Sophomore Switch Read Online Free Page A

stocking up on birth control.
    I control my flicker of irritation and try and make nice. “You work here? That’s great.”
    Carrie looks surprised. “Yes, I volunteer. But not for long. They’re closing the place down at the end of March.”
    “They are?” I look around again. “Why?”
    “No funding.” Carrie gives a bitter laugh. “The benefactors leave thousands to the rowing clubs and libraries, but we get nothing. Typical, isn’t it?” She takes a paper from the desk and hands it to me. SAVE WOMEN’S SERVICES , the Day-Glo orange flyer protests.
    “Is there anywhere else in town to get this stuff?” I ask, worried. I may be planning to give nuns competitionin the chastity stakes, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be concerned for everyone else.
    “That’s not the point.” Carrie folds her arms, already defensive. “That’s only half of what we do here. There’s a support hotline and a night safety group and —”
    “I get it,” I cut her off quickly. She’s got an angry gleam in her eye, and I don’t want to be on the other end of it. “Well, good luck.” I put the flyer down and pick up my bag. “I hope you pull it off.”
    She turns back to her paperwork, while Holly and I push through the smudged glass doors onto the street. Students stream by on bikes, long striped scarves around their necks, and a bunch of Japanese tourists hover by the gates of the college next door.
    “So . . .” I start, turning to her kind of awkwardly. Now that she’s OK, Holly probably has plans. “You’re all set?”
    “Yes.” Holly smiles shyly. “I only have to go to the chemist’s.”
    “Cool, I’ll just —”
    “Would you come with me?” Holly asks suddenly. “And then maybe, I know this great café nearby. We could get something to eat?” She looks at me hopefully. “I mean, you probably have things to do, but . . .”
    “No! I mean, I don’t. I’m free.” I smile back, pulling my scarf tighter and thanking the god of coincidence for sending me a possible friend. “I’d like that.”

Apparently the international office doesn’t subscribe to my standards of what constitutes a proper education, because by the end of the week, I find myself sitting halfway back in a cavernous lecture hall while our professor addresses us on the challenging topic that is screenwriting for mainstream movies.
    “By 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 cell phones,doodling notes, or chatting softly to the person nearby are looking through a sheaf of papers. I tentatively raise my hand.
    “Ah, an eager critic.” He bares his gleaming teeth at me.
    “No, actually, I don’t have the pages,” I hurry to explain. “I just arrived on exchange.”
    “Well.” 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.
    “Thank you,” I whisper, grateful for rescue.
    “No 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