Monkey Business (3 page)

“So no more?” she says.

“No more,” I promise. She's right. I can't screw this up. She's always right and I'm an idiot. “How was your day?”

“Good. I prepared. Tomorrow is my first day of school. I'm giving my grade-ten class a surprise pop quiz on the details leading up to Confederation. They're going to thrilled.”

At sixteen I wouldn't have cared what test a hot teacher like Sharon gave me as long as I could keep looking at her.
Thank you, miss, may I have another?
With my zit-infected face and scrawny pipe-cleaner body, watching her teach would have been the most action I'd get. “But it's only the first day,” I say, regaining my senses. “A test already?”

“If I don't whip them into shape at the beginning, they'll walk all over me.”

“Wanna come over and whip me into shape?”

She laughs. “Is that an invitation?”

“What do you think?” Don't think she'd be too impressed with the saggy single bed, shit decor and hike to the showers.

“You miss me already, don't you, Russ?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I figured. Okay, I'm going back to bed.”

“Good night,” I say. “Good luck tomorrow.”

“You, too.”

“Thanks. We meet our Blocks in the morning.”

She yawns. “Good. And, hon?”

“Yeah?”

“Can't you call me slightly earlier tomorrow?”

I knew I was going to get flak for that. “But you told me to phone before I went to sleep.”

“I did. But it's a school night. You should be going to bed earlier.”

“Sorry. I won't call you so late tomorrow.”

“Good. Go to bed now, okay? Love you. Be good.”

“Love you, too.” I press the end button on the cordless.

Now what? Clock says 1:40. Still excited about tomorrow. And worried. I thought pot is supposed to make me sleepy.

Maybe I'll visit Nick. Oh, yeah. Already did that. Maybe I'll call Sharon.

8:45 a.m.

I
'm pacing outside the door to the Carry the Torch Committee office on the third floor of the main MBA building, the Katz building. I've been here for forty-five minutes. Someone better arrive shortly or I'm going to be late for orientation. I'd sit on the floor to wait, but who knows when someone last swept the hallway.

I hear the click-clack of a woman's heels coming down the hall. A short redhead in a black Theory suit turns the corner…finally. Yes!

I stretch out my hand. “Hello, I'm Layla Roth and I'm here to apply for the committee.” You can judge people by their handshake. Firm means strong personality, trustworthy. Limp means weak, whiny. The woman's hand is flaccid. No matter. I still intend to apply. My mentor at Rosen Brothers Investments did this job when he was in business school, and I want to do it, too. It sounds fun. The committee chooses ten people to read over next year's applicants, and I want to be one of those ten.

The redhead looks as though she's surprised someone is
waiting for her before nine in the morning. “Layla, like the Eric Clapton song?”

“Yes, like the song.” If I earned a dollar for every time someone refers to the Eric Clapton song when I introduce myself, I wouldn't have to work a day in my life. Not that I could stand not working. Not that I have to work for financial reasons. But what would I do all day? Volunteer for the Salvation Army? Please.

“Well, Layla, you're my first applicant. But you didn't have to wait for me.” She points to a box marked Applications beside her door. “That's what the mail slot is for.”

What if everyone else handed them to her in person? What if I crammed my application inside the box and she didn't check? What if it got stuck to the side of the box, like a chewed piece of gum, and was never seen again? Just in case, I'll take the extra two minutes, thanks. “I prefer to introduce myself.”

She tilts her head and smiles. “Aren't you a go-getter! I'm Dorothy. Nice to meet you.”

We chitchat for a few minutes about school, and I peek inside her office while she turns on her lights and boots her computer. I give her my application, then shake her hand—firmly—and say goodbye.

In the elevator I glance at my Rolex. I meet my Block in an hour! The back of my neck tingles with excitement. I can't believe this day is finally here. I'm going to be surrounded by kindred spirits. Imagine, networking every day. These are the people who will help me find jobs, help me move up the corporate ladder. These are the people who will one day rule the world, the people who will one day hire my children who will one day rule the world.

These are
my
people.

I stop at the admissions office to pick up my schedule. I already reviewed it online, but I want to have the original hard copy to post in my new room.

The next time I glance at my watch, it's nine-twenty. Forty minutes! I'd better get a move on if I want to get a good seat in orientation. I stop at the women's bathroom, which isn't coed and therefore less germ infested. The bacteria propagation is the one thing I'm not looking forward to about the coed dorm. I've never shared a toilet with a man, and I've heard it's not a pleasant experience. When I lived at home, my mother always complained that my father had lousy aim. Good thing they have his and hers bathrooms. And a housekeeper who takes care of the spills.

I squat over the toilet so I don't have to touch the seat. Who knows how often they're disinfected? Then I flush with the heel of one of my new Prada shoes. I wash my hands, retie my long blond hair into a pony off my face and take a paper towel to protect my hands from the microorganisms on the door handle.

