“Hello, you’ve reached Bradley Green, it’s January twenty-eighth, and I’m either on the phone or away from my desk…”
Fantastic. He’s in the office today. I hang up the phone.
At six-thirty, I see him.
It’s him. I know I’ve only seen one picture of him, although I did enlarge it on my screen, but I feel that it’s him deep in my soul. It’s him. My prince. I’m going to meet him!
He’s about six feet tall, and wearing black pants and a silvery-gray shirt. His hair is light brown, and he’s talking to a woman in a short yellow suit. He’s holding his folded jacket over his arm. Is he leaving? So early? Is he a slacker or is business slow? And who is that woman? And why is she wearing yellow? Vile. That is so not her color.
I hate being catty. It is not nice to be catty. It’s time to meet my prince!
I’m paralyzed in my chair.
I can’t. I just can’t. I don’t have an excuse.
The door flaps behind him as he leaves for the night.
I pretend to read the paper.
the green-eyed monster gets to russ
Thursday, January 29, 7:10 p.m.
The cab jerks forward and then backward, and then forward again. Oh, man. I try to steady Kimmy by putting my hand on her knee.
“Russ, I think I’m going to be sick,” she says.
“We’re almost there.”
“That doesn’t help. I’m nervous.”
“What are you so nervous about, eh? You said the interview went great.”
“I think it did. But…this is it. If I don’t get this, I’ll probably end up back in Phoenix.” She uncrosses her legs and then crosses them again. “I can’t take out more loans if I’ll never be able to pay them back.”
“You’re being ridiculous. You can look for a job on your own. These are just school jobs. There are a million opportunities out there, and not just in New York.”
She kisses me on the cheek. “Yeah? What about you? You’re not worried about this dinner?”
“Who me? Nah.” I’ll be more worried if I get the job and I have to decide whether I want to take it. Which doesn’t mean I don’t want it offered to me.
I’m not going to pick the pimple that has appeared by my left temple. I’m not even going to touch it. I may not have willpower when it comes to Kimmy, but I have willpower for my picking.
Me, nervous? Oh, man.
The taxi slams to a stop on the corner of Fifth and Forty-seventh. I hand a five over the plastic divider, then we shuffle out onto the street. “Ready?” I ask, holding open the heavy metal door for her. The floor of the lobby is green, the walls a dark wood, the ceiling pale blue. Are they trying to impersonate a golf course?
Kimmy bites the side of her lip. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
I scratch at my pimple.
“Hello,” I say to the maître d’. “We’re here with the O’Donnel party.”
He nods. “They’re in the private room on the left.” I follow Kimmy through the lobby. She looks hot in her tight black pants and red blouse. Clothes that I’m looking forward to taking off later tonight. We each have a hotel room with a king-size bed. We’ll have to try them both out. She gives me a nervous smile as we walk into a room full of partners and applicants. I squeeze her shoulder and put on my best fake smile. I’ve gotten better at being fake this year than I ever thought possible.
“Would you like a glass of wine?” a floating bartender asks us. Apparently my fake smile looks like it could use a drink.
“I would, thank you.”
I pass one to Kimmy. We clink and dive into the deep end.
Kimmy seems to be doing better in the deep end than I am. She’s been talking to the same partner, some guy named Johnny Dollan, for the past half hour. Doesn’t she know she should be mingling? They’re standing very close to each other. He keeps laughing at everything she says. Ha, ha, ha. She’s not that funny.
I’ve been wandering from group to group, making sure I converse with everyone. I was doing fine until I got stuck in the lame football huddle I’m in now, with three other wanna-bes and one partner.
A short, stocky guy with thick glasses is talking about the collapse of the Internet bubble. Haven’t we been talking about that for the last five years? “I think there’s still room in the market for technology companies with good ideas,” he says.
“American innovation didn’t die with the collapse,” another drone adds, eager to insert her opinion.
