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Monkey Business
Sarah Mlynowski
Mills & Boon Silhouette
MB is for a Master's in Business degree.Supposedly.It's also for:Multiple Bed-hoppingDefinitely Kimmy's favorite subject. And who cares if her conquests are already taken? If only business school offered a minor in boyfriend embezzlement…Monogamous BoyfriendRuss didn't intend to be unfaithful–he never thought he'd find one woman who wanted him, let alone two. But since he can't even pick a major, how can he choose a girlfriend?Marriage BaitLayla's obsessed with perfection: perfect grades, perfect six-figure salary, perfect New York investment-banker husband. But you know what they say about the best-laid plans…Misleading BehaviorJamie might be a jokester, but he has more secrets than the CIA. Including one whammy that could get him expelled.Temptations. Drama. Beer bashes. How will they ever find time to study?



PRAISE FOR SARAH MLYNOWSKI
As Seen on TV
“A fun and telling look at the world of reality TV and the lure of fame.”
—Booklist
“As Seen on TV is funny…. The book is filled with witty characters and Steve, a lovable boyfriend whom you can’t help rooting for.”
—Columbus Dispatch
“As Seen on TV is simply irresistible—one of the best reasons you could find for reaching for the TV remote and hitting the off button.”
—International bestselling author Nick Earls
Fishbowl
“An original and very funny celebration of friendship between women.”
—Waldenbooks, Best of 2002 Women’s Fiction
“…Mlynowski is out for a rollicking good time from the start.”
—Arizona Republic
“Undemandingly perfect…wonderfully bitchy.”
—Jewish Chronicle
“A fresh and witty take on real-life exams in love, lust, trust and friendship.”
—Bestselling author Jessica Adams
Milkrun
“Mlynowski is acutely aware of the plight of the 20-something single woman—she offers funny dialogue and several slices of reality.”
—Publishers Weekly
“This Sex and the City-style story is chick-lit for the modern age.”
—Heat

Twenty-something Sarah Mlynowski was born in Montreal, Canada, and has an honors degree in English literature from McGill University. She is currently a full-time novelist in New York, and her books have been published in more than sixteen countries. Monkey Business is her fourth novel.
If you’d like to say hello, visit her Web site at www.SarahMlynowski.com.

Monkey Business
Sarah Mlynowski

www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many, many thanks to:
my mom, Elissa Ambrose, because she reads each word I ever write, no matter what time it is, and always makes my sentences sound prettier; my editor, Sam Bell, for putting this book on the Slim-Fast diet and showing me how to punch it up; my agent, Laura Dail, for being superb in every way; Corinne Gelman, for still being my favorite interview subject, and for taking the time to read early, cryptic drafts of this book; Lynda Curnyn, because she is one of the nicest editors around, as well as being a fabulous writer and my favorite lunching companion; the RDI team: Farrin Jacobs, Margaret Marbury, Laura Morris, Stephanie Campbell, Margie Miller, Tara Kelly and Tania Charzewski, for their excellent work; my friends and little sister: Jess Braun, Bonnie Altro, Robin Glube, Jess Davidman and Aviva Mlynowski, for always answering my Is-This-Funny?/Does-This-Sound-Too-Canadian? e-mails within thirty seconds of receiving them; and Todd Swidler, because with him beside me, everything makes sense. Life, love and even arbitrage pricing. Okay, he had to explain that last one multiple times and ver-r-ry slowly.
For my dad and stepmom,
Larry Mlynowski and Louisa Weiss,
with love.

Contents
orientation (primarily academic)
kimmy’s big blunder
jamie wants a replay so he can amend his foreplay
russ floats and forgets
layla applies herself
kimmy contemplates the random acts of the universe
russ omits one significant detail
first semester
jamie comes late (literally)
kimmy’s double date
layla makes a good impression
kimmy buys her books
russ goes to war
jamie is a washout
layla’s price isn’t right
kimmy’s quasi quarantine
layla finds her prince in a haystack
kimmy’s fears comes true
layla has a girls’ night in
kimmy does her patriotic duty
jamie snoozes and loses
russ spins the bottle
layla tricks but won’t treat
jamie is shockingly punctual
russ blasts beer
kimmy goes to bat
russ caves in
layla goes fruity
kimmy knows the drill
jamie wants a sex change/jamie wants sex, period
layla gets the job done
russ returns to the land of the loonies
kimmy waits
layla hits the books
kimmy studies it up at the library
jamie’s on fire
russ ignores his conscience
layla thinks she failed (again)
russ finishes his exam
kimmy gets screwed
russ rings in the new year
jamie saves the world one book at a time
kimmy’s prepping
it’s the doghouse for russ
second semester
kimmy’s shrinking basket
layla’s stakeout
the green-eyed monster gets to russ
layla writes a marketing plan
kimmy has a heart-to-heart
jamie’s wake-up call
layla makes her move
kimmy works it
russ almost blows his cover
layla gets bubbly
jamie’s valentine’s day curse
kimmy is pissed
jamie thinks about life
russ gets nailed
kimmy gets lucky
jamie returns to the zoo
kimmy has a boyfriend
russ becomes a copycat
layla’s library libido
kimmy saves her boyfriend’s ass
jamie’s muse makes him miserable
russ is annoyed
layla’s new fantasy
kimmy boards the train to pain
jamie talks the talk
layla’s epiphany
russ gets busted (and drags kimmy down with him)
jamie’s rise to stardom
kimmy rationalizes her future
layla streaks
russ’s depression
layla sees the truth
some news for russ
jamie’s advice
kimmy’s ejection
layla’s birthday
sister kimmy
jamie’s mom knows best
russ has a fleeting regret
layla’s calling
closure for kimmy
layla claims her prince
summer break
kimmy’s elevator (#litres_trial_promo)

orientation (primarily academic)

Monday, September 1, 11:55 p.m.

