Monkey Business

by Sarah Mlynowski

  I knock on Layla’s door to the rhythm of “The Sound of Music.” The-hills. Are-a-live. To-the-sound. Of-mu-(long pause)-sic.

  “One sec!” She hollers, then opens the door, dressed in khakis and a Polo shirt. I love that this is her study outfit. Everyone else wears sweatpants and flannel to study in. Or maybe that’s just me. What’s the point in being uncomfortable?

  “It’s Thursday night. Time to watch the student body drink and make fools of themselves,” I tell her.

  She laughs and shakes her head. “Are you crazy, Jamie? There’s no time for a beer bash tonight. There’s a speaking event I want to go to, and do you realize how much work we have due next week? Job applications, Economics midterm, our group OB and Strategy cases, never mind the Economics assignment-”

  “You can’t still be working on Economics. You’ve been doing it for ages.”

  “It’s worth sixty percent of our final mark! Have you finished your applications?”

  “Nah, I’m not applying anywhere through school.”

  She throws her arms up in bewilderment. “What? Why not?”

  “Because I don’t want to be a consultant or a banker or work for a pharmaceutical company. And those are the only companies hiring through LWBS.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  “They suck your soul. Did you see Harry Potter? Remember the dementors? I don’t want that to happen to me.”

  “It’s not that bad,” she says quickly. “What do you want to do?”

  “What do I want to do, what do I want to do.” I lean against the doorway. “I have no idea.” Sleep? Watch movies?

  “Do you want to hear some fabulous female speakers in the auditorium?”

  “Like who?”

  “Megan Milton, CEO of E-World.”

  “I’ve never bought anything off the Web.”

  “Get out! Come with me and learn how safe it is.”

  “Who else is speaking?”

  “I think the woman who runs Body Shop and also some nonprofit female executives. Come on!”

  Not a movie, but I wouldn’t mind spending some quality time with Layla. Last month I couldn’t stop thinking about Kimmy. Now I can’t stop thinking about Layla. Ever since our Halloween conversation, I can’t get her long blond hair out of my mind. I must be a flake. One day I’m proposing marriage to Kimmy on the bathroom wall, and the next day I’m fantasizing about another woman’s long bond hair dripping over my naked body.

  If I thought Kimmy was out of my league, Layla isn’t even in the same hemisphere. At least Kimmy had the Jewish thing going, which I thought would give me an edge. A Jewish girl usually wants to marry a Jewish guy, right? But even if Layla isn’t into this whole caste system thing, she has her eye on someone else. Some WASP-y prince. I’d say my chances of wooing her are effectively zero.

  Which is a good thing, I suppose, because if I brought her home for Hanukkah dinner, both my mother and bubbe would have a heart attack.

  So instead, I’m going to take what I can get, friendship with Layla. “I think I’ll come along. Not sure if Megan can put on as entertaining a show as our beer-satiated classmates, but whatever.”

  “Give me ten minutes to change, and I’ll meet you downstairs.”

  She’s changing? The khakis and Polo top aren’t good enough? I look down at my sweatpants and fleece sweatshirt, and decide it wouldn’t hurt to spruce up a bit.

  I change into black pants and a shirt I tuck in, and meet her downstairs. She’s wearing a striped pantsuit and looking fantastic. She’s holding a leather folder and a fountain pen. I’m assuming she’s planning on taking notes. Should be a wild and crazy night. Oh, what one does for “friendship.”

  She puts her arm on my shoulder. “Jamie, I have to tell you something important.”

  Is it possible? Does she like me?

  “I worked for Rosen Brothers and we were the ones who recommended to personnel at your hospital to scale back. And ever since I found out you used to work there, I’ve been feeling horrendously guilty.”

  Damn. Not what I was hoping for. “Don’t feel bad. The truth was, I wasn’t happy there, anyway. Working at a hospital wasn’t the right environment for me. I tend to absorb my surroundings, and I ended up feeling down most of the time. So getting laid off ended up being good for me.”

