Eventually, I find a scrap of paper and a pen, and then spend another ten minutes deliberating over the contents.
Hi — last night was fun. E.
After half a dozen tries, I finally strike the right carefree tone and let myself out. His room is on the third floor of the frat house, and as I make my way down the back stairs, I can see party debris spread throughout every room. Beer cans, empty convenience-food wrappers, and even a few boys, still passed out in doorways and on couches. It looks as if I made my exit just at the right time.
As I cut through the littered front lounge, something catches my eye. A computer is open on a coffee table, the screen showing photographs in some sort of grid. I move forward to take a closer look.
PSI DELT DOABLES, the page heading reads. The photographs are of girls — some in a state of undress, mugging for the camera, others obviously asleep — and next to them is written a name and score.
MANDY LEE, owned by OWEN MICHAELS.
> 6/10.
> She scratches!
CASSIE WILCOX, owned by BRETT ALLSTON.
> 9/10.
> Kinky bitch!
I realize what the grid means and take a step back. They’re keeping score. I wrinkle my face in disdain. Typical frat-boy exploits, I suppose, but still, I don’t know why Sam lives with them. He’s far more . . .
And then I see it, halfway down the page. A photograph of me, eyes closed, hair spread on familiar navy sheets.
EMILY LEWIS, owned by SAM RICH.
> 4/10.
> English — enough said.
I can’t believe it.
Backing away from the screen, I slam the front door behind me and practically race down the street. How could he? I break into a jog, not caring about the thunder in my head or what a madwoman I must look like in last night’s clothes. What is it with these boys, acting as if sex is the single greatest achievement in all humanity? First Sebastian, pushing me with his hints and nudging until I nearly gave in just to get it out of the way. And now Sam, treating me as if I’m just another notch on his bedpost — when technically I wasn’t even in his bed!
Am I a particularly bad judge of character, or are they all like this?
I finally slow down, out of breath. Four out of ten. Four out of ten. It’s not as if I’d feel any better had he given me a more complimentary score for my imaginary sexual performance, but the low mark is salt in my now-gaping wound. Do I seem like somebody who would be bad in bed? Shaking my head, I stop myself before I get pulled down that line of reasoning and instead return to the important matter of Sam. All those sweet comments and nice-guy lines were just a lie; he must have been laughing at me the entire time. And I fell for it.
I’m supposed to meet Ryan and the film-class crew after lunch for our first meeting, but there’s no chance at all I can manage that, even after picking up a grande extra-shot latte en route to my room. I refuse to use my meager energy reserves to dwell on bastards and their bastardly stunts, so after a shower and some food, I throw myself into “research”: passing the day in a blur of Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food and all the bad romantic-comedy movies I’ve been saving. Reese. Kate. Julia. They never have to put up with this.
Four out of ten. The website. His grading. Everything about it makes me feel cheap, but more than that — naïve. Did he pick me out because I seem so clueless? Was the fact I’m so clearly out of place part of my appeal? I can’t help thinking that Morgan or Brooke would never get fooled like this. Even in their drunken states, those girls are ten times more streetwise than me. I may be able to evaluate an emerging democracy’s chances of political consolidation, but they know how to handle guys, to joke around and have fun.
Another movie finishes, and I slouch over to my computer, my envy of the breezy California girls growing. They’re at ease here, among the tans and teeth. This is their territory, not mine. I’ve been keeping it together with schedules and study plans, but the moment I try to venture out into the world, my careful control falls apart. At the beach, at the party — I end up bumbling around, making an idiot of myself. I’m so used to finding order in the midst of chaos, but this time I just can’t seem to work it out. I have no rule book to help me fit in, no study guide for the finer points of being an early twenty-first-century California teen. . . .
A beeping from my instant-messenger program catches my attention. There’s a box flashing on my screen.
Request to chat from totes_tasha.
Accept/decline?
I frown, running through the list of classmates or Oxford contacts it could be. And then it strikes me. Tasha. Natasha Collins — the girl whose bed I’m sleeping in, whose life I inherited.
Accept.
EMLewis: Hello? Is this Tasha?
totes_tasha: yup hey
EMLewis: How are you?
totes_tasha: i’m cool. just saw your screen name and thought I’d say hey.
totes_tasha: how’s school?
totes_tasha: is morgan driving u crazy??
EMLewis: She’s . . . fine. She’s been very friendly.
totes_tasha: ha. u hate her i can tell.
EMLewis: No, really, she’s been great.
EMLewis: Are you settling in over there? Your tutorials are going well?
totes_tasha: umm . . .
totes_tasha: not exactly
EMLewis: ?
totes_tasha: that prof elliot is on my case. i just can’t seem to get things right for her.
totes_tasha: and what’s with all the stuck-up bitces here?
EMLewis: bitces? Oh, right, bitches. Are you having problems then?
totes_tasha: kinda
EMLewis: Thank God!
totes_tasha: ??
EMLewis: No, I mean, that’s not a good thing, but I was worried I was the only one.
EMLewis: I’m having problems too.
totes_tasha: what kinda stuff?
EMLewis: I just can’t seem to fit in. My film partner is being difficult, and last night was awful.
EMLewis: I spent the night with this boy . . .
totes_tasha: !!!!
EMLewis: No, not like that!
totes_tasha: o
EMLewis: And I thought he really liked me, but this morning I found out he put me on this horrible conquest website.
totes_tasha: wait a mo. you got owned by a psi delt?
EMLewis: :-(
totes_tasha: aww hon, don’t worry. easy mistake.
EMLewis: But I just feel so stupid!
totes_tasha: u feel stupid? everyone here thinks i’m a dumb ass. i made a fool of myself at a ball tonight & there’s no way i’ll ever live it down.
EMLewis: I’m sorry.
EMLewis: Sigh. Some cultural experience this is turning out to be.
totes_tasha: so what’s ur secret? to blending in i