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Monkey Business
PRAISE FOR SARAH MLYNOWSKI
As Seen on TV
“A fun and telling look at the world of reality TV and the lure of fame.”
—Booklist
“As Seen on TV is funny…. The book is filled with witty characters and Steve, a lovable boyfriend whom you can’t help rooting for.”
—Columbus Dispatch
“As Seen on TV is simply irresistible—one of the best reasons you could find for reaching for the TV remote and hitting the off button.”
—International bestselling author Nick Earls
Fishbowl
“An original and very funny celebration of friendship between women.”
—Waldenbooks, Best of 2002 Women’s Fiction
“…Mlynowski is out for a rollicking good time from the start.”
—Arizona Republic
“Undemandingly perfect…wonderfully bitchy.”
—Jewish Chronicle
“A fresh and witty take on real-life exams in love, lust, trust and friendship.”
—Bestselling author Jessica Adams
Milkrun
“Mlynowski is acutely aware of the plight of the 20-something single woman—she offers funny dialogue and several slices of reality.”
—Publishers Weekly
“This Sex and the City-style story is chick-lit for the modern age.”
—Heat
Twenty-something Sarah Mlynowski was born in Montreal, Canada, and has an honors degree in English literature from McGill University. She is currently a full-time novelist in New York, and her books have been published in more than sixteen countries. Monkey Business is her fourth novel.
If you’d like to say hello, visit her Web site at www.SarahMlynowski.com.
Monkey Business
Sarah Mlynowski
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many, many thanks to:
my mom, Elissa Ambrose, because she reads each word I ever write, no matter what time it is, and always makes my sentences sound prettier; my editor, Sam Bell, for putting this book on the Slim-Fast diet and showing me how to punch it up; my agent, Laura Dail, for being superb in every way; Corinne Gelman, for still being my favorite interview subject, and for taking the time to read early, cryptic drafts of this book; Lynda Curnyn, because she is one of the nicest editors around, as well as being a fabulous writer and my favorite lunching companion; the RDI team: Farrin Jacobs, Margaret Marbury, Laura Morris, Stephanie Campbell, Margie Miller, Tara Kelly and Tania Charzewski, for their excellent work; my friends and little sister: Jess Braun, Bonnie Altro, Robin Glube, Jess Davidman and Aviva Mlynowski, for always answering my Is-This-Funny?/Does-This-Sound-Too-Canadian? e-mails within thirty seconds of receiving them; and Todd Swidler, because with him beside me, everything makes sense. Life, love and even arbitrage pricing. Okay, he had to explain that last one multiple times and ver-r-ry slowly.
For my dad and stepmom,
Larry Mlynowski and Louisa Weiss,
with love.
Contents
orientation (primarily academic)
kimmy’s big blunder
jamie wants a replay so he can amend his foreplay
russ floats and forgets
layla applies herself
kimmy contemplates the random acts of the universe
russ omits one significant detail
first semester
jamie comes late (literally)
kimmy’s double date
layla makes a good impression
kimmy buys her books
russ goes to war
jamie is a washout
layla’s price isn’t right
kimmy’s quasi quarantine
layla finds her prince in a haystack
kimmy’s fears comes true
layla has a girls’ night in
kimmy does her patriotic duty
jamie snoozes and loses
russ spins the bottle
layla tricks but won’t treat
jamie is shockingly punctual
russ blasts beer
kimmy goes to bat
russ caves in
layla goes fruity
kimmy knows the drill
jamie wants a sex change/jamie wants sex, period
layla gets the job done
russ returns to the land of the loonies
kimmy waits
layla hits the books
kimmy studies it up at the library
jamie’s on fire
russ ignores his conscience
layla thinks she failed (again)
russ finishes his exam
kimmy gets screwed
russ rings in the new year
jamie saves the world one book at a time
kimmy’s prepping
it’s the doghouse for russ
second semester
kimmy’s shrinking basket
layla’s stakeout
the green-eyed monster gets to russ
layla writes a marketing plan
kimmy has a heart-to-heart
jamie’s wake-up call
layla makes her move
kimmy works it
russ almost blows his cover
layla gets bubbly
jamie’s valentine’s day curse
kimmy is pissed
jamie thinks about life
russ gets nailed
kimmy gets lucky
jamie returns to the zoo
kimmy has a boyfriend
russ becomes a copycat
layla’s library libido
kimmy saves her boyfriend’s ass
jamie’s muse makes him miserable
russ is annoyed
layla’s new fantasy
kimmy boards the train to pain
jamie talks the talk
layla’s epiphany
russ gets busted (and drags kimmy down with him)
jamie’s rise to stardom
kimmy rationalizes her future
layla streaks
russ’s depression
layla sees the truth
some news for russ
jamie’s advice
kimmy’s ejection
layla’s birthday
sister kimmy
jamie’s mom knows best
russ has a fleeting regret
layla’s calling
closure for kimmy
layla claims her prince
summer break
kimmy’s elevator
Monday, September 1, 11:55 p.m.
