“What about this?” Morgan interrupts, pirouetting in the blue top. Her black bra is clearly visible underneath.
“Trashy.” Lexi spares another glance from Glamour’s riveting spring editorial shoot.
“Well, yeah, but, like, sexy-trashy or slut-trashy?”
“Sexy-trashy,” Brooke assures her. The distinction is lost on me.
“Awesome. Then we’re good to go.”
“You coming, Em?” Brooke asks, looking over. “They’re having a beach volleyball tournament, and there’ll be a bonfire later.”
“Don’t bother.” Morgan sighs. “All she does is study.”
I blink. Usually I wouldn’t care what my roommate says, but something in her tone sparks me into gear. Two weeks since I arrived, and she thinks she knows me? “I’ll come,” I say, almost before I reach a decision.
Morgan spins around, surprise spilling across her face. “You will?”
“Sure,” I agree, letting the textbook fall shut and reaching for my pack of aspirin to ease the low ache in my head. So far, I’ve only been down to the shore to assess a jogging route, but color-coding my screenwriting research can wait. And didn’t “making the most of the exchange opportunity” extend to integrating with the local culture? “Let’s go.”
An hour later, I’m settled in the midst of a colony of blankets, towels, and tanning lotion. Despite it being late January, the afternoon is warm and sunny, the ocean is sparkling blue, and the beach is packed with perfect, tanned flesh. Global warming has its perks, I suppose. As I look around, it’s clear that anyone who lectures about America’s obesity epidemic has obviously not visited Santa Barbara during winter term. Stationed on prime territory next to the volleyball courts, I have a full-circle view of sweaty players, bronze-chested surfers, and the hordes of svelte, bikini-clad girls batting their fully made-up lashes at both.
“Can you believe what Susie did to AJ?” Lexi carefully rubs oil into her calves.
“I know, right?”
“In front of everyone — and with Patrick!”
Their conversation drifts around me as I stroke swirls into the sand. I feel like an anthropologist buried deep within an alien culture as I try to decipher the significance of each squeal and comment. Instead of lowering their voices for a particularly scandalous piece of gossip, Lexi’s and Morgan’s voices seem to carry, and a group of younger girls nearby look over with envy.
“I don’t know, he was kind of annoying. Always hanging around, like a lost little puppy.”
“Morgan!”
“What? I’m just saying, I’d get sick of it too.” Morgan turns and looks down at me over the huge white rims of her sunglasses. For all the deliberation over her outfit, she’s now stripped down to a tiny pink bikini, matched with an anklet and lip gloss. I wish I could say that her style was out of place, but from the look of the ranks of college girls spread out around us, she’s underaccessorized. “What about you, Em?”
“Hmm?” I lift my head slightly.
“Any guys around?”
I pause, trickling grains through my fingertips, and feel the familiar pang at the thought of Sebastian. To my relief, it stings less than it used to. Maybe one day it won’t sting at all.
“There was,” I say at last, “but we broke up just before I came here.”
“That sucks. What happened?”
“Nothing in particular,” I answer quietly. Just the fact that I’m emotionally crippled. “It didn’t work out.”
“Come on, details.” Brooke opens a bag of fat-free, sodium-free, and no doubt taste-free crisps and offers it around. “How did you meet? How long were you together? Spill.”
Nibbling one, I try to keep my tone light. “He lives next door to me, we went out for three months, and can you pass me the water?”
Brooke tosses the bottle at me. “So did he have a cute accent, like Prince William?”
I smile with relief. Americans and royalty . . . “Yes, he’s English.”
“British men are so hot.” She sighs. “They’re way classier than guys here.”
I stifle a laugh, thinking of crew drinking sessions. If Brooke could see a man facedown in his own vomit with his underpants on his head, she wouldn’t think the Brits were so distinguished.
“So what are British guys like in bed?” Lexi flips over and fixes me with a mischievous look.
“You know . . .” I take a nonchalant sip of water. I wouldn’t know. “What are American men like?”
She smirks. “The usual.”
“We should fix Em up,” Morgan decides, surveying the surrounding prospects with a predatory stare. “They’ll go crazy for your accent.” She pauses and tilts her head. “You know, I’m surprised you haven’t dated anyone yet. These guys are usually pretty fast when it comes to fresh meat.”
“Not with me.” I manage a grin.
“And it’s not like you’re ugly,” she adds, bluntly assessing me. “Although you could use a tan and a suit that isn’t so, you know, functional.” I purse my lips a little. My navy two-piece isn’t up to Morgan’s dental-floss standards, but I’m not really in the mood to let the whole beach see my bu**ocks. “Chill,” she says, seeing my reaction. “I was just saying . . .”
“No, it’s fine.”
“Anyway, you want to go get a soda?” She nods in the direction of a beachfront snack stand.
“OK.” I pull on my khaki shorts and start to button my shirt, but stop when I see Morgan’s look. Apparently you’re supposed to wander onto the street with your body in plain sight over here. I compromise to local culture and leave my navy shirt undone, while Morgan and Lexi reapply lip gloss, smooth down their hair, and pull on embellished flip-flops.
“Get me a Coke, please.” Brooke lies back and yawns. “Diet.”
“And you’ll keep an eye on our stuff?” I ask. Lexi and Morgan exchange another look.
“It’ll be fine.”
We head up the beach, Morgan and Lexi sauntering along as if this is a catwalk. I can feel everyone looking over as we pass: the girls giving quick judgmental glances, and the boys all staring for longer. I shiver. Something about how blatant it all is makes me nervous, like I really am nothing more than a block of meat. Suddenly I’m painfully aware of my pale, pale skin and “functional” bathing suit.