Monkey Business (9 page)

10:05 p.m.

“A
re you okay?” I ask.

Kimmy is standing in front of the sink, bawling her eyes out and coughing. She nods and wipes her eyes. “I'm fine.”

I pat her on the shoulder. “You are not fine. Why don't you come to my room and we'll talk?”

Instead of looking at me, she looks at her reflection. “Talk about what?”

“About whatever is bothering you.”

She hesitates, then says, “Okay. Let me clean myself up first.”

“Good idea. And I'll just be a sec.” I quickly pee, since that is the reason I came to the bathroom in the first place, and then find Kimmy waiting for me by the door. “I think you need a girls' night.”

She opens her mouth to say something, changes her mind, then opens it again. “Where's your room?” she asks as she follows me down the hallway.

“Make a right at the fork.”

We walk in silence. Maybe inviting Kimmy wasn't a good
idea. All I really know about her is that she was in diaper commercials. She seems so lonely. And she appears to be in need of a good girlfriend as much as I am. I snap on the light.

She scans my setup. “Wow. Did you get a decorator in here?”

“Not quite. But I appreciate the compliment. Why don't you sit?” I gesture to the purple beanbag in the corner. “Just throw the newspapers on the floor.” I have a week of business sections that I've forgotten to recycle. “Do you want some tea?”

She sits. “Tea? No thanks.”

“Oh, Come on. I have herbal, and it's good for you.”

She shrugs. “Okay.” This girl is at the bottom of her emotional barrel.

I plug in the kettle on my night table and then pass Kimmy a chenille blanket and a box of chocolate cookies. She shakes her head. “I'm more of a chips girl.”

“More for me, then,” I say, and sit cross-legged on the bed. I eat a lot of chocolate. Especially when I'm not having sex. I need to get my endorphin fix from something. “So tell me your life story. What's wrong?”

She opens her mouth and starts to cry.

“Don't cry, it can't be that bad.” For the first time since I arrived at school, I feel at home. I miss my girlfriends. I miss my sister. I miss hanging out. I miss drinking tea, eating cookies and talking about everything and nothing.

“It's that bad, believe me. I got a D in Accounting, another D in Economics and an F on the Stats assignment.”

I inwardly cringe. “Big deal. It's just one assignment. Or three. And the Accounting assignment was only worth ten percent.” Probably not the time to mention my A's or the
Excellent job!
comment I received or that Professor Gold gave me a smiley-face sticker.

“Trust me, Layla, I won't do better on the next ones. I'll probably fail out.”

“Fail out! What kind of talk is that? You won't fail out.
You just started. Maybe you're not working hard enough.” The kettle hums, and I pour the boiling water into two cups stuffed with chamomile tea bags.

“You don't understand. It doesn't matter how hard I work, I don't understand anything. I don't get it. I'm a moron. I don't belong here.”

I hand her a cup. I love these cups. They're from the Calvin Klein mahogany fine-china collection. “You're being ridiculous. Your group will help you.”

“No, they won't. I can't ask them. We're having some, uh, issues. One of the guys has a crush on me, and I don't want to encourage him.”

Gossip! I've missed gossip. “Yeah? Who?”

“Do you know Jamie Grossman?”

“Oh, yeah. He's in your group? He's hilarious. We met in the shower a few weeks ago.” She looks at me with disbelief, and I laugh. “Sounds more sordid than it was. I ran out of conditioner, so I asked the person next to me to lend me some.”

She nods. “So that's what he was talking about today when he said he realized who was in the shower.”

“Ha! I'm surprised it took him so long. I recognized his voice from class immediately.”

“He doesn't shut up in class.”

And the point is…? “That doesn't bother me.”

“You never shut up, either.” She clamps her hand over her mouth. “I didn't mean to say that out loud.”

I giggle. “You're right. I like to talk in class. No reason not to get the participation marks.”

“I never talk in class.”

“You should.”

She shrugs. “I never have anything to say.”

“Neither do half the people in our Block,” I say. “And they still talk.”

She smiles. “I didn't mean to insult you earlier. You make good points in class. I'm jealous.”