kimmy’s big blunder
He aims, he shoots, he scores—all over my silk duvet.
“It’s okay. Not a big deal,” I lie.
“Give me two seconds, Kimmy, and I’ll be ready for round two.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I lie again.
And then he rolls over and passes out.
He’s sleeping, I’m still in my jeans, and my goose-feather duvet—a gift from my father and the only thing I own of any worth—has a puddle on it.
I can’t believe how gross this is. And to make matters worse, this guy I’ve chosen as my one-night stand—make that five-minute stand—is in my class. I can’t imagine spending the next ten minutes with him, never mind the next two years.
Besides being incapable of holding it in long enough to make it to the condom, a lesson the girls were supposed to teach him when he was an undergrad, he’s flabby, short and has a unibrow. Also his penis is smaller than my PDA, and that fits in the palm of my hand.
For the first time ever, my mother was right. I hate that. She nagged me to put a cover on my duvet, one nag among millions, but did I listen? No, not me. My reasoning? I liked the feel of the satin against my skin.
Apparently so did Jamie.
He’s comatose on top of my comforter, his jeans and checkerboard boxers bagging around his hairy thighs. His eyes are closed, his mouth slightly open, and a trail of drool leaks onto my pillow. Hasn’t he already soiled enough of my linen?
The devil-red numbers on the alarm clock beside my single bed say 12:01 a.m. Or is that 1:21? I can’t see too well, as I’m a bit on the dizzy side.
Okay, I admit it. Drunk dizzy.
Dread dribbles through my half-dressed body like nausea after one too many beers. From my uncomfortable position (back pressed up against the thin wooden wall, legs straight like a clothespin to avoid making contact with his), I analyze the situation’s gravity. There’s a balding, tire-around-the-middle, quasi-naked man in my bed. Correction, on my bed.
Oh, God, what did I do?
My class of two hundred is divided into three Blocks (aka sections), A through C, and all my classes are within the same Block. The way to impress my new classmates probably wasn’t to take one home the first night I’m here. Especially not one in my Block. Block B. It sounds like a prison.
His bloated lips are slightly open, his breath gentle and wet. This embarrassment will probably sit two rows behind me ten times a week. It’s going to be a long two years.
Why did I invite Jamie back to my room? Oh, right, I was trying not to think about Wayne. And I thought he could be my replacement boyfriend. I’ll give Jamie cute in a worn, teddy-bear sort of way. He said he was twenty-six, but he looks almost middle-aged. Like a forty-year-old who buys a Corvette and gets an earring to stay hip.
Spew all over my comforter is not cool. Okay, it’s not all over the comforter; it’s relegated to a one-inch Italy-shaped boot on the right side of the bed. But still, what am I going to do, bring it to the dry cleaner? Wash it in the sink? I don’t even have my own sink. I share three sinks with the thirty other people on my floor. I’m not Linus. I can’t start dragging my comforter around the dorm. I’ll have to wait until the middle of the night to sneak through the halls, covert-operation-like.
I have to pee. Too much beer. I swing my legs over the comatose body, onto the raggedy red-and-blue throw carpet, which was the first thing I unpacked when I arrived this morning. (I like a warm ground under my feet.) Then I blow out the potted candle on my desk. That was the second item I unpacked. Unfortunately, the wick didn’t get much of a workout tonight. I didn’t get much of a workout tonight, and you can blame that on his wick.
I open the closet door and disappear inside. The massive space reserved for my wardrobe is the anomaly of my minuscule eight-by-eight-foot room. My bed, desk and chair are squished practically on top of one another, yet my sweaters, jeans and shoes have a huge suite. Go figure. I don’t even like shopping.
I can’t believe I’m here. In the closet. At business school. At business school. What am I doing at business school? What am I doing in Maplewood, Connecticut? Wayne, jackass Wayne, is the one who wanted to attach the letters MBA to his name. I was more interested in the letters MRS.
So we studied together for the GMATs, the standardized business school exam. And then I took the test and scored in the eighty-ninth percentile. Wayne only scored a fifty-seven. And then we separately filled out six applications and wrote the obligatory Why I Want to Go to Your School essays (“I want to go to New York University because New York is the financial capital of the world…I want to go to Stanford because San Francisco is the technology capital of the world…I want to go to the University of Miami so I can have a perma-tan…” Kidding about that last one. Sort of).
I was accepted by four of the six, including LWBS, Winsford University’s business school, one of the top business schools in the country. Wayne didn’t get accepted anywhere.
Wayne then told me we were getting too serious. He wanted space. I want to take a break, he said. I need to focus on my future, he said. But then I found out that what he really wanted to focus on was my friend Cheryl.
No, we’re not friends anymore.
I hope he and Cheryl have a nice, happy, uneducated life together.
I decided to come to LWBS anyway. Why not? I begged my dad to loan me tuition money. I would find myself a new boyfriend. The ratio of men to women here is three to one. Three to one. I read somewhere that single women should head up to Alaska, but this is a billion times better. And a billion times warmer. Well, not that much warmer; it’s Connecticut, not Florida.
In the mirror on my closet door I see that the eyeliner around my eyes is smeared, making me look as if I’m auditioning for an anti-smack ad.
At least my nose is perfect. My father bought me this nose for my eighteenth birthday. I begged him for that, too. In the tenth grade the boys in my class used to rank the girls. I got eight out of ten in personality, seven and a half for body, and five for face. I spent the rest of the day crying in the girl’s rest room.
If pre-nose job my face was a five, post-nose job, I’m at least an eight. In three to one B-school, where the average woman cares more about a flawless résumé than a flawless complexion, my eight translates into at least an eleven.
I should clean up in this place.
I slip on a pair of shorts and look for a sleep shirt. My ripped class-of-2001 college shirt? Nah. That’s best left hidden from the public eye. Instead I squeeze my latest acquisition, a new aqua T-shirt patterned in miniature Playboy Bunnies, over my head. It brings out the blue in my eyes and shows off my curves. I bought it specifically to be my wear-to-the-bathroom-in-the-middle-of-the-night-in-case-I-run-into-a-hottie shirt.
I look slutty. But in the good way.
My head starts to pound. I shouldn’t have brought Jamie back to my room. What was I thinking? I wasn’t thinking. I was wearing beer goggles.
“How many MBAs does it take to screw in a lightbulb?” he asked me.
“I don’t know,” I said, finishing what was left of my drink.
“Trick question—MBAs won’t do manual labor.”
For some reason (too much beer?) I thought he was funny and I thought, that’s what I need. Wayne isn’t funny! I need someone funny! Then I felt his hand on my arm and I thought: This is it. He’s the one! I met the one on my first day, lucky me! When he asked me if I wanted to get some air, I was elated. And then when he said he was in Block B like me, that sealed the deal.
Thank God I didn’t actually sleep with him. I’d be branded as the class slut. And not in the good way. Hopefully he’s embarrassed by his performance and he’ll keep his mouth shut.
I slip my enormously revolting size-ten-and-half feet into my pharmacy-bought flip-flops. I exit the closet to see that the flabby half-naked man is unfortunately still sprawled on my bed. Then I open the door to my room. It groans. I jiggle it back and forth in an attempt to cause an ear-exploding screeching sound and thus rouse him from his post-orgasm nap.
CREEEEEAK.
Light from the hallway floods the room, but his eyes don’t even flutter.
Shaped like the letter H, the dorm is made up of a hundred and twenty rooms, thirty on each floor. I live on the northwest side of the top story. I slip into the hallway and quickly close the door behind me to shield any potential hookups who happen to be passing by from seeing my exposed new classmate, then maneuver my way around the sharp corner in the hallway toward the bathroom. The coed bathroom is in the dash in the middle of the H. I push open the bathroom door to three sinks, five toilet stalls and three showers. Apparently people spend more time peeing than washing.
One of the showers is occupied. So far I haven’t met any of my neighbors. Is it a guy? A hot guy?
What would he do if I took off all my clothes and sneaked in there with him?
He’d run his hands down my body, telling me how gorgeous I am.
Yeah, right. He’d probably be repulsed by my seven-and-a-half-rated fat ass.
I open the door to the stall against the wall. Since I moved in yesterday, I’ve tested all of them. I think I like this one best, since it means I get one potential stall neighbor instead of two. It’s one thing to be in the shower with a hot guy; it’s another to be sandwiched between two strangers while you’re peeing.
My stomach feels queasy at the thought of a guy in the stall next to mine. There’s no way I’d be able to pee. And what if I fart? I can’t fart with a guy next to me. What if it’s smelly? I can’t deal.
Again, what am I doing at business school?
I flush and wonder if the shower just got cold. The water stops, and I take a deep breath, compose myself and prepare to meet my future.
Maybe a six-foot, brown-eyed, big-smiled, dimpled god of manhood with a tiny white towel around his waist (he’ll be slightly bronzed) will slide open the shower stall door, water dripping down his naked chest. He will smile, maybe say hi, and the two of us will start talking. Maybe we’ll stand in the bathroom for ten or so minutes, and then, so immersed in the conversation, we’ll stop in the hall to talk some more, sharing and baring our souls until dawn, and just as the sun pours through the hall window onto the faded stained beige carpet, he’ll kiss me gently on the lips, tell me I’m beautiful and wrap his arms around me. I’ll pull the keys out from my pocket, pull him into my room…
Oh, yeah, Jamie.
Jamie is going to ruin everything. First my reputation and now this.
The god of manhood is still in the shower, probably drying himself with that itsy-bitsy towel. I hurry over to the sink and turn on the water. His first impression of me can’t be in front of a toilet.
The man of my dreams turns out to be a tall and voluptuous woman in a maroon terry-cloth bathrobe, a matching towel perched on her head, holding a pink basket filled with at least two shampoos, three conditioners, numerous unidentifiable bottles, an electric toothbrush and a shower puff. Damn.
She sets her cosmetics down beside one of the sinks and pulls out her toothbrush, toothpaste and floss. “Hi!” she chirps as she rolls the bottom of her Crest tube and applies an overdose of paste to her brush.
“Hi,” I say. “Nice privacy in here, huh?”
She nods enthusiastically. “It’s pretty good,” she says, and turns on her toothbrush.
Yikes. I was being sarcastic. Where did this broad grow up that she thinks this is private? On an airplane? “I was kidding,” I say, and splash some water on my face. “We’re like animals in here.” Maybe that’s why they call it the Zoo. If only Wayne were here for me to live with…those with domestic partners are eligible to live off campus. Bastard, Wayne.
“It’s not ideal,” she continues. “I was trying to be positive. I’m concerned about the excessive bacteria.”
“Uh-huh.” What is she rambling about? Damn. I forgot my cleanser and toothbrush in my room. I point to her face wash. “Can I use some of that?”
She spits into the sink, rinses. “Of course.” She squeezes a drop into my palm. Maybe she doesn’t want me touching the tube in case I have bacteria. “One of my nannies always said that the trick to having good skin is that no matter where you are, you have to wash your face before you go to sleep, every single night. I’m Layla. You?”
Her nanny? I’ve never liked girl-bonding, and getting info about this broad’s nanny is just weird. Most of my friends have been guys. Except Cheryl, and look how that turned out. I don’t trust women. “Uh, Kimmy,” I answer. My voice sounds a bit strangled, I think.
The girl smiles, reapplies her toothpaste and sticks the toothbrush back into her mouth. A blond strand slips from her head towel and into the foam.
I pat the creamy cleanser over my face until it’s thick. Just as I lean to wipe it off, the door flings open. There stands Jamie, shirt unbuttoned, hairy, flabby chest protruding, beige pants haphazardly done up.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he says, strutting into the bathroom. “I was wondering where you were. You okay? I’m zonked. I’m going back to my room to sleep.”
I know I don’t like him, but that doesn’t mean I want him to see me looking as if I’ve dunked my face in whipped cream. Why does he want to go back to his own room? What, now he doesn’t want to spend the night? Did I do something wrong?
“See you later,” I say as he strolls toward one of the stalls. His urine tinkles into the toilet bowl.
Shower girl gives me a nod and then leaves. She must be judging me, thinking I’m a stupid slut for hooking up with someone on the first night.
Bitch.

Tuesday, September 2, 12:30 a.m.

jamie wants a replay so he can amend his foreplay
I bang the palm of my hands against the walls as I sprint down the hallway. Who knew I’d be the business school stud?
I hit the jackpot.
Fine, I might have hit the jackpot a little earlier than intended, but Kimmy didn’t care. And I’ll make it up to her next time and then some.
Kimmy could have taken home any of the guys at the beer bash, but she chose me. The shmuck in the corner. My dream girl. Almost. My dream girl is Deborah Messing, but Kimmy’s a close second. And I was in her room. In her bed. In her pants. Okay, on her pants. And on her comforter, but that’s not the point. Why was it so easy for me? I wouldn’t hook up with me if I were a girl. I don’t get it. (Actually, I did get it, which is what I don’t get.)
Russ and Nick, the guys I met yesterday, decided to go out for wings before the party, but I declined. I wanted to get a head start checking out the ladies. Who there weren’t too many of. After a dozen rounds of hand shaking and “Hi, I’m Jamie Grossman, I’m from Florida, I used to work in hospital management, and you?” I switched it up to keep the night lively. I was Jeremy from Iowa, former accountant. And then Bill from Dallas, former gun retailer. I even added a modest twang for effect. My mother had been wrong. The college drama course I’d taken was good for something.
The party was a total sausage fest. In the common room, the three couches shaped like a horseshoe around the big-screen TV were swamped with men. For the occasion, welcome signs and sagging balloons in the school’s royal-blue had been taped to the freshly painted white walls, which probably destroyed the paint job, but who cares?
After my fiftieth introduction, a few bowls of pretzels and four plastic glasses of lukewarm Coke, I was bored. Most people were piss drunk, which only heightened their pompousness. Making conversation was like talking to a parrot on Prozac. The people I met couldn’t have cared less about what I had to say. They only wanted to talk about themselves. Which was probably a good thing. I don’t want them to know too much about me anyway. They may start getting suspicious about what the hell I’m doing here.
I don’t drink. Alcohol makes me depressed and stupid. I prefer my screwups to be done on my own merit. Like failing my first semester of college because I was too in love with Mia Brottman to go to class, or getting fired from my first postdropout sales job because I told my boss he was a dickhead. (He was a dickhead.)
Anyway, the party was lame. And I was exhausted—I only slept about four hours last night after driving for twenty-four hours from Miami and then partying all night. I was deliberating escaping to my room to relax and watch a DVD. I have three hundred in my room. I am a major movie buff who has wasted many a day enjoying theme specific marathons, such as a Clint-Eastwood-athon, Three-Stoogesathon, etc. (Which might have contributed to my failing my first semester that year.) But as I swallowed the last drop of flat Coke in my cup, in walked a movie star.
A pint of cold beer to a group of men who’d been chomping on salted pretzels all night, she was wearing a purple silk wraparound top that exposed a liberal expanse of glistening cleavage. Brown curls framed her creamy face, swirling onto her shoulders. I wanted to run my hands over her voluptuous behind.
I had to talk to her. I was in lust. I maneuvered my way so that I was standing near her, and then, when she looked sufficiently bored with the computer nerd beside her—“D-d-do you know that integrated wire-l-l-less LAN de-de-devices…”—I jumped in with a joke.
A few drinks (flat Coke for me, beer for her) and several jokes later, my hand was firmly on her arm. And then I asked her to get some air.
Love that. Air. A euphemism for let’s get it on.
When I told her I was joining Hillel, the Jewish campus organization, and she said she was thinking of checking it out, I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her.
Gorgeous, in business school and Jewish. My mother would be so farklempt.
Then we were sitting next to each other, almost touching, in the courtyard behind the dorm. She was chewing a piece of gum and I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the sexy way her lips weaved with each bite. I felt like I was in my own porno movie.
Me: Is that the real color of your eyes, or are they contacts?
Her: Real. Do you like them?
She blew out a bubble and then sucked it back into her mouth. I wanted to be the piece of gum moving in and around her lips. I wanted to be that bubble. And when she turned away from me to stretch her legs onto the bench beside her, polishless toes pointed, feet arched—holy foot fetish, I had to have this woman. I couldn’t stop myself from lightly kissing the back of her neck. When she tilted her head toward me, smiling with her juicy, bite-able mouth, I leaned forward and kissed her, savoring the mix of beer and cherry gum in her mouth.
She grabbed my hand and led me up the stairs to her room. She lit a musky scented candle and turned off the lights. I pulled her shirt over her head, then unfastened her black lace pushup bra and let it drop to the floor. A set of gorgeous breasts stared up at me, their nipples like headlights in the dark.
“Good evening,” I said to them.
She unbuttoned my shirt, and then nibbled, bit and kissed my neck, shoulders, chest, nipples, stomach…and then she unfastened my belt, unzipped me and pushed me onto the bed.
I ran my fingers through her hair.
She sat up and licked her lips.
I was as hard as a mezuzah. Which she hadn’t put up on her door, I noticed. I decided that maybe now was not the time to discuss her religious values. Especially since if she wanted to have sex we’d have to do it soon. The cork on my little man was about to pop. “Do you have a condom?” I asked. Or begged, to be more precise.
“Yeah, one sec.” She leaped off me, her fantastic breasts jiggling, opened her desk drawer and pulled out a Trojan. Wow, we’d just moved into the dorm—she must have unpacked them right off the bat. My kind of woman.
She leaned beside me and licked her hand, and used it to play with me while she opened the condom wrapper with her other hand and her teeth.
She had to stop. Don’t stop. Stop. Her hand felt so hot. Don’t stop.
Oy.
I came.
She surveyed the damage. “It’s okay. Not a big deal.”
What a sweetheart.
So tired. Needed to rest my eyes for just a moment. Took a nap. When I opened my eyes, she was gone. And I was still exhausted. I found her in the bathroom, said good-night and headed to my room.
And now, here I am, inexplicably wide-awake, pounding my hand against the bathroom wall. I love B-school. Who knew? I want to scream out to the world how much I love this place. But I don’t want to tell anyone why. I’m not the type who boasts. I can hold my tongue, just not my cum. Ha-ha.
Maybe I should U-turn to Kimmy’s room for another go. Nah. I don’t want to overwhelm her, or, God forbid, appear too eager (I already scored too high in the eager department). I can wait until tomorrow. We have all year to shtup. Tonight was just a warm-up.
But I’m too hyper to sleep. Should I watch a movie? Or read? I have a drawer full of movie scripts in my room. I’ve been buying and reading scripts of famous movies since I was ten and I wanted to be an actor.
Nah. I’m suddenly too hyper to sleep.
Maybe Nick and Russ are back. Instead of making a sharp left to my room, I hang a right toward the southeast side of the dorm, hoping they’re still up.
Still up? Under the circumstances, I should probably rephrase that.

