Life Swap Read Online Free

bar the other night to meet people, but after hanging around on the edges of crowds while the preppy kids all ignored me, I gave up. The other Americans and international students must have the same problem, because they all seem to keep to their own cliques. They may seem to be total nerds, but I can’t risk them recognizing me from Tubgate, so that leaves me back at square one: alone in my dorm room with nothing but the last season of
Heroes
on DVD for company.
    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.
    â€œHey, are you OK?” I ask.
    There’s a sniffling sound, and then a thin voice emerges.
    â€œI’m fine.”
    â€œYou don’t sound fine,” I point out. “Can I get you anything?”
    â€œNo.” 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.
    â€œReally, I’m fine,” she protests, trying to wipe her face with a shirtsleeve. “I just…”
    â€œDon’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.
    â€œThanks, but…” She shakes her head and grabs another handful of tissue from the dispenser. “It won’t help.”
    â€œWon’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.
    â€œThis 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