Monkey Business (21 page)

Wednesday, February 11, 6:12 a.m.

R
ing.

I jump into the upright position. Who the hell is that? It's six in the morning. Oy.

“Jamie?” The voice sounds hoarse, scratchy.

It takes me a few seconds to place it. “Mom?”

“Honey. Bubbe…”

I'm now wide-awake. “Bubbe, what?”

“She had a stroke. A few hours ago.”

My head pounds. Shit. “Is she…?”

“No, she's in the hospital. Miami General. In the ICU.”

“I'm getting on the next flight.”

“What about school?”

“Don't worry about school. Are you okay?”

She starts to cry. “No.”

“Where's Dad?”

“He's talking to one of the nurses.”

“Is she cute?” It's my feeble attempt at a joke. What's wrong with me? Why do I feel compelled to make people laugh, even now?

“What, dear?” She didn't hear, thank God.

I pull out my suitcase and start packing. “Okay, Mom, don't worry. Everything will be fine.” I know I'm lying as I say it, but I say it anyway.

2:00 p.m.

“L
ayla, how do you not poke yourself in the eye?” Kimmy asks me. She's sitting cross-legged on my bed, watching me apply my makeup. My vanity mirror is set up on my dresser, and I've rolled my computer chair so that I'm facing it. “And how do you not blink? My eyes have a natural tendency to protect themselves when a pointy object heads in their direction.”

I finish outlining half of my lower eye rim with charcoal-colored liner and move on to my Lash-a-Lot mascara. “Practice makes perfect.”

Done. I roll my chair back to the desk and pivot. “How do I look?”

“The red shirt is a million times better,” she says. I'd been wearing a collared white shirt under my black pantsuit, but Kimmy persuaded me to change. “Very pretty meets intellectual,” she says approvingly. “Miranda meets Charlotte.”

“Hey, you watched my
Sex and the City
DVDs.”

“Yup,” she says. “I'm halfway through season one. Not bad. A little girly, but not bad. I even got Russ to watch with me.”

“Did he get any tips?” I've certainly gotten many tips. Like those fake nipples Samantha used. I wore them out once and they were hot.

“Not really,” she says.

The sad tone of her voice makes me worry about her. “Are you okay? Playing the mistress getting to you?”

She waves her hand. “I'm fine.”

She doesn't seem fine. More to the point, what she doesn't seem is satisfied. “You know, you've never told me how Russ is in bed.”

“How does one measure if a guy is good in bed?”

Uh-oh. “I measure it by how often he makes me orgasm. How many times a night does Russ make you orgasm?”

She examines her split ends. “Not often.”

So what is it exactly she sees in this cheating bastard? “How often?”

“Never.”

I must not have heard that correctly. “Did you say seven?”

“No, never.”

“Kimmy, my dear, that's awful. He won't commit or satisfy? Can you please dump him and date Jamie?”

She rolls her eyes. “I'm not attracted to Jamie.”

“Fine. Then you have to show Russ what you like. You know, what gets you off.”

Her face turns a deep shade of red. “Um…what if nothing does?”

What? “Nothing? What does that mean?”

She plays with her hair again. “It means I've never had an orgasm.”

“Bullshit!”

She shrugs and I realize how insensitive I just sounded. It's just that I didn't know that a woman who never had an orgasm actually existed. I always thought it was just a myth. That's like a woman who never tried chocolate. I know
there've been women who've never had a sex-induced orgasm, but this? “You do masturbate, don't you?”

She blushes. “It doesn't do anything for me.”

I can't believe this. “You haven't been doing it right, obviously. Have you ever tried a vibrator?”

“No. Have you?”

Have I? Have I tried chocolate? “Of course, I have.” I point to my sex drawer. “I have a few in there. Do you want to see?”

“Um, sure.”

I open the drawer and pull out my Zoombuster and my Magic Banana. “Both are my favorites, but the Magic Banana is better for school. It's heavier but quieter. It's modeled after the Holy Grail of penises, one that curves up at the end so it hits the G-spot during missionary-position intercourse. Some of my girlfriends have claimed they've seen one, but I think it only exists in vibrators. Do you want to see the attachments?” I should try juggling these things. I haven't practiced my juggling in a while. I don't want to forget my new skill already.

“Definitely not.” She looks so amazed that I almost laugh.

“It's all about the perfect orgasm,” I explain.

“I'd settle for any orgasm,” she says wistfully.

“I think we should order you one.”

“Don't you find it…gross?”

“Gross? No. Celebrating my sexual vitality? Yes.” I point to the
Sex and the City
DVD. “Watch episode nine. You'll change your mind.” If Charlotte can become obsessed with the rabbit, so can Kimmy. It seems that my next order of business is encouraging Kimmy's personal empowerment. But at the moment I have to go play tour guide. “And I'll send you some sex-toy Web sites so you can see all the various options.”

“Why not?” she says, and laughs. “Hey, I wonder if any of this will help us with my work group's Marketing project. We're doing female condoms.”

That is so much fun. I wish I were in their group. “Lucky you. My boring work group is doing a new soda. Hey, can you get me samples?” I glance at my watch. “I'm off to meet my destiny. When you leave, make sure the door is locked, all right?” I dart to the bathroom, careful not to blink so that my mascara doesn't smear.

Jamie is getting out of the shower stall, wearing his bathrobe and flip-flops. “I thought you already had a job,” he says.