12:32 a.m.

russ floats and forgets
I’m contemplating taking off to call Sharon so she doesn’t go ape-shit, when someone knocks on Nick’s door. “Who is it?” Nick asks, eyeing the glass tube of hash on his desk.
“Jamie,” a deep, low-pitched voice responds.
Nick inhales from his joint and then exhales out the open window. “Come in.”
“Good evening, gentlemen.” Jamie pushes open the door and nods at Nick on the computer chair, and then at me. I’ve made myself comfortable, sprawled across the wooden floor. Oh, man, I’m way too relaxed. My arms, legs and ass are numb. I try to raise my hand in a wave, but find that my body won’t cooperate. Instead my fingers feel like they’re floating on the floor.
“Russ?” he says to me. “Are you conscious?”
Jamie’s voice doesn’t match his body. He’s like an Ewok with Darth Vader’s set of pipes. His rumored sexual prowess doesn’t fit, either. Do women really go for the geriatric look?
He looks at the TV. We’ve been watching the security video. Some rich alumni donated the money for a camera in the entranceway, and now anyone with a TV in his room can watch the entrance on channel two. Sure to provide hours of stoned entertainment.
Nick rolls his chair over to Jamie, then slaps him on the back. “Whassup with you, Mr. Stud?”
Jamie smiles coyly. “Great time at the beer bash, I tell you.”
“You got action, eh?” I say, attempting and failing to lift myself up by my elbows.
“How’d you know that?”
Nick laughs. “People talk, dude.”
I’m not crazy about the word dude. Too wanna-be surfer-boy. Nick’s from California, so maybe he’s allowed. His pale skin and skinny body, however, suggest that the only kind of surfing Nick does is for porn.
But he’s a good guy. A cool guy. He has a guitar in the corner of his room, and cigars on his desk. I’ve always wanted to be friends with the “cool” guy. After making a small fortune at a start-up five years ago and then blowing most of it on two failed ventures, he decided to invest in an MBA.
As for me, I’d planned on coming to B-school since I started watching Family Ties and wanted to be Alex P. Keaton. Later, I wanted to be Bill Gates. I also wanted to be a superhero but decided that Bill was the more realistic role model. And I wouldn’t have to wear tights. I slaved over my B-school application for months and then agonized for even longer while I waited for the schools to get back to me.
I met Jamie and Nick yesterday. They came up to school one day early to settle in. I came one day early to attend the international student orientation. Canadians should not have to sit through a four-hour international student orientation. I learned how to use American money. Thanks. The international student orientation also taught me that in Amerika, people have to tip. No shit.
The only entertaining part of the boredom marathon was the bit about greetings. The lecturer asked two male students, one from Brazil and one from Japan, to come up to the podium and say hello as if they were at a business meeting. The Brazilian guy jumped the lecturer and kissed her cheeks. The Japanese man bowed and wouldn’t go near her. She then taught us that in this wonderful country, you shake hands. Thanks again.
After a full day of more useless instruction, I headed back to my room, pushed my duffel bag off my slightly stained mattress and stared at the wall, feeling overwhelmed. As I lay on the bare, squeaky mattress, I congratulated myself on finally getting here. Of course, I’d paid a price. I’d given up a top-paying consulting job in Toronto. And left my girlfriend. And taken out a massive loan.
Hoping that someone would come by and make me feel better, I left the door open. Ten minutes later Jamie stood just outside my room. When he invited me to join him and Nick in wandering around, I gladly accepted. Nick and I quickly led the group to the closest bar, where we got pissed.
We’d sat together at the dean’s welcoming address today. Nick had occupied himself by reading the Wall Street Journal on his PDA while Jamie checked out the women and promptly fell asleep.
I listened in awe, rubbing the felt of my chair with adoration and amazement. I was sitting in a top B-school auditorium. I was finally here. A B-school student majoring in…well, I don’t know yet what I’m majoring in. There are so many amazing choices. Finance, Marketing, International Business, Entrepreneurship…
“You are the future Fortune 500, the future entrepreneurs of America, the future CEOs of the world,” the dean had told us, sending chills through my spine. I had expected him to look more like Dumbledore from Harry Potter, but he looked more built than wizardly, with his wide shoulders and buff upper torso. Kind of like The Hulk. Sharon would have thought he was hot.
Oh, man. Sharon. “I gotta take off,” I say, carefully rolling myself off the floor. I don’t want to touch the tissues strewn around. I’m not sure what’s in them.
Nick pushes me back down. “Come on, dude, finish this joint with me.”
Why not? I’ll stay a few more minutes. Arm officially twisted, I inhale, hoping it’ll help me sleep. I’ve been too excited to get any rest. “So,” I say to Jamie, “while we were at the sports bar, you were getting laid, eh? We stopped by the beer bash, but someone said you’d left with a chick.”
I pass the joint to Jamie, but Jamie motions it away and grins. “Your information is correct, Russ. I did leave with someone, but I don’t like to kiss and tell.”
Nick boots up his sleek-looking laptop. “What’s her name? Was it the tall blonde?”
“Nope.” Jamie sits down on the corner of the desk. “Oh, why not. Her name is Kimmy. She just got here today.”
“I’m going to need her last name, dude.”
“Kimmy Nailer.”
“Come on!” I laugh. “Nail-her? That’s her name?”
Nick clicks away on his keyboard, and I peer onto the screen. “Are you going to Google her?” I ask.
“Much better than that, dude.” He clicks on to the LWBS Web site. Then he clicks on to a section labeled Calling Card. A list of names pops up on the screen. “Every person in our class is on here. With photos.”
“Why are some of the names purple and some blue?” I lean toward the screen to take a better look. “Why are all the girls’ names in purple?”
“Because I’ve checked them all out,” Nick says.
“Someone’s been busy.” Maybe that’s what the tissues were for.
“Hey, Jamie Grossman,” Nick says, then pauses. “Why don’t you have a picture up? I thought you might be a babe.”
The term babe might be just as annoying as dude. I prefer “chick”—Sharon hates it.
Jamie looks away. “I keep forgetting to bring it in.”
Nick clicks on Kimmy’s name. A sexy brunette with significant breast exposure flashes across the screen. Nick whistles. “Nice work, dude.”
I nod. “Hot.” Too bad it’s not a full-length picture. Nice top. She’d look great in matching tight white pants. Love it when women wear white pants. Don’t know what it is about the white, but it turns me on.
Nick clicks on me. I’m making my best “I’m serious” face. I got a haircut specifically before taking the picture and put on my favorite suit and tie.
“Bet you were wearing jeans underneath that jacket, Russ,” Nick says. “Like everyone does.”
Now why didn’t I think of that? I wasted a clean pair of pants. Stupid. I have a twenty-thousand-dollar tuition loan over my head, and dry cleaning is a splurge. I nod so I don’t look like a moron.
Nick clicks back to Kimmy Nailer. “I didn’t think babes like her went to B-school.”
“They do,” Jamie says. “And she’s mine, so keep your grubby hands off.”
“You two already a couple?” I ask.
He half nods. “Working on it.”
“That sucks,” Nick whines, kicking the side of his bed, jolting me. “I wish we hadn’t gone to Moe’s for wings. Then I could have had a crack at her. That rack is A-plus.”
I shrug. “I thought the wings were A-plus.”
“What do you care?” Nick says. “You have a woman.”
Jamie looks down at my hand. “You married, Russ? I don’t see a ring.”
Married? Oh, man. “No wife,” I answer. “Girlfriend.”
“Serious?”
“Pretty serious.”
He accidentally knocks over an empty binder from the desk, then leans to pick it up. “Do you date other women?”
“No.”
“Even if you don’t tell her?” Nick asks, eyebrow raised.
“Never have.” Nope, never cheated on Sharon. And since Sharon was my first real girlfriend, that means I never cheated on anyone.
She wasn’t thrilled with my plan to come to the States. She didn’t understand why I couldn’t go to B-school at home. There are some great schools, like Western and U of T, but I’ve always dreamed of going to an American top ten. I promised her I’d come home after I graduated. Go back to my old job or get a better one in Toronto. She’s not a big fan of living in the U.S. Hates the health-care system, thinks the corporations run the place. Her family is all in Toronto, and she wants to buy a house next door to her sister, get married and have kids. Lots of kids. There are pictures of other people’s babies all over her apartment.
I take a longer look at the hot chick’s cleavage. What if I come across a BBD (translation: Bigger Better Deal)?
“What’s your girlfriend like?” Jamie asks, making me feel like shit.
“She’s…she’s great.” Then I lower my gaze from the cleavage to the clock on the bottom right side of the screen. What kind of jackass am I? I’ve been in school for one night and I’m already looking to trade up? Did Clark Kent try to trade up Lois Lane when he became Superman? Don’t think so.
I stay slumped on the floor for the next while, imagining myself metamorphosing in a phone booth. It’s a bird, it’s a plane, it’s B-schoolboy!
One-eleven. Shit. Sharon’s going to murder me. “I gotta go.”
“See you tomorrow,” Jamie says.
Nick continues clicking on his female classmates’ attributes. He zooms in on the breasts of a woman named Lauren. “I heard this babe is bi. Later.”
When I return to my room, I immediately pick up the phone and punch in Sharon’s number. One ring. Two. Three. Clank, clank. Smash. Clank, clank. “Hello?” She sounds more drugged out than I am. Not that she would ever smoke pot. She hates when I get high, even though she’s the one I tried it with in college. She thinks that now that I’m a professional I should act mature. I haven’t smoked in a long time, and probably wouldn’t have if I hadn’t met Nick. Thing is, it relaxes me. Stops me from worrying. Helps me sleep. I’ve got to keep my voice steady so she won’t be able to tell. Luckily she’s not here. My thumb and index finger still smell of it.
“I woke you, eh?” Of course I woke her. Sometimes I’m such an ass.
“What do you think?” she murmurs.
“Sorry, hon. Go back to sleep.”
“No, wait. How was your day?”
I lie back on my unmade bed. Crunch my head against a pillowcase stuffed with T-shirts. I forgot to bring a pillow. I don’t know how I did since pillow was definitely on the Do Not Forget list that Sharon made for me. Sharon makes a lot of lists. They’re taped all over her apartment. Floss is also on her list. Which I didn’t forget because my dentist made me promise I’d floss every night. Unfortunately, I did forget to do it last night and tonight.
“Good,” I say. Voice remaining steady. “We had orientation. Hung out with the same guys I met last night. Took a campus tour. A library orientation. Set up our Internet. Got our class schedules.”
“Yeah? How is it?”
“Monday and Wednesday I have Organizational Behavior at nine, Accounting at ten thirty, Statistics at one…one…one-thirty.” My body has sunk into the mattress, and I feel numb again, but I continue talking. “Tuesday and Thursday it’s Strategic Analysis at ten-thirty—that’s a sleepin. Economics at one-thirty, IC at three. But IC is a half-semester course, so it only runs until the end of October.”
“What’s IC?”
“Integrative Communications. Presentations and stuff.”
“Sounds fun.”
She’s being sarcastic, but the truth is, I’m excited. “Fun, fun, fun.”
Silence. “Did you smoke?” she accuses me.
Oh, man. “No.”
She sighs. “You swear?”
“No.”
She sighs again. “You have to stop. You know what pot does to your attention span. School’s for real now.”
“What?”
“Your attention span, Russ.”
“I know, I know. You’re right.” She is right. What am I doing? When I smoke I have no attention span. I can barely remember five minutes ago. Where was I five minutes ago?
“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.

