Monkey Business

Keanu Reeves does some sort of high-tech tae kwon do move on screen. “Doesn’t that look cool?” Russ asks. Then the next preview starts. “I definitely want to see this,” he says.

I can’t help but laugh. “You’re a marketer’s wet dream. You want to see everything.”

“Can’t help it. They all look good.”

“That’s because you only see the best part of the movie. You don’t have to sit through the boring dialogue, bad editing and predictable plot.”

I feel his eyes on me instead of the screen. He’s going to tell me I’m nuts. Instead he says, “That’s an interesting way of putting it.”

He is so close. I can smell the M&M’s on his breath.

Is he going to kiss me? I think he’s going to kiss me. Now. Any second.

Suddenly there’s a thump in the seat beside me.

“Russ, you greedy bastard,” Jamie says, stuffing his mouth with popcorn. “You have to leave some women for the rest of us.”

Huh? What does that mean?

Russ withdraws back into his seat, like a scared turtle into his shell.

“He’s not being greedy,” I say. Why does Jamie think he owns me?

“Yes, he is. He has Sharon to whisper to during movies. He can’t have you, too.”

Sharon? What’s a Sharon? Any chance Sharon is his sister? This preview is really interesting. So interesting I think I’ll keep staring at it. Yup. Keep staring. And not look as though I am upset or surprised in any way whatsoever.

Jamie continues chomping on his popcorn, inadvertently spurting out both kernel remnants and more information. “So Russ, how long did you say you and Sharon have been going out?”

Nail. Slammed. Deeper. Into. Heart. Russ has a girlfriend. I’ve already named our children, and he has a girlfriend. Maybe they’re not serious?

“Hasn’t it been since college?” Jamie says, answering his own question.

Russ shifts in his seat. His thigh is no longer touching mine, but is a continent away. I cannot cry. I cannot cry. That would be pathetic. Not more pathetic than me imagining he was interested in me in the first place, but pathetic nonetheless.

This had better be a short movie. Or a sad one.

I will stare straight ahead. Beautiful, tragic movie screen.

The movie starts and I continue staring ahead.

“Do you want some popcorn?” Jamie whispers to me.

“Sure, thank you,” I say in a seductive voice, just loud enough for Russ to hear. Ha. You’re taken? Fine. Then watch me flirt with Jamie. See how you like that.

My fingers accidentally touch Jamie’s and a smile twitches his face. Uh-oh. Maybe this isn’t a good idea.

“Where do you think they filmed this?” Jamie asks a few minutes later. A kernel remnant lands on my ear.

Who cares? “New York.”

“Yeah? I was thinking Montreal. Isn’t that the Olympic Stadium?”

How should I know? “Maybe.”

“I think it is. I love Montreal. It’s so European. Have you ever been?”

No. And I never will. I now hate Canada and all Canadians. Especially Russ. Jamie better shut up. If he keeps talking throughout the entire movie, I won’t be able to properly fixate my thoughts on Sharon. Sharon. She sounds like a bitch. I bet she’s blond.

Jamie’s still staring at me. “Have you?”

Have I what? Oh, right. Montreal. “No.”

Definitely blond. With dainty feet. Men love small feet. I bet the guys in her high school ranked her a ten. The entire package, I mean. Her feet are probably size six.

I hate B-school.

Tuesday, September 9, 10:40 a.m.

layla makes a good impression

I love B-school.

And I would love it exponentially more if Professor Martin stopped spitting on me. But he appears to love what he teaches, Strategy, and that’s what’s important.

He’s wearing an army hat. This is because he is trying to make the point that business is war, which is written in block letters on the blackboard and on the class agenda, lest we forget.

As usual, I’m sitting in the front row. This time, I’m regretting the seat choice due to Professor Martin’s tendency to spit every time he uses the letter P.

Kimmy seems to be enjoying the class even less than I am. She looks horribly uncomfortable in the front row, and keeps reclining her neck as though attempting to get away. She’s wearing a look of distaste, as if the maid forgot to empty the kitty litter. And she’s not even taking notes. I suppose she’s planning on borrowing them later from the library, where the professors keep them on file.

All the men around me are eagerly leaning forward in their seats, enjoying the war metaphor. I’m finding the environment mildly testosterone heavy.

