“So, do you just hang out in libraries taking pity on us poli sci kids?”
I smile self-consciously. “I suppose so. The guardian angel of democracy essays, that’s me.”
“And there’s no catch?” Carla is still looking like she’s testing me.
“Why would there be?”
She smirks. “You’re new to town, I can tell.” I must look puzzled, because she adds, “In Southern Cali, there’s always a catch. Don’t worry.” She takes our coffees and pays the boy. “You’ll learn.”
“Oh.” I sip my drink carefully. “So what’s the catch to this?”
“The coffee?” Carla raises an eyebrow. “Straight swap: your notes for the drink.”
“I can live with that,” I agree, warming to her boldness.
“Cool.” She strides off again at double speed, leaving me rushing to catch up. “Now tell me about Oxford — full of entitled jackasses, am I right?”
9
I can tell my dress is all wrong before we even get inside. We’re waiting in the street by the hotel for the rest of Holly’s friends, and snaking down the block are groups of guys in tuxedos and girls tripping along in heels and long gowns; only thin wraps protecting against the cold night air. At first, I was feeling smug because these outfits are seriously Miss Teen Ohio, covered in sparkles and asymmetrical necklines, but after watching a parade of identi-girls slip by, my gorgeous Gucci doesn’t feel so special anymore. The skirt is short, for a start, and although the fabric is draped black silk and totally classy, it doesn’t seem to make up for the amount of leg I have on show. At least, not judging by the smirks that other girls are shooting in my direction.
“You look wonderful.” Holly catches my nervous look, but her comment just makes me feel more self-conscious. If she thinks I need reassuring at all, then it must be clear I’m totally out of place.
“So do you,” I’m quick to add. And she does — even if her turquoise gown could have used fewer sequins along the bustline. Holly’s hair is pinned up in tiny curls, and her eyes have a sweep of shimmer. It took us an hour getting ready with curling irons and eyelash curlers, but I always love that part.
It strikes me that the preparation may be the most fun I’ll have all night, but I push the thought away and turn to the guy next to me in line to try and make conversation. “It’s James, right?” He’s the one with rusty red hair, now slicked back and neat to match the crisp lines of his tuxedo. I swear, put any guy in the black-and-white combo and they get cute.
“Yes.” He shoves his hands into his jacket pockets, and I wait for something more, but there’s nothing.
OK, the silent type. I can work with that.
“This is my first Oxford ball.” I make sure to smile, despite the fact I’m shivering violently in my thin gold shrug. “Do you go to many?”
“At least one a term.” James looks at me with what I’m afraid is amusement.
“That must be cool, having so many big parties. Back home we don’t really do the formal thing, but there were way more smaller events.” He nods politely. “Like, you guys only seem to have those bops every month.” I name the weird costume parties they have in the Raleigh bar. “But we have dorm parties and beach things and . . .” I can see his eyes flickering around for someone to save him, so I give up and wait in silence as the line inches forward until finally we make it inside to the joy of heating.
“Come on!” Holly drags me through the main lobby and down a hallway draped with heavy fabric flags. The rooms are standard Oxford decor, paneled in dark wood and hung with stern oil paintings, but they’ve gone all out for the ball. There are huge vases of red and purple fresh flowers everywhere, silver platters of canapés, and a bunch of silent wait staff circulating. I can hear classical music playing and think what Morgan would say if she could see me now. We’ve been emailing and IM-ing since I got here, but the time difference makes me feel even farther away. All she does is ask about guys and then boast about how much she’s hooking up. Sometimes it feels like there’s way more than just an ocean between us.
“I think you’re over here, next to James, and I’m across with Ellen . . .” Holly reaches the long dining room and takes a quick look at the seating chart before ushering me over to my place. “I’m so glad we picked the first dinner session. Last year we signed up for later, but they ran over and we were completely famished.” She’s glowing, utterly at ease in the stiff, starched surroundings. “This way we get drunk on complimentary wine before the dancing.” I laugh along, still weirded out by being offered drinks instead of sneaking them with fake IDs. Not that I’ll be drinking tonight. My post-Tubgate rules are still set in stone: no drinking, no dating, no R-rated YouTube clips.
An older man hits the ceremonial gong with a small metal hammer, and we all take our seats. A trio of stiff-looking boys gives a speech welcoming us, then there’s a smattering of polite applause and the room is full of buzzing conversation. I look around eagerly as the first course is brought out. It’s so different from any event I’ve been to, the sense of history and privilege as thick as the scent of hyacinths in the air. Holly is out of talking range, seated on the other side of the table and three places down; Mr. Talkative himself, James, is next to me, and on my other side is a super-skinny blond girl in an ice-pink dress.
“Hi,” I greet her with a grin. “I’m Natasha, from Raleigh.”
She offers a limp hand for me to shake. “Portia,” she replies, “Christ Church.” She doesn’t seem to be wearing any makeup (but I know how much time and effort that takes), and her gown is a plain sheath, simple and totally sophisticated. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Pleased to meet you too,” I echo. A waiter leans over me to pour a glass of wine. “Not for me,” I say quickly, “but thanks anyway.” He ignores me, and when it comes to Portia’s turn, she simply places one elegant hand over the top of her glass and he moves on. Minus one point for me and my babbling.
“I love your dress,” I say. James is leaning down the table to another group, laughing loudly, so it’s Ice Queen or nothing.
Portia smiles faintly, as if a real expression would be too much hassle. “Thank you. Yours is . . . cute.”
I blush, suddenly self-conscious. It’s crazy — I used to be comfortable whatever I was wearing, wherever I was, but now this feels like somebody else’s skin. Like I’m not good enough to be sitting at the starched white linen table, sneaking sideways looks at the other diners to check that I’m using the right gleaming silver fork.