layla applies herself
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.

kimmy contemplates the random acts of the universe
What 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 nestled 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.

Sunday, September 7, 1:20 p.m.

russ omits one significant detail
Need better reading material. But I feel like a hoser walking to the washroom with a newspaper. Everyone on the floor doesn’t need to know when I’m planning on pinching a loaf.
“Hey, Rena,” I hear a chick say. I know Rena from Toronto. She’s a friend of Sharon’s older sister. She’s a second year, but lives on my floor. I’ve been told I’m supposed to call her and get together, but she’s seriously annoying. Speaks in a nasal voice and wears ties. Thinks she’s Avril Lavigne. Why would a woman wear a tie if she’s not in a music video? I think she thinks it’s sexy. It’s not.
“Hey. How are you?” she replies in a voice so nasal, if there were any windows in here it would shatter them.
Oh, man. Just what I want to listen to. Nasal female voices while I’m taking a dump.
This whole coed deal is not for me. Yesterday I watched a chick from my Block tweeze her eyebrows. Did Superman ever watch Lois Lane groom? I don’t think so. And then she took a People magazine to the toilet. That’s just gross. I don’t want to picture chicks taking a dump.
In junior high I had the unfortunate experience of watching Linda Stalwart, a girl I worshiped from afar, burp the alphabet. It was nasty. Not that she cared—she wouldn’t have looked twice at me then. Ha. She should see me now. Well not now, as in on the throne. Now, as in at LWBS. Built. No longer known as Pizza Face.
My little cousin once called me that. Wasn’t trying to be obnoxious. He was only five. Came over for Christmas dinner and pointed to my face and told me I looked like a pepperoni pizza. My aunt tried to shut him up, but he was laughing and pointing and jumping up and down.
Oh, man, my aunt felt so bad. Tried to convince me it was a compliment. Pepperoni pizza was my cousin’s favorite, she said. I hid in my room for the rest of the night with my comic books, picking my face. Disgusting habit, but I couldn’t stop. Once there was a piece of available skin I’d play with it and end up pulling it off. When I finally went on medication and kept my hands in gloves to stop picking, my skin took a year to heal.
Linda Stalwart. I wonder what she’s doing now. Probably married and fat and teaching little kids how to belch.
Once when I stopped by Sharon’s, she opened her door with that white stuff on her lip. You know, mustache bleach. “That’s something I wish I hadn’t seen,” I said, shielding my eyes.
“Then don’t come over uninvited.” She slammed the door in my face.
I apologized a million times. Then she went on a rampage about how she could stop bleaching if I preferred, let it get dark and style it.
The talking chicks finally leave. To keep myself occupied I stare at the bathroom wall graffiti. You’d think that by this age, people would stop using the wall to express their inane thoughts, but no. In green marker, it says:
Sweet Kimmy,
Violets are blue
Roses are red
Let me marry you
And I’ll please you in bed
Yours forever,
Jamie
What a hoser. The way to get the girl is not by writing cheesy-ass poetry on the back of the bathroom door. I’m not sure if he’s kidding or serious. Kimmy knows he wants her. Everyone knows he wants her. Thursday night a bunch of us went out for dinner, and he dove into the seat beside her and kept telling her how hot she was. She laughed and smiled at him, but I doubt she was interested. She didn’t go home with him, that’s for sure. He was back in Nick’s room after dinner, watching us smoke joints.
Yesterday, one of the get-to-know-your-group activities was a scavenger hunt through Maplewood. We were given questions like, What address is city hall? How many floors are in the library? How much are ten wings at Moe’s? Six bucks. That one I knew. But anyway, Jamie wouldn’t stop bugging her the entire activity. He asked her to marry him four times and serenaded her with Air Supply songs. I’ll admit, it got laughs from the rest of us, but does that act work?
How do I know? Sharon’s the only serious girlfriend I’ve ever had. And Jamie did manage to get two of the best-looking chicks in the class to be in our group. According to him, Lauren is bi, and currently prefers females. How hot is that? Lesbian eye-candy.
I flush, wash my hands and let them air-dry as I head outside. Think I’ll take a nice Sunday afternoon nap. Not that I’ve done anything today to merit a nap. I woke up at eight, stared at the ceiling, had brunch with Nick, bought some pharmaceuticals at the drugstore and spoke to Sharon.
As I push back the door, Kimmy is pulling it open. She’s looking pretty damn hot. Wearing tight black spandex shorts, a black bra that exposes her flat stomach, a red sweatshirt slung around her hips, little white socks, bright white runners. My guess: Going to the gym. Her brown hair is pulled back into a high ponytail, exposing soft-looking triangular ears. I love women’s ears. I can spend hours running my fingers through Sharon’s hair and playing with her ears.
“Hi, Russ,” Kimmy says.
“Where you off to?” I ask like an idiot.
She smiles. “The gym.”
“Yeah? Have you been already? I’ve been meaning to check it out.” I can’t believe I haven’t gone yet. Any build I have is going to melt if I’m not careful.
“I’ve gone a few times this week. It’s pretty good. There’s a wait for some of the machines, but not too bad.” The sweatshirt slips down her body exposing a fine-looking ass, but then she reties it. “Want to come with me?”
Why not? Sounds like a constructive way to spend a Sunday. “Sure. Do you mind waiting two minutes for me to grab my gym stuff?”
She smiles and takes a sip from her water bottle. “No problem. I have to use the bathroom anyway. Why don’t I meet you in the courtyard and then we’ll head over together?”
“Give me five,” I say, trying to mentally block out the bathroom part. I sprint back to my room and grab the gym shorts and T-shirt I wore yesterday to play basketball with some of the guys. I suck, but it’s fun. I started playing postcollege to help pump up.
Wonder if Sharon would care that I was going to the gym with a chick. Probably, eh? What should I have said, no? I can’t go to the gym with you, I have a girlfriend? She wasn’t hitting on me. Probably knows about Sharon, anyway. I must have mentioned it.
I spot Kimmy staring into the sunlight in the courtyard. She’s wearing sunglasses. I need to buy new sunglasses. Left mine in Toronto.
“Let’s go,” she says, now wearing the sweatshirt. Shame.
It’s getting cold. Wish I had a sweatshirt. “Where is this place?”
“At the back of the Student Services Center. Not far.”
She walks fast for a girl. Her ponytail swings from side to side like a tennis ball in play. Sharon is the slowest walker ever. If I don’t pay attention, I leave her a half a block behind.
“So how do you like school so far?” she asks.
“It’s cool. I went to University of Toronto, so I lived at home.”
“Were you in a frat?”
“No, no frat. Not my thing.” I decide not to tell her that I didn’t have much of a life in college. I preferred my calculator and comic books to beer kegs. Of course, that changed in my last year, when I met Sharon. “I bet you were in a sorority, eh?”
“No way. I’m not a gamma, gamma, gamma, can I help ya help ya help ya type girl.”
I can’t help mentally casting her as one of the sorority girls in Revenge of the Nerds.
“How do you like the dorm?” she asks, and takes another sip of her water. “Want some?”
I shake my head. “The dorm is all right. Not used to sharing a floor with so many people.” Not used to sharing a water bottle, either. Sharon doesn’t like when I take sips from other people’s drinks in case any of them are sick and then I get her sick.
“I know. I feel like I’m eighteen again.” She motions to a sprawling stone building. “We’re here.”
We climb the stairs to the top floor and show our student cards to the scrawny kid at the front desk. The gym caters to the entire school, not just the business school, so it’s packed. Puffing women on treadmills are lined against the window.
“Do you lift weights?” Kimmy asks.
“Yeah.” Truth is, I’ve been slacking on my workouts. I feel a wave of panic that my muscles have all disappeared.
She stretches her leg in front of her. “Do you want to run with me?”
Even though I’m feeling anxious about the state of my muscles and want to get to the weights, the idea of watching her jiggle beside me is too appealing to pass up. I stretch out my hamstring beside her. “Sounds good.”
We find two unoccupied treadmills in the corner, facing the window. She sets her speed to seven. I set mine at nine.
Shit. That’s fast.
We run in silence. The sun beats through the glass, and I’m starting to sweat faster than usual. Oh, man. I must be out of shape. The wall of window makes me feel as if I’m running off a cliff. I wonder if the miniature students below us can see us. Maybe the windows are tinted. I’ll have to check next time I walk by.
It’s interesting watching below. Groups stopping, laughing. Someone doing a handstand against the side of a building. What is that guy doing? “Is that Jamie?”
Kimmy peers out the window, then grabs the handlebars and ducks. “Yikes, hide me.”
“Hide you? Why?”
“I can’t escape him. What’s he doing?” A group of three girls are standing around him, laughing. He flips over and sits on the pavement. Two of the girls sit next to him. I think one of them is Rena.
“Gymnastics of some sort. Maybe he’s working out.”
Kimmy smirks. I’m pretty sure we’re both thinking that he doesn’t look like a guy who works out. “So does that mean you’re not interested in him?” I ask.
Her mouth flies open. Closes. Then it opens again. “Jamie? Nooo.”
“What about what happened last week?”
She’s flushed from my question. Or from the workout.
She bites her lip. “You know about that?”
“Ah…no?”
“Very funny. Did he tell everyone?”
“Didn’t you see the ad in the LWBS paper?”
“Hilarious.”
I’m worried that I’ve upset her, but then she laughs and adds, “What a blabbermouth.”
Now I feel bad for Jamie. “Don’t be mad, we forced it out of him. Tortured him, if you want to know. Tied him up then performed Japanese water torture.”
She raises an eyebrow. “I’ll bet.”
“So, you interested in him or not?”
She shakes her head no, and her ponytail swings again. Game, set, match. “That night was a mistake. He’s not what I’m looking for.”
“What are you looking for?” I ask, now watching her pump her arms. She gets very into her workout.
She turns toward me. “Exactly what I’m looking at, actually. You.”
I miss a step and almost trip into the handlebars. As I steady myself, I think, me, eh? This hot chick, breasts heaving, is interested in me?
Now might be a good time to mention Sharon.
Okay, now.
Now.
Kimmy reaches over for her water bottle, pulls up the tab with her teeth and sucks the water into her mouth.
Now.
“Do you want some?” she asks.
I nod. I know, I know. Shouldn’t share water bottles. She hands me the bottle and our damp fingers touch. I swallow a mouthful, not unmindful of the bulge in my gym shorts. I’m hoping for those tinted windows. I wouldn’t want this entire scene being described to Sharon via her sister via Rena.
Bad business this sharing of water bottles.