“Do you people understand?” Professor Martin spits, waving his hands. “Your competitor is the enemy. You must be prepared to fight for every consumer dollar and every point of market share or you will not prevail in business.”

Too bad I’m a pacifist. Why do men think everything is about war?

Yes! The bell rings, and I head to the computer terminals to check my e-mail. The application committee was supposed to get back to me early this week. It’s Tuesday. Today is the last possible day for it to still be considered early in the week. Tomorrow is the middle of the week. I type in my e-mail address and password. My password is always the same. It’s the license plate I memorized off a cab when I was five, thinking that the driver was the gray-haired man who had killed his wife in that week’s episode of Unsolved Mysteries. I wanted to call the show, but my then nanny wouldn’t let me.

In my inbox: five e-mails from my best girlfriends back home in the city, a bunch of e-mails from the LWBS administration regarding class add/drop dates, a reminder about my ten-year high-school reunion this summer (for which I’m on a committee), an article featuring my mother in Woman Entrepreneurs, forwarded by her secretary.

Not in my inbox: a message from the applications committee.

Bummer. I IM with the girls for twenty minutes, wash my hands in the bathroom to cleanse myself of computer germs, and use a paper towel to open the door. I need to buy more of those antibacterial wipes. I’m already out. In the caf, I buy a burger and a Sprite, then search for a familiar face. I look for people in my work group, but can’t find anyone. They’re extremely competent, but they don’t like to socialize. Two of them are married and live in off-campus housing. The third is the orange-haired Japanese student, who mostly hangs out with the Asian student association.

I spot Kevin, the last member of my group, sitting by himself in the corner, rubbing his eyes. He’s always rubbing his eyes. And I’ve seen him do it right after he opens the germ-infested classroom door. In Japan, they hand out warm towels to wipe your hands on before you eat. Kevin could use one.

“Mind if join you for lunch?” I ask. He wouldn’t be my first choice for a meal partner, but I’ll give him a chance. “Ghjkhjh,” he says, mumbling something. He pushes his tray to the side to accommodate me, so I assume that’s a yes. Obviously I didn’t ask him to be part of my group because of his conversation skills. A former accountant for Ernst & Young, he’s a whiz with numbers.

“Are your eyes okay?” I ask, biting into my hamburger.

“They’re itchy.” Small bits of pus line the rims. He continues rubbing. His fingers are streaked with ketchup. Then he stops, picks up a French fry and licks the ketchup off his finger. A few seconds later, he’s rubbing his eyes again.

“Hjkghfj,” he says, and then eats another French fry.

I seriously need to make some LWBS girlfriends.

Professor Rothman is extremely handsome. He’s almost six feet tall and has sandy-blond hair. And he’s in his mid-thirties, tops.

Who knew professors could look like this?

For the first time, all the women in the class are sitting in the front two rows.

Rothman lifts his muscled arm and writes GDP = C+I+ (X-M)+G on the blackboard. I copy the new equation.

“Does anyone know what the letters represent?” he asks.

I raise my hand. “The C signifies consumer goods. The I signifies investment goods. The…” Think! Think! I know this! “The X-M signifies exports minus imports and the G signifies government spending.”

“Well done,” he says, and smiles. Wow. That’s what I want. A gorgeous, intelligent man. A man who knows his numbers. I look away and continue taking notes. He’s talking too fast to stop. I’ve already written eleven pages, and my hand is starting to hurt. I can’t believe he’s teaching so much in the first class.

The bell rings, and I finish the sentence. I insert my notes into the second section of my Tuesday/Thursday binder, then hole-punch and add the sheets he handed out at the beginning of class. I hope I didn’t miss anything.

“Professor Rothman?” I ask, waving my hand toward him, and a smile lights up his face.

“You can call me Jon,” he says, and then looks at the nameplate that’s still on my desk. “Miss Roth.”

“I’m Layla,” I reply. He’s so approachable! “Will videotapes of your lectures be available at the library?”

“Yes, the videotapes will be available.” He rubs the back of his arm against his chin. “And I would also like to tell you that your contribution today was excellent.”

Yes! “Thanks, sir. I mean, Jon. I’ve always enjoyed working with unknown variables.”

