If only I’d known this would happen. Maybe then I’d have thought harder before throwing on my candy-pink bikini and going back to Tyler’s that night . . . OK, who am I kidding? I didn’t give it any thought at all. But of course not. I mean, you don’t stop and think, “Hmm, do I really want a video of this leaked all over the Internet?” every time you hook up with a hot guy. Because, barring a few crazy exhibitionists, the answer will always be no. No, I don’t want to be known as the slut who broke up America’s Most-Beloved Couple (seriously, they won the Seventeen reader survey last year). No, I don’t want to see my own tanned and not particularly toned body staring back at me from the supermarket tabloids for weeks. No, I don’t want a half hour of drunken fun to be the single defining moment in my whole nineteen-year existence.
Sighing, I grab my shower caddy and head for the bathrooms. I’ve had weeks to mope about the whole thing, but even I have to admit that being alone and anonymous in England is way better than being a recognizable joke back in L.A. Lathering up my hair under the dribble of lukewarm water, I resolve to be more positive. I managed to get out of the States; now all I have to do is find some kind of social life. It’ll just take some effort, right?
Wrapping myself in my huge, terry-cloth robe, I step back out into the communal bathroom. I thought the place was empty, but now that the shower is off, I can hear a kind of muffled sobbing coming from one of the stalls. I pause.
“Hey, are you OK?” I ask.
There’s a sniffling sound, and then a thin voice emerges.
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t sound fine,” I point out. “Can I get you anything?”
“No.” Another sniffle. “I wish you could, but . . .” She starts sobbing again.
I gingerly push open the cubicle door and find a girl curled up on the toilet seat, legs tucked tightly against her chest. She’s wearing striped pj’s and has limp blond hair hanging in her face.
“Really, I’m fine,” she protests, trying to wipe her face with a shirtsleeve. “I just . . .”
“Don’t worry,” I say softly, not wanting to scare her. She looks younger than a freshman, but maybe that’s just the distress on her pale face. “Look, my room’s just down the hall. I could make you a coffee. Or tea, if you want,” I add, remembering how Brits are about their tea.
“Thanks, but . . .” She shakes her head and grabs another handful of tissue from the dispenser. “It won’t help.”
“Won’t help what?” I ask again. “Look, I know you don’t think I can help, but maybe I can.”
She takes a deep breath and then looks me in the eye for the first time. Another sniffle, and then her voice comes, so soft I have to lean forward to hear.
“This morning . . . The condom split. I don’t know . . . I don’t know what to do.”
Other people’s problems may suck for them, but at least they give you some perspective. It takes me less than twenty minutes to Google the Oxford student services, wait for Holly to dress, and make our way down the twisted, cobbled streets to the offices behind the student union buildings. I’ve done this with Morgan so many times, I didn’t even raise an eyebrow when Holly told me about the boyfriend (older), the sex (bad), and her feelings of general helplessness that were clouding whatever judgment got her into Oxford in the first place.
As it was, she only had to chat to the physician for a few minutes before emerging with her prescription and the glow of somebody who will never, ever have unnecessary sex again. Morgan usually lasts about a week before jumping the next guy, but I’m betting Holly waits longer.
“OK?” I ask, my ass already numb from the cheap Formica seats they have lining the small waiting area.
She nods happily. “Yes. Thank god!”
“Cool.” I look around. The place is empty, littered with flyers and health-awareness posters. “Want to stock up on freebies while we’re here?”
Holly blushes, but she goes over to the jar of condoms all the same. I browse the notice board instead. There’s no way I’m so much as going to kiss a guy while I’m over here. No dating, period.
“Yes, just let me check for you.” A voice emerges from a back room, and then the familiar stocky body of my classmate walks out. I cringe.
“Oh. Hi. Natasha, right?” Carrie looks as uncomfortable as me, frozen by the front desk with an armful of paperwork.
“Yup. Hey.” I give an awkward wave.
“What brings you . . . ?” Carrie glances from me, to the physician’s door, to where Holly is helping herself to a liberal supply of condoms. “Oh, right.” She gives me a knowing look. Of course the dumb Californian would be stocking up on birth control.
I control my flicker of irritation and try and make nice. “You work here? That’s great.”
Carrie looks surprised. “Yes, I volunteer. But not for long. They’re closing the place down at the end of March.”
“They are?” I look around again. “Why?”
“No funding.” Carrie gives a bitter laugh. “The benefactors leave thousands to the rowing clubs and libraries, but we get nothing. Typical, isn’t it?” She takes a paper from the desk and hands it to me. SAVE WOMEN’S SERVICES, the Day-Glo orange flyer protests.
“Is there anywhere else in town to get this stuff?” I ask, worried. I may be planning to give nuns competition in the chastity stakes, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be concerned for everyone else.
“That’s not the point.” Carrie folds her arms, already defensive. “That’s only half of what we do here. There’s a support hotline and a night safety group and —”
“I get it,” I cut her off quickly. She’s got an angry gleam in her eye, and I don’t want to be on the other end of it. “Well, good luck.” I put the flyer down and pick up my bag. “I hope you pull it off.”
She turns back to her paperwork, while Holly and I push through the smudged glass doors onto the street. Students stream by on bikes, long striped scarves around their necks, and a bunch of Japanese tourists hover by the gates of the college next door.
“So . . .” I start, turning to her kind of awkwardly. Now that she’s OK, Holly probably has plans. “You’re all set?”
“Yes.” Holly smiles shyly. “I only have to go to the chemist’s.”