Free Life Swap by Abby McDonald

hear.”
    â€œNo way.”
    I glance around and find the object of their gossiping. A girl is curled up in the corner, her dark hair cut short and choppy with pink streaks. She’s utterly absorbed in her book, so much so that she hasn’t noticed the strip of toilet tissue stuck on the bottom of one chunky boot, fluttering in the air-conditioned breeze. The gossips giggle again, louder this time, and the girl looks up. She shoots a defiant look at them but doesn’t see what they’re laughing about and tries to turn back to her book.
    â€œExcuse me.” I lean over and catch her attention. She stares at me with a hint of suspicion. I smile apologetically and gesture to her foot. “You’ve got…”
    â€œOh!” She plucks it off. “Thanks.”
    â€œNo problem.” I give her a weak grin and nearly turn back to my book, but something about her lack of concern for the whispering makes me pause. “I like your hair,” I say shyly. I could never have the nerve to do something so bold—or permanent.
    â€œAnd I”—she surveys my shirt and plain jeans—“don’t like anything about your outfit. Except your earrings, they’re kind of cool,” she adds with a grin.
    I should be insulted, but her comment seems more sincere than anything I’ve heard all week from Morgan or Lexi. She’s wearing black jeans and a shirt in purple and green, a leather cuff on her wrist, and silver bullets in her ears.
    â€œNobody gets them,” I say, toying with the tiny metal symbols. I’m about to launch into an explanation, but the girl nods, her eyes thickly lined with purple ink.
    â€œA thunderbolt and an owl—that’s from the Greeks, right? Zeus and his daughter Athena.”
    I grin, surprised. “Right!”
    â€œWhat classes are you taking?” She nods at my books.
    â€œFilm,” I admit. “These are just for fun.”
    â€œHuh.” Studying me, she pauses, then holds out her hand. “I’m Carla. Carla Reyes.”
    â€œEmily Lewis.” I shake, feeling strange at the formality.
    â€œGood to meet you.” She grins. “Now, I better get back to this.” She glares at the thick textbook. “Parliamentary democracies won’t learn themselves.”
    I deflate a little. My brief chat with Carla is the sum total of my social interaction that week. “Wait, is that Tsebelis?” I ask, turning over the textbook.
    â€œYou know it?”
    â€œIntimately.” I grimace at the memory. “It killed me last term.”
    â€œSo you know what the hell they’re going on about with comparative factors and all that?”
    â€œIt took a while, but yes.” I nod. “I could lend you my notes, if you want.”
    Carla bounces up. “Seriously?”
    â€œI’ve got them all on my computer.” I shrug. “I could print you off a copy. And if you’re studying that, you’ll probably need the material on Lijphart and Sartori as well.”
    â€œGirl, you’d be saving my butt.” Talking at full volume now, Carla grins at me and sweeps her notebooks into a purple patent bag. “Let’s go.”
    I decide that even Morgan doesn’t have enough stamina to still be naked back in our room, so I follow Carla out of the building.
    â€œYou know, you’re the first person who hasn’t asked me about my accent,” I realize, hurrying to keep up as she strides ahead down the busy pavement.
    She shrugs. “I figure everyone came here from someplace else.”
    â€œDid you?”
    Carla snorts. “Do I look like one of those girls?” She shakes her head, hair shimmering in the sun. “L.A.,” she explains. “Inglewood. I wanted to stay and go to UCLA, but this place offered more scholarship money.”
    â€œSo you’re a first-year? I mean, freshman,” I correct myself.
    â€œYup.” Carla comes to a