“I’m looking forward to having you in my class this year.” He continues to hold my gaze. All right. Time to look away. Why isn’t he looking away? I smile, look down, close my binder, zip up the rolling bag I bought so I wouldn’t strain my back and roll it down the hall.

What was up with that? Why is the professor flirting with me? That is so inappropriate.

Integrative Communications is the only class I have that’s not in room 103. IC is in room 207, and I’m looking forward to the change of scenery.

I walk around the podium, sit myself down in the front row and arrange a new area in my binder. The class slowly fills up behind me. A few minutes later, a woman with frizzy red hair and a big smile walks in clapping her hands.

“Hello, everyone, hello,” she says as people bustle to their seats. She cups her ear with her hand. “Sorry? I didn’t hear you.” No one speaks. “That’s your cue to say hello back.”

“Hello,” we mumble.

“Shy ones, are you? This is no place for shyness! One of the most vital aspects to speaking in public is confidence. Let me hear that confidence!”

“Hello!” we say. My hello is especially loud.

“Excellent! I can see I am going to have a wonderful time with you!” She smiles down at me and I smile back.

“My name is Cindy Swiley,” she says, and presses a button on her laptop. The title, Professor Cindy Swiley, flashes in red across the screen. “But you can all call me Cindy.” Professor and Swiley fade away, leaving a gradually expanding Cindy. “I’ll be teaching you Integrative Communications for the next six weeks.” New slide appears. “In this class, you will learn how to present. How to handle questions. How to speak without notes. You will be giving two presentations, one halfway through the class and one as your final exam. Your midterm will be videotaped, and then reviewed and critiqued by me. But I’m sure you’ll all do fantastic!”

I can’t wait! At twenty past four the bell rings. I pile my belongings together, then return to the computer terminal to check my e-mail.

Dear Ms. Roth,

Congratulations! You have been accepted to the Carry the Torch Committee. Please be in room 302 on the third floor of the Katz building on Friday at 9:00 a.m. for an informational briefing.

Yes! I would pat myself on the back, but I still haven’t purchased more of those antibacterial wipes.

4:30 p.m.

kimmy buys her books

I am wasting my day in a bookstore line. And it’s not even a fun bookstore. Where are the cappuccinos, the magazines, the scones?

The LWBS bookstore is one long, windowless room, filled with textbooks, course-packs, and nebbish royal-blue sweatshirts that say LWBS in block red letters. As if I’d ever buy one. Maybe a baby tee, but that’s as much school spirit as I’ve got.

There are seven people ahead of me. To add insult to injury, the line next to me is moving exponentially faster. Look at me, throwing around words like exponentially. What do I think I am, an MBA student?

This place is busier than a gym at six o’clock. Not that I have a choice. I have cases to read by tomorrow. My heart pounds at the thought of the never-ending treadmill of homework. My fingers are about to break off from lugging these hundred-pound books. I’m holding one course-pack per class, plus an extra one for Strategy. Even IC has one, which I don’t understand. Why do I need photocopied case studies to help me learn to speak in public? I’m also lugging to the cash register the must-have B-school eighty-five-dollar calculator and seven textbooks. SEVEN. All hardcover. All in the region of a hundred dollars. Each. And they don’t even sell used copies so I can’t skimp on last year’s editions. What bookstore doesn’t sell used copies? What a waste. I won’t even be able to resell them next semester.

True, my dad paid my tuition, but I’m using the money I’ve saved up over the last few years of working to pay for my books and living expenses. And my dad isn’t thrilled about his contribution. He wrote the check with a heavy hand and asked me repeatedly if I was sure this was what I wanted.

I told him yes, even though I have no idea.

I drop the books onto the floor to alleviate the cramp in my fingers and scan the room for Russ. Where is he? I hoped he’d be buying his books now, too. Not that I want to see him. I’m a tiny bit mortified that I’ve been throwing myself at him all week and he already has a girlfriend. He must think I’m a freak. Obviously a guy as gorgeous as him has a girlfriend.

I avoided making eye contact with him for the remainder of the movie. In the car home, I decided that dodging the subject made me look like I cared, and obviously that wasn’t going to help my cause. So I acted like I loved Sharon. Hurray for Sharon. Maybe Sharon and I can be best buds. We’ll bake cookies and braid each other’s hair. “So when do we get to meet Sharon?” I asked from the front seat of Jamie’s ten-year-old Hyundai Excel, putting on my best girly voice, all high-pitched and full of fake cheer.

