Monkey Business (27 page)

Friday, March 19, 1:15 a.m.

R
ing, ring.

Phones ringing in the middle of the night make me nervous. I pause
Casablanca
and pick up.

Me: Hello?

Voice on phone: Hi, ya! It's Layla.

Me: Everything okay?

Layla: Of course.

Me:
(Exhaling in relief and then singing her name song.)

Layla: You're up!

Me: So are you, apparently.

Layla: I can't sleep.

Me: Where's Bradley the frog?

Layla:
(Loud sigh.)
That didn't work out.

Me:
(Heart soaring into the sky like a kite on speed.)
What happened?

Layla: He wasn't as perfect as I thought.

Me: After all that?

Layla: It happens. How are you? How's the job search going?

Me: Job search? Is that what I'm supposed to be doing?

Layla: Does that mean you haven't found anything?

Me: Actually, I did find something. Your contact gave me a bunch of names. I've decided I definitely want to get a job in movies. And I've spoken to a few production companies. They all seem interested, but none of them want to pay me. I'd be a kind of intern, aka slave laborer.

Layla: With half an MBA you shouldn't be working for free.

Me: It's not always about the money.

Layla: You're right. You are so right. I love that you're following your passion.

Me: (She's
my passion. Maybe I should start following her
.) You do?

Layla: I have a confession to make. I'm jealous that you're not going for the money, that you're going to do something you love.

Me: (
What I'd love to do is you
.) You love what you do.

Layla: I love working. But I wish I worked somewhere where I could make a difference, instead of pushing papers and million-dollar deals that don't mean anything.

Me: What would be your dream job?

Layla: Remember Danielle Grand? The executive director of the Girls Group in Danbury? I would like to do what she does.

Me: So why can't you do that?

Layla: Because I already have a job. And you don't get to wear Chanel suits at a nonprofit. And—this is going to sound horrible—working at a nonprofit just feels like such women's work.

Me: Excuse me?

Layla: It's such a stereotype. Like teaching. My sister is in Teacher's College. And I'm disappointed in her. I thought she could do better.

Me: (
I hate that she said, “I thought she could do better.” For sure she'd never go out with me
.) Teaching shapes the minds
of our youth. Isn't that one of the most important jobs there is?

Layla: I know, I know. Rationally, I know. But I would still worry about people putting down what I did, like it was some kind of woman's hobby. (
She sighs loudly
.) Isn't that dumb?

Me: Yes. Do you want to be a banker?

Layla: My mother is a banker. My father is a banker.

Me: That's the worst answer I ever heard.

Layla: (
Laughs
.) I love working. I'm just not crazy about the projects I work on. (
She sighs again
.) Let's talk about something else. So is it quiet there? Empty? Is it weird?”

Me: It is weird. Like that scene in
Vanilla Sky
when Tom Cruise is walking through an empty Times Square.

Layla: I loved that movie. So what did you do all week?

Me: I instant-messengered my mom. Never show a lonely mother how to use the Internet. She'll use it against you.

Layla: My mother wouldn't have time to IM me. She works twenty-five-hour days. But if we didn't communicate by e-mail, I would never hear from her.

Me: What about your dad?

Layla: Same.

Me: You must have seen them this week while you were in New York.

Layla: Nope.

Me: That's so sad.

Layla: Isn't it?

Me: Were you a lonely kid?

Layla: I had my sister. And my friends. And my work. Yeah. I guess I was. (
She laughs again
.)

Me: Maybe you want to be a banker because you think it'll bring you closer to your parents.

Layla: (
Pause
.) That's very astute of you, Jamie. Maybe you should look for a shrink job instead.

We stay on the phone until I look out the window over my bed and the light has started to eat its way over the empty campus, turning the sky vanilla.

Sunday, March 21, 7:00 p.m.

I
can't wait to see Jamie. He's funny and sweet and smart and passionate, and he organizes book drives.

I pull my car into my underground parking spot and take a deep breath.

Jamie's the one.

He's perfect for me. He gets me. I don't know how I didn't realize this before. As soon as I see him, I'm going to tell him. No, I'm going to throw my arms around him and show him. Unless he's still in love with Kimmy.

How silly of me, encouraging him to go for Kimmy when he's so perfect for me.

I shift the gear into Park, grab my bag and lock the door. If only the Zoo had a valet. Or a doorman. This is taking too long! I have to know if he feels the same way I do.

I sprint out of the garage, into the Zoo and up the stairs, run right to his room and pound on the door. “Jamie! It's me! Open up! I have something to ask you!”

From behind the door I hear, “You want the truth? You can't handle the truth.” He's watching
A Few Good Men
. I love that movie. See? We're made for each other.

He opens the door and I throw my arms around him.

