Monkey Business (15 page)

Wednesday, November 26, 4:50 p.m.

P
rint! Print! Come on, come on, you can do it!

I have precisely ten minutes to print out my Economics assignment and haul butt to the Katz building. It's four-fifty. Rothman wants the assignment by five, and he warned us to get it in on time because he's leaving for Thanksgiving. Why did I have to be so nitpicky? I've been working on it for months. What if I'm too late? What if I don't make it? All week classes have been empty because everyone else was working like crazy to finish. I showed up and now I'm going to fail? Where is the justice in that?

Print! Print! Page three pops out. Five more to go!

I don't see why Rothman doesn't let us e-mail our assignments. Why must he make my life difficult?

Print! Print! Two pages left!

I ram my feet into my shoes (no way to treat Prada loafers) and do up my coat. Then I double-check his office number. Six twenty-four. No problem. Time check: 4:54 p.m.

Yes! The final page is done. I slam it into the stapler, and run.

I pass Kimmy in the hallway. “Hey, Layla,” she says. “Where are you going?”

“To hand in Economics,” I say on the move.

“How'd you find the Stats midterm?” she asks quickly.

“I failed for sure,” I answer, and hit the stairs two at a time, and then sprint over to Katz. Stats was impossible. My paper flaps in my hand. I heave open the door to the building. I shimmy between the elevator doors as they're closing and thump the sixth-floor button. Two students are inside, and they seemed to have already pressed the second and fourth floor.

Current time: 4:59. Crap!

The elevator stops at the second floor and a woman in a parka slides out. All right, let's go, off to four. But then the elevator jerks and stops at three. No! A man in a suit steps in and presses…five. Oh, come on, give me a break. This is crazy. Are the Fates conspiring to make me late?

By the time we hit the sixth floor, it's 5:07 and I'm late, I'm late, I'm late. I gallop to his office and—what if he left, what if I fail, what if my entire career is over because of this one useless paper—I stop. His door is open. His lights are on. I hear two men laughing inside.

My heart is still racing from the run. I poke my head around the door.

Jamie is leaning against the wall. “Well, hello there, Layla. We were wondering if you forgot.”

“Hi, Jamie. Hi, Jon. Sorry I'm late, sir.” I deposit the paper on his desk.

“Hi, Layla. Thanks for bringing it by. You see, Jamie, Layla still managed to make it to class this week even though there was a paper due. I suppose you were sick yesterday, but have since miraculously recovered?”

Jamie smirks. “You hit the nail on the head there, Jon.”

The professor laughs and looks directly into my eyes. “Layla, what are you doing this weekend?”

“Going home,” I say, and look away. He's doing it again! Flirting with me!

“Have a good Thanksgiving, you two.”

I back out of the room. “Thanks, sir. You, too.”

Jamie waves goodbye and follows me into the elevator. “That guy has the hots for you.”

I blush. “Yeah?”

Jamie raises an eyebrow. But since he only has one, they both veer toward his bald spot. “Tall, dark and handsome not your type?”

“I don't mix business with pleasure.”

He nods. “Still after your dream man?”

I sigh. “Yup.”

“Have you ever thought about dating someone that exists in real life and not just on paper?” he asks, looking at me out of the corner of his eye.

Enough already. “I told you. I'm not dating Professor Rothman. Too close for comfort.” I decide to change the subject. “I gave you a sex change on Friday.”

“You did?” He closes his eyes for a second and looks relieved. “Thanks. Much appreciated. Can I interest you in some dinner tonight? I'm not going home until tomorrow morning.” He hesitates. “I want to thank you properly.”

Aw. “You're so sweet. It really wasn't a big deal. But no, I'm taking the seven-o'clock train back to the city. I decided not to drive so I can start my reading for next week. And I haven't packed yet.” The doors open, and I plant a quick kiss on his cheek. “Have a safe flight and a great weekend!” And then I bolt back to the Zoo.

9:30 p.m.

I'
m about to ring the doorbell, when I stop myself. Maybe I shouldn't have come. What am I doing here? She's going to be able to tell. My face will be like a blackboard with my illicit affair written all over it in fluorescent-yellow chalk. If only it could be like in
Superman: The Movie
and I could fly backward around the world to turn back time.