“I don’t know,” Russ answered. “She lives in Toronto.”

Toronto? Does it count if they’re not in the same country?

I avoided him all day. I walked straight into Strategy and sat right in the front. Big mistake, since Professor Martin is psycho. Thinks he’s still in Vietnam. I tried the front row again for Economics and IC. Barely saw Russ until he and Nick passed me on the way out and Nick asked me if I wanted to join them for a four-twenty. Decided to play it cool and say no. And I have no idea what a four-twenty is.

There he is. My mouth goes instantly dry as if a vacuum has sucked out its moisture. He and Nick are standing by the door. Nick stumbles, and the two of them laugh. Then they scan the bookstore and shake their heads in what I assume is dismay at the jungle in here.

Russ spots me and I freeze. He smiles and twirls his index finger near his temple, which I read as his this-line-is-crazy gesture.

I nod. “I know,” I mouth. I hold up two fingers and then point at my watch. I’m trying to tell him I’ve been here for two hours.

He shakes his head again. Then he points to his eyes and then at my books on the floor.

Translation (I think): Can I look at your books tonight?

My mouth goes dry again. I’m glad we’re not face-to-face because I don’t think I can talk properly. He wants to hang out with me tonight. To do reading. Together.

Maybe he just doesn’t want to wait in line.

Or maybe (it’s possible) he’s looking for an excuse to hang out with me.

I nod.

He says something to Nick that I can’t read, winks at me, and then takes off.

There’s suddenly a huge gap between my massive feet and the person in front of me in line. I pick up my five-hundred-pound pile, then drop it a foot up.

Sigh. How come the good ones are always taken? Russ is so cute. So perfect. I have the worst luck.

The person in front of me is at the cash register. I push my books forward with my foot.

First Wayne leaves me for someone else, and now the guy I want is taken.

The skinny purple-haired undergrad at the register motions to me. I’m up. I pick up my stuff in two shifts. How am I going to carry these back to the dorm? A boyfriend would carry them for me.

“That’ll be eight hundred, forty-seven dollars, and twenty-two cents.”

Good thing I didn’t buy that baby tee.

Tuesday, September 16, 5:35 p.m.

russ goes to war

Dribble. Dribble. Big breath. I shoot, I…

Miss. Oh, man.

“You suck, Russ,” Nick says.

“Shit.” I jog toward the basket.

“You see that net, up there?” he says, pointing. “The ball is supposed to go through it. Through.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“Had enough for today?”

I nod. Don’t think I can speak. “I’m too old for this.”

“Gimme a break. You just need some practice, dude.”

I empty a bottle of water down my throat and follow Nick outside the gym. The fall air attacks the sweat on my arms and face.

“Wanna go for a beer?” Nick asks.

“Can’t. Made plans to study with Kimmy.”

Nick raises an eyebrow. “So have you fucked her yet?”

I trip on my shoelaces. “Excuse me?”

He laughs. “You two have been spending a lot of time together. Just wondering what’s going on.”

“Nothing’s going on. I’m a taken man.”

He chuckles. “If you say so.” When we reach the second floor, he says, “Same time tomorrow?”

“You got it,” I say to Nick’s retreating figure. I climb the rest of the way on my own, thinking about his other question.

Kimmy and I have been spending a lot of time together. But nothing is going on. Nothing. Who’s to say I can only make male friends at school? I’m supposed to be networking. We’ve been hanging out for legitimate purposes. Studying. Reading. Working out. Nothing sketchy.

And she knows about Sharon, thanks to Jamie. I was going to mention it eventually, honest, but it’s not something you can easily work into the conversation without sounding like a hoser. Thanks for the movie invite. Did I mention my girlfriend Sharon really likes movies?

I unlock my room, grab a towel, shampoo and soap, and bolt to the bathroom. As the hot water pummels against my back, I tell myself for the umpteenth time this week that I’m not doing anything wrong. There is nothing wrong with having a close female friend.

I’m full of shit.

She wants me—didn’t she say so at the gym?—so, yes, it’s wrong to spend so much time with her. It’s wrong to lead her on when I don’t want her.