first semester

Monday, September 8, 9:13 a.m.

jamie comes late (literally)
Love that I’m late for my first class. Partially my fault, partially my mother’s. She called me at eight-thirty this morning to complain about the new development in my sister Amanda’s love life.
Mother: Apparently Amanda has a secret boyfriend. Did you know that, Jamie? I’m not a happy woman.
Me: I thought you wanted her to meet someone.
Mother: I do, but I’m worried because he’s not Jewish.
Me: I thought you were worried because you didn’t think she’d ever get married. You certainly have a lot of worries.
Mother: Don’t be a smart mouth. How’s school? Are you going to screw it up and not go to class?
Me: If you let me off the phone, I’d go to class.
Mother: Sue me for wanting to talk to my son who lives on the other end of the country.
Me: I thought my being accepted to B-school was the proudest moment of your life.
Mother: I am proud, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have been prouder if you had gotten accepted to school in Florida.
Me: Oy. Great talking to you, Ma. Always love hearing first thing in the morning about all the things I’m doing wrong.
That conversation made me late. The muffin and coffee I stopped to pick up made me later. Not that it matters. Organizational Behavior is a joke anyway, but not in a ha-ha kind of way. Professor Matthews is supposed to be a bastard.
When I open the door, he’s already started the class. I climb up the auditorium stairs and slip into the seat beside Kimmy in the fifth row. She’s wearing an adorable back-to-school outfit: a short brown corduroy skirt, a tight white turtleneck and knee-high brown suede boots. Schoolgirl sexy.
The classroom has stadium seating, so everyone faces the professor in the middle, the professor who looks like an angry Morgan Freeman and is glaring at me from behind his desk. Now might not be the best time to take out my muffin.
“As I was saying, my second pet peeve, after students who come in late—” he looks at me as he enunciates “—are students who eat in class. You cannot eat and concentrate at the same time. If you must, coffee and water are acceptable beverages, but do not come to class half-asleep. I am not an alarm clock. By the time you are seated in your chairs, I demand that you be well rested and prepared to work.”
No muffin?
His eyes dissect the room. “Now that we’ve gotten my pet peeves out of the way, welcome to Organizational Behavior. I am now passing out the class syllabus and assignment sheet. Note the required reading. And required does not mean optional. It means mandatory. My TA Ronald—wave hello, Ronald—” Ronald waves hello “—will be marking you on your participation. Every time you raise your hand, you’ll get a tick beside your name. The number of ticks you have will be factored into your final grade at the end of the semester. Is that clear?”
We nod. I almost shake my head to see what he would do, but decide this is not in my best interests. He’s exhibiting a classic case of small penis syndrome. Which is surprising since I thought that only Jewish guys like me suffered from that affliction. Since no one cares about organizing their behavior, he’s obviously trying to scare us.
My stomach grumbles. Loudly. I want that muffin.
“Now, in this classroom, I will teach you theories…”
Maybe if I reach my hand into the paper bag very slowly, then rip the muffin into pieces, he won’t notice. I carefully drop my arm to the floor and attempt to insert it inside the bag.
Crinkle! Snap!
Small Penis stares at me. I retreat, and he continues yammering. “You will work in groups to choose the best type of organizational structure. For instance, I will give you a case study about the organization Procter and Gamble. Then I will give you three to five questions you must answer in a few paragraphs. The questions might be, for example, What organizational structure would best suit P and G’s current situation and why? Is that clear?”
We nod. My stomach grumbles, again. Kimmy hears and dry giggles.
“Very well. First I will do a roll call, and then, as it states on your syllabus, I will begin by teaching group dynamics.”
Fuck it. In one swoop, I reach into the bag, rip off the muffin top and slam it into my mouth.

The bell rings, and I immediately unwrap the rest of my muffin and eat it. “I guess the rumors are true—this class is bogus.”
Kimmy looks like she might cry. “What are you talking about? Who said it’s going to be bogus?”
“The second-years.”
“Are those the second-year girls I saw you flirting with yesterday?”
I give what I hope is a mischievous smile, while trying to keep my mouth closed so as not to reveal chewed muffin. “Darlin’, are you accusing me of cheating on you? I’m shocked and bewildered.” I’m kidding, of course. I’ve been trying to get her alone all weekend, but she keeps coming up with excuses. I’m not giving up. Chasing Kimmy might be my only entertainment all year.
She shushes me with her hand. “That class didn’t seem like such a joke.”
“Trust me. It is.”
She looks confused. “But…but I still don’t understand what organizational behavior is.”
“It’s psychology for business people. Different personality types. The best way to structure your business. That kind of stuff. You worked for a leasing company, right?”
She fiddles with her turtleneck as if it’s choking her. “How’d you know that?”
“Because you said it on Tuesday.”
“Oh, yeah. Right.”
“How many vice presidents were there?”
“Um…” She shakes her head. “None.”
“Okay, then who was the boss?”
She blushes. “My dad.”
Ah. “Who worked under your dad?”
“There was a finance manager, collections manager, accounting manager, office manager…”
“What did you do?”
“I worked for collections.”
Sexy. “Really? You demanded people pay you? Did you threaten physical harm?”
“No, I called them.”
I can see her in a tight black leather dress, black stiletto boots and a gun harnessed to the inside of her thigh. I’ll have to save that image for later. “Were all your dad’s leases in Arizona?”
“No, he does leases all over the country.”
“So let’s say we take your company and restructure it. You have five managers, but now they’re arranged geographically, each one overseeing an area. West Coast, East Coast, the central states, the South, and the Southwest. Would this structure better serve the company?”
“Oh,” she says slowly. “I get it. So we’re going to learn theories that we can apply to answer that question?”
“Right.”
She nods. “I was a Philosophy major in college. We learned theories and tried to apply them. This I can do.”
I stand up and stretch. “Glad to be of service.”
“How do you know all that? Did you study business in college?”
My mother wishes. “No, I did a liberal arts degree. But I read a lot.”
We have a ten-minute break until the next class, which is in this same room. All the classes we have today are in the same room. I feel like we’re back in grade school. The teachers come to us instead of us going to them.
“I’m going to get a coffee,” Kimmy says, standing up. “Want anything?”
“I’m okay, thanks.”
Professor Douglas arrives while Kimmy is still out. With his dark glasses, large bald spot and five-foot-five skinny frame, he looks more like Woody Allen than a professor. Short legs dangling, he sits on the front of his desk and sips his coffee.
“Mmm,” he says. “They have a new flavor this year, hazelnut latte. I highly recommend it to anyone like me who suffers from severe caffeine addiction.”
His audience laughs.
“So am I your first class today?” he asks.
“No,” says the tall blonde in the front row. “We had Professor Matthews first.”
He smirks. “Don’t worry about him. His bark is worse than his bite. Although I wouldn’t get too close.”
Ah, the wanna-be comedian.
“He barked pretty loudly,” another student adds.
Professor Douglas laughs a loud, room-filling laugh. “Yes, he does. And he never erases the board. Look at that,” he says, and points to the dry board. “You’d think professors would learn to clean up after themselves.”
Layla jumps up. “I’ll do it.”
Oy. What a suck-up.
“No worries,” he says. “I got it.”
Ah, and he isn’t afraid of manual labor. What more could one want in a professor?
Kimmy walks through the door, coffee in hand, Russ beside her. She laughs at something he’s saying.
I feel a sinking sensation in my stomach. I shouldn’t be jealous. Russ has a girlfriend. He isn’t making a move on my dream girl.
“Good morning,” Douglas says to them.
“Morning,” Kimmy says. Did she just stick her chest out?
Douglas yawns. “I guess it’s not morning for you. You suckers had to be here for nine. I just got up thirty minutes ago. But no worries, I’m highly alert once the caffeine kicks in.”
I don’t know if I can take an entire semester of bad jokes.
“So. Here we are. I’m Professor Douglas, and this is Intro to Accounting. Unfortunately, this is not a how-to course on how to launder money.”
More laughs.
Too bad. Now there’s a final I wouldn’t mind studying for.

