Monkey Business (20 page)

Friday, February 6, 3:00 p.m.

“C
an you pass me another application?” I ask Dennis.

He shuffles through the papers. “Sure, Layla. So did you hear from any of the firms yet?”

“Yup.” I stick the end of a piece of licorice in my mouth. “I got a few offers.”

“You did? From Manhattan or Silverman?”

“Both.” Plus a few others, but I don't want to brag.

He gives me a thumbs-up. “That's fantastic. Which one are you taking?”

“Silverman.”

We sit and read more applications. After a few minutes, I ask as casually as possible, “Dorothy, when do acceptance letters for prospective students go out this year?”

She looks up from whatever she's reading. “I think they've already started going out.”

“I'm curious if some of the applicants we reviewed were accepted.”

“You can check if you'd like.”

“I can?” I wasn't going to ask, but if she's offering…I have
to know if he's coming next year. “I'm just curious.” I finish reading the application on my desk. I don't want to appear too eager.

Twenty minutes later I stretch and slowly make my way over to the main computer. I add a yawn to show how not excited I am about checking my prince's status.

I'm still furious with myself for freezing up in Manhattan. I should have forced myself to meet him. What in the world was my problem? I won't let it happen again.

I perch on the computer and lean into the screen. No need for everyone to see what I'm looking at. Maybe I should search one of the other applicants first. Whatever happened to Tom Price? The guy who claimed he would be thrilled to go to Stern?

I type in “Tom Price.” He's been…rejected. He must have felt awful when he got the letter. The thin envelope in his mailbox. Poor boy. How could I help destroy someone's dreams? I type in Bradley Green. A letter was sent to his apartment, informing him that he's been…accepted! Accepted! Yes! Next year he could be here with me! In the Zoo! That would be amazing. Let's see—if I remember correctly from his application, he applied to four other schools: Columbia, Harvard, Wharton and Stern. Let's say he got accepted to three of them. That means there's a twenty-five-percent chance he's coming here next year! Of course, LWBS is ranked lower than the other four. If both my parents weren't alumni, I might not have come here.

Let's say there's a ten-percent chance he enrolls here. Ten percent. I can't wager my future on ten percent.

 

“I can't believe I might never see him again,” I whine to Kimmy later that afternoon. I'm lying on my bed, and she's sprawled on my rug. We're studying for Monday's Marketing quiz.

Smack.

“Ouch! What was that for?” I ask. There's a red scratch on my leg from where Kimmy just hit me.

She rolls her eyes. “How can someone so hard-core in class be so lame when it comes to getting a guy? Just call him.”

“I can't call him. I have no reason to call him. I'm not supposed to fall for an applicant. What reason would I possibly have to call him?”

She appears deep in thought. “What you need is a plan.”

“And I'm not lame with guys. I just don't like to play games.”

“You don't like to play at all. Are you sure you even like men? You wouldn't flirt with Professor Jon, you wouldn't go out with that guy who's on the application committee with you, who's adorable. What's his name?”

“Dennis.”

“Right. And you're not even going after Bradley. What's your problem?”

I feel my cheeks flush. “I don't have a problem. I like men. I just don't like wasting my time with guys who won't end up being good enough.”

“But you won't know who's wasting your time unless you play the game.”

“Okay, okay, I'll play the game. Let's get Bradley.”

She swings her legs around so she's sitting cross-legged. “Time to use the marketing model.”

“Glad you're finally finding a use for class.”

“About time, huh?” She rubs her hands together as though she's setting them on fire. “These are the five Ps: product, positioning, price, promotion and packaging.”

“Perfect.”

“Okay, listen up. You're the product. Now according to the textbook,” she says, flipping through the pages, “we're supposed to figure out where you are in your life cycle. The choices are introduction, early growth, late growth, maturity, decline. Let's say you're in your late-growth phase.”

“Hold on. Am I the product, or is the relationship between Bradley and me the product?”

“You're the product. We're selling you to him. Let's plot you on a perceptual map.” She draws a cross on her paper. “Let's make the X-axis represent sexy versus pretty, the Y-axis studious versus fun. I would put you somewhere in the studious/pretty quadrant.”