I’m so full of shit.

Last night I dreamed we were having sex in Professor Martin’s class. We were actually under the desk, our combat uniforms strewn all over the floor.

I am an asshole. I am the hugest asshole. (But it was a good dream.)

In the dream, under her khaki soldier’s clothes she was wearing what she’d been wearing when we studied together last Tuesday night: a black tank top with red bra straps peeking through. Instead of studying, I spent the entire evening imagining what the rest of the bra looked like. I was thinking the lacy, see-through kind. Maybe with a pair of matching red panties.

When I stopped by her room last Tuesday night to borrow her books, she suggested that we work together in one of the study rooms in the library. I thought, why not. Might be more fun. And there we were. Two people, a man and a woman, in an enclosed room. With the door closed. And no windows. And a big, brown table. I wondered if anyone had ever had sex on that table. I pictured us having sex on that table.

We were supposed to read two cases, one for Organizational Behavior, one for Stats. I skimmed the pages, but it was hard to concentrate when she smelled like vanilla and lemon, like something in my mom’s kitchen.

I shower slowly, enjoying the memory. Eventually I turn off the water, wrap my towel around me and return to my room. Then I pick up the phone. I told Kimmy I’d call her when I was done with basketball.

“Hi, this is Kimmy, can’t come to the phone. Leave a message and I’ll call you back.”

Her voice sounds sexy, smooth then rubbed with sandpaper. I leave a message and pull on the jeans that were crumpled on the floor, the ones that already have my belt in the loops and my change and credit cards in the pocket. My plans with Kimmy are for around five, and it’s five on the nose.

If it hadn’t been for Sharon meeting me, liking me, convincing me to go see a doctor about my skin and kicking my ass into the gym, a girl like Kimmy would never look twice at me.

Where’s my gel?

The phone rings. Must be her. At least she didn’t forget.

“I was waiting for you,” I say, finding the bottle under my desk and rubbing some in my hair.

“You were?” says a familiar voice. Sharon’s.

“Oh, hi,” I say, startled. Sharon. Sharon. My girlfriend. Remember her? The girl who was always there for you? I am such an ass wipe. “I had a feeling you were going to call.”

“Yeah? You must be psychic. What’s up?”

“Not much. Just got back from playing ball.”

“And tonight?”

I wipe the gel residue on my jeans. “Studying, maybe.”

“Good idea,” she says. I doubt that. Then she adds, “I miss you.”

Maybe she can sense my wandering eye. “I miss you, too,” I mumble.

Knock, knock. Oh, man. “Shar, someone’s at the door, I gotta go. Can I call you later?”

“Who is it?” she asks.

At the moment, I’m hoping Nick.

But no. Voice from behind the door. “Russ? You there?” Kimmy.

“One second,” I say to the door. Then I say to the phone, “I have to go.”

“Where are you going?”

“To study.”

Kimmy knocks again. “Russ? You inside?”

Oh, man. I have a pain in my arm, and I think I could be having a heart attack. Breathe. So I’ve been flirting. Big deal. No harm in flirting.

“Who are you studying with?” Sharon asks, relentlessly.

“Just some guys,” I answer. Now I’m lying. I’m not just flirting. I’m lying and flirting.

“Okay, call me tonight.”

“Will do.” I try to keep my voice upbeat and blameless sounding.

“Be good. Love you.”

“You, too.” I leave out the love in case Kimmy can hear. Not sure what else “you, too” could mean. Good luck? You, too. Have a good dinner? You, too. Have fun screwing around? You, too.

Now I really feel like an ass. After all she’s done for me, how can I flirt with someone else? I can’t treat her like this. No more private study sessions with Kimmy.

I open the door and find Kimmy in combat clothes, slinging a rifle over her shoulder. I blink and the vision disappears.

She’s wearing that black tank top with the red bra straps peeking through.

Oh, boy.

“What do you say we go for a beer instead?” I ask.

She smiles. “Sounds even better.”

“I think Nick wants to join us.”

A cloud passes her face. “Lead the way.”

My alarm doesn’t go off when it’s supposed to. My eyes pop open at ten to nine. Oh, man. How did I do that? I check to see if there was a power failure. Nope. Apparently I set my clock for eight p.m. instead of a.m. Good job.