Truth is, I'm not even sure if I want to erase the experience with Kimmy. I like knowing that a sexy woman like Kimmy wants me.

I should tell Sharon what happened.

It's freezing out here. Stupid Canadian winter. I press the bell once, twice, softly as though I'm not sure if I want her to hear.

She must have been waiting for me, because right away I hear the click of the door unlocking.

The soft, silky, short brown hair, the big smile. The perfect earlobes. Sharon. “You're back!” she squeals, wrapping her arms around my neck and kissing me hard on the mouth.

Guilt and sadness surge through me, like I've just stuck my
finger in an electrical socket of pain. I love her, and I always have. What did I do? “I'm back,” I say, attempting to keep my voice afloat. Can she tell?

She kisses me deeply and presses her body against mine. Apparently, no, she can't. And I can't tell her. She'd kill me. I can only tell her if I'm willing to lose her, and I'm not. Her tongue feels soft and squishy, like a pillow. I push her up against the door, and I explore under her shirt. My hands feel at home, like Clark Kent returning to Smallville.

She pulls me inside and closes the door behind her.

Decision made. My fling with Kimmy is over.

Sunday, November 30, 10:07 p.m.

W
hy hasn't he called?

I kissed him goodbye on Wednesday afternoon. I thought he would call the next day. Truth is, I hoped he would call Wednesday night after he landed. Or from the airport while he was waiting for his flight. That would have been amazing. But I wasn't asking for that. No. All I was asking is that he call at some point over the weekend. Is that too much to ask? That the guy I've been hooking up with for the past month call me to wish me a happy Thanksgiving?

I'm lying on my bed, wearing a tank top and panties, sweating and staring at the ceiling. My flight landed two hours ago. I thought Russ would be here by now. The central heating is on full blast, so it's boiling in here. I don't mind the heat; I'm used to it from home. It was gorgeous in Arizona. A nice eighty-six degrees. Here it's forty-two. My body is officially confused. And the Zoo feels like ninety degrees. I saw a guy wearing shorts and a tank top strolling through the hallways. I wonder if he'll keep that outfit on all winter. The same weirdness occurs in Arizona. I'll be wearing san
dals and a minidress outside because it's a hundred and thirty degrees, but I need to put on long underwear and a parka to go to the air-conditioned mall.

So far the cold in Connecticut hasn't been so terrible. The gusts of air are refreshing. They make me feel alive. Like sex. Which it doesn't look like I'll be getting tonight. I left my cell phone on the entire time I was home so he could reach me. He could have gotten through while my mother was whining about how miserable her job is. Or while my father grilled me about whether I was wasting my time and money on getting an MBA. Or when I ran into Wayne and Cheryl together at the Rhythm Room and had to maintain a stupid plastic smile on my face.

It was the power-on cell in my purse that kept me sane, reminding me that, yes, there is something good in my life. The very possibility of it ringing was my reason for getting out of bed in the morning.

But now it's Sunday night, and he still hasn't called.

What does it mean? That he wasn't thinking about me? That he was with Sharon the entire weekend? That he doesn't want to see me anymore?

I feel sick and hot and nauseous. I open the window to fill my room with air so I don't faint. Or cry. He doesn't want me anymore. He'd rather be with Sharon.

What do I do? I need a new plan.

I pick up the phone and call him, but he doesn't answer. What if he's decided that he can't live without her? That he's going to transfer to the business school in Toronto?

The open window doesn't seem to be helping the room temperature. What's wrong with me? Why is my heart beating so loudly? I don't understand why I want him so much. Yes, he's hot and smart and serious, but so are other guys here. Why do I want the one guy who's taken? Is it the challenge? Am I worthless if he doesn't want me? Is it the way he plays with my secret ear spot?

I call his room again.

“Hello?” He's back! Why hasn't he come by if he's home?

“Hi, it's me. Can you come by?”

“I…um…” He's stalling. Why is he stalling?

“Just for a few minutes, okay? See you soon.” I hang up before he can turn me down.