  “Wow,” she says. “I feel a huge sense of relief.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “If I can ever do anything to help you get a job, let me know.”

  I hold open the glass door. “Actually, Layla, I could use one favor.”

  “Anything.” She tightens her coat around her.

  I take a deep breath. “This is going to sound very strange. But for some reason, LWBS thinks I’m a woman.”

  She stops walking and laughs. “Pardon me?”

  “I don’t know why,” I lie. “It’s some sort of glitch in the system. Because of my name, I guess. I’ve tried calling and e-mailing so someone will fix it, but no one has gotten back to me. You have access to the main computer, since you’re on the applications committee. I was wondering if there was any way you could set things straight?”

  “That’s hilarious. Are you on the WOB e-list and everything?”

  “I am. I even got an e-mail for tonight.” I’ve gotten three e-mails from the Women of Business society. And trust me, I’d love to join. Talk about an easy place to pick up.

  She considers it. “So all I would have to do is change the W to an M?”

  “Yup.” I try to sound casual, as though it’s no big deal.

  “All right.” She exaggerates giving me a once-over. “You are, in fact, a man, aren’t you?”

  “I’m all man, darlin’.” I’d certainly like to prove it to her.

  Some of the speeches are interesting. Right now a woman named Danielle Grand is explaining her job as executive director at the nonprofit Girls Group in Danbury, which is about ten minutes away. “Girls Group sets up art, athletic, business and career-building programs for young women aged seven to seventeen, with the aim of building confidence, and teaching them that they can make positive contributions to the world,” she explains.

  Layla starts scribbling furiously.

  “Most of you here tonight,” Ms. Grand continues, “have probably noticed that only thirty percent of the students at LWBS are women. To significantly increase the number of female business owners and leaders, we have to increase the flow of women into key educational gateways such as business schools. And one way to do this, something that I do at Girls Group, is to motivate young women to prepare for a business career at an early age.

  “Nonprofit work is not for everyone. You must have passion for the cause. That’s the intangible reward that compensates for less income. And trust me, the income is much, much less than what you’d make at a bank or consulting firm. The cause-arming young women with the tools to make a difference in their lives-is something that fuels my passion.”

  I fade in and out of the rest of her speech. The truth is, I can’t stop thinking about my application lie. About why I got accepted. About why I applied.

  It was research. For an article. I had just seen the movie Soul Man. The one where C. Thomas Howell pretends to be black so he can get a scholarship to Harvard. There were articles about affirmative action everywhere, and I thought it would be an interesting study. I researched different programs and found that MBA schools claimed that they were committed to diversity but that women didn’t have a competitive advantage when applying. I thought it was bullshit and that women would have an easier time getting in. So I decided to apply to ten different schools. Five as a male and five as a female. I handed in the exact same application to all ten schools. The only difference was my gender.

  Out of the ten schools I applied to I was rejected at all of the ones I applied to as Jamie the male. For the ones I applied to as a female I was rejected at two, but accepted at one, and asked to interview at another two. I thought, busted! My thesis was proven
correct. I would write the article and expose the bullshit.

  But there was the acceptance to LWBS. Sitting on my desk. Signed by Layla’s boss, Dorothy. Winking at me. Packaged with a brochure promising career advancement, wealth and leadership positions. And I thought-well, why not?

  Why not go? Why should women have the advantage? If LWBS claimed they didn’t accept based on gender then it shouldn’t matter anyway, right?

  I look at Layla staring intently at the speaker. She’s one person who wouldn’t agree with me. Who might even turn me in.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have asked her to change my official gender for me. But I didn’t have a choice. I needed to get a new student card, or I wouldn’t be allowed to write my exams. And she’s the only person I knew who had access to change the letter F to a letter M, so my student card could be printed out and not give me away.

  And she did get me fired in the first place. Not that I’m angry. I hated being in the hospital anyway.

  And I shouldn’t worry. If LWBS claims to be gender blind then they shouldn’t care about my lie if I ever got caught.

  Yeah, right.

  I try to stop worrying and pay attention instead.