“Jamie, you're looking at the new tour guide for prospective students.” I'm about to tell him about Brad, when I notice that his eyes are bright red. “You okay? Did you get shampoo in your eyes or something?”

He takes a deep breath. “My grandmother had a stroke last night.”

How awful. I pat his shoulder. “I'm so sorry. How is she?”

“Not great. I'm flying back to Miami on the five o'clock. It's the first flight I can get a seat on.”

“You are? What about class?”

He shrugs. “It's just class. I'll figure it out.”

“I hope she gets better.”

“Me, too.” His eyes fill with tears. “I have to get ready. Have a good tour.”

“Thanks.”

He leaves the bathroom, and I watch the door sway behind him. I hope he's not gone too long. You can't miss weeks of school without falling behind. Is he going to stay there until she dies? Until she's better? What if she stays in limbo for months? Will he drop out? I'm feeling panicky just thinking about it. But no time to worry about it now—it's already a quarter of. Time for my tour. I finish getting ready and head to the meeting spot. Seven people are already standing around waiting. Two single guys, one single girl, a father and his daughter, and a couple. No Bradley.

“Hi,” I say to the too-small group. “I'm Layla, your tour guide.” What if he doesn't show?

“I love the name Layla,” the father says.

He might still show. We still have—I frantically peek at my watch—two minutes.

The father starts to sing the Eric Clapton song, and I'm reminded of Jamie. I hope he's okay.

It doesn't look like Bradley is going to show. And I've wasted five days of my life learning LWBS architecture. Five days that I could have spent elsewhere. Like in the library. I begin reading the names off my clipboard. Slowly.

One minute.

“Sandy Johnson?”

“Here,” the father says. Oh. I had assumed Sandy was the daughter. That's nice. A father coming back to school.

And then he pats the daughter on the behind. Oops. Guess she's not a daughter. What is it then? A second wife? A midlife crisis? New wife and career change? I hope they don't plan on living at the Zoo.

I continue reading the names on the list. The minute hand on my watch officially declares that it's now three-oh-one. He's late. He's not coming. Everyone is here but him. “We're missing one,” I say. I look down at my paper as if I don't know who it is. “Bradley Green?” I say, looking around. He probably chose Harvard and blew us off. Downhearted, I say, “Well, I guess that's it. Will you all please follow—”

And there he is.

Pushing through the turn door, snow sprinkled on his head. He's just as handsome and perfect as I remember. And he's smiling at me. My body freezes. I force myself to speak. “Mr. Green. You almost missed us.”

He removes his coat and tosses it over his arm. “Thanks for waiting.” And then suddenly, he's standing beside me. Less than a foot away. Up close, I can see he has a cleft in his chin and a dimple on each cheek. His skin looks soft, as if he shaved only moments ago.

“My pleasure.” I lose myself in his ice-green eyes, which
are remarkably framed by thick, dark brown lashes. He smiles again. His eyes flick to my exposed cleavage and then back up. I guess the red shirt was the right choice. “Now, if you'll all follow me, we'll start our tour.” And hopefully our love affair.

I lead the group to the auditorium. Bradley sidles up next to me. “Grenadine was right. You are gorgeous.”

I smile and bat my eyes. This is going to be easier than I thought.

 

“Want to grab a quick coffee?” he asks after the tour.

I try to keep my voice nonchalant. “Sure.” It worked. I can't believe this insane plan worked.

He orders a café latte and I order a cappuccino.

I sit down at a table in the back, concentrating on my posture. “So, Bradley, where are you from?” As if I don't already know his exact address on Seventy-sixth.

“Manhattan,” he says, smiling.

You don't say! “Yeah? Me, too. When I'm not here, I mean.”

“Where do you live?”

“The Upper East Side. You?”

“Same. On Seventy-sixth and Park. You?”

“Eighty-third and Park,” I say.

“We're neighbors.”

“What college did you go to?”

“Columbia,” I say. “You?”

“Yale.” See how perfect we are for each other? “This is surprisingly good coffee,” he says.

I lean over to take a sip from mine. Screw my posture. Might as well give him an eyeful. “So tell me, Bradley, where else did you apply?” I've decided to ask him about everything I already know so I don't mess up and mention it as a matter of fact.

“For B-school? Columbia, Harvard, Wharton and Stern. I've been accepted everywhere except Harvard. I'm on the waiting list.”

“What's your first choice?”

“Harvard.” He leans toward me over the table. “Am I allowed to say that here?”

I wink. “Yeah. I'm sure most people here would have gone to Harvard if they'd gotten in. I didn't even apply.”

He looks surprised. “No? How come?”

I tell him about how both my parents graduated from LWBS, and we chat about our families and our career goals until our third cups of coffee are empty, and the sky beyond the window has turned midnight-blue. We toss our garbage away and stroll toward the door.

“It was wonderful to meet you, Layla.”

“It was nice to meet you, too.” Is that it? That can't be it. “I hope I'll see you here next year.”

“You just might,” he says. “At least now there's an incentive. Besides the coffee. Are you in New York this weekend?”

“I…yes.” As of this second.

“Do you think you'll have time to get together?”

I try to appear as though this isn't the question I've been waiting for all year. “I don't see why not. When were you thinking?”

“Dinner on Friday night?”

“I can do dinner.”

He smiles and pulls his PalmPilot from his coat pocket. “Terrific. Want to beam me your number?”

I whip out my Palm and beam it to him.

He kisses me softly on the cheek. “Till then.”

Yes!