Free Life Swap by Abby McDonald Page B

“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.
    â€œCome 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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œHi,” 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.”
    â€œPleased 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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œWhere did you…?” My words fade on my lips. Ice Queen has turned away from me with a sigh, picking daintily through the salad