Monkey Business (10 page)

Monday, October 27, 8:39 a.m.

T
he alarm on my clock radio sounds again. Eight thirty-nine. Only a moron like me would choose nine minutes for a snooze time. Why not ten?

October 27 floats somewhere above the time. The significance of that date weaves through my semiconscious state. Twenty-nine years ago today, my sister Dara died.

I hit the snooze again. And then again.

Shit. Three minutes to nine. I'm never going to make it on time. I might as well skip the class. I haven't done the reading, anyway. I haven't even bought the books. That's what I'll do. Sleep for another hour and then get my books and make it to Accounting. So tired…

Knock, knock.

“Go away.”

“Jamie, you slept through your first two classes, you jackass.” It's Nick.

I slither deeper under the sheet. “Tired.”

“We're all tired. Open up.”

Grumbling, I open the door, then flop back onto the bed.

Nick sits on my computer chair. “We got back our OB papers.”

“How'd we do? Another B-plus?” We've already gotten loads of B-pluses. The professors seemed to have made a communal decision that we're good but not
that
good.

“Nope,” he says, smiling.

“Not a B-plus? Are you sure? How about a B?”

“Nope.” Still smiling.

“A-minus?”

“Nope. An A, dude. We got an A. We're now the A team.

Mazel-tov! “An A? How is that possible?”

“We're brilliant, what can I say? Who knew? We're celebrating tonight at Kimmy's. It's her birthday, so now we have twice the reason to party.”

Kimmy's room! I'm finally getting back inside Kimmy's room! She's been looking so hot lately. Low-cut shirts, pushup bras, tight leather pants—it's fantastic. She even started bringing lollipops to class—bright, big red ones she licks and sucks, turning her lips bloodred.

“Pat yourself on the back, dude,” Nick says. “It was all your wacky ideas and stellar writing that got us the mark.”

“I'm the king of the world!”

And my queen awaits me.

 

After lunch, I stop back at my room to get the list of books I need to buy, and the phone rings.

“Good afternoon!” I say brightly.

“Jamie?”

“Marnie! How are you?”

“Fine thanks, how are you? How's school?”

“So far so good. How's the store?”

“Busy as usual. I wanted to let you know that I delivered the daisies this morning.”

“Did she answer the door?” I ask.

“Yup.”

“How'd she look?”

Pause. “She was in her bathrobe.”

Same as every year. I thank Marnie and hang up.

Twice a year, on October 27 and April 20, Dara's birthday and the anniversary of her death, my mother locks herself in her room and I send her flowers. When I was a kid, I'd sit by her door and listen to my mother cry. The year I was six, I called ten florists until I found Marnie, who agreed to deliver thirteen dollars and twenty-five cents worth of daisies, my mother's favorite flowers.

My mother has never thanked me for them, but she keeps them on her night table until they die. She never talks about Dara, either. Neither does my dad. There's only one album of her, and my mother keeps it in her room, separate from the family albums overflowing with photos of me, Amanda, Erin and Erin's four-year-old daughter, Jenny. There aren't too many photos of Dara, anyway. She died when she was about six months old.

Amanda was only two when Dara died of SIDS, Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, so she doesn't remember anything, but Erin was five and remembers a lot of screaming, a lot of crying, and police and relatives swarming the house.

The flowers are my way of saying I'm sorry, even though I know I'm not responsible.

If Dara hadn't died, my parents wouldn't have had me. My mother had always wanted three kids.

I get dressed and head to the bookstore. Unfortunately, the books I need are nowhere in sight. I find a clerk counting LWBS T-shirts, and I ask for help. He checks his computer and says, “None left.”

“Can you look in the back?”

“None left,” he repeats. “Sorry.” He resumes counting.

Oy. “You've got to be kidding me.”

He looks at me like I'm an idiot. “We ran out a month ago. Sorry.”

“How am I supposed to do my reading?”

“Tell your professor you waited too long. Maybe he'll order more.”

I'm sure that'll earn me an A.

6:30 p.m.

M
y face is bleeding.

Twenty-six and still don't know how to shave properly. Having to do it in public isn't helping the situation. I don't know how to floss properly, either. The Toronto dentist I went to warned me my teeth would fall out if I don't start flossing. The dental hygienist actually demonstrated the right way to do it: wrap the floss around the middle finger so you can use your thumb and index finger to maneuver it. Every night. Come on! Does anyone floss every night? I bet superheroes don't need to floss.

“Getting pretty for the big night?” Nick says, slapping me on the back.

“Beard was bothering me,” I lie.

“See you in Kimmy's room?”

Kimmy's room. Haven't yet been inside Kimmy's room. Did everything possible
not
to be in Kimmy's room. Being in Kimmy's room can't lead to anything good. Actually that's the dilemma. It
can
lead to something good, and I'm not talking ethics. “See you there.”

“You can make it? No javelin club or anything?”

Nick thinks it's funny that I've signed up for every club at school. “There's no javelin club.”

“No? I hope you're not paying membership fees to all the clubs you've joined.”