kimmy’s big blunder
He aims, he shoots, he scores—all over my silk duvet.
“It’s okay. Not a big deal,” I lie.
“Give me two seconds, Kimmy, and I’ll be ready for round two.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I lie again.
And then he rolls over and passes out.
He’s sleeping, I’m still in my jeans, and my goose-feather duvet—a gift from my father and the only thing I own of any worth—has a puddle on it.
I can’t believe how gross this is. And to make matters worse, this guy I’ve chosen as my one-night stand—make that five-minute stand—is in my class. I can’t imagine spending the next ten minutes with him, never mind the next two years.
Besides being incapable of holding it in long enough to make it to the condom, a lesson the girls were supposed to teach him when he was an undergrad, he’s flabby, short and has a unibrow. Also his penis is smaller than my PDA, and that fits in the palm of my hand.
For the first time ever, my mother was right. I hate that. She nagged me to put a cover on my duvet, one nag among millions, but did I listen? No, not me. My reasoning? I liked the feel of the satin against my skin.
Apparently so did Jamie.
He’s comatose on top of my comforter, his jeans and checkerboard boxers bagging around his hairy thighs. His eyes are closed, his mouth slightly open, and a trail of drool leaks onto my pillow. Hasn’t he already soiled enough of my linen?
The devil-red numbers on the alarm clock beside my single bed say 12:01 a.m. Or is that 1:21? I can’t see too well, as I’m a bit on the dizzy side.
Okay, I admit it. Drunk dizzy.
Dread dribbles through my half-dressed body like nausea after one too many beers. From my uncomfortable position (back pressed up against the thin wooden wall, legs straight like a clothespin to avoid making contact with his), I analyze the situation’s gravity. There’s a balding, tire-around-the-middle, quasi-naked man in my bed. Correction, on my bed.
Oh, God, what did I do?
My class of two hundred is divided into three Blocks (aka sections), A through C, and all my classes are within the same Block. The way to impress my new classmates probably wasn’t to take one home the first night I’m here. Especially not one in my Block. Block B. It sounds like a prison.
His bloated lips are slightly open, his breath gentle and wet. This embarrassment will probably sit two rows behind me ten times a week. It’s going to be a long two years.
Why did I invite Jamie back to my room? Oh, right, I was trying not to think about Wayne. And I thought he could be my replacement boyfriend. I’ll give Jamie cute in a worn, teddy-bear sort of way. He said he was twenty-six, but he looks almost middle-aged. Like a forty-year-old who buys a Corvette and gets an earring to stay hip.
Spew all over my comforter is not cool. Okay, it’s not all over the comforter; it’s relegated to a one-inch Italy-shaped boot on the right side of the bed. But still, what am I going to do, bring it to the dry cleaner? Wash it in the sink? I don’t even have my own sink. I share three sinks with the thirty other people on my floor. I’m not Linus. I can’t start dragging my comforter around the dorm. I’ll have to wait until the middle of the night to sneak through the halls, covert-operation-like.
I have to pee. Too much beer. I swing my legs over the comatose body, onto the raggedy red-and-blue throw carpet, which was the first thing I unpacked when I arrived this morning. (I like a warm ground under my feet.) Then I blow out the potted candle on my desk. That was the second item I unpacked. Unfortunately, the wick didn’t get much of a workout tonight. I didn’t get much of a workout tonight, and you can blame that on his wick.