“And I'm jealous of the poetry you get in the bathroom,” I say.

“How embarrassing are those poems!” she shrieks, covering her face with the blanket.

They are a little embarrassing, but definitely sweet. “You could probably just wash them off the walls,” I suggest.

“I know,” Kimmy says, “but I kind of like them.” She laughs. “We got together in orientation.”

“Really? You and Casanova? No wonder he's writing you poetry. So what happened? He wasn't any good?” I ask, automatically leaning toward her.

She covers her face with the blanket again.

Girl talk! Girl talk! I need some girl talk. “Come on, tell me!”

“Promise you won't repeat?”

“Repeat? I would never.” The first rule of girl talk is that one must never repeat. “Spill it!”

“It was terrible. Terrible.” She brings her thumb and index finger about an inch apart.

I shriek with laughter.

“It didn't even make it inside of me.”

How awful. “No wonder he follows you around. He wants another chance.”

“I know. Do you think a guy knows when he's not good in bed?”

Now we're talking. I dip into the box for cookie number three. “I don't know. Does a woman?”

“I think I would know if I wasn't good in bed. Which I am.” She smiles. “I have another secret. I have a huge crush on Russ.”

Ew. Puke-boy. I attempt to mask my revulsion. “Yeah?”

“Isn't he gorgeous?”

I can't help but picture him with vomit on his chin. “So? What's the story?”

“There
is
no story. He has a girlfriend back home. And I have no boyfriend and I'm failing out of school.”

“Maybe I can help you,” I offer.

“Find a boyfriend?”

I'm about to throw a pillow at her, but I'm afraid I'll end up spilling the tea on my five-hundred-thread-count Ralph Lauren sheets. “I'm talking about getting better grades. We can work on our assignments together.”

“Really? You don't mind?”

Why would I mind? It'll be nice having someone to hang out with. “Not at all. It'll be fun.”

She nods and looks around the room. “Thanks. I appreciate it. If you're sure. If you change your mind, I'll understand.”

If I change my mind, she'll fail. “I'm sure.”

“Is there more hot water?” she asks. She crawls over to my night table and empties the rest of the kettle water into her cup. “Hey, who's this?” She picks up the printout of Brad.

“Uh…no one.”

“No way, I told you everything about me!”

That's true. A friendship is based on give and take. “It's just some guy I've been admiring from afar.”

“You know, I've noticed Professor Jon has been admiring
you
from afar. He spends all class staring at you.”

“He's not for me.”

She shakes her head in disbelief. “Are you nuts? He's hot and smart and sexy and he seems to want you. I'd go for it. So who is this guy?”

“I read applications for LWBS. And today I processed an application of the guy I want to marry. Is that weird?”

“A little. And this is him?”

I can't believe I just told her that. “Yeah. But please don't tell anyone, okay?”

“So are you going to call him?”

“No! I can't. It's unethical. His picture will be my sexual fodder for the rest of the year. And who knows? Maybe he'll come to LWBS in the fall.” He's already been good to me. I had two orgasms last night, back to back. They weren't
per
fect
orgasms, but you know what they say: bad sex is better than no sex. That's my quest, to have the perfect orgasm. I figure I'll know it when I have it.

She taps her index finger against Brad's head. “By next year this one will be taken. If he isn't already.”

Taken? He could be taken? I can't fantasize about a man who's taken.

She laughs. “Don't look so upset! He might not be. Just call him.”

“He ticked off the single box. He's not married. Damn applications. I wish they had a
Do you have a girlfriend?
box. Or
Do you live with someone?
box.”

“Call him,” she repeats.

“We'll see.” There's no way I'm calling him.

I dig into the second row of cookies. Looks like I'll need to stock up on these endorphins.

Tuesday, October 14, 10:25 a.m.

I
sit next to Layla in Strategy, since it's the one class where she doesn't sit in the front row. The spitting bothers her.

“How are you feeling?” she asks.

“Better, thanks.” I can't believe I spilled all that personal information to her last week. I must be a masochist. I whine about how women screw me over, and then I give someone I barely know the ammunition to stick it to me again. Now I have to be nice to her for the rest of our lives. Or at least until I get kicked out of school.