Last week I did a virtual “First Day” walk on the LWBS Web site, so I know precisely where the orientation is being held. Room 107. The door is open, the ten-row auditorium empty. Eager to begin this next stage of my life, I sit in the front row and set my plastic name card at the front of my desk.

 

“Was that online Economics workshop really, um, necessary? Because I didn't do it.”

I do not believe the guy in the back row. Isn't it a little late to be asking a question of that nature? I did the workshop back in June. And it took me thirty-three hours. Poor boy. He's going to be so lost.

The second-year student leading the orientation fingers the mole on his cheek. “It's a good way to brush up on your skills,” he says. His voice cracks like a twelve-year-old muddling through puberty. “But I don't think it's something that will be tested.”

Oh. But still. I'm glad I did it. I learned a lot, and that's the point.

“If you have no more questions,” our mole-leader says, “we'll move on to the get-to-know-you exercise.”

Yes! At last, an activity designed to help us bond with our classmates. I wish I could have been here for the beer bash last night, but one of my best friends back home was having a birthday party, and I couldn't miss it. So I drove in late last night, and went directly to my room to start decorating. I hope my fish, Martha, likes her new home. I put her right by the window so she gets lots of sunlight. Yes, I named her after Martha Stewart, and I don't care what anyone says, I'll defend her innocence to my death.

The second-year leader walks through the rows, passing out index cards. “Please write down your name, where you're from, where you worked and an interesting fact about yourself. Then pass up the cards and I'll read out the information. Stand up when I say your name. And then to lighten the mood, please tell your Block something embarrassing that happened to you.”

Being a leader next year would be a fantastic experience. So would the Carry the Torch Committee. I'd be able to help shape next year's class. Maybe I should drop by the office again after orientation to reiterate how badly I want to be part of the program.

I must stop obsessing.

The Japanese woman with dyed orange hair sitting to my left looks dazed. I begin writing the information on my index card. She taps me on the shoulder. “What I do?” she asks.

Poor girl. How is she going to manage this year? I show her my sheet. “Name. Layla.” I point to myself. “Where I'm from. Manhattan. Job. Rosen Brothers Investments. Interesting fact.” I haven't answered that question yet.

“Oh! Thank you.” The girl smiles and nods. “My English not so good.”

“Don't worry. It will be.” I have to think of an interesting fact and something embarrassing. Can it be the same
thing? What if I can't think of something? How embarrassing! Could I use that?

Let's see now. Embarrassing…embarrassing…The time I was supposed to introduce a guest speaker in the third grade and was so overcome with stage fright that I refused to go? No, can't say that. I don't want them to think of me as the girl who cracks under pressure. After that little disaster, I forced myself to be in two performances to conquer my fear, and I did just fine. What about the time at summer camp when I was a counselor and had so much to drink that I passed out and wet my pants (so they said) in front of the five other staff members who later had to take me to the infirmary? As if I'd admit to that.

When everyone has passed up their information, the mole-leader begins to randomly read out names. I try to pay attention but instead think about my Carry the Torch application. It was good. Perfect. There's no reason for me not to make the cut.

“Jamie Grossman,” the mole-leader says, “is from Miami. He worked in management at the children's ward at Miami General, and of late was a freelance reporter.”

That hospital sounds familiar. What have I heard about it? The mole keeps talking but I can't concentrate. Where do I know that hospital from? Oh, right. From a deal I worked on when I was at Rosen Brothers. We merged two hospitals. Recommended a bunch of layoffs. I wonder if he was one of the “superfluous” personnel. Perhaps why he became a freelance journalist? That's what I hated most about my job. Knowing my recommendations often ended with people getting axed. What can I do? That's my job. I'm in mergers and acquisitions. And that's where I want to go back to after I graduate. That's where they'll pay me the big bucks. And I get to wear those cute Chanel suits.

I daydream about putting on my favorite Chanel suit. I love my Chanel suits.

“Kimberly Nailer.”

Suddenly there's whispering and rustling from the back row. Kimmy, the woman I met in the bathroom, stands up, and the male students in the back row give each other knowing looks.

Tell me I didn't see that. I'll give the men here the benefit of the doubt and assume they'll be treating women as equals and not as second-class citizens or as sex objects. I wave to Kimmy as she stands up. I'll always stand behind my fellow females. Thirteen years at an all-girls school teaches you to take pride in the sisterhood.

“Kimmy is from Arizona and worked in leasing. An interesting fact about her,” the mole-leader continues, “is that she was in a TV commercial when she was a baby.”

Lighthearted laughter wafts through the class.

“What's your embarrassing fact?” the leader asks.

Kimmy blushes. “They were diaper commercials.”