I open the bottle of red wine, pour two glasses, light two candles, turn off the lights and take off my clothes.

It's all about strategy.

Monday, December 1, 7:02 a.m.

I
push open the heavy oak library doors, slightly astounded that I was the only one waiting for the security guard to unlock them. How are more students not taking advantage of the library's extended hours? From today, the first Monday after Thanksgiving, until LWBS shuts down for winter holidays on December 19, the library will be open from seven until midnight, seven days a week.

The rolling of my bag's wheels against the polished floor echoes through the empty atrium. I ride the elevator up to the fourth floor and head for my favorite cubicle beside the window. First I skim through the business section of the paper while I sip my coffee. Then I pull out my pencil case, Economics textbook, course pack and binder from my bag. I've already done all my reading for today, so I'll start on tomorrow's cases. First thing in the morning is my favorite time to study. It's quiet and serene. Three-thirty is the most frustrating time. Too many people are here engaging in group meetings. My classmates often fail to remember that they're in a library and that others are trying to study.

For the next twenty minutes I lose myself in Economics, until a large hand squeezes my shoulder.

“Mini-muffin?” offers the voice attached to the hand. I turn to see Jamie passing me a small brown bag. “The bakery down the street makes the most amazing mini-muffins. Have you tried 'em? You gotta try 'em.”

Don't mind if I do. I peer into the bag and pull out two blueberry and one chocolate chip. “What are you doing here? Do you know what time it is?”

He peers at his watch. “It's seven.” Then he gasps. “Oh, shit, is that seven a.m.? I thought I slept through the day. The muffins were my dinner.”

“You're hilarious.”

“Always.” He winks and pulls up a chair. “What are you reading?”

“Econ.”

“Yeah? I hate Economics. I'm going to read OB. Do you happen to have your OB course pack so I can borrow it?”

I find it in my bag and hand it to him. “What would you have done if I wasn't here?”

“They keep a few copies on the fifth floor.” He flips through the book with his thumb like it's a fan, then gestures to my bag. “So, when's the flight?”

“Ha-ha.”

“No seriously, why is your bag on wheels?”

“I like to have all my books with me for reference. No need to strain my back.” People should be kinder to their backs. They only get one. “How was your weekend?”

“Warm. It was ninety degrees in Miami.”

He doesn't look like he just got back from Miami. He's paler than I am. “Did you have fun?”

“Oh, yeah. My parents live in a retirement community now, so we partied hard. Played some shuffleboard, a little bingo. Had the early-bird special for dinner. Wild and crazy times. You?”

“I had a nice time. My sister and I have a place in the Upper East Side, so I went back there. I saw my parents for Thanksgiving dinner and some friends on Saturday night.”

“Bet you have a huge Thanksgiving bash, turkey and all the trimmings.”

Not quite. “My mother doesn't cook much, and the maid was with her family, so we just went to Nobu. No big deal.” Not really.

“I make a mean-ass turkey,” Jamie brags.

“Yeah? Maybe I'll invite you for Christmas dinner. Have you ever been to a Christmas dinner?”

He shakes his head. “Can't say that I have.”

“Is there a Hanukkah dinner? What exactly
is
Hanukkah?”

He leans back, balancing his chair on its hind legs. “It's the story of how one small jug of oil lasted for eight long days.”

“Do you get presents?”

“No. My parents are misers. You're supposed to get eight presents, one for every day of the miracle. But my mother used to use it as an excuse to replace my socks. So I'd get eight new pairs.”

“That's awful.” His balancing is making me a little nervous. He could easily teeter over any second.

“I know. My bubbe always gets me good presents, though. She once bought me one of those toy cars that you can drive around your house. You know what I mean? I bet you had one. Never mind. I bet you got a real car for Christmas.”

He must think I'm so spoiled. “Only twice.” He looks shocked, so I say, “Just kidding. Only once.”

He raises his unibrow. Maybe I should just offer to tweeze that thing. Forget it, how rude would that be?

“What kind of car?” he asks.

This isn't going to help the spoiled image. “BMW convertible.”

“You have a BMW convertible? Layla, why didn't you bring it to school?”

“I do have it at school.”