Kimmy just flipped her hair. Is she flirting? Flirting to secure a job is so wrong. Maybe she’s flirting to make me jealous. How immature, eh? I’m not going to get jealous. I have a girlfriend. She can do whatever. If she wants to flirt and sleep her way into a company, then fine.
I excuse myself from the huddle. I need more booze.
She’s sitting next to him. I can’t believe she’s sitting next to him at dinner. Doesn’t she realize that all the partners will know what she’s up to? That he’s just trying to pick her up for a one-night stand? It’s embarrassing.
She sips her wine, slowly, letting her lips linger on the glass. Is she trying to turn him on?
I gulp down my water. I have to get a grip. I’m not going to get the job if I keep this up. I hear the guy next to me discussing the new Spider-Man movie. That I can do. About ten minutes later, Kimmy’s friend excuses himself to use the washroom. I see her trying to catch my eye.
Yeah, right. Now she wants me? I ignore her. Let’s see what she does now.
“Did I hear you say you’re from Cali?” she asks the man across the table from her.
Cali? What’s a Cali?
“Yes, you did,” he says.
“I love California. I spent a summer working in San Diego when I was in college.”
She did? Now she’s flirting with him? I try to block her out and focus on my conversation.
People start leaving, but Kimmy is now deep in conversation with Johnny-boy. I grab my coat and hail myself a cab.
When I get back to the hotel, I call Sharon.
“Hi! I’m so happy you called,” she says. “You said you didn’t think you’d get a chance.”
Her voice sounds soft. I love her voice. I wish she were here with me. “I miss you,” I say.
“You do? You’re so sweet. How did today go?”
I miss her so much that I can barely breathe. The Kimmy-spell has been broken, dead, finito, now that I see her for what she is. “I want you to come visit.”
“Visit New York?”
I flop down on the bed, my shoes still on. “No, visit me at school.”
“Honey, you know it’s hard for me to get away on the weekends…because of tutoring and-”
“Enough with the tutoring. Call in sick for a weekend. Please?” Kimmy probably went home with Johnny-boy. Finally, my decision is made. I won’t get the job, anyway, so I’ll go back to Toronto and be with Sharon. No more lying, no more yo-yoing between them. Maybe I’ll even marry her. And have two-point-two Canadian children. Or would four Canadian children equal 2.2 U. S.?
“When?” Sharon asks.
“Soon. This weekend.”
“I can’t come this weekend! I have to book a flight.”
“So in February.”
She giggles. “Maybe I’ll come for Valentine’s Day. It’s on a weekend.”
I forgot about Valentine’s Day. “Perfect. Valentine’s Day. All settled. And you’ll call in sick on Monday, too. It’s a holiday here. President’s Day.” Maybe I’ll propose then. Forget chocolates, I’ll get her some carats.
“So tell me about tonight. How was it?”
A few minutes later, there’s a knock on my door. I ignore it. What, Kimmy’s back so soon? Did she give Johnny-boy a quick blow job in the bathroom of the restaurant? She knocks again. I ignore her again. I talk to Sharon for twenty minutes and then say good-night. As soon as I hang up, the phone rings. I know it’s Kimmy, but I pick up, anyway. “Yup.”
“What happened to y
ou?” She sounds pissed.
“What do you mean?”
“What do you mean, what do I mean?” she shrieks. “I looked around the room and you were gone. I looked for you forever.”
“I took a cab.”
“Why didn’t you wait for me?”
“You seemed a little busy with Johnny-boy.”
Pause. “Are you joking?”
Joking? “I don’t think so.”
“Go to hell,” she says, and hangs up.
What? Now she’s mad at me? I stare at the ceiling. She can’t be mad at me; she’s the one who was flirting all night.
I touch the side of my face with the pimple. I should just pop it. One time. I won’t start picking again. I’ll just do it quickly before I change my mind.
I jump out of bed, stand in front of the mirror over the dresser and pop it.
Ah.