That is so cute. Do I have anything that adorable? True, calling attention to one's bare behind probably isn't the way to curtail the sex-object problem, but still, everyone will remember her, and isn't that the point?

She sits down, and the leader continues listing names.

“Layla Roth.”

I jump from my seat and stand at attention.

“Layla grew up in Manhattan and worked for Rosen Brothers Investments. Her interesting fact is that her mother was one of the first women to graduate from the Leiser Weiss Business School. What's your embarrassing moment, Layla?”

Someone in the back row is humming the tune to the Clapton song.

“I was in London when I was nine, and I was at a party that Princess Diana was also attending. When it was my turn to meet her, I was so overwhelmed I couldn't speak. My parents had to take me home.” I shiver at the memory.

“So you never met her?” the leader asks.

“Oh, I did, but not until four years later at a benefit.”

I loved Diana. Instead of pictures of Kirk Cameron, I had posters of the princess of hearts up on my wall. Not on my wall proper, obviously—the tape would have ruined the paint. I thumbtacked them to the corkboard inside my closet.

Ah. That's what I forgot to buy. A corkboard for my schedules. Dorothy had a terrific one in her office with a gorgeous chrome frame. I must remember to ask her where she got it when I inquire about the job.

She must have read my application by now.

11:30 a.m.

W
hat am I doing here?
Jerry, the guy sitting four seats diagonal to me started a multimillion-dollar paper company. Juan, sitting in the corner, is an international student from Colombia and has two degrees in neuroscience. The woman I met in the bathroom at the dorm is an investment banker and hangs out with British royalty in her spare time.

I was in a diaper commercial.

I'm not sure why I couldn't come up with something a smidgen more intellectual than discussing my crap, literally. I am so pathetic. I must have been an admissions mistake. Stapled to a worthier application by accident. That's the only explanation. I don't know how I aced the GMATs. I must have gotten an easy version.

The class is laughing now, while my knuckles are gripping the sides of my desk in panic. They're laughing at a joke where Arbitrage Pricing Theory is the punch line. What am I doing here? I don't even know what Arbitrage Pricing Theory is.

Something pings me in the head. A paper airplane is nes
tled between my freakishly long foot and the leg of the desk. I look over my shoulder to see my nightmare from last night demonically smiling at me.

I've been successfully avoiding him all morning. When returning from the shower this morning, I spotted him standing by my door, knocking and hollering, “Kimmy? Kimmy, you there?”

I ducked back into the bathroom.

When I heard him searching inside the bathroom, I sneaked into a stall.

How could my potential husband have turned into my personal stalker in just twenty-four hours?

What does he want from me? I thought all men wanted was action, and then they took off. Why was this one still around?

I rushed into orientation, claimed a desk with my sweater and pen and then disappeared back outside. I correctly assumed that he wouldn't be able to sit next to me if he didn't know which desk I'd taken.

Unfortunately, I didn't take the law of random act of chance or whatever it's called into account. Until he threw an airplane at my head, I'd managed to pretend to concentrate on the lecture with intensity usually reserved for a
Details
magazine. (I love men's mags. Women's are so annoying: “What do I do? My mascara is clumping!” Who friggin' cares?) I spin around and there he is. Two rows behind me.

The jig is up.

The entire auditorium is ogling me like I'm butt naked. Nice work. It's only my second day and I'm the class slut.

I give him my best thin smile.

“How are you?” he mouths.

“Fine. And you?” I mouth back.

A goofy, buoyant smile is plastered on his face. “Want to hang out tonight?” This time his mouth has sound, and the entire room is in heat waiting for my response.

Ahhhh! What kind of question is that? Hang out? As if
hang out
could mean anything but
hook up.
If I say yes, I'm a slut. No, and I'm a bitch. It's like I'm at a witch trial.

Blink, blink. What to do, what to do. I skim the back row to see what the peanut gallery is expecting. And then my eyes lock with the bluest eyes I have ever seen. I feel like I just fell headfirst into a bucket of rich blue paint. They're opaque and beautiful and I lose myself in them entirely.

I snap back into focus and check out the rest of the man with the magical gaze. He's wearing a blue-collar shirt that matches his hypnotic eyes, and he's leaning forward, his elbows on his desk. Yikes, his tie has miniature Superman S's plastered all over it. But…his hair is dark, black almost, and those piercing blue eyes—I bet he could easily play Superman in any upcoming remake.

I'm in love.

Okay, I know I've thought that before, but this time I mean it. And this time the object of my love is looking at me while I'm looking at him. I smile, then turn back to the front of the room. The best way to flirt is to make eye contact, smile and then look away. Screw you Wayne, I've found someone else!

“Um…Kimmy?” Jamie asks.

I crane my neck backward again. “Yes?”

“What about tonight?”

