Monkey Business

by Sarah Mlynowski

  All right. Break over. I stand up and stretch. I should probably call back Claire Moss. I tried calling her earlier this week to tell her I no longer wanted to work for them, but she wasn’t in and we’ve been playing phone tag ever since. Not that I’ve been trying very hard to get in touch. I’m not looking forward to the conversation. Between me and Russ revoking our offers, they’ll probably stop hiring LWBS students.

  I find the number and pick up to dial. Why isn’t it ringing? Has the phone company already cut off my dorm line?

  “Hello, Ms. Nailer?” says a gruff voice.

  “Yes?”

  “Professor Martin here.”

  Not again. Please tell me Russ didn’t copy my exam. Ha-ha. “Yes?”

  “I’m calling to congratulate you on your final mark. You scored a ninety-five on your exam, which means that combined with your assignment marks, you scored the highest mark in the class.”

  Oh. My. God. “I did?”

  “Yes. And I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but the top students in all three second-semester Strategy classes will receive the Hunder Strategy Award.”

  An award? They’re giving me an award? Are they crazy? I don’t deserve an award. I don’t deserve anything.

  Maybe it’s time for me to become someone who’s award-worthy.

  “Thank you, Professor,” I manage to squeak.

  “With the award is a scholarship for fifteen hundred dollars, and I hope it will encourage you to specialize in Strategy next year.”

  They’re giving me money, too? Holy shit. “Um, that’s what I was thinking of doing.” Well, I am now.

  “Also, I’d like you to consider applying for a teacher’s assistant position next fall for the Strategy Intro class.”

  Wow. “I could do that, too.”

  “Great. I’ll be mailing the scholarship and TA application to the address the school has on file in Arizona. And I look forward to seeing you next year. Have a great summer.”

  “Thanks,” I say, unable and unwilling to stop smiling. “You, too.” I can’t believe a professor has so much faith in me that he wants me to help first-years. Who knew?

  The phone rings again. Maybe I won the Finance scholarship, too. Maybe I should stop dreaming.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, is this Kimmy Nailer?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Hello, it’s Claire Moss returning your call from O’Donnel. Sorry for the phone tag we’ve been playing.”

  My heart jumps to my throat. “Oh. No problem. Thanks for calling me back.”

  “Do you have any concerns?” she asks.

  Do I have any concerns? Yes, about a million. I’m concerned that I’m going to spend the rest of my life being someone I hate. I’m concerned that I won’t be tough enough to make it in the corporate world. I’m concerned no one will ever love me.

  The thing is, I want this job. I want this life. I want to come back to LWBS next year. I want to be a TA. I want my own damn freshly squeezed orange juice. “I want to confirm that the starting date is June first,” I say quickly, before I can change my mind.

  “Yes. And orientation is May thirty-first.”

  “Looking forward to it,” I say. And I am.

  My entire year is packed into two duffel bags. How sad. The walls look bare and small dust bunnies peek out from the corners of the closet. Gross. My hands are filthy and I smell like I forgot to use deodorant this morning. I’ve packed the clock, but my watch says it’s four-fifteen. Still a while to go.

  Knock, knock.

  “Hold on.” Maybe Layla is coming to say goodbye. I can’t wait to tell her about New York. She’s going to be so proud of me. I open the door and a lump instantaneously forms in my throat.

  It’s Russ.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “I thought you were gone.” I look at the floor.

  “Leaving now. Can I come in?”

  I nod and hold the door open, still not meeting his gaze.

  “How’d you find the exam?” he asks.

  “Fine. You?” I lean against the empty desk that came with the room. I don’t think I can take much more of this small talk. The lump is threatening to expand and block my speaking capabilities, possibly choking me.

  “I came to say goodbye,” he says softly. I continue staring at the floor, the disgusting dusty floor, and he touches my arm. “I needed to say goodbye.” His voice trembles, and I finally look up.

  And then my eyes lock with the bluest eyes I have ever seen, and I fall headfirst into them all over again. His eyes are glistening, and he’s trying to blink away his tears. I wonder if I’ll ever lose myself in eyes like those again.

  My cheeks are wet, but I don’t care. “Goodbye,” I say.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

  I know, I think but don’t say. Me, too.

  He hugs me tightly, and I let his smell overwhelm my nose and throat. “You’re doing the right thing,” I whisper into his ear, and realize I mean it.

  “Yeah?” He sounds relieved.

  “Yeah.”

  Would we have worked in the long run? I thought so, but I’m not sure. Eventually the Spider-Man soundtrack would have driven me crazy.

  That and the fact that I didn’t trust him.

  “Good luck,” he says.

  I pull back. “Good luck to you.”

  He kisses me on the cheek. “Be good.”

  I laugh even though I can barely breathe. “You, too.”

  He squeezes my hand and lets himself out. And I sit back on the bare mattress and cry.

  layla claims her prince

  4:30 p.m.

  Kimmy rubs her eyes with the back of her hands, and I gently pull her hands away from her face. “Don’t do that, sweetie. Here’s a tissue.”

  “Thank you,” she says through her hiccups. “Thanks for making me feel better.”

  “That’s what I’m here for. Do you want some more tea?”

  “No, thanks. I’m feeling better.” Kimmy looks up at me and smiles. “Thanks for letting me stay in your apartment this summer. Are you sure you don’t mind having me?”

  “It makes perfect sense for you to stay in my place. Why should you spend money when my room is empty? My sister’s at her boyfriend’s all the time, anyway. And I just spoke to the Zoo and they keep the dorm open for summer students, and since I’