His chair slips backward, but he grabs hold of the desk before he falls and splits open his head. “What? Why have I never seen it?”

“I don't like to drive.”

“Why do you have a car, then?”

“I don't know. My parents wanted me to have one.”

“For what? Didn't you live in Manhattan?”

“Yeah, but I needed to get around. You know. To the Hamptons.” I think I should just shut up.

“Do you think your parents would mind paying for my next semester's tuition?” He laughs.

Truth is, they probably wouldn't care. Or notice. “I'll ask.”

“Wanna get married? I could definitely use a rich wife.”

Married? I can't even imagine Jamie as a dating contender. He's too…unambitious. I prefer the serious guy to the clown. “Maybe.”

“I'm no Bradley Green, am I?”

Sigh. Perfect Bradley Green. “It's not like Bradley even knows I'm alive. I'll have to wait for him to come to school here,
if
he gets in, and
if
he decides to come.”

We laugh and I decide this is an ideal opportunity to discuss his potential relationship with Kimmy. “Anything new with you and Kimmy?” I ask. “Is she back yet?” Over the weekend, I analyzed the Kimmy situation, and I think falling for Jamie would be a far better strategy for her. First of all, Russ is unavailable. Second, Russ doesn't strike me as such a catch. He's nerdy, stoned half the day, and Kimmy needs someone with more personality. Like Jamie.

“I stopped by her room at around six, but she seemed preoccupied and didn't ask me in.” He shakes his head with dismay. “I think it's time I give up on her.”

“I think you should keep at it. But for now, could you please stop leaning back in that chair? You're making me nervous.”

He grins, and slams his chair back on all fours.

“That's better.” I don't see why she won't go for Jamie. She hooked up with him once, so she must feel a smidgen of attraction for him. Russ isn't going to dump Sharon, and at some point Kimmy will have to accept that and move on.

“I wonder if something's going on with her and Russ,” he says, as if reading my mind.

I look back at my notes and shrug. Am I awful for encouraging him to pursue her, when I know that Russ and Kimmy hooked up after the spin-the-bottle game? At least they haven't “sealed the deal” yet, so maybe there's hope.

“Maybe he dumped his girlfriend over Thanksgiving,” he says. “Could be Black Monday for Russ.”

Never heard that one. “Black Monday?”

“The day after Thanksgiving, when everyone comes back to school broken up.”

I doubt it. “We should get to work,” I say, flipping through my notebook. So much work to do before tomorrow! “Why don't we work for thirty minutes and then take a walk around the floor to stretch?”

“Or maybe you'll take me out for a spin in your BMW. Some of us only have a Hyundai Excel in the parking lot, you know.”

 

Matthews spends the morning discussing group interaction patterns, specifically conflict management, negotiations, giving feedback and sharing information.

I'm wondering what kind of information Russ and Kimmy aren't sharing with their group. They're both not here. Kimmy really shouldn't be missing classes when she's desperately trying to improve her grades. Where is she? She should not be skipping lectures so close to exams.

They both waltz in for Accounting. They walk in separately, slyly, and Russ finds a seat in the back beside Nick and Jamie. Kimmy sits beside me. Her cheeks are flushed, her hair
tied back in a high ponytail. She looks like she's desperately attempting not to look happy. “Good morning,” she sings.

This scenario can't be good for my set-Jamie-up-with-Kimmy plan. Perhaps I was wrong—maybe Russ did break up with Sharon. “Good morning,” I say. “How was your long weekend?”

“Horrible,” she says. And then smiles. “But all is better now.”

I have a bad feeling about her version of better. “Why? Is it Black Monday? Did he dump her?”

Her face clouds over. “I don't think so.”

Then what's she so gleeful about? “What, then?”

She raises her well-plucked eyebrow suggestively. “You know.”

Oh, no. They sealed the deal! “You slept with him?”

She shushes me with her hand.

“But what about his girlfriend?”

She rolls her eyes. “I told you, I don't know anything more about that.”

How could she sleep with him without knowing? Isn't it driving her crazy? It's driving
me
crazy. “Did you at least ask him?”

“Can we not talk about this here?” she hisses.

Well, excuse me!