Kimmy and Russ are crouched over their meals at a corner table in the cafeteria on the ground floor of the Katz building. Large glass windows are behind them and I have to squint to make them out. “I thought I’d find you hiding here,” I say to Kimmy.
“Not hiding,” she says, sipping her soup. “Just eating.”
“Mind if I join you? What’s today’s special?”
Russ shoves a forkful of beef into his mouth. “Meat loaf. Not bad, either.” He takes a packet of vinegar and dumps it over Kimmy’s fries. Now that’s gross. I thought I was the Grossman. Now that’s funny.
“Will you two still be here after I buy my food?” I ask, trying not to appear anxious.
“Sure,” Kimmy says.
“Do you want anything?”
“No, thanks,” they say in unison.
“What d’ya want?” a mid-fortyish woman wearing a blue smock and a hair net asks when I reach the top of the food line.
“Well, Stella, what do you recommend?”
“How’d you know my name?”
“I’m psychic.”
She peers at me in disbelief. “You are?”
“Not really. You look like a Stella. I can imagine myself as Marlon Brando screaming for you to come back to me. And you’re wearing a name tag.”
She looks down at her chest. “So what’ll you have?”
“What’s today’s special?”
She leans in toward me. “The burgers are from yesterday and the meat loaf is from Saturday.”
“I think I’ll have a grilled cheese.”
Next, Carl, the guy at the cash register, calculates what I owe, and tells me to slide my student/debit card through the swipe machine.
“You’ll have to type in the number,” I say. “I haven’t received my permanent card yet.”
He eyes me with suspicion. “Why not?”
“The bureaucrats lost my picture, again.” What am I going to do about this problem? I’m going to need to have a student card by exam time. But if I apply for one in person, I’ll be found out. And probably kicked out of school.
Carl nods. Apparently he knows all about the bureaucrats. “It’s a mess up there, huh?”
I carry my tray back to my table. Russ and Kimmy’s heads are inclined together in conversation. How did they come to be at dinner together, exactly?
Russ says something, and Kimmy peals with laughter. Russ smiles and leans closer. If I didn’t know about Sharon, I’d swear that Russ is making a move on my woman.
“So what did you two think of Stats?” I ask, depositing my tray.
“Useless,” Russ says. “Professor Gold obviously doesn’t want to be teaching an intro class.”
“Seems that way,” I agree. “She phoned in her lecture.”
“What does that mean?” Kimmy asks.
“It’s an expression. Like in baseball, someone who phones in a game means he didn’t really try. Russ, you a baseball man?”
“Not so much. I play basketball.”
Guess we won’t be watching the games together.
Kimmy sips another spoonful of soup. She is the slowest eater I’ve ever seen. “Personally, I prefer male professors.”
“Why?” I ask, surprised.
“I’ve never liked my female professors. They’re always bitchy. Like they’re trying to prove something.”
Russ uses his fork to extricate the meat crumbs in the crevices of his plate. “Like female customs agents. They always try to nail me when I’m crossing the border.”
I’ve never heard of a female student not wanting a woman at the front of the class. “I thought you’d like having a female professor. They always seem to favor the female students.”
“No, they don’t,” she says, shaking her head. “They always want me to fail.”
“Maybe the ones you’ve had were jealous of your beauty and talent,” I say, and wink.
She laughs and pushes her soup bowl away from her. “Maybe.”
I blow her a kiss. “Unlike the other profs, at least she didn’t give an assignment for Wednesday.”
“I know,” Russ says, shaking his head. “I bet we get just as much work tomorrow,” he complains. “Better start my reading now. But first I’m getting a bag of chips.”
Yes, Russ, why don’t you go study…somewhere far away, maybe?
“So what are you doing tonight?” I ask, once Russ is safely away from the table and in the food line. “Want to see a movie?”
“I…we have a ton of reading to do,” she says.
Not what I wanted to hear. I was looking for a more positive response, like maybe, “Sounds fabulous!” or dare I hope for “I’d love to be entertained by both you and Hollywood!”
“Come on, it’s only the first day of school. It’s just going to get worse, my darlin’. Enjoy it while you can.”
“That’s true. Maybe. Where’s the movie theater?”
“Only a ten-minute drive away. It’s just past the Children’s Hospital, if you know where that is.”
“You have a car at school?” she asks, leaning toward me.
“Yeah,” I say smoothly. Score! Who doesn’t want to date the guy with the car?
Russ slides into the seat beside Kimmy and slashes open his bag. A ketchup cloud wafts above the table. “Chip?” he offers.
“No, thanks,” Kimmy says.
I take a few.
Kimmy turns to Russ. “Jamie just suggested we go to a movie tonight. What do you think?”
We? What we? Who invited Russ? She and I equals romance. Russ, she and I equals group goes to movie.
I try to catch Russ’s eye to mime the signal that he should say no. That subtle male clue would be me frantically shaking my head.
He says, “Sounds good.”
He’s killing me here. “I thought you wanted to get a head start on your work.”
“It’s only going to get worse, eh?”
Bastard.

8:50 p.m.

kimmy’s double date
“Running late?” I say to Russ as he passes me in the bathroom. Please don’t cancel. Please don’t cancel. I’m leaving the shower stall, and he’s on his way in. I’m holding my towel securely to me. But not too securely. If he wants to tear it off, I won’t stop him. Although he’ll probably scream in horror at my fat ass.
Russ is holding a green towel around his waist with his left hand and a two-in-one bottle of shampoo and conditioner in his right. His stomach is exposed. One, two, three, four…five…six. Yup, that’s a six-pack. “Just a little late,” he answers. “But don’t worry. I won’t leave you alone with you-know-who.”
He’s coming. Oh. My. God. He’s coming. “You’ll protect me?”
“Be honored to.”
Take that, Wayne! I have a date!
I’m still smiling when I get back to my hovel. I’m smiling and dripping. Problem number thirty-seven with the coed bathroom is that I can’t wrap a towel over my head. No one looks sexy with a towel wrapped around her head. You also can’t look sexy in a bathrobe. Which is why I didn’t bring one. Only towels for me. Ones that perfectly reach from just above my breasts to my mid-thigh. They’re also the perfect thickness. Thick enough to keep me warm, but thin enough not to add extra padding to my mid-body problem areas.
Guys love dripping hair and exposed skin.
I discard my towel onto the floor and then realize that the flimsy shade is open again. I keep forgetting to close it. My window faces the dark courtyard, so pretty much anyone sitting outside having a butt just got a nice look at my butt.
First I spray perfume in all the places I’m hoping to be kissed. And I am hoping to be kissed tonight. On my date. My movie date. My first B-school date. Kind of. If you don’t count that three of us are going. Two guys and me. Could be worse. Could be two girls and a guy. I did that once when I was in college. Me, my college boyfriend and another girl in one of our classes. It was my boyfriend’s idea. I wasn’t interested in the girl in the slightest, but it was his birthday and I wanted to be the coolest girlfriend ever. He bragged to all his friends, and then I was the sluttiest girlfriend ever.
What to wear, what to wear. I wrap my towel around my hair, and choose a thong, my best jeans, a padded bra and a low-cut blouse. I don’t have many variations of outfits, but I buy what works. Same with makeup. I own a red lipstick, a black mascara and a bronzer. And that’s all I need. I’d love to use eyeliner, but putting anything near my pupils scares me.
Maybe Jamie won’t show. I’m hoping that Russ had a chat with him, explained the situation and told him to fake a cold, that he’s getting in the way. I know we hooked up last week, but it’s time to move on.
I’m pretty sure Russ is interested. After the hour at the gym yesterday, we grabbed dinner together. And today, even though we didn’t sit together in class, we had that connection going on. That aware-of-each-other connection. I’m not hallucinating—I caught him staring four times. And then we sat together at lunch. And then in Stats. And then we went to the gym this afternoon. And then he asked me if I wanted to get dinner. And now we’re seeing a movie. If he were any more interested, he’d be wearing a red flag.
At ten past nine, I fly down the stairs as quickly as one can in two-inch heels. I hate these things. I spot Jamie in the entranceway, waving from behind the glass. He’s wearing a Marlins baseball hat. Nice try—attempting to cover his bald spot.
Not only is he coming, but he’s early. No surprise there. He was early in bed, too.
I open the door and ask, “Where’s Russ?” Did he change his mind? Oh, no, oh, no. Maybe Jamie begged him to stay home. Yeah, right, begged him. Listen to me, I think men are begging over me. Who do I think I am, exactly? Aphrodite? I stand up straight, sticking out my chest in case anyone important is watching their TV monitor.
“I don’t know,” Jamie says, glancing at his watch. “He still joining us?”
Why does he ask that as if he’s expecting Russ not to show up? Did the two of them have words? I’m about to cry when I spot Russ through the glass. He’s now fully clothed, unfortunately, but still looks hot in jeans and a button-down shirt. His hair has some gel in it. He put gel in his hair for me. He likes me. He’s trying to impress me. I could have an orgasm right here. Metaphorically speaking, that is. I’ve never actually had one.
But that’s a topic for another time.

Our thighs are touching. It’s subtle but happening. He’s sitting on my right and is slightly slanted in my direction, and I’m slanted in his direction and we’re touching. And not by accident. No one touches by accident. His thigh is purposefully pressed up against mine. Saying hello. Our ligaments made contact about four minutes ago, during a preview for a movie in which Kate Hudson and Matt Damon play opposites who fall in love.
Thigh, make nice to your new friend, Thigh. The heat being generated by the gentle touching of our denim is unbearable. I must rip off his clothes. I simply must!
Something to my left is talking and poking me in the shoulder. “I’m getting popcorn. Want to come with me?” Jamie asks.
“No thanks,” we both say.
He shrugs and creeps down the row.
“The previews are my favorite part,” Russ whispers, distributing shivers all over my ear.
“Me, too,” I lie. Previews are a waste of time. I want to get to the good part. But I’ll agree to anything Russ says. Want to have sex right here? Okay. Want to lick the gum off the underside of my chair? Sounds delicious.
Keanu Reeves does some sort of high-tech tae kwon do move on screen. “Doesn’t that look cool?” Russ asks. Then the next preview starts. “I definitely want to see this,” he says.
I can’t help but laugh. “You’re a marketer’s wet dream. You want to see everything.”
“Can’t help it. They all look good.”
“That’s because you only see the best part of the movie. You don’t have to sit through the boring dialogue, bad editing and predictable plot.”
I feel his eyes on me instead of the screen. He’s going to tell me I’m nuts. Instead he says, “That’s an interesting way of putting it.”
He is so close. I can smell the M&M’s on his breath.
Is he going to kiss me? I think he’s going to kiss me. Now. Any second.
Suddenly there’s a thump in the seat beside me.
“Russ, you greedy bastard,” Jamie says, stuffing his mouth with popcorn. “You have to leave some women for the rest of us.”
Huh? What does that mean?
Russ withdraws back into his seat, like a scared turtle into his shell.
“He’s not being greedy,” I say. Why does Jamie think he owns me?
“Yes, he is. He has Sharon to whisper to during movies. He can’t have you, too.”
Sharon? What’s a Sharon? Any chance Sharon is his sister? This preview is really interesting. So interesting I think I’ll keep staring at it. Yup. Keep staring. And not look as though I am upset or surprised in any way whatsoever.
Jamie continues chomping on his popcorn, inadvertently spurting out both kernel remnants and more information. “So Russ, how long did you say you and Sharon have been going out?”
Nail. Slammed. Deeper. Into. Heart. Russ has a girlfriend. I’ve already named our children, and he has a girlfriend. Maybe they’re not serious?
“Hasn’t it been since college?” Jamie says, answering his own question.
Russ shifts in his seat. His thigh is no longer touching mine, but is a continent away. I cannot cry. I cannot cry. That would be pathetic. Not more pathetic than me imagining he was interested in me in the first place, but pathetic nonetheless.
This had better be a short movie. Or a sad one.
I will stare straight ahead. Beautiful, tragic movie screen.
The movie starts and I continue staring ahead.
“Do you want some popcorn?” Jamie whispers to me.
“Sure, thank you,” I say in a seductive voice, just loud enough for Russ to hear. Ha. You’re taken? Fine. Then watch me flirt with Jamie. See how you like that.
My fingers accidentally touch Jamie’s and a smile twitches his face. Uh-oh. Maybe this isn’t a good idea.
“Where do you think they filmed this?” Jamie asks a few minutes later. A kernel remnant lands on my ear.
Who cares? “New York.”
“Yeah? I was thinking Montreal. Isn’t that the Olympic Stadium?”
How should I know? “Maybe.”
“I think it is. I love Montreal. It’s so European. Have you ever been?”
No. And I never will. I now hate Canada and all Canadians. Especially Russ. Jamie better shut up. If he keeps talking throughout the entire movie, I won’t be able to properly fixate my thoughts on Sharon. Sharon. She sounds like a bitch. I bet she’s blond.
Jamie’s still staring at me. “Have you?”
Have I what? Oh, right. Montreal. “No.”
Definitely blond. With dainty feet. Men love small feet. I bet the guys in her high school ranked her a ten. The entire package, I mean. Her feet are probably size six.
I hate B-school.