I open the closet door and disappear inside. The massive space reserved for my wardrobe is the anomaly of my minuscule eight-by-eight-foot room. My bed, desk and chair are squished practically on top of one another, yet my sweaters, jeans and shoes have a huge suite. Go figure. I don’t even like shopping.
I can’t believe I’m here. In the closet. At business school. At business school. What am I doing at business school? What am I doing in Maplewood, Connecticut? Wayne, jackass Wayne, is the one who wanted to attach the letters MBA to his name. I was more interested in the letters MRS.
So we studied together for the GMATs, the standardized business school exam. And then I took the test and scored in the eighty-ninth percentile. Wayne only scored a fifty-seven. And then we separately filled out six applications and wrote the obligatory Why I Want to Go to Your School essays (“I want to go to New York University because New York is the financial capital of the world…I want to go to Stanford because San Francisco is the technology capital of the world…I want to go to the University of Miami so I can have a perma-tan…” Kidding about that last one. Sort of).
I was accepted by four of the six, including LWBS, Winsford University’s business school, one of the top business schools in the country. Wayne didn’t get accepted anywhere.
Wayne then told me we were getting too serious. He wanted space. I want to take a break, he said. I need to focus on my future, he said. But then I found out that what he really wanted to focus on was my friend Cheryl.
No, we’re not friends anymore.
I hope he and Cheryl have a nice, happy, uneducated life together.
I decided to come to LWBS anyway. Why not? I begged my dad to loan me tuition money. I would find myself a new boyfriend. The ratio of men to women here is three to one. Three to one. I read somewhere that single women should head up to Alaska, but this is a billion times better. And a billion times warmer. Well, not that much warmer; it’s Connecticut, not Florida.
In the mirror on my closet door I see that the eyeliner around my eyes is smeared, making me look as if I’m auditioning for an anti-smack ad.
At least my nose is perfect. My father bought me this nose for my eighteenth birthday. I begged him for that, too. In the tenth grade the boys in my class used to rank the girls. I got eight out of ten in personality, seven and a half for body, and five for face. I spent the rest of the day crying in the girl’s rest room.
If pre-nose job my face was a five, post-nose job, I’m at least an eight. In three to one B-school, where the average woman cares more about a flawless résumé than a flawless complexion, my eight translates into at least an eleven.
I should clean up in this place.
I slip on a pair of shorts and look for a sleep shirt. My ripped class-of-2001 college shirt? Nah. That’s best left hidden from the public eye. Instead I squeeze my latest acquisition, a new aqua T-shirt patterned in miniature Playboy Bunnies, over my head. It brings out the blue in my eyes and shows off my curves. I bought it specifically to be my wear-to-the-bathroom-in-the-middle-of-the-night-in-case-I-run-into-a-hottie shirt.
I look slutty. But in the good way.
My head starts to pound. I shouldn’t have brought Jamie back to my room. What was I thinking? I wasn’t thinking. I was wearing beer goggles.
“How many MBAs does it take to screw in a lightbulb?” he asked me.
“I don’t know,” I said, finishing what was left of my drink.
“Trick question—MBAs won’t do manual labor.”
For some reason (too much beer?) I thought he was funny and I thought, that’s what I need. Wayne isn’t funny! I need someone funny! Then I felt his hand on my arm and I thought: This is it. He’s the one! I met the one on my first day, lucky me! When he asked me if I wanted to get some air, I was elated. And then when he said he was in Block B like me, that sealed the deal.
Thank God I didn’t actually sleep with him. I’d be branded as the class slut. And not in the good way. Hopefully he’s embarrassed by his performance and he’ll keep his mouth shut.
I slip my enormously revolting size-ten-and-half feet into my pharmacy-bought flip-flops. I exit the closet to see that the flabby half-naked man is unfortunately still sprawled on my bed. Then I open the door to my room. It groans. I jiggle it back and forth in an attempt to cause an ear-exploding screeching sound and thus rouse him from his post-orgasm nap.
CREEEEEAK.
Light from the hallway floods the room, but his eyes don’t even flutter.