“No membership fees. Just my blood.” Truth is, I may have piled too much on my plate. Yesterday, after class I played some ball, then met with the marketing association, then the real estate association, then with the group to work on our OB assignment, then had a smoke with Kimmy and ended up talking to her for two hours. Sharon would kill me if she knew how much I was smoking. Cigarettes, too. But it seems like such a natural thing to do here. After the smoke, I finished up my presentation for Integrative Communications then called Sharon, and then I couldn't sleep so I went downstairs to the common room. Kimmy was there, said she couldn't sleep, either, so we went for another smoke.

“No one will care if you drop one or two,” Nick says.

I think someone will. Especially because I've somehow managed to be on the executive committee on everything except basketball. “Maybe I'll drop basketball.”

He clutches his hand to his chest. “A spear through my heart, dude. Anything but basketball.”

“See what I mean? I can't choose. I don't think I'll drop any of them. Besides, I like them all. I wouldn't want to miss out.”

 

“I may be out late tonight,” I tell Sharon, pressing a tissue against my still leaky chin. “I'm going to a party. Should I call later?”

“How late will you be back? Where's the party? Don't you have class tomorrow?”

Oh, man. Lately Sharon's been grilling me about everything I do, and it's getting on my nerves. And now she's mad at me for not coming in for Canadian Thanksgiving. “Don't know, at a friend's place, and yes, I have class in the morning.”

I don't tell her that the friend's name is Kimmy. And that I spent the entire day watching Kimmy licking her red lollipop. I sat in class, mesmerized, watching her insert it in her mouth and out again…in and out…in and out…When I asked her what I should bring to the party, she purred, “Just yourself. Just come.” She emphasized the word
come.
At least I think she did. Did she? I think I've been letting my other head do the thinking lately. I've spent all day imagining her in a black push-up bra and matching thong and holding the string of a red balloon.

“Don't be snarky,” Sharon says. “I was just asking. Excuse me for taking an interest in your life. Maybe if you came home once in a while…”

“You know I'm sorry I couldn't come home. But I'll come in for American Thanksgiving.”

“Whatever. If you have time.”

Why is she always making me feel guilty? Doesn't she realize how important my education is? “I have to go.”

“Fine. Bye.” She hangs up, without telling me she loves me and to be good. She always tells me to be good. I wonder if that means I can be bad.

 

“Welcome,” Kimmy says, opening her door. Instead of a push-up bra and thong, she's wearing a tight, low-cut, short red dress and strappy red heels. Oh, man.

Jamie, Lauren and Nick are already sitting cross-legged on the floor. So far Jamie has been late to every class this semester, but for this he's on time.

A picnic has been set up on in the carpet. Fancy cheeses, crackers, five open bottles of wine and one bottle of Coke. Barenaked Ladies are playing on the CD player, and the speakers are set up by her bed.

“Pour vous,”
she says, handing me a white plastic cup.

“Thanks. And happy birthday.”

“How hot is she?” Jamie says, and then stuffs his mouth with a cracker loaded with Brie.

“Sizzling,” I answer, and Jamie throws me a murderous look. “Are we the only guests?” I ask, trying to break the tension.

Kimmy is watching us. Watching
me.
Oh, man. Sharon, Sharon, Sharon.

“Yeah,” Kimmy says. “I invited Layla, but she claims she has a group meeting. Whatever. More wine for me.”

“I'd like to propose a toast,” Kimmy says, lifting her glass. “To a brilliant group, for producing brilliant work.”

We all clink our glasses (more of a thud, actually, since we're using plastic cups). “Here, here,” Lauren says. I step around the carpet. Kimmy's bed creaks as I sit on it.

Jamie stuffs another cracker into his mouth. “And to you, my sweet Kimmy, for throwing this shindig. And for passing me the Diet Coke so you can fill me up again.”

“Diet?” I say. “Didn't realize you were counting calories.”

“More productive than counting the number of times you've looked down Kimmy's dress, Russ,” Jamie snaps.

Kimmy leans over Nick, topping off Jamie's glass. Her breasts spill over her dress. When she steps back toward her chair, a drop of Diet Coke dribbles onto her knee. “Don't worry, there's lots more where that came from,” she says.

“Lauren, dude,” Nick says, “why don't you lick that up? You know you want to.”

Lauren punches him in the arm. “Don't be a pig.”

“Hey, why not?” Kimmy asks. She sits down, crosses her legs and her dress hikes up her creamy thighs. “I'm offended. I'm not your type?”

“Too skinny,” Lauren says.

“You know who you look like?” Jamie says to Kimmy. “Sharon Stone in
Basic Instinct.
The interrogation scene. Do you remember it? Are you wearing panties? No, don't tell me. Let me imagine.”

She crosses her legs, then uncrosses them again. “You'll never know.”

My curiosity has been piqued—along with the southern part of my anatomy. I wonder what her pubic hair looks like. Perfectly manicured? A strip. She seems like a groomer.

I down the glass as if it's a shot. The wine floats through my chest, warming me. Must stop imagining Kimmy's pubic hair. Brown pubic hair. Dark brown or chocolate brown? Stop. Can't stop. If only I had X-ray vision so I could see through her dress. Or is it a skirt? Never remember the difference. Sharon tried to explain it, but I never remember. Sharon, Sharon, Sharon. Wish I had a superpower that could make me stop thinking about…about…Sharon.