“Hello to you, too,” he says, looking vaguely flabbergasted by my greeting.

“Are you still in love with Kimmy?”

He snorts. “Noooo. Why?”

Before he can say anything else I tilt my head down and kiss him hard on the mouth.

He just stands there.

Oh, no.

He doesn't want me. What did I do? I didn't even stop to think, I just did it and…wait a sec. He's kissing me back. Yes! He's kissing me back! His tongue explores my lips, my mouth, my tongue. Tingles explode down my face and neck and chest and arms. He tastes sweet, like ice cream.

It's a perfect kiss. I knew it. I am so clever. I pull away and smile.

He looks shell-shocked. “If that's how you say hello after a week apart, what will you do after summer vacation?”

“I have no intention of keeping you in suspense,” I say.

Tuesday, March 23, 12:30 a.m.

I'
m high and lying on Kimmy's bed.

“I found a great sublet in the West Village,” Kimmy tells me.

“Yeah?”

“It's a one-bedroom, and it has large windows, and a rooftop patio with a charcoal barbecue. How amazing is having a barbecue?”

It does sound amazing. I want a charcoal barbecue. I haven't even looked for an apartment yet. “Wanna shack up for summer?”

I can see the possibility rolling around in her mind. Come on, Kimmy, say yes! I want a barbecue!

“Why not?”

I love how spontaneous she is. And I love that she doesn't care that she did all the work. Truth is, I'm not sure if I love her. I know I told her I did, but I didn't mean it. I like her a lot, and I'm in lust with her, but—love?

She kisses me and I forget what I was worried about.

 

I walk in fifteen minutes late to class, and sit in the spot Kimmy reserved for me.

She points to her watch. Thanks, Mom. She can't get over the fact that I'm late to every class. I pat her on the knee. She pats back.

The trip was great, except for her excessive how-do-I-look and do-you-think-that-chick-is-hotter-than-me whining. How is someone so awesome so insecure?

Sharon wasn't insecure. Shouldn't think about Sharon. Can't stop thinking about Sharon. Did I make a mistake? No. Kimmy is right for me. We're moving to the same city. We're working at the same place.

When there are only a few minutes left of class, Professor Martin pulls out a stack of assignments from his briefcase. “The class average was a seventy-three, which isn't too im
p
ressive,” he says. “A
pp
arently the majority of you failed to understand the difference between synergy and leveraging.”

I don't even remember the assignment. Not a good sign.

I brace myself for a low sixty. I couldn't have failed. I assume that if you bother showing up you deserve a passing grade. And I've shown up. Some of the time.

Martin hands back the assignments. Hands back every assignment but mine. Kimmy nudges me. She doesn't get hers back, either. When the bell rings, Martin is out of papers. He returns to the front row and says, “Russ and Kimmy, I'd a
pp
reciate it if you two could stay after class.”

Did I forget to hand in my assignment? That's possible. There's so much to keep track of. After the class empties out, Kimmy and I make our way to the front of the room.

“It has come to my attention that you have both breached the MBA Code of Conduct and Honor Code of Leiser Weiss Business School.”

What?

Kimmy's face drains of color. “Excuse me, sir?”

“Both of you signed the honor code, which states that as a student of LWBS, you would not
p
lagiarize another student's work.”

Oh, man.

He places two papers, side by side, faceup on his desk. Kimmy's has an A on it that's scratched out. “Now herein lies the
p
roblem. I received these two almost identical assignments. According to school rules,
p
lagiarism must result in disci
p
linary action, and any
p
erson found guilty will, at the very least, receive a failure for the course.”

Shit.

Kimmy starts crying. “But…I…”

I give her a look to be quiet. Crying is not going to win us points. “Sir, we discussed the assignment together. It was just a coincidence, a crazy coincidence that the papers look alike. I don't think it's unheard of that a couple discusses an assignment.”

Martin stares at us. “I believe this goes way beyond bedtime chatter. The two
p
a
p
ers were
p
ractically identical. I believe one of you
p
lagiarized off the other, and I suggest that you s
p
eak u
p
now.”

Kimmy looks at me with beseeching eyes but doesn't say a thing.

“I see,” Martin says. “Let me add that by
p
rotecting the guilty, the innocent is just as cul
p
able. Both of you can ex
p
ect a notification from LWBS's disci
p
linary committee. They'll be sending you a notification regarding the day and time you'll be
p
leading your cases. You're dismissed.”

We leave the class, shell-shocked.

“What's the worst that will happen?” I ask.

She wipes the back of her hand against her eyes. “We'll both be expelled.”

4:50 p.m.

T
here's a knock on my door, which I ignore, as at present I'm in the middle of negotiating a movie deal over the phone.