“Hey,” I say. “I'm fun.”

“More studious than fun.”

“And what quadrant are you in? The sexy/fun quadrant?”

She examines her drawing. “Yup. Cool. If we were both products in the same company, we would totally avoid cannibalization for the company.”

“Yeah, because no one would want the pretty and smart one!”

She hits me on the leg again. “Are you crazy? Who doesn't want a pretty and smart girlfriend?”

“This is the most absurd argument I've ever had. And why can't I be both pretty and sexy? What's the next P?”

“Pricing.”

“Perfect,” I say. “I'm free.”

“Yeah, right. What about fancy dinners? Jewelry? Roses?”

In relative terms, I'm no longer the insane one. “Next.”

“Promotion,” she says. “The most important thing about an ad campaign is that it catches the attention of the target audience, communicates key information and is memorable.” She looks up at me. “We can work with this one. How should we advertise you?”

Definitely crazy. “I've always wanted to be on a Times Square billboard.”

She rolls her eyes. “Can you be serious for a second? Our key message is that you're smart, pretty and available. Our target audience is Bradley Green. Obviously. The positioning…”

“Can I be on top?”

She rolls her eyes. “It's always about sex with you, huh? We
should position you as smarter and better than the average girl. The best catch. And now placement. Hmm. That's the toughest one. Where will he see you?”

“He'll only see me if he comes to LWBS next year. That's the problem. See? It won't work.”

“Can't you see him in Manhattan anywhere? Don't you know where his job is?”

“Yeah. But I'm not taking the Manhattan Group job. So we're not going to be in the same building. I suppose I could stalk him where he lives…his address is in the application.”

She shakes her head. “Not a good plan. You'll be depending on his coming and going, and you need to be the one in control. And there are laws against annoying doormen. Maybe he can have an interview with LWBS? And you can interview him?”

“LWBS only interviews when you're on the waiting list. And he already got accepted. Unless…” Idea! Idea! Idea!

“What?”

“Well, I came for a tour last year. You know, to see the school. Didn't you?” Doesn't everyone?

“No,” she says. “I couldn't afford to fly across the country for no reason.”

No reason? Only her future! “Anyway, maybe he's planning on coming.”

“That would be perfect. You could be his tour guide. He'll fall in love. It'll be perfect.”

“So all I have to do is sign up as a tour guide and find out if he's coming.”

“Brilliant.”

It's four o'clock. Maybe I should go now. To check if he's signed up. No point in me obsessing about it all weekend, if he's not even coming. “Where are my boots? I'm going to see if this is a possibility.”

She laughs. “This second?”

There they are. I zip them up and wrap my scarf around
my neck. I won't let myself wimp out again. “Be back in a sec.”

I grab my jacket and skip back to the Katz building. Dorothy is still in her office. “Hey,” I say. “How do I go about volunteering to do school tours?”

“You walk around showing people where to go?”

Who knew she had a sense of humor? “Ha-ha. I meant, if I want to volunteer, who do I talk to?”

“Just go sign yourself up. The application room is still unlocked, and the computer should still be on. Just use your task-force password and sign up for the groups you want to lead.”

I feel like I have the key to the golden city. I sign on, then search through upcoming tour groups, looking for Bradley Green. His name is nowhere. How am I supposed to be his tour guide if he hasn't signed up for a tour?

Foiled!

Sunday, February 8, 12:37 a.m.

“W
hat do you want to do this coming Saturday?” I ask.

We're lying in my bed. We've already had sex and are now watching
Daredevil.
He's recently realized that his laptop doubles as a DVD player. I keep dozing off. You'd think Ben Affleck would keep me more awake, but with the laptop balanced on Russ's knees, whenever he shifts I see a glare on the screen instead of the movie. I noticed that Layla has the entire
Sex and the City
series on DVD in her room. Maybe Russ'll watch it with me. I've never watched a single episode. I know now that the series is over, people will probably stop talking about it, but I might as well catch up.

Boring. “Russ?”

“Hmm?” He doesn't take his eyes off the screen.