Tuesday, September 9, 10:40 a.m.

layla makes a good impression
I love B-school.
And I would love it exponentially more if Professor Martin stopped spitting on me. But he appears to love what he teaches, Strategy, and that’s what’s important.
He’s wearing an army hat. This is because he is trying to make the point that business is war, which is written in block letters on the blackboard and on the class agenda, lest we forget.
As usual, I’m sitting in the front row. This time, I’m regretting the seat choice due to Professor Martin’s tendency to spit every time he uses the letter P.
Kimmy seems to be enjoying the class even less than I am. She looks horribly uncomfortable in the front row, and keeps reclining her neck as though attempting to get away. She’s wearing a look of distaste, as if the maid forgot to empty the kitty litter. And she’s not even taking notes. I suppose she’s planning on borrowing them later from the library, where the professors keep them on file.
All the men around me are eagerly leaning forward in their seats, enjoying the war metaphor. I’m finding the environment mildly testosterone heavy.
“Do you people understand?” Professor Martin spits, waving his hands. “Your competitor is the enemy. You must be prepared to fight for every consumer dollar and every point of market share or you will not prevail in business.”
Too bad I’m a pacifist. Why do men think everything is about war?
Yes! The bell rings, and I head to the computer terminals to check my e-mail. The application committee was supposed to get back to me early this week. It’s Tuesday. Today is the last possible day for it to still be considered early in the week. Tomorrow is the middle of the week. I type in my e-mail address and password. My password is always the same. It’s the license plate I memorized off a cab when I was five, thinking that the driver was the gray-haired man who had killed his wife in that week’s episode of Unsolved Mysteries. I wanted to call the show, but my then nanny wouldn’t let me.
In my inbox: five e-mails from my best girlfriends back home in the city, a bunch of e-mails from the LWBS administration regarding class add/drop dates, a reminder about my ten-year high-school reunion this summer (for which I’m on a committee), an article featuring my mother in Woman Entrepreneurs, forwarded by her secretary.
Not in my inbox: a message from the applications committee.
Bummer. I IM with the girls for twenty minutes, wash my hands in the bathroom to cleanse myself of computer germs, and use a paper towel to open the door. I need to buy more of those antibacterial wipes. I’m already out. In the caf, I buy a burger and a Sprite, then search for a familiar face. I look for people in my work group, but can’t find anyone. They’re extremely competent, but they don’t like to socialize. Two of them are married and live in off-campus housing. The third is the orange-haired Japanese student, who mostly hangs out with the Asian student association.
I spot Kevin, the last member of my group, sitting by himself in the corner, rubbing his eyes. He’s always rubbing his eyes. And I’ve seen him do it right after he opens the germ-infested classroom door. In Japan, they hand out warm towels to wipe your hands on before you eat. Kevin could use one.
“Mind if join you for lunch?” I ask. He wouldn’t be my first choice for a meal partner, but I’ll give him a chance. “Ghjkhjh,” he says, mumbling something. He pushes his tray to the side to accommodate me, so I assume that’s a yes. Obviously I didn’t ask him to be part of my group because of his conversation skills. A former accountant for Ernst & Young, he’s a whiz with numbers.
“Are your eyes okay?” I ask, biting into my hamburger.
“They’re itchy.” Small bits of pus line the rims. He continues rubbing. His fingers are streaked with ketchup. Then he stops, picks up a French fry and licks the ketchup off his finger. A few seconds later, he’s rubbing his eyes again.
“Hjkghfj,” he says, and then eats another French fry.
I seriously need to make some LWBS girlfriends.

Professor Rothman is extremely handsome. He’s almost six feet tall and has sandy-blond hair. And he’s in his mid-thirties, tops.
Who knew professors could look like this?
For the first time, all the women in the class are sitting in the front two rows.
Rothman lifts his muscled arm and writes GDP = C+I+ (X-M)+G on the blackboard. I copy the new equation.
“Does anyone know what the letters represent?” he asks.
I raise my hand. “The C signifies consumer goods. The I signifies investment goods. The…” Think! Think! I know this! “The X-M signifies exports minus imports and the G signifies government spending.”
“Well done,” he says, and smiles. Wow. That’s what I want. A gorgeous, intelligent man. A man who knows his numbers. I look away and continue taking notes. He’s talking too fast to stop. I’ve already written eleven pages, and my hand is starting to hurt. I can’t believe he’s teaching so much in the first class.
The bell rings, and I finish the sentence. I insert my notes into the second section of my Tuesday/Thursday binder, then hole-punch and add the sheets he handed out at the beginning of class. I hope I didn’t miss anything.
“Professor Rothman?” I ask, waving my hand toward him, and a smile lights up his face.
“You can call me Jon,” he says, and then looks at the nameplate that’s still on my desk. “Miss Roth.”
“I’m Layla,” I reply. He’s so approachable! “Will videotapes of your lectures be available at the library?”
“Yes, the videotapes will be available.” He rubs the back of his arm against his chin. “And I would also like to tell you that your contribution today was excellent.”
Yes! “Thanks, sir. I mean, Jon. I’ve always enjoyed working with unknown variables.”
“I’m looking forward to having you in my class this year.” He continues to hold my gaze. All right. Time to look away. Why isn’t he looking away? I smile, look down, close my binder, zip up the rolling bag I bought so I wouldn’t strain my back and roll it down the hall.
What was up with that? Why is the professor flirting with me? That is so inappropriate.
Integrative Communications is the only class I have that’s not in room 103. IC is in room 207, and I’m looking forward to the change of scenery.
I walk around the podium, sit myself down in the front row and arrange a new area in my binder. The class slowly fills up behind me. A few minutes later, a woman with frizzy red hair and a big smile walks in clapping her hands.
“Hello, everyone, hello,” she says as people bustle to their seats. She cups her ear with her hand. “Sorry? I didn’t hear you.” No one speaks. “That’s your cue to say hello back.”
“Hello,” we mumble.
“Shy ones, are you? This is no place for shyness! One of the most vital aspects to speaking in public is confidence. Let me hear that confidence!”
“Hello!” we say. My hello is especially loud.
“Excellent! I can see I am going to have a wonderful time with you!” She smiles down at me and I smile back.
“My name is Cindy Swiley,” she says, and presses a button on her laptop. The title, Professor Cindy Swiley, flashes in red across the screen. “But you can all call me Cindy.” Professor and Swiley fade away, leaving a gradually expanding Cindy. “I’ll be teaching you Integrative Communications for the next six weeks.” New slide appears. “In this class, you will learn how to present. How to handle questions. How to speak without notes. You will be giving two presentations, one halfway through the class and one as your final exam. Your midterm will be videotaped, and then reviewed and critiqued by me. But I’m sure you’ll all do fantastic!”
I can’t wait! At twenty past four the bell rings. I pile my belongings together, then return to the computer terminal to check my e-mail.
Dear Ms. Roth,
Congratulations! You have been accepted to the Carry the Torch Committee. Please be in room 302 on the third floor of the Katz building on Friday at 9:00 a.m. for an informational briefing.
Yes! I would pat myself on the back, but I still haven’t purchased more of those antibacterial wipes.

4:30 p.m.