  After the lecture, Layla runs to the podium to thank Ms. Grand for her inspiring speech. I approach the two of them just as Layla is whipping out her checkbook.

  “I’d like to make a donation,” she says, scribbling.

  “I certainly didn’t expect to fund-raise at a women’s business panel,” Danielle says. She glances at Layla’s check and looks astounded. “Wow. Thank you. The Girls Group sincerely appreciates your overwhelming generosity. Have you ever considered a career in nonprofit?”

  “Me?” Layla says. “No.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I’m in Mergers and Acquisitions.”

  “So was I,” she says, and smiles. “Here’s my card. If you ever want to volunteer, or perhaps apply for a summer job, call me.”

  We say goodbye and leave the auditorium. How cool is Layla? “That was nice of you to give a donation,” I say.

  “Yeah? I thought I’d feel good, but now I feel worse for some reason. It would be fun to work somewhere where I felt I was making a difference. And not just…you know.”

  “Making a fortune? Why don’t you apply for a summer job with them, then?”

  She laughs. “Yeah, right. I’m a banker. I’ve worked at banks for the last three years. I’m majoring in Finance. My parents are bankers. I’m going to be a banker. Maybe all I need is an extracurricular activity, like bridge or square dancing. Only something I can be passionate about.”

  I want to tell her she’s welcome to be passionate about me, but I hold my tongue.

  layla gets the job done

  Wednesday, November 26, 4:50 p.m.

  Print! Print! Come on, come on, you can do it!

  I have precisely ten minutes to print out my Economics assignment and haul butt to the Katz building. It’s four-fifty. Rothman wants the assignment by five, and he warned us to get it in on time because he’s leaving for Thanksgiving. Why did I have to be so nitpicky? I’ve been working on it for months. What if I’m too late? What if I don’t make it? All week classes have been empty because everyone else was working like crazy to finish. I showed up and now I’m going to fail? Where is the justice in that?

  Print! Print! Page three pops out. Five more to go!

  I don’t see why Rothman doesn’t let us e-mail our assignments. Why must he make my life difficult?

  Print! Print! Two pages left!

  I ram my feet into my shoes (no way to treat Prada loafers) and do up my coat. Then I double-check his office number. Six twenty-four. No problem. Time check: 4:54 p.m.

  Yes! The final page is done. I slam it into the stapler, and run.

  I pass Kimmy in the hallway. “Hey, Layla,” she says. “Where are you going?”

  “To hand in Economics,” I say on the move.

  “How’d you find the Stats midterm?” she asks quickly.

  “I failed for sure,” I answer, and hit the stairs two at a time, and then sprint over to Katz. Stats was impossible. My paper flaps in my hand. I heave open the door to the building. I shimmy between the elevator doors as they’re closing and thump the sixth-floor button. Two students are inside, and they seemed to have already pressed the second and fourth floor.

  Current time: 4:59. Crap!

  The elevator stops at the second floor and a woman in a parka slides out. All right, let’s go, off to four. But then the elevator jerks and stops at three. No! A man in a suit steps in and presses…five. Oh, come on, give me a break. This is crazy. Are the Fates conspiring to make me late?

  By the time we hit the sixth floor, it’s 5:07 and I’m late, I’m late, I’m late. I gallop to his office and-what if he left, what if I fail, what if my entire career is over because of this one useless paper-I stop. His door is open. His lights are on. I hear two men laughing inside.

  My heart is still racing from the run. I poke my head around the door.

  Jamie is leaning against the wall. “Well, hello there, Layla. We were wondering if you forgot.”

  “Hi, Jamie. Hi, Jon. Sorry I’m late, sir.” I deposit the paper on his desk.

  “Hi, Layla. Thanks for bringing it by. You see, Jamie, Layla still managed to make it to class this week even though there was a paper due. I suppose you were sick yesterday, but have since miraculously recovered?”

  Jamie smirks. “You hit the nail on the head there, Jon.”

  The professor laughs and looks directly into my eyes. “Layla, what are you doing this weekend?”

  “Going home,” I say, and look away. He’s doing it again! Flirting with me!