“Saturday night is Valentine's Day.” As soon as I mention the V-word I feel stupid. Do you celebrate Valentine's Day with your mistress? Maybe that's a faux pas.

His ears flush. So cute. Does he have something planned? Maybe he's surprising me with a romantic dinner. Or with breaking up with Sharon.

“Actually…” he says.

Pause. “Yes?”

“Well…”

Pause again. “Well, what?”

“Sharon is coming this weekend.”

What? Panic grabs hold of my throat and squeezes. “Coming here? To school?”

He squirms, and the laptop slips off his legs, banging me in the knee. “Yeah. She wants to visit.”

Visit? What? “Why can't you go and visit her?”

He shrugs. “I was just there. She wants to see how I live.”

“You're going to give her the tour?” I wave my arm around the room like a
Price Is Right
girl showing a new car. “Show her where you spend your nights?”

Maybe I should suggest she take one of Layla's tours. Only we'll modify it slightly and make it far, far away.

He pauses the movie. “You know I can't tell her about us.”

That's it. I can't take it anymore. I throw the duvet off me, sit up and turn my back to him. This is the last straw. It's one thing to keep dating us both, but to bring her here? How could he? “Why can't you? Why are you sleeping with me if you're in love with her? Who do you think you are? Don't you care at all about me?”

There, I've said it. I know I'm not supposed to say it, not supposed to suggest it, not supposed to think it. But too friggin' bad.

I'm looking at the door instead of him. And he doesn't respond. And then I realize that he's never going to break up with Sharon. He's just sleeping with me. While he's out of the country. I don't mean anything to him. I'm just someone to help pass the time.

I hate him. I feel like shit. Why do I need to feel like this? I don't need this. I don't need him. Two full minutes later he still hasn't responded. What, is he napping? I turn around. Tears are streaming down his face. What? He's…crying?

“I'm sorry,” he says, eyes glistening. “I'm so sorry. I know I'm being a jerk. To both of you. It's just that I honestly have feelings for you both. I never thought I'd be—” He interrupts himself to wipe his eyes on the back of his hand.

I can't believe he's crying. I hand him a tissue.

“I know this is no excuse. But growing up, I never thought in a million years that a girl as beautiful and smart as you would ever look twice at me. I was scrawny and geeky. You know, the boy who was always picked last for gym class.”

He laughs and then wipes his eyes again. I squeeze his leg.

“I spent my entire childhood buried in comic books. Hung out in the world of superheroes and villains instead of real people. And then in my last year in college I met Sharon.”

I hold my breath. He's never talked about Sharon directly to me. “And what happened?”

“We had a class together. Pop lit. It was a mandatory for her Education degree. I took it because I heard that the prof put comics on the reading list. She sat next to me on the first day.” He shrugs. “She asked me out.”

I try to imagine him, shy, skinny, not knowing what to do with his hands. I can't.

“I don't know what she saw in me. She thought I was funny. I went to the gym with her, started boarding—”

Boarding? I would have pegged him as the downhill type, but what do I know?

“I stopped picking at my face. And then for the first time, I came out of my shell. I didn't run home between classes to hide my nose in a comic book. I talked to people. Started playing ball. Socialized. I'd wanted to go to business school in the States, but only after starting to date Sharon did I think I had a chance of getting in. And then I came here and met you. I couldn't get you out of my head. I still can't, but I can't just throw away everything I've experienced with Sharon, either. I owe her.”

I don't know what to tell him. I know I can't tell him what to do or who to choose. Instead of feeling angry, I feel relieved that he's opening up to me. I lie back down and pull him close.

“I want to be with you,” he says, his breath soft on my cheek.

“But you also want to be with her.”

He stares into my eyes and nods. “I don't want to give either of you up.”

I half smile. “Isn't that a little selfish?”

“Yes.” His fingers draw loops on my bare arms. “Do you want me to leave?”

Never. “No.” I kiss him tenderly on the lips. “But is she really coming for the entire weekend?”

He kisses me back. “Yeah. I'm sorry. I can't tell her not to come now.”