Shaped like the letter H, the dorm is made up of a hundred and twenty rooms, thirty on each floor. I live on the northwest side of the top story. I slip into the hallway and quickly close the door behind me to shield any potential hookups who happen to be passing by from seeing my exposed new classmate, then maneuver my way around the sharp corner in the hallway toward the bathroom. The coed bathroom is in the dash in the middle of the H. I push open the bathroom door to three sinks, five toilet stalls and three showers. Apparently people spend more time peeing than washing.
One of the showers is occupied. So far I haven’t met any of my neighbors. Is it a guy? A hot guy?
What would he do if I took off all my clothes and sneaked in there with him?
He’d run his hands down my body, telling me how gorgeous I am.
Yeah, right. He’d probably be repulsed by my seven-and-a-half-rated fat ass.
I open the door to the stall against the wall. Since I moved in yesterday, I’ve tested all of them. I think I like this one best, since it means I get one potential stall neighbor instead of two. It’s one thing to be in the shower with a hot guy; it’s another to be sandwiched between two strangers while you’re peeing.
My stomach feels queasy at the thought of a guy in the stall next to mine. There’s no way I’d be able to pee. And what if I fart? I can’t fart with a guy next to me. What if it’s smelly? I can’t deal.
Again, what am I doing at business school?
I flush and wonder if the shower just got cold. The water stops, and I take a deep breath, compose myself and prepare to meet my future.
Maybe a six-foot, brown-eyed, big-smiled, dimpled god of manhood with a tiny white towel around his waist (he’ll be slightly bronzed) will slide open the shower stall door, water dripping down his naked chest. He will smile, maybe say hi, and the two of us will start talking. Maybe we’ll stand in the bathroom for ten or so minutes, and then, so immersed in the conversation, we’ll stop in the hall to talk some more, sharing and baring our souls until dawn, and just as the sun pours through the hall window onto the faded stained beige carpet, he’ll kiss me gently on the lips, tell me I’m beautiful and wrap his arms around me. I’ll pull the keys out from my pocket, pull him into my room…
Oh, yeah, Jamie.
Jamie is going to ruin everything. First my reputation and now this.
The god of manhood is still in the shower, probably drying himself with that itsy-bitsy towel. I hurry over to the sink and turn on the water. His first impression of me can’t be in front of a toilet.
The man of my dreams turns out to be a tall and voluptuous woman in a maroon terry-cloth bathrobe, a matching towel perched on her head, holding a pink basket filled with at least two shampoos, three conditioners, numerous unidentifiable bottles, an electric toothbrush and a shower puff. Damn.
She sets her cosmetics down beside one of the sinks and pulls out her toothbrush, toothpaste and floss. “Hi!” she chirps as she rolls the bottom of her Crest tube and applies an overdose of paste to her brush.
“Hi,” I say. “Nice privacy in here, huh?”
She nods enthusiastically. “It’s pretty good,” she says, and turns on her toothbrush.
Yikes. I was being sarcastic. Where did this broad grow up that she thinks this is private? On an airplane? “I was kidding,” I say, and splash some water on my face. “We’re like animals in here.” Maybe that’s why they call it the Zoo. If only Wayne were here for me to live with…those with domestic partners are eligible to live off campus. Bastard, Wayne.
“It’s not ideal,” she continues. “I was trying to be positive. I’m concerned about the excessive bacteria.”
“Uh-huh.” What is she rambling about? Damn. I forgot my cleanser and toothbrush in my room. I point to her face wash. “Can I use some of that?”
She spits into the sink, rinses. “Of course.” She squeezes a drop into my palm. Maybe she doesn’t want me touching the tube in case I have bacteria. “One of my nannies always said that the trick to having good skin is that no matter where you are, you have to wash your face before you go to sleep, every single night. I’m Layla. You?”
Her nanny? I’ve never liked girl-bonding, and getting info about this broad’s nanny is just weird. Most of my friends have been guys. Except Cheryl, and look how that turned out. I don’t trust women. “Uh, Kimmy,” I answer. My voice sounds a bit strangled, I think.