Russ walks in next and sits in the back.

Martin struts into the room, slams the front door and immediately writes BUSINESS IS WAR! on the blackboard, as he does every day. At least he's not wearing the army hat he wore on the first day of class.

Jamie opens the door, waves to Martin and sits in the empty seat next to mine. “Hi, gorgeous,” he says, winking.

Layla tries to repress the smile on her face. I definitely should not have spilled the small penis info. Why am I so blessed with verbal diarrhea?

But I have the goods on her, if she turns into a leak, I'm sure the officials at LWBS would be interested to know that she has a photo of an applicant on her night table. For sexual fodder! I can't believe she was so obvious about…masturbating. I've never actually heard a woman
admit
to masturbating. Guys talk about it all the time, but women? I bet if I'd hung around longer, she would have pulled out her dildos. She's so…open. Which I guess is kind of cool.

Okay, I admit I've masturbated. Once. Tried to, anyway. But I couldn't climax, and I just got sore. Yeah, I'm pretty screwed up.

But maybe if I found the right guy…

If Russ wasn't already with Sharon…

“Today, I'll be teaching you the im
p
ortance of goals and strategy when dealing with a com
p
etitor,” Martin showers on the front row. “
P
retend you are a new company wanting to break into the laundry-detergent industry. Your strategy is your roadma
p
. If im
p
lemented
p
ro
p
erly, it will hel
p
you reach your goals. Your strategic
p
lan should be grounded in knowledge about your customer, research about your com
p
etitor, and your firm's current
p
erformance.”

I so don't understand what he's talking about.

Maybe if applied it to boyfriend stealing…mmm. This could work!

Goal: get Russ to date me.

Now let's see. I need knowledge about my customer, research about my competitor and understanding regarding my firm's current performance.

My customer: Russ. What do I know about Russ, other than he's hot and unavailable? I flip to the Understanding the Customer section of my strategy textbook for appropriate businessy terms.

1. Brand loyal
   . Russ is not very brand loyal. He's joined twelve clubs since starting school and can't decide
   on a major. He's always up for a drink, a joint or a smoke break. He can't seem to make up his mind about anything.
   
2. Easily influenced
   . Russ is easily influenced by peers. He has not cheated on his girlfriend (yet), but he gives off vibes that he has a tough time resisting temptation.
   
3. Potential impulse buyer
   . Does Russ acquire merchandise on impulse? I certainly hope so, if I'm the potential merchandise.
   

Not bad. Not bad at all. My heart speeds up. I can do this!

Now, for my competitor analysis: Sharon's goal is probably to marry Russ. What I don't know is how close she is to achieving that goal.

Okay, here we go. Find Sharon's vulnerability and attack. She lives in another country. How can I use that to my advantage and turn “Absence makes the heart grow fonder” into “Out of sight, out of mind”? Obviously, I need to do some research.

Is this horrible? What kind of a person actively tries to steal someone else's boyfriend?

A person like Cheryl.

An
evil
person.

Not necessarily. It's nothing personal, just business, as they say. A matter of economics, supply and demand. (I demand what Russ is supplying?) If business is war, then so must be love! And so, if capitalism is at the heart of the American Dream, I'm doing my patriotic duty.

Besides, if he loves her so much, what the hell was he doing flirting with me?

All right, then. Time to review some vital statistics:

1. He's not married.
   
2. He's not engaged (yet).
   
3. He's dating someone who lives in another city. Another country.
   
4. A guy doesn't get poached unless he wants to get poached. (I'd be doing Sharon a favor if I win; she doesn't deserve to spend her life with someone who doesn't really love her.)
   
5. And last but definitely not least, I've caught him staring at my boobs on more than one occasion.
   

I spot Nick in line for lunch. “Hey, you.”

“Hey, dude,” he says. How can I be called dude with this cleavage? “What's going on?”

“Not much. Just hungry. Where's your sidekick?”

“Marketing meeting. Real estate club. Who knows with that guy?”

For once I'm glad that Russ is missing in action. I want to talk to Nick without interference.