“We can't pay much,” says the VP Business Development of Light Productions. “Only a stipend really, but we'd love to have you onboard.”

They want to pay me a thousand-dollar stipend for the four months, but that's one thousand dollars more then I was expecting. It's a viable offer, an offer I'm taking. I'm going to use my business skills at a production company. And I'm going to major in Media and Entertainment next year.

Cool.

Another knock. Louder. I kick the door in an attempt to make whoever it is go away. I hope it's not Layla. I'd hate to piss her off so early in the relationship.

I smile to myself. I can't wait to be in NY. I get to spend the entire summer with Layla. I can't get her out of my mind. I'm flying far and beyond cloud nine. Cloud nine
teen
. I can't believe the woman of my dreams likes me. Everything happened so quickly and it's so wonderful.

So wonderful—and scary. She's somehow got it into her head that I'm her perfect match. I have to admit her tendency to idealize men and then knock them off their pedestals in one swift kick makes me nervous. Kimmy says that one of the reasons she broke up with Kermit was because his penis was too big. While that's good news for my little friend, I didn't know that was possible. That's one of the reasons I haven't slept with her yet. Not because she'll think my penis is too small and dump me (although that
is
a concern), but because I want to make sure she's really in love with me first. Let me tell you, it wasn't easy putting her off Sunday night. But I want to take things slowly. I'm already so crazy about her—if we start having sex and then she dumps me, I'll spiral into another depression.

“When can we expect you?” asks the movie man.

“My final exam is Thursday, April twenty-ninth. I can start work the following Monday.” A piece of paper ripped out of a notebook is shoved under my door. What is their problem? I pick up the paper and read:
Huge problem. Come find me. Layla

I hurry off the phone and open the door. Kimmy is pacing up and down the hallway, her face streaked with tears. Frowning beside her, hands on hips, is Layla.

“What happened?” I ask, immediately hugging Kimmy.

Layla sighs. “She's been accused of
p
lagiarism.”

Come again?

Kimmy wipes her eyes. “Come into my room.” We follow her inside and she closes the door behind her. “Russ borrowed one of my papers,” she says, sobbing. “Martin accused us of copying. We have to go to the disciplinary committee.”

Russ copied from her? The guy who's been reading
Forbes
since the womb is copying from the woman who didn't know what OB was? “I'm sure Russ has admitted he copied from you, right?”

She hesitates. “He hasn't.”

“What do you mean he hasn't?” Layla shrieks.

“He went back to his room to think. What should I do?”

Layla snorts. “Go tell Martin the truth before you ruin your life. You could get expelled. You have to turn him in.”

“I can't turn him in,” she wails. “I can't turn in my boyfriend.”

I rub small circles on her back. “I think Layla has a point, Kimmy. You're jeopardizing your future here.”

She shakes me away. “Don't you see? If I tell the truth I could still lose everything. The code of ethics says you're not supposed to show anyone your work, so I'm still responsible for what happened. So what's the difference?”

“Kimmy,” I say, “showing someone your work is not the same as abetting in a crime. What are you more afraid of losing? School or Russ?”

She doesn't answer.

“Are you crazy?” Layla yells, eyes flashing. “You didn't work your ass off all year just to throw it all away to save some guy. Are you not pissed? He used you. He's been using you from day one. We're marching right to Martin's office to tell him what happened.”

Kimmy's hands start to shake. “You don't understand. He didn't use me. He loves me. We're in love. This MBA thing…I didn't even want to be here. I came because of Wayne. I'm not losing Russ.”

“Have you thought about what would happen to you if you take the rap for this?” Layla shouts. “Do you think you're still going to have a job at O'Donnel?”

“I'm trying to be realistic,” Kimmy says.

“What the hell does that mean?” Layla asks.

“It means that this MBA doesn't mean as much to me as it does to him. In a few years, I'll want to start a family—”

“So what? Why does a family mean you can't have a career?”

“I knew you wouldn't understand,” Kimmy says. “You live
in a dream world. You can't have everything. You can't have kids and a husband and a company.”

Sometimes I'm amazed at how differently women view the world, from us and from each other.

“Of course you can,” Layla retorts. “Lots of women do.”

“Like who? Your mother? How many times has she called you since you moved here? Did you even see her when you were in town?”

Layla's face flushes as if she's been slapped. “She works. Hard.”

“I don't want my kids to grow up with a Brazilian accent is all I'm saying.”

“Do what you want,” Layla says, and storms out.

Silence.

“Jamie, what do you think?” Kimmy asks.

“I think I'll support whatever decision you make,” I say, “but I don't think Russ deserves you.”

“Thank you.” She starts to cry again. “I wish it was you I was in love with.”

I rub circles on her back until she stops crying.