One hour and seven glasses of wine later, I can definitely see through Kimmy's dress. My X-ray vision might be alcohol induced, but it's working. I watch her nipples as she bends over the picnic to spin a bottle. It whirls twice and hits the blue cheese. “Did you ever play spin the bottle when you were in grade school?” she asks.

“Does it count if it was with myself?” Jamie asks.

“Too much info,” Nick says. “Let's play.”

Lauren groans. “What are you, ten?”

Jamie rubs his hands together as if they're cold. “I'm in.”

“Of course, you're in,” Lauren says. “As if you'd turn down a chance to stick your tongue into Kimmy's mouth.”

“Again,” Nick adds.

Blushing, Kimmy looks at me. “I'm in if Russ is in.”

Everyone stares at me. It's club-registration day all over again. How can I say no?

Spin the bottle isn't cheating. It's a game. Think basketball, I tell myself. “I'm in.”

Kimmy picks up one of the bottles, drinks the rest of it, and says, “Someone move the cheese so we can spin this baby.”

Nick and Jamie cheer.

“All right, here are the rules,” she says. “First time you land
on someone, it's a kiss on the cheek. Second it's a kiss on the lips. Third time, there's tongue. Fourth—”

“Blow job,” Nick says.

Lauren punches him again. “No blow jobs.”

“Don't worry,” Jamie says. “We don't mind if you're inexperienced.”

Lauren rolls her eyes. “Ha-ha. Third is tongue, fourth you can use your hands, and fifth is seven minutes in the closet.”

Nick's face lights up. “If you get Kimmy, can we all go into the closet and watch?”

Lauren threatens him with a nearby bottle. “Only if you get Jamie and we get to watch
you
.”

Nick seizes the bottle and gives it a twirl. “I'm starting. And the lucky winner is—”

The bottleneck points directly at me. Lauren, Kimmy and Jamie cheer.

“No way,” I say.

“Pucker up, Russ,” Jamie says.

Nick grabs the bottle and turns bright red. “I think I should spin again.”

“Don't be so homophobic,” Lauren says. “People are just people. Everyone is a sexual being.”

“I have nothing against men kissing men,” Nick says. “I just don't want to be on the giving end.”

I shake my head. “Or on the receiving end.”

“Haven't you ever heard of the sliding scale of homosexuality?” Lauren says. “It seems unlikely that both of you are all the way on the hetero side.”

Nick ignores her. “I'm amending the rules. Whenever a guy gets another guy, it's a truth or dare instead.”

“That's such a rip,” Lauren says, stretching her long legs in front of her.

“We'll vote,” Nick says. “All in favor?”

Jamie, Nick and I raise our hands.

“No fair,” Kimmy says. “We're outnumbered.”

“So Nick-man, what will it be?” I ask. “Truth or dare?”

Nick flexes his muscles. “Dare.”

“I dare you to make out with Russ,” Lauren says.

“Quite the comedienne, aren't you,” I say. “I'll come up with a dare. I dare Nick to chug the rest of that bottle.” I point to a half-full bottle.

He picks up the bottle and gulps it down while we chant “Chug! Chug! Chug!”

When he's done, he holds up the bottle as if it's a trophy, then hands it to Lauren. “Your turn.”

“Why are we going counterclockwise?” Jamie asks.

Lauren spins the bottle. “Because we're wild and crazy.” It rolls over a napkin and points to me.

What am I, a bottle magnet? She kisses me on the cheek.

Jamie snatches the bottle and spins. It lands on Kimmy.

He punches his arm in the air. “Wahoo! Come to Papa. Bend over, baby—you never specified which cheek.”

“Don't get cheeky with me, or you'll lose your turn.” She turns her face to him, and he kisses it, making a lurid slurping noise.

My turn. I spin the bottle. It lands on Nick.

“Truth or dare?” Kimmy says.

“Dare,” I say. I guess we're not following any rules about who gets to give the dare.

“I dare you to remove one piece of clothing,” Kimmy says.

My face burns like I shaved too quickly, but that could be the booze. I unbutton my shirt. “It's getting hot in here, anyway.”

Jamie hums porno music.

Three years ago, I wouldn't have been able to do this. I would have felt too stupid, with my concave chest. I would have come up with an excuse to leave the room. But now…I feel fine. Strong. Drunk.

Everyone stares at my chest when I take it off. “Stop flexing,” Jamie says.

“My turn,” Kimmy says, still staring at my chest. She spins the bottle and it lands on—

Me? Me? Will it be me? Let it be me.

—between Nick and Lauren. “It's closer to Nick,” Kimmy says.

Nick taps his cheek, and she gives him a quick peck. I spin and it lands on Lauren. I peck her on the cheek. Then Lauren spins and it lands on Kimmy. Nick, Jamie and I cheer.

“Fine with me,” Lauren says.

“Fine with me, too,” Kimmy says. Lauren kisses her on the cheek.

Jamie's turn. It lands on Kimmy. He cheers and tells her to pucker up.