Read Online Sophomore Switch by Abby McDonald - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Abby McDonald
Ads: Link
delays and weather problems. Not that there’s any weather in California. “The first few days will probably be working out the kinks, getting light and sound figured.”
“Fine.” I run my eyes down the long, long list of prefilming tasks I’ve been making. Another boy from class, Mike, is supposed to be producing, but I only needed one look at his red-rimmed eyes and bagful of snacks to decide I’d better run this myself if I want anything done. “Here.” I tear off the bottom of the page — the least necessary things — and pass it to him. “You’ll need to get these sorted before we start.”
Ryan folds the paper carelessly and throws it in his bag.
“It’s important,” I remind him. “You won’t get anyone working without clear schedules and a shot-by-shot plan.”
“Already covered,” he drawls, surprising me. “Don’tlook at me like me that. I’ve been planning this longer than you.”
“Well, all right.” I frown. “I think that’s it.” I’d set aside another hour for this meeting, expecting tantrums and ultimatums at the very least.
“Cool, I’ll see you by the equipment room on Saturday.” Ryan pulls his shoes back on and slings his bag over his shoulder. “Nice work on the rewrites.”
He’s gone before I recover from the parting compliment.
With time to spare before a graduate screening of short films, I linger in the library and browse the social science sections for a little pleasure reading. I organized for my Oxford professors to email me the assignments so I can be certain that I don’t miss too much, but sometimes it’s nice just to wander the stacks and see what catches my eye. Picking out a couple of books on democracy, I find a quiet area with some desks and couches and settle in.
But I can’t concentrate. Usually I can put a book in my hands and be oblivious to the world. It’s a great skill for studying, but for some reason my superpowers aren’t working today. Every movement, every sound: they all catch my attention, and soon I’m watching the people around me closer than my work. Back in Oxford, libraries are silent and sacrosanct, but here people don’t seem to care about keeping quiet. Two boys in sports shirts are complaining over their notes, a blond girl bobs her head in time to her iPod, and two girls are giggling togetherbehind a stack of books. Their desk is spread with candy wrappers, magazines, and colored pens, and studying looks like the last thing on their minds as they hiss at each other.
“Shhh, she’ll hear.”
“No 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.
“Excuse 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 . . .”
“Oh!” She plucks it off. “Thanks.”
“No 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.
“And 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 purpleand green, a leather cuff on her wrist, and silver bullets in her ears.
“Nobody gets them,” I say, toying
“Fine.” I run my eyes down the long, long list of prefilming tasks I’ve been making. Another boy from class, Mike, is supposed to be producing, but I only needed one look at his red-rimmed eyes and bagful of snacks to decide I’d better run this myself if I want anything done. “Here.” I tear off the bottom of the page — the least necessary things — and pass it to him. “You’ll need to get these sorted before we start.”
Ryan folds the paper carelessly and throws it in his bag.
“It’s important,” I remind him. “You won’t get anyone working without clear schedules and a shot-by-shot plan.”
“Already covered,” he drawls, surprising me. “Don’tlook at me like me that. I’ve been planning this longer than you.”
“Well, all right.” I frown. “I think that’s it.” I’d set aside another hour for this meeting, expecting tantrums and ultimatums at the very least.
“Cool, I’ll see you by the equipment room on Saturday.” Ryan pulls his shoes back on and slings his bag over his shoulder. “Nice work on the rewrites.”
He’s gone before I recover from the parting compliment.
With time to spare before a graduate screening of short films, I linger in the library and browse the social science sections for a little pleasure reading. I organized for my Oxford professors to email me the assignments so I can be certain that I don’t miss too much, but sometimes it’s nice just to wander the stacks and see what catches my eye. Picking out a couple of books on democracy, I find a quiet area with some desks and couches and settle in.
But I can’t concentrate. Usually I can put a book in my hands and be oblivious to the world. It’s a great skill for studying, but for some reason my superpowers aren’t working today. Every movement, every sound: they all catch my attention, and soon I’m watching the people around me closer than my work. Back in Oxford, libraries are silent and sacrosanct, but here people don’t seem to care about keeping quiet. Two boys in sports shirts are complaining over their notes, a blond girl bobs her head in time to her iPod, and two girls are giggling togetherbehind a stack of books. Their desk is spread with candy wrappers, magazines, and colored pens, and studying looks like the last thing on their minds as they hiss at each other.
“Shhh, she’ll hear.”
“No 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.
“Excuse 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 . . .”
“Oh!” She plucks it off. “Thanks.”
“No 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.
“And 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 purpleand green, a leather cuff on her wrist, and silver bullets in her ears.
“Nobody gets them,” I say, toying
Similar Books