  “Have a good Thanksgiving, you two.”

  I back out of the room. “Thanks, sir. You, too.”

  Jamie waves goodbye and follows me into the elevator. “That guy has the hots for you.”

  I blush. “Yeah?”

  Jamie raises an eyebrow. But since he only has one, they both veer toward his bald spot. “Tall, dark and handsome not your type?”

  “I don’t mix business with pleasure.”

  He nods. “Still after your dream man?”

  I sigh. “Yup.”

  “Have you ever thought about dating someone that exists in real life and not just on paper?” he asks, looking at me out of the corner of his eye.

  Enough already. “I told you. I’m not dating Professor Rothman. Too close for comfort.” I decide to change the subject. “I gave you a sex change on Friday.”

  “You did?” He closes his eyes for a second and looks relieved. “Thanks. Much appreciated. Can I interest you in some dinner tonight? I’m not going home until tomorrow morning.” He hesitates. “I want to thank you properly.”

  Aw. “You’re so sweet. It really wasn’t a big deal. But no, I’m taking the seven-o’clock train back to the city. I decided not to drive so I can start my reading for next week. And I haven’t packed yet.” The doors open, and I plant a quick kiss on his cheek. “Have a safe flight and a great weekend!” And then I bolt back to the Zoo.

  russ returns to the land of the loonies

  9:30 p.m.

  I’m about to ring the doorbell, when I stop myself. Maybe I shouldn’t have come. What am I doing here? She’s going to be able to tell. My face will be like a blackboard with my illicit affair written all over it in fluorescent-yellow chalk. If only it could be like in Superman: The Movie and I could fly backward around the world to turn back time.

  Truth is, I’m not even sure if I want to erase the experience with Kimmy. I like knowing that a sexy woman like Kimmy wants me.

  I should tell Sharon what happened.

  It’s freezing out here. Stupid Canadian winter. I press the bell once, twice, softly as though I’m not sure if I want her to hear.

  She must have been waiting for me, because right away I hear the click of the door unlocking.

  The soft, silky, short brown hair, the big smile. Th
e perfect earlobes. Sharon. “You’re back!” she squeals, wrapping her arms around my neck and kissing me hard on the mouth.

  Guilt and sadness surge through me, like I’ve just stuck my finger in an electrical socket of pain. I love her, and I always have. What did I do? “I’m back,” I say, attempting to keep my voice afloat. Can she tell?

  She kisses me deeply and presses her body against mine. Apparently, no, she can’t. And I can’t tell her. She’d kill me. I can only tell her if I’m willing to lose her, and I’m not. Her tongue feels soft and squishy, like a pillow. I push her up against the door, and I explore under her shirt. My hands feel at home, like Clark Kent returning to Smallville.

  She pulls me inside and closes the door behind her.

  Decision made. My fling with Kimmy is over.

  kimmy waits

  Sunday, November 30, 10:07 p.m.

  Why hasn’t he called?

  I kissed him goodbye on Wednesday afternoon. I thought he would call the next day. Truth is, I hoped he would call Wednesday night after he landed. Or from the airport while he was waiting for his flight. That would have been amazing. But I wasn’t asking for that. No. All I was asking is that he call at some point over the weekend. Is that too much to ask? That the guy I’ve been hooking up with for the past month call me to wish me a happy Thanksgiving?

  I’m lying on my bed, wearing a tank top and panties, sweating and staring at the ceiling. My flight landed two hours ago. I thought Russ would be here by now. The central heating is on full blast, so it’s boiling in here. I don’t mind the heat; I’m used to it from home. It was gorgeous in Arizona. A nice eighty-six degrees. Here it’s forty-two. My body is officially confused. And the Zoo feels like ninety degrees. I saw a guy wearing shorts and a tank top strolling through the hallways. I wonder if he’ll keep that outfit on all winter. The same weirdness occurs in Arizona. I’ll be wearing sandals and a minidress outside because it’s a hundred and thirty degrees, but I need to put on long underwear and a parka to go to the air-conditioned mall.