I pick a few vegetables from the salad bar. “Mind if I join you?”

He blankets his plate with a glob of macaroni and cheese. “I was going to head back to my room, but we can eat here if you want.”

“Why not? We could use the break.” I try to appear blasé, as if a break is the reason I'm here. We chitchat for a few minutes while I try to come up with devious and clever ways to uncover information about Sharon. “How's the studying going?”

“Not bad. Having some trouble concentrating, though.”

“A side effect of pot, I'm told.”

He smiles sheepishly. “Is it that obvious?”

“The Visine gave you away.”

“Russ is the one who's paranoid about anyone finding out.” And then finally he throws me an unintentional bone. “He's nerdy that way. Afraid some girl in second year will tell his girlfriend or something.”

Covert research is easier than I thought. “Does Sharon have spies?” I ask jokingly.

“I think she has a friend at LWBS.”

Oh. I take a bite of salad and try to appear thoughtful. “She doesn't know he smokes?”

“Nope. She doesn't approve.” He shoves a forkful of macaroni into his mouth. “This is really terrible.”

I try to sway the conversation back to Sharon. “Is she controlling?”

“Who?”

Who? Must I do all the work here? I stop myself from rolling my eyes. “Sharon.”

“I don't know. Maybe. She makes him call her every night. I think it annoys him.”

Excellent. “Why didn't she move here to be with him? Are they not that serious?”

“They're serious, but she has a job teaching in Toronto. She didn't want to give up her seniority, and besides, it's not easy getting a visa to work here. Immigration laws are really tight. I think he's planning on going back to Canada, anyway.”

What? My Prince Charming wants to live north of the border? Don't they live in igloos up there? Kidding. Kind of.

“I can't believe we still have two classes left today,” he says, abruptly changing the subject. “Mondays and Wednesdays are way too long.”

“At least we have no school Fridays,” I say, then quietly finish my salad, absorbed in my thoughts.

I'm told it's easy to immigrate to the U. S. if you're married to a citizen.

 

I spend Economics updating my strategic plan.

She's closer to achieving her goal than I thought if he's planning on moving back to Canada. I mentally review her weaknesses. She's controlling, she's bossy, she's prudish (schoolteachers aren't slutty, are they?), and she's not here. Time for an attack!

When the bell rings after IC, Nick pulls back his chair and says to Russ, “Time for a four-twenty.”

I lean over their desks in my tighter, lower-cut, redder outfit. “Please, shed some light on this four-twenty.”

Nick laughs and Russ looks embarrassed. “It means, it's time to smoke a joint,” Nick says.

“I think it's the police code in California for drugs,” Russ says.

“No, dude,” Nick says. “That's a myth. It was some group in the seventies who met at 4:20 every day after school, and they used four-twenty as their code for marijuana so they could talk about it in front of teachers and parents.”

“Ah. Just like you two. And it's now—” I use my right arm to point to the watch on my left hand, thereby pressing together my breasts and enhancing my cleavage “—four-twenty.”

Nick nods. “Pretty clever, huh?”

“I think I'll join you,” I say. Strategy in motion.

I haven't smoked since college. Wayne wasn't into it, so I wasn't into it. But duty calls.

“Are we meeting now?” Lauren asks, poking her annoying head between the boys.

“No!” I say.

“But what about the Organizational Behavior assignment?”

Why is she butting into my tactics? “We'll meet at five,” I say, leading the boys away. Once back at the Zoo, Nick opens the window in his room, then shoves a towel into the crack between the floor and the door.

I plop down onto Nick's bed, my back against the wall. Nick sits backward on his computer chair, as if he were riding a horse.

Russ sits next to me. Excellent.

Nick opens a drawer and pulls out what looks like a wooden jewelry box. He takes out his stash, a shot glass and a long pair of scissors.

Russ closes his eyes and leans his head against the wall.

“Tired?” I say.

He blinks. “Yeah. I think I signed up for too many activities.”

Time to commiserate. “This place is a killer. I know just how you feel.”

I let my shoulder gently touch his.

He doesn't move away.