kimmy buys her books
I am wasting my day in a bookstore line. And it’s not even a fun bookstore. Where are the cappuccinos, the magazines, the scones?
The LWBS bookstore is one long, windowless room, filled with textbooks, course-packs, and nebbish royal-blue sweatshirts that say LWBS in block red letters. As if I’d ever buy one. Maybe a baby tee, but that’s as much school spirit as I’ve got.
There are seven people ahead of me. To add insult to injury, the line next to me is moving exponentially faster. Look at me, throwing around words like exponentially. What do I think I am, an MBA student?
This place is busier than a gym at six o’clock. Not that I have a choice. I have cases to read by tomorrow. My heart pounds at the thought of the never-ending treadmill of homework. My fingers are about to break off from lugging these hundred-pound books. I’m holding one course-pack per class, plus an extra one for Strategy. Even IC has one, which I don’t understand. Why do I need photocopied case studies to help me learn to speak in public? I’m also lugging to the cash register the must-have B-school eighty-five-dollar calculator and seven textbooks. SEVEN. All hardcover. All in the region of a hundred dollars. Each. And they don’t even sell used copies so I can’t skimp on last year’s editions. What bookstore doesn’t sell used copies? What a waste. I won’t even be able to resell them next semester.
True, my dad paid my tuition, but I’m using the money I’ve saved up over the last few years of working to pay for my books and living expenses. And my dad isn’t thrilled about his contribution. He wrote the check with a heavy hand and asked me repeatedly if I was sure this was what I wanted.
I told him yes, even though I have no idea.
I drop the books onto the floor to alleviate the cramp in my fingers and scan the room for Russ. Where is he? I hoped he’d be buying his books now, too. Not that I want to see him. I’m a tiny bit mortified that I’ve been throwing myself at him all week and he already has a girlfriend. He must think I’m a freak. Obviously a guy as gorgeous as him has a girlfriend.
I avoided making eye contact with him for the remainder of the movie. In the car home, I decided that dodging the subject made me look like I cared, and obviously that wasn’t going to help my cause. So I acted like I loved Sharon. Hurray for Sharon. Maybe Sharon and I can be best buds. We’ll bake cookies and braid each other’s hair. “So when do we get to meet Sharon?” I asked from the front seat of Jamie’s ten-year-old Hyundai Excel, putting on my best girly voice, all high-pitched and full of fake cheer.
“I don’t know,” Russ answered. “She lives in Toronto.”
Toronto? Does it count if they’re not in the same country?
I avoided him all day. I walked straight into Strategy and sat right in the front. Big mistake, since Professor Martin is psycho. Thinks he’s still in Vietnam. I tried the front row again for Economics and IC. Barely saw Russ until he and Nick passed me on the way out and Nick asked me if I wanted to join them for a four-twenty. Decided to play it cool and say no. And I have no idea what a four-twenty is.
There he is. My mouth goes instantly dry as if a vacuum has sucked out its moisture. He and Nick are standing by the door. Nick stumbles, and the two of them laugh. Then they scan the bookstore and shake their heads in what I assume is dismay at the jungle in here.
Russ spots me and I freeze. He smiles and twirls his index finger near his temple, which I read as his this-line-is-crazy gesture.
I nod. “I know,” I mouth. I hold up two fingers and then point at my watch. I’m trying to tell him I’ve been here for two hours.
He shakes his head again. Then he points to his eyes and then at my books on the floor.
Translation (I think): Can I look at your books tonight?
My mouth goes dry again. I’m glad we’re not face-to-face because I don’t think I can talk properly. He wants to hang out with me tonight. To do reading. Together.
Maybe he just doesn’t want to wait in line.
Or maybe (it’s possible) he’s looking for an excuse to hang out with me.
I nod.
He says something to Nick that I can’t read, winks at me, and then takes off.
There’s suddenly a huge gap between my massive feet and the person in front of me in line. I pick up my five-hundred-pound pile, then drop it a foot up.
Sigh. How come the good ones are always taken? Russ is so cute. So perfect. I have the worst luck.
The person in front of me is at the cash register. I push my books forward with my foot.
First Wayne leaves me for someone else, and now the guy I want is taken.
The skinny purple-haired undergrad at the register motions to me. I’m up. I pick up my stuff in two shifts. How am I going to carry these back to the dorm? A boyfriend would carry them for me.
“That’ll be eight hundred, forty-seven dollars, and twenty-two cents.”
Good thing I didn’t buy that baby tee.

Tuesday, September 16, 5:35 p.m.

russ goes to war
Dribble. Dribble. Big breath. I shoot, I…
Miss. Oh, man.
“You suck, Russ,” Nick says.
“Shit.” I jog toward the basket.
“You see that net, up there?” he says, pointing. “The ball is supposed to go through it. Through.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“Had enough for today?”
I nod. Don’t think I can speak. “I’m too old for this.”
“Gimme a break. You just need some practice, dude.”
I empty a bottle of water down my throat and follow Nick outside the gym. The fall air attacks the sweat on my arms and face.
“Wanna go for a beer?” Nick asks.
“Can’t. Made plans to study with Kimmy.”
Nick raises an eyebrow. “So have you fucked her yet?”
I trip on my shoelaces. “Excuse me?”
He laughs. “You two have been spending a lot of time together. Just wondering what’s going on.”
“Nothing’s going on. I’m a taken man.”
He chuckles. “If you say so.” When we reach the second floor, he says, “Same time tomorrow?”
“You got it,” I say to Nick’s retreating figure. I climb the rest of the way on my own, thinking about his other question.
Kimmy and I have been spending a lot of time together. But nothing is going on. Nothing. Who’s to say I can only make male friends at school? I’m supposed to be networking. We’ve been hanging out for legitimate purposes. Studying. Reading. Working out. Nothing sketchy.
And she knows about Sharon, thanks to Jamie. I was going to mention it eventually, honest, but it’s not something you can easily work into the conversation without sounding like a hoser. Thanks for the movie invite. Did I mention my girlfriend Sharon really likes movies?
I unlock my room, grab a towel, shampoo and soap, and bolt to the bathroom. As the hot water pummels against my back, I tell myself for the umpteenth time this week that I’m not doing anything wrong. There is nothing wrong with having a close female friend.
I’m full of shit.
She wants me—didn’t she say so at the gym?—so, yes, it’s wrong to spend so much time with her. It’s wrong to lead her on when I don’t want her.
I’m so full of shit.
Last night I dreamed we were having sex in Professor Martin’s class. We were actually under the desk, our combat uniforms strewn all over the floor.
I am an asshole. I am the hugest asshole. (But it was a good dream.)
In the dream, under her khaki soldier’s clothes she was wearing what she’d been wearing when we studied together last Tuesday night: a black tank top with red bra straps peeking through. Instead of studying, I spent the entire evening imagining what the rest of the bra looked like. I was thinking the lacy, see-through kind. Maybe with a pair of matching red panties.
When I stopped by her room last Tuesday night to borrow her books, she suggested that we work together in one of the study rooms in the library. I thought, why not. Might be more fun. And there we were. Two people, a man and a woman, in an enclosed room. With the door closed. And no windows. And a big, brown table. I wondered if anyone had ever had sex on that table. I pictured us having sex on that table.
We were supposed to read two cases, one for Organizational Behavior, one for Stats. I skimmed the pages, but it was hard to concentrate when she smelled like vanilla and lemon, like something in my mom’s kitchen.
I shower slowly, enjoying the memory. Eventually I turn off the water, wrap my towel around me and return to my room. Then I pick up the phone. I told Kimmy I’d call her when I was done with basketball.
“Hi, this is Kimmy, can’t come to the phone. Leave a message and I’ll call you back.”
Her voice sounds sexy, smooth then rubbed with sandpaper. I leave a message and pull on the jeans that were crumpled on the floor, the ones that already have my belt in the loops and my change and credit cards in the pocket. My plans with Kimmy are for around five, and it’s five on the nose.
If it hadn’t been for Sharon meeting me, liking me, convincing me to go see a doctor about my skin and kicking my ass into the gym, a girl like Kimmy would never look twice at me.
Where’s my gel?
The phone rings. Must be her. At least she didn’t forget.
“I was waiting for you,” I say, finding the bottle under my desk and rubbing some in my hair.
“You were?” says a familiar voice. Sharon’s.
“Oh, hi,” I say, startled. Sharon. Sharon. My girlfriend. Remember her? The girl who was always there for you? I am such an ass wipe. “I had a feeling you were going to call.”
“Yeah? You must be psychic. What’s up?”
“Not much. Just got back from playing ball.”
“And tonight?”
I wipe the gel residue on my jeans. “Studying, maybe.”
“Good idea,” she says. I doubt that. Then she adds, “I miss you.”
Maybe she can sense my wandering eye. “I miss you, too,” I mumble.
Knock, knock. Oh, man. “Shar, someone’s at the door, I gotta go. Can I call you later?”
“Who is it?” she asks.
At the moment, I’m hoping Nick.
But no. Voice from behind the door. “Russ? You there?” Kimmy.
“One second,” I say to the door. Then I say to the phone, “I have to go.”
“Where are you going?”
“To study.”
Kimmy knocks again. “Russ? You inside?”
Oh, man. I have a pain in my arm, and I think I could be having a heart attack. Breathe. So I’ve been flirting. Big deal. No harm in flirting.
“Who are you studying with?” Sharon asks, relentlessly.
“Just some guys,” I answer. Now I’m lying. I’m not just flirting. I’m lying and flirting.
“Okay, call me tonight.”
“Will do.” I try to keep my voice upbeat and blameless sounding.
“Be good. Love you.”
“You, too.” I leave out the love in case Kimmy can hear. Not sure what else “you, too” could mean. Good luck? You, too. Have a good dinner? You, too. Have fun screwing around? You, too.
Now I really feel like an ass. After all she’s done for me, how can I flirt with someone else? I can’t treat her like this. No more private study sessions with Kimmy.
I open the door and find Kimmy in combat clothes, slinging a rifle over her shoulder. I blink and the vision disappears.
She’s wearing that black tank top with the red bra straps peeking through.
Oh, boy.
“What do you say we go for a beer instead?” I ask.
She smiles. “Sounds even better.”
“I think Nick wants to join us.”
A cloud passes her face. “Lead the way.”

My alarm doesn’t go off when it’s supposed to. My eyes pop open at ten to nine. Oh, man. How did I do that? I check to see if there was a power failure. Nope. Apparently I set my clock for eight p.m. instead of a.m. Good job.
I jump out of bed. No time to shower. Need clothes. I can keep on the same boxers, since I just put them on after I showered last night. Sharon hates when I don’t change my boxers in the morning, but what’s the point if I showered the night before? She goes through three pairs of panties a day. One in the morning, a thong at night, and then a clean pair to sleep in. Who has time for that kind of laundry?
Eight fifty-four. I can’t believe I’m going to be late for class. I’m never late for anything.
I zip up the same jeans I was wearing last night, and throw on the closest available T-shirt. Did I wear that yesterday, too? I think I wore that yesterday. It smells like I wore it yesterday.
Ready. Must brush teeth. No time to floss. There’s never time to floss. I rummage through the papers on my desk, looking for my toothpaste and toothbrush, then sprint to the bathroom, brush, pee, shove my stuff back in my room and sprint to class. Professor Matthews is about to slam the door, when I rush in.
Kimmy waves from the back row, and I weave through the desks and sit beside her. “You were almost late,” she says.
“Had some trouble getting out of bed.”
“No kidding,” she says. She looks at me with speculation. “How come? We didn’t get back that late last night.”
I don’t answer. We left the bar at around twelve-thirty. But then I hung out in Nick’s room smoking joints and watching the security monitor till two. Then I called Sharon. We were on the phone till three, and then I tossed in bed till four-thirty.
I slump into my seat. Should have picked up coffee.
Kimmy starts to doodle on the piece of blank paper on my desk. “Are you going to the club fair at lunch?”
Club fair, club fair. “Will there be rides?”
“A Ferris wheel in the center of the cafeteria,” she deadpans.
The door creaks open. Jamie waltzes in, coffee in hand. He scans the room for a seat, and climbs up the stairs toward the back. Matthews is watching him, steam shooting from his nostrils.
Kimmy taps me on the arm with her pen. “So, are you coming to the club fair?”
What the hell is a club fair? “Definitely.”

By that afternoon, I’ve signed up for the American Marketing Association, LWBS Intramural Basketball, the Entrepreneurial Club, the Microbrew Society, the Ice Hockey Association and the Consulting Association. I think I might be overdoing it. But they all sound interesting, eh?
We’re in the main hall of the Katz building, and there’s no Ferris wheel. But there are desks set up against each wall, with groups of second-year students manning them, hollering at passing first-years to join them. There are at least eighty clubs, and it’s like I’m in an electronics store and all the televisions, radios and CD players are tuned into different stations at full blast. How can there be so much to meet about? And why did I just sign up for all of them?

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