I sigh, kicking sand into tiny heaps. Nothing has changed. Sebastian would always complain about how I held back, how I would get so disconnected from being together. The voice in my head never takes a break: it’s always analyzing, assessing, pulling me back from the brink of just letting go. And now, thousands of miles away, it’s still there. I shiver, suddenly afraid it won’t ever go away. Is this just the way I am — doomed to be on the outside of myself forever?
I blink back tears. Some recovery trip this is turning out to be. My family are so busy that they quickly gave up on making me come home; now my father just sends me news items (“because we know what insular attitudes to world affairs they have over there”), my mother makes me email twice a week to check I haven’t been shot, and Elizabeth reminds me about skin-cancer statistics. I assure them all that I’m having fun, but . . .
. . . Is this really it?
7
Professor Elliot wants to see me before class. I emailed my new essay over last night, and now there’s an ominous note in my mailbox asking me over for “a little chat.” Like I can turn her down.
I meant to read through the summary chapters again to be totally prepped for the meeting, but by the time I’m finished cramming the latest econ chapters and have worked through a nightmare of a worksheet, it’s twelve already. So, instead of arriving cool and confident, I turn up five minutes late: red faced from racing across campus, stomach growling in protest at missing breakfast and lunch, and not exactly dressed to impress in my grayest fading sweatpants.
“Natasha.” Greeting me with a raised eyebrow, Professor Elliot ushers me into her cluttered room. She’s wearing a mismatched green cardigan over a pair of old tweed trousers, but somehow I still feel like the slob. “Sit down, please. Would you like some tea?”
“Umm, no. Thank you,” I add, looking nervously around as she begins to fill a small kettle and set out a mug. I know Oxford likes to make a big deal about the informal students-staff vibe, but if I’m in trouble, I’d rather she just give it to me straight. Elliot fusses with her drink for a couple of agonizingly long minutes as I wait. I can see my essay on her table, covered in red marks. My stomach gets tight.
“Now . . .” Settling in an armchair, Elliot finally turns to me. “How are you finding it here?”
“Fine,” I answer. “Good, I mean.”
I don’t mention that it’s been the longest, loneliest three weeks of my life.
“Good.” Elliot nods. “And you’re managing the workload all right?”
“Well” — I hesitate — “I’m trying. It’s a pretty different system from the one back home.”
“I can imagine.”
“But I’m working really hard and doing everything I can to keep up,” I find myself explaining anxiously. Buried in the Global Exchange small print had been a clause saying that both colleges could kick us out if we didn’t meet their “minimal academic criteria.” There’s no way I’m letting that happen.
“And I can tell,” Elliot reassures me. “But I think perhaps we should look at doing something different with you.”
I blink. “What?”
“From now on, I’ll be setting you different work from Carrie and Edwin.” She continues, “You’ll still be a part of the tutorial group, and you’re more than welcome to tackle their reading lists, but for your own essays, I think we’ll set you something more suitable. A little less . . . challenging.” She shoots me a smile that’s supposed to be comforting, but I’m still stuck on her words. Different. More suitable. Less challenging.
I’m being demoted.
“Does that sound good to you?”
“Sure,” I manage. “But . . .” I swallow, suddenly feeling tears well up. “Were they really that bad? My essays, I mean.” I think of the hours I’ve been slaving over her reading lists: battling to find sense in modern themes of feminism or crazy theoretical constructions of the perfect society. I know I’m not anywhere near my classmates, but I didn’t think I was doing so bad.
Elliot laughs lightly. “We don’t think about things in those terms here. But if you really must know, your work has been . . . fine.”
A rush of relief floods through me: she can’t send me home on “fine.” But then I think about what she’s saying.
“So why change things?” I try to keep my voice steady, embarrassed to feel so emotional over a dumb reading list.
Elliot looks surprised. “I thought you’d be happy to take the pressure off. This way, you get to have some more fun, really enjoy this exchange the way you want.”
The way I want.
I fold my hands carefully. “It’s been fine,” I lie. “I can manage.”
Elliot doesn’t look convinced. “It’s all right to admit it, Natasha.” She gives another little laugh. “I know this isn’t your usual style, so why not take the new assignments and have fun? I’m trying to do you a favor here. My other students would kill for an opportunity like this.”
“So why not give it to them?” I ask before thinking.
She glances away, and then it hits me. To her, I’m just the dumb Californian, the party girl who doesn’t need to be here. She knows it doesn’t matter if I flunk, because I’ll just go back home to my film classes. The other kids actually need to work hard, to be smart, to succeed. But not me.
The truth stings me hard behind my rib cage. My work is “fine,” but she’s still writing me off just because I wear cute skirts and keep my hair blown out. It’s clear she’s never seen Legally Blonde. Aren’t smart people supposed to be above this kind of blatant discrimination?
“I can manage,” I finally repeat in an icy voice, before she can confirm my worst suspicions. “I’d rather do the same as the others.”
Elliot studies me for a minute. “Fine,” she agrees, obviously bemused. “But you might want to spend some time reading MacKinnon and Dworkin, in addition to next week’s books. There were some rather gaping holes in your argument.”
“Right,” I answer quietly.
“And maybe you should get copies of Edwin’s essay, to have a better idea of structure and summary.”
“OK.” I nod, wondering how to ask the boy for a favor when he’s never said a word to me, except to attack my opinions.