Yes, you can, I think but don't say. “Okay. No biggie.” I tickle his tummy. “You gonna tuck her in and then sneak in here?”

“Yeah, right.” He lays his head against the pillow. “Did you set the alarm?”

Sigh. “Yes, Russ, I set the alarm.”

 

I am
so
bored. I can't believe I'm taking a tour of the school when I could be sleeping. It's nine o'clock Sunday morning as I trail behind the eight potential students, through the Katz building.

My entertainment is trying to guess why these people are here. Two nerd boys in navy suits and freshly shaved faces keep asking questions about how to get accepted. Losers.

Then there's the man who's already been accepted. He's about forty and he's here with his wife. I know he's been accepted, because she keeps saying it, rubbing it in to everyone else on the tour. “If we decide to go here instead of Harvard…” Blah, blah, blah.

Then there's the guy who's on the waiting list and has an
interview today. He keeps checking his watch, as though he's afraid he might be late.

There's a woman here who's on the wait list, too. She's with a nerdy-looking boyfriend who has horrendous skin. Hmm. That could have been Russ and Sharon.

I'm here to give Layla moral support. Instead of coming up with a fake persona, I've elected to keep my mouth shut.

I wonder if Sharon came to check out the campus with Russ, when he came for a tour. I can't believe I'm finally going to meet her. At last, I'll be able to check out the competition. Will she be gorgeous? Skinny? Brilliant? How will she compare to me when no longer in separate countries, but on the same floor? We'll be sharing the same bathroom. I will so not be able to brush my teeth next to her.

“Honey, what do you think of the library? Not as nice as the Harvard library,” the annoying wife says.

We end up in the cafeteria, where Layla wishes the group goodbye and good luck, then bolts toward me. “What did you think?”

Today is her first tour, a practice tour for when Brad arrives. When she came back to her room with the news that he hadn't signed up for a tour, I decided to call him to encourage him.

He answered on the first ring. “Hello, may I please speak to Bradley Green?”

“Speaking.”

“Hello Bradley, this is Grenadine from LWBS student services.”

Layla looked like she was going to pass out. “Grenadine?” she mouthed. “You're a drink syrup?”

I hushed her away.

“Hi, Grenadine,” he said. “What can I do for you?” He had a sexy voice. If it wasn't for Russ…and Layla, of course.

“I want to personally congratulate you on your LWBS acceptance,” I said. “We're thrilled to have you as a prospective
student. We'd like to schedule a tour of the school for you at your earliest convenience.”

“Hmm. I wouldn't mind seeing the school. Do the tours run daily?”

“I…I believe the tours run daily,” I repeated loudly, looking at Layla expectantly. She nodded. Then I mouthed, “What time?”

She held up three fingers.

“Every day at three,” I added.

“Three is convenient,” he said. “I have a meeting in Greenwich on Wednesday morning. I could be at the LWBS campus by three for a tour.”

Oh. My. God. I gave Layla a thumbs-up. “Fantastic. So I'll pencil you in. Directions are on the Web site. Meet the group in the Katz building at two-fifty. Your leader will be the gorgeous blonde with the clipboard.”

Layla covered her face with her hands and I hung up the phone.

Her hands started waving around the room. “How am I possibly going to be prepared to be an LWBS tour guide by Wednesday? I only know a fraction of the school's history, not nearly enough of the architecture—”

“Stop freaking out. We have to start planning the final P. Packaging.”

Then she started jumping up and down on her bed, screaming that she was about to meet her husband. She froze in mid-leap, then sprinted off to the library for books on the history and architecture of LWBS, and then back to Dorothy to sign up for Wednesday's tour. Dorothy agreed, but only after Layla agreed to do the early-bird weekend tour as well (nobody likes to volunteer on the weekend). But that was fine, as it would give her a chance to practice, and that's how I came to be in the cafeteria so early on a Sunday morning, congratulating her on a job well done.

I pat her arm. “You were the best guide ever. Award winning. If I were Brad, I would certainly want to sleep with you.”

She shushes me. “Fall in love with me you mean.”

“Sleep with you, love you, what's the difference?”

“You are kidding, right?”

Kind of.