The girl smiles, reapplies her toothpaste and sticks the toothbrush back into her mouth. A blond strand slips from her head towel and into the foam.
I pat the creamy cleanser over my face until it’s thick. Just as I lean to wipe it off, the door flings open. There stands Jamie, shirt unbuttoned, hairy, flabby chest protruding, beige pants haphazardly done up.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he says, strutting into the bathroom. “I was wondering where you were. You okay? I’m zonked. I’m going back to my room to sleep.”
I know I don’t like him, but that doesn’t mean I want him to see me looking as if I’ve dunked my face in whipped cream. Why does he want to go back to his own room? What, now he doesn’t want to spend the night? Did I do something wrong?
“See you later,” I say as he strolls toward one of the stalls. His urine tinkles into the toilet bowl.
Shower girl gives me a nod and then leaves. She must be judging me, thinking I’m a stupid slut for hooking up with someone on the first night.
Bitch.
Tuesday, September 2, 12:30 a.m.
jamie wants a replay so he can amend his foreplay
I bang the palm of my hands against the walls as I sprint down the hallway. Who knew I’d be the business school stud?
I hit the jackpot.
Fine, I might have hit the jackpot a little earlier than intended, but Kimmy didn’t care. And I’ll make it up to her next time and then some.
Kimmy could have taken home any of the guys at the beer bash, but she chose me. The shmuck in the corner. My dream girl. Almost. My dream girl is Deborah Messing, but Kimmy’s a close second. And I was in her room. In her bed. In her pants. Okay, on her pants. And on her comforter, but that’s not the point. Why was it so easy for me? I wouldn’t hook up with me if I were a girl. I don’t get it. (Actually, I did get it, which is what I don’t get.)
Russ and Nick, the guys I met yesterday, decided to go out for wings before the party, but I declined. I wanted to get a head start checking out the ladies. Who there weren’t too many of. After a dozen rounds of hand shaking and “Hi, I’m Jamie Grossman, I’m from Florida, I used to work in hospital management, and you?” I switched it up to keep the night lively. I was Jeremy from Iowa, former accountant. And then Bill from Dallas, former gun retailer. I even added a modest twang for effect. My mother had been wrong. The college drama course I’d taken was good for something.
The party was a total sausage fest. In the common room, the three couches shaped like a horseshoe around the big-screen TV were swamped with men. For the occasion, welcome signs and sagging balloons in the school’s royal-blue had been taped to the freshly painted white walls, which probably destroyed the paint job, but who cares?
After my fiftieth introduction, a few bowls of pretzels and four plastic glasses of lukewarm Coke, I was bored. Most people were piss drunk, which only heightened their pompousness. Making conversation was like talking to a parrot on Prozac. The people I met couldn’t have cared less about what I had to say. They only wanted to talk about themselves. Which was probably a good thing. I don’t want them to know too much about me anyway. They may start getting suspicious about what the hell I’m doing here.
I don’t drink. Alcohol makes me depressed and stupid. I prefer my screwups to be done on my own merit. Like failing my first semester of college because I was too in love with Mia Brottman to go to class, or getting fired from my first postdropout sales job because I told my boss he was a dickhead. (He was a dickhead.)
Anyway, the party was lame. And I was exhausted—I only slept about four hours last night after driving for twenty-four hours from Miami and then partying all night. I was deliberating escaping to my room to relax and watch a DVD. I have three hundred in my room. I am a major movie buff who has wasted many a day enjoying theme specific marathons, such as a Clint-Eastwood-athon, Three-Stoogesathon, etc. (Which might have contributed to my failing my first semester that year.) But as I swallowed the last drop of flat Coke in my cup, in walked a movie star.
A pint of cold beer to a group of men who’d been chomping on salted pretzels all night, she was wearing a purple silk wraparound top that exposed a liberal expanse of glistening cleavage. Brown curls framed her creamy face, swirling onto her shoulders. I wanted to run my hands over her voluptuous behind.
I had to talk to her. I was in lust. I maneuvered my way so that I was standing near her, and then, when she looked sufficiently bored with the computer nerd beside her—“D-d-do you know that integrated wire-l-l-less LAN de-de-devices…”—I jumped in with a joke.
