay question that asks: “Can submitting to male-created standards of sexuality ever be compatible with feminist values?” There’s no way I’m letting her take me down again, so I’m clocking up some serious reading time in my quest to make this my best paper yet — which is why I’m back in an armchair in Borders past nine on Wednesday night, iPod plugged in and a triple-shot macchiato at my side.
Despite the peppy pop soundtrack I’ve got playing, it’s tough going. The reading list is full of books like her own: passing judgment on girls who sleep around and undermine the feminist cause. But the more I read, the more I realize that there’s this gaping void in Elliot’s thesis, in what Carrie and the girls all say. They may be right about the whole “raunch culture” thing being kind of sleazy, all that stripping and soft porn, but there’s one thing they’re not talking about. Desire. It’s like their view of the world is totally sexless, like they’ve never felt that pull of lust low in their stomach or longed for the feeling of somebody’s body hard against theirs.
Sure, I might make mistakes trying to figure that side of myself out, but at least I’m trying, instead of feeling like it’s sinful and wrong. Isn’t that a good thing? And their stupid superiority kick . . . Is it any wonder none of my friends back home would ever look into feminism, when people like Carrie do nothing but look down on us, like we’re somehow less than them? Maybe if they stopped being so damn judgmental, we’d start realizing it’s not just a straight choice between waving placards and making out with five guys a night on a dare.
I know, it’s not rocket science, but finding another way that Carrie and Co. don’t have it all figured out only makes me feel stronger. And gives me more material for this paper.
I’m deep in my notes when I become aware of somebody standing over me. At first I just ignore them, figuring it’s someone hovering to try and take my comfy seat, but when they don’t move, I finally look up.
It’s Will.
I feel that blade in my chest again. He’s looming awkwardly, striped scarf thrown around his neck and hair falling in his eyes the way it always does. Slowly, I reach up and take out my earphones.
“Can we talk?”
His voice is low and uncertain, but just the sound of it takes me back to the club bathroom and all the awful things he said. I swallow.
“Do I want to hear what you’ve got to say?” I fold my arms carefully and try to glare.
He hunches his shoulders. “I really just want to —”
“So you’re talking to me again?”
“Please.” His eyes meet mine, and they’re forlorn enough to make me soften.
“Whatever. Talk.”
“Here?” He looks around. The corner is full: a large old man in glasses is reading the paper, and on my other side a thin-faced woman sneaks cookies from her bag and sips a cup of tea. I don’t care what they hear.
“It’s all you’re getting.”
Will moves to the chair next to me, stumbling past a low table and the stacks of books littering the space. I don’t move to help him. I feel stiff with anger, but part of me can’t help wishing he’ll say something to make this right.
“So?” I ask when he’s sitting down. I’ve got my book still in my lap, like I could ignore him whenever I want. I grip it to hide the fact that my hands are shaking like crazy.
Will swallows. He toys nervously with the cuff of his jacket. “I’m sorry,” he says at last. “And, ah, I didn’t mean it — what I said. I’m sorry.” He looks at me and I see he means it. He knows he’s wrong, he’s sorry, and it’s everything I wanted to hear, but . . .
But it doesn’t matter.
I blink.
“I was awful, I know, but I was just so angry.” He’s still talking, still looking at me with those dark brown eyes, but the metal in my chest doesn’t melt away. I don’t hurt any less. “I know you hate me. I’m just . . . sorry,” he finishes, miserable, and stays there, watching me hopefully.
“I don’t hate you,” I say, closing the book. My hands aren’t shaking anymore. I know how this is going to end.
“You don’t?” His expression picks up.
“No,” I say, just damn tired of it all. “I’m disappointed. You let me down.”
He nods quickly. “I know I did.”
“No, you don’t get it.” He thinks all it takes is some apologetic words and we’ll be cool again, but I know now it’s not enough. “You bailed. You made this about you — everything was falling apart, and all you cared about was what? The fact I didn’t fuck you?” My voice is low but ice. He flinches.
“Tasha —”
“My name is Natasha,” I interrupt coolly. “And the things you said to me, you totally meant them.” I sit up straight. Proud. “So this won’t work, OK? I can’t have people in my life who are too weak to step up and deal with who I am.”
He doesn’t argue. He just sags back in his seat, and I know I’m right. If he really wanted me, he’d
fight. If he really didn’t care about Tyler and the video, he’d show some damn backbone, instead of just watching while I grab my stuff and walk away.
Alone.
Even with all the drama since the board meeting, I still haven’t forgotten the real reason any of this matters, so after I print my paper and leave it in Professor Elliot’s mail cubby the next morning, I head over to the cold stone buildings that house the Oxford admin staff. A stuck-up secretary won’t let me near any of the board without an appointment, so I wait an hour in the dreary gray lobby until one of them comes by.
“Excuse me.” I leap up the minute I see a familiar face exit one of the offices. It’s one of the librarian-type women, wearing the same baggy cardigan from the meeting, or one exactly like it. I don’t pause on why someone would buy one, let alone two, of those ugly things and race after her. “Do you have a minute? I really need to talk to you.”
“I’m sorry.” She barely looks at me. “I’m terribly busy.”
“But this won’t take long.” I plant myself in front of her. “Please.”
Her eyebrows lift, and I can tell she recognizes me. Those thin lips purse even more.
“Please,” I say again, pouring everything into that one word, and something must have slipped past that iron shell around her heart, because she finally relents.
“Well, all right. But just a minute.”
“Thank you!” I follow her eagerly back to her office. It’s as drab as she is, with worn green carpet and faded watercolors. There are a couple of fancy diplomas on the wall, and I snatch a quick glance as I pass to catch her name. Dr. Alison Aldridge.
“Take a seat.” Dr. Aldridge gestures at a hard, tall-backed seat. I obediently take it. “So, Natasha.” She finds a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and puts them on, looking at me over the top of the rims. “What can I do for you?”
Sophomore Switch Page 19
