Life Swap Read Online Free Page B

on the challenging topic that is screenwriting for mainstream movies.
    â€œBy now, you’ll all have had time to look over our next script.” He’s relaxed and charming, and far too tan. I’m immediately suspicious. Real professors should have spent their lives buried in dark, dusty libraries, researching papers and striving for expert status. They shouldn’t have time to develop a healthy, outdoorsy glow, let alone advanced social skills. “So let’s hear what you think.”
    I look around. The half of the room that is actually paying attention and not checking their mobiles, doodling notes, or chatting softly to the person nearby are looking through a sheaf of papers. I tentatively raise my hand.
    â€œAh, an eager critic.” He bares his gleaming teeth at me.
    â€œNo, actually, I don’t have the pages,” I hurry to explain. “I just arrived on exchange.”
    â€œWell.” He pauses to assess me before gesturing dramatically. “Can anyone help out our British friend here?”
    The students nearby reluctantly make a show of shuffling their pages. It doesn’t help that my neatly pressed skirt and short-sleeved shirt make me look like a tax auditor stranded among their beach-party ranks, but eventually a boy sitting a few empty seats away leans over and hands me the script.
    â€œThank you,” I whisper, grateful for rescue.
    â€œNo problem, I had a spare set.” He has dark eyes and cropped dark hair, slouching low in his seat wearing disheveled black jeans and a fitted navy T-shirt with a cartoon robot printed across the front. “You’re from England, right? What brings you over here?”
    I look distractedly back to the front of the class, torn. Professor Lowell is still talking, something about presentation and formatting, and I don’t want to miss it. “England, yes,” I say quickly. “I’m just here for the rest of the term.”
    â€œCool.” He grins a boyish half smile, and I’m reminded again that shining white teeth seem to be a basic constitutional right over here. “You picked a great class. Lowell really knows his stuff.”
    â€œHe seems to.” I try to follow what the great professor is jotting on the whiteboard.
    â€œHe worked at Fox for a while in the nineties, development,” he continues enthusiastically. “Rumor has it he was the one who bought
Speed
and—”
    â€œLook,” I stop him apologetically, “I really appreciate your help, but this is all new to me, and I don’t want to get behind…”
    â€œSure.” He studies me for a moment and then leans away, leaving me to despair over my lack of social skills and quickly skim-read this script I’m supposed to be so well acquainted with.
    Twenty minutes later, I’ve reread the script, made copious notes, and now I’m sitting, bemused at the outpouring of praise that’s coming from the class. Surely we haven’t been reading the same thing?
    â€œâ€¦And the characterization was great.” A thin emo boy sweeps back his slice of fringe and finishes his critique, which turned out to be light on any actual criticism. I’m itching to add to the discussion, but something holds me back. After all, I only watch films for an escape, some entertainment. I don’t know anything about this topic, and while Lowell may have asked for our instinctive reactions, I always think opinions need to be backed up with research and facts. Otherwise, what use are they?
    â€œAnd I really liked the part where he confesses his feelings,” a girl with funky, cropped red hair adds, her expression wistful. “It was so romantic.”
    I can’t help but give a little snort of laughter. Quickly, I try to disguise it with a cough, but it’s too late. Lowell swings around from his place at the front table and fixes his stare on me.
    â€œOur Brit!” he exclaims. “Care to