Let’s see. Is there anything else that needs to be popped?
Stop. What am I doing? I put my hands on the dresser and take a deep breath. I’m not taking out my anger on my face. No way. I was an ass to Kimmy, I know I was, and I’m going to go apologize.
I grab the room key and march over to Kimmy’s.
“It’s me,” I say, knocking on the door.
“Go away,” she shouts.
Uh-oh. What’s wrong with me? Why am I so evil? I’m not a superhero, I’m the evil villain. “Please let me in. I’m sorry. I was an idiot. Please?”
Pause. A few seconds later she lets me in without looking at me. Her eyes are red, as though she’s been crying.
“I’m sorry. I was a big jerk.”
She stands next to the window and looks outside. “I don’t get it. Is that what you think of me? That I’m such a slut that I go home with everyone? Do you have no respect for me at all?”
“Well, I…” I trail off. I’ve been a total ass. How could I make her feel like that? I’m the one who seems to go home with everyone. I’m the slut. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to insult you. You’re right.” I wrap my arms around her waist and feel how tense she is.
“I am right,” she says, and then turns around so we’re eye to eye. “Don’t ever make me feel like that again.”
My heart feels so heavy and all I can do is kiss her. No, not all I can do.
I lead her to the bed.
layla writes a marketing plan
Friday, February 6, 3:00 p.m.
“Can you pass me another application?” I ask Dennis.
He shuffles through the papers. “Sure, Layla. So did you hear from any of the firms yet?”
“Yup.” I stick the end of a piece of licorice in my mouth. “I got a few offers.”
“You did? From Manhattan or Silverman?”
“Both.” Plus a few others, but I don’t want to brag.
He gives me a thumbs-up. “That’s fantastic. Which one are you taking?”
“Silverman.”
We sit and read more applications. After a few minutes, I ask as casually as possible, “Dorothy, when do acceptance letters for prospective students go out this year?”
She looks up from whatever she’s reading. “I think they’ve already started going out.”
“I’m curious if some of the applicants we reviewed were accepted.”
“You can check if you’d like.”
“I can?” I wasn’t going to ask, but if she’s offering…I have to know if he’s coming next year. “I’m just curious.” I finish reading the application on my desk. I don’t want to appear too eager.
Twenty minutes later I stretch and slowly make my way over to the main computer. I add a yawn to show how not excited I am about checking my prince’s status.
I’m still furious with myself for freezing up in Manhattan. I should have forced myself to meet him. What in the world was my problem? I won’t let it happen again.
I perch on the computer and lean into the screen. No need for everyone to see what I’m looking at. Maybe I should search one of the other applicants first. Whatever happened to Tom Price? The guy who claimed he would be thrilled to go to Stern?
I type in “Tom Price.” He’s been…rejected. He must have felt awful when he got the letter. The thin envelope in his mailbox. Poor boy. How could I help destroy someone’s dreams? I type in Bradley Green. A letter was sent to his apartment, informing him that he’s been…accepted! Accepted! Yes! Next year he could be here with me! In the Zoo! That would be amazing. Let’s see-if I remember correctly from his application, he applied to four other schools: Columbia, Harvard, Wharton and Stern. Let’s say he got accepted to three of them. That means there’s a twenty-five-percent chance he’s coming here next year! Of course, LWBS is ranked lower than the other four. If both my parents weren’t alumni, I might not have come here.
Let’s say there’s a ten-percent chance he enrolls here. Ten percent. I can’t wager my future on ten percent.
“I can’t believe I might never see him again,” I whine to Kimmy later that afternoon. I’m lying on my bed, and she’s sprawled on my rug. We’re studying for Monday’s Marketing quiz.
Smack.
“Ouch! What was that for?” I ask. There’s a red scratch on my leg from where Kimmy just hit me.
She rolls her eyes. “How can someone so hard-core in class be so lame when it comes to getting a guy? Just call him.”
