Sophomore Switch by Abby McDonald

if she was trying to land a rich husband,” Portia continues, her haughty voice cutting through the background noise like a missile sent to wound me. “But surely she realizes, men don’t marry
those
kinds of girls!”
    I’m still backing away, but suddenly I hit something solid. There’s a crash, and I spin around to find one of the tuxedoed waiters, his silver tray empty and broken glass shards on the ground between us.
    “Omigod, I’m so sorry!” I breathe, champagne pooling around my toes.
    “It’s quite all right,” he insists, but when I glance up, Portia and her friends are staring right at me, smirks of delight on their pale faces.
    “Did you see that?” One of the other girls laughs, a loud braying sound that attracts way more attention than my tiny mishap. Other people start to look over, and right away I get a flashback to what it was like around campus after Tyler. The whispers. The sneers. That awful blackhole in my stomach. Then and now mix in my head until all I know is I’m done. It’s over.
    Through the mess of memories, I finally remember how to walk and slowly edge away from the crowd. I didn’t bring a coat, thank god, so there’s no line for me to wait in: just me and my tiny beaded clutch hightailing it toward the exit. I pass a couple more uniformed door staff, and then I’m out in the freezing night.
    So much for my fairy-tale evening.

“Yes, Dad, I’m getting plenty of sleep.” I try not to kick my heels against the back of my chair as he runs down the obligatory welfare checklist. “No, I’m not drinking. Or neglecting my work. Yes, I’m eating fine too.”
    Late on Friday night, it’s getting dark out, my desk lamp bathing the room in a soft glow. Morgan is off at a frat party with the rest of her clique, so I decided to take advantage of the peace and get some reading done. My father, already up tomorrow morning, decided to take advantage of the time difference to lecture me a little more.
    “I ran into Kirk Morgan at the tennis club yesterday,” he says in that tone I’ve now come to recognize as trouble. “His boy is a Fulbright scholar, at Princeton.”
    I sigh. “Good for him.”
    “You know, providing you keep your regular results up, there’s really no reason to put this on your résumé.” Dad is trying to be helpful, I know, but I still feel the burn as if he’s scolding me. “And when you’ve done the summer internship . . .”
    “I haven’t heard back about those yet.”
    His laughter booms down the line. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. With your stellar record at Oxford, this is just a hiccup. Who wouldn’t want you?”
    “Thanks, Dad.”
    “In fact, I was thinking of giving Giles Bentley a call — remember him? We took our pupilages together back in the day. I haven’t seen him in a while, but I think now would be a good time for a drink. He’s senior partner at Sterns, Cahill, and Coutts. Weren’t they one of your picks?”
    “Yes, but really, you don’t —”
    “I’ll give him a call.” Dad speaks straight over me. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner.”
    “Right.”
    “In fact, why don’t I check if there are any alumni in California? There are a lot of big firms down in L.A. — not that you’ll be doing entertainment law, of course — but it could be good to shake some hands.” I can hear Dad warming to the idea. “If you were on the East Coast . . .” He sighs. “But we should make the most of what we have at the moment. Keep our plan moving forward.”
    I nod on cue, forgetting that he can’t see me. It doesn’t make any difference.
    “Elizabeth has been invited to present at a cardiovascular symposium next month, did she tell you?” His pride is obvious.
    “No, that’s great.”
    “And your mother sends her love, of course. She’s busy with another project — something to do with low-energy lightbulbs in all the village buildings.” I laugh along. “I better leave you to your rest now;