Oops. If I want to marry Blue Eyes, I can't say yes. But if I say no, the peanut gallery will condemn me for life. What kind of girl fools around with a guy then refuses to see him? Sure, if I were a guy the act would have earned me kudos, but face it, I'm a woman struggling to survive in a testosterone terrain.

I take a politician's platform. “We'll see.”

The goofy smile returns to Jamie's face.

I spend the next hour looking straight ahead, feeling the hairs on the back of my neck prickle as if it were cold in here. Actually, it is cold in here. I'm a bit nippy.

Of course that could be because of Blue Eyes.

Maybe when the bell rings, he'll smile at me, and we'll chat about school and then he'll ask me to get a coffee and I'll say sure and we'll grab a cup to go and park ourselves under a tree on campus. He'll spread out his jacket so my beige pants won't get stained with dirt. Damn, I don't think he has a jacket. What will I sit on? His lap? Wrong. Too early—I don't want to repeat the Jamie experience. I guess I could sit on my notebook. Anyway, we'll smile shyly at each other. The wind will blow through my hair. And then we'll sit together in all our classes and fall madly in love. (Then I can sit on his lap. His chest. Anywhere I damn well please.) We'll spend the next two years studying in the library, giggling together. He'll explain to me all the things I don't understand. Like Pricing Arbitrage.

Pure bliss. One day we'll tell little Blue Eyes Junior how we met on the first day of orientation.

Once again, I might be getting a smidgen ahead of myself. He might have taken a look at my fat ass and decided I was repulsive. Or he might already be married. He might already have a Blue Eyes Junior. I should know by now that you have to look at a man's left hand before you look in his eyes. Unfortunately, since he's sitting diagonally behind me, two seats over from Jamie, from my position there's no way I can get a good look at his ring finger.

He doesn't look married.

“Okay, guys,” the class leader says, “it's time for you to divide into groups of five. Remember, you'll be working with these people for every group assignment this semester. LWBS's policy is to allow students to choose their own work groups within their Blocks. Some B-schools assign the groups, but LWBS believes you are capable of making the decision. I would suggest that you talk among yourselves, to get better acquainted. Each group should be made up of people of diverse backgrounds so that you'll be able to attack
assignments from various angles. For example, you don't want five engineers in one group.”

Panic. This must be how the heavy girls felt in gym class. No one will pick me. What can I add to a group? Uh, nothing? How's this: two accountants, one engineer, one banker…and a diaper model. I slouch in my chair. Through the slits in my eyes I watch my fellow students mill about. I don't look up in case they're pointing at me and shaking their heads. No, not her. No morons in this group.

What happens to the people who don't get picked? Will we be rounded into the corner to become the loser group? Maybe I'll be the only one left. I'll have to do all the assignments by myself. First I'll struggle to understand them, then I'll fail them, and then I'll get booted back to Arizona.

“Psst, Kimmy.”

I practically pirouette at the sound of my name. Jamie. Sweet Jamie.

“Want to work with us?”

As far as I can tell, us includes himself, (gulp) Blue Eyes who has now moved to sit next to him and a skinny bleached-blond guy making a beat with his pen on the edge of his desk.

“Sure,” I say, way too quickly to appear nonchalant. Wow. They want me. They want
me
to work with
them.
Maybe there's some merit to being the class slut, after all. Three boys and me. One boy who wants me, one who's a stud, and one who looks like fun in the musical I-have-a-garage-band way. This will be awesome—until they realize that I'm totally useless and start to hate me. What if they have secret meetings and vote me out of their group,
Survivor
-style?

But awesome until then.

I catch Blue Eyes' gaze and exude my best come-hither smile. He grins back.

Jamie jumps out of his chair and sits on the table. “Excellent. She's Kimmy, by the way,” he says to the other guys.

“We figured,” Musical Blond Boy says, smirking.

“The smart ass over there is Nick. The beautiful Lauren is on his right—”

Lauren? No one said anything about a gorgeous Lauren. I take one look at the stunning African-American beauty and want to cry. She towers over Nick and is sitting with perfect posture, her perfectly perky breasts at attention. Her hair cascades in jet-black curls down her back.

I noticed her when I walked in. How could I not? Every eye in the room followed her when she strutted to the back of the room, parading through the rows like she was on a catwalk.

Bitch.

I know it's wrong to hate women just because they're better looking than I am, but I don't care.

“Hey,” she says, leaning into her palm, her elbow on the desk.

“Hi,” I say, trying to infuse my greeting with enough suspicion so she'll know I'm on to her.

“And,” Jamie continues, “the ugly guy sitting next to me is Russ.”

Russ. I smile and lock eyes with Blue Eyes once again.

“Nice to meet you,” he says, extending his right hand to shake. His fingers are soft and warm. And how is his left hand?

Ringless.

The year is looking up.