“I can’t call him. I have no reason to call him. I’m not supposed to fall for an applicant. What reason would I possibly have to call him?”
She appears deep in thought. “What you need is a plan.”
“And I’m not lame with guys. I just don’t like to play games.”
“You don’t like to play at all. Are you sure you even like men? You wouldn’t flirt with Professor Jon, you wouldn’t go out with that guy who’s on the application committee with you, who’s adorable. What’s his name?”
“Dennis.”
“Right. And you’re not even going after Bradley. What’s your problem?”
I feel my cheeks flush. “I don’t have a problem. I like men. I just don’t like wasting my time with guys who won’t end up being good enough.”
“But you won’t know who’s wasting your time unless you play the game.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll play the game. Let’s get Bradley.”
She swings her legs around so she’s sitting cross-legged. “Time to use the marketing model.”
“Glad you’re finally finding a use for class.”
“About time, huh?” She rubs her hands together as though she’s setting them on fire. “These are the five Ps: product, positioning, price, promotion and packaging.”
“Perfect.”
“Okay, listen up. You’re the product. Now according to the textbook,” she says, flipping through the pages, “we’re supposed to figure out where you are in your life cycle. The choices are introduction, early growth, late growth, maturity, decline. Let’s say you’re in your late-growth phase.”
“Hold on. Am I the product, or is the relationship between Bradley and me the product?”
“You’re the product. We’re selling you to him. Let’s plot you on a perceptual map.” She draws a cross on her paper. “Let’s make the X-axis represent sexy versus pretty, the Y-axis studious versus fun. I would put you somewhere in the studious/pretty quadrant.”
“Hey,” I say. “I’m fun.”
“More studious than fun.”
“And what quadrant are you in? The sexy/fun quadrant?”
She examines her drawing. “Yup. Cool. If we were both products in the same company, we would totally avoid cannibalization for the company.”
“Yeah, because no one would want the pretty and smart one!”
She hits me on the leg again. “Are you crazy? Who doesn’t want a pretty and smart girlfriend?”
“This is the most absurd argument I’ve ever had. And why can’t I be both pretty and sexy? What’s the next P?”
“Pricing.”
“Perfect,” I say. �
��I’m free.”
“Yeah, right. What about fancy dinners? Jewelry? Roses?”
In relative terms, I’m no longer the insane one. “Next.”
“Promotion,” she says. “The most important thing about an ad campaign is that it catches the attention of the target audience, communicates key information and is memorable.” She looks up at me. “We can work with this one. How should we advertise you?”
Definitely crazy. “I’ve always wanted to be on a Times Square billboard.”
She rolls her eyes. “Can you be serious for a second? Our key message is that you’re smart, pretty and available. Our target audience is Bradley Green. Obviously. The positioning…”
“Can I be on top?”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s always about sex with you, huh? We should position you as smarter and better than the average girl. The best catch. And now placement. Hmm. That’s the toughest one. Where will he see you?”
“He’ll only see me if he comes to LWBS next year. That’s the problem. See? It won’t work.”
“Can’t you see him in Manhattan anywhere? Don’t you know where his job is?”
“Yeah. But I’m not taking the Manhattan Group job. So we’re not going to be in the same building. I suppose I could stalk him where he lives…his address is in the application.”
She shakes her head. “Not a good plan. You’ll be depending on his coming and going, and you need to be the one in control. And there are laws against annoying doormen. Maybe he can have an interview with LWBS? And you can interview him?”
“LWBS only interviews when you’re on the waiting list. And he already got accepted. Unless…” Idea! Idea! Idea!
“What?”
“Well, I came for a tour last year. You know, to see the school. Didn’t you?” Doesn’t everyone?
“No,” she says. “I couldn’t afford to fly across the country for no reason.”
No reason? Only her future! “Anyway, maybe he’s planning on coming.”
“That would be perfect. You could be his tour guide. He’ll fall in love. It’ll be perfect.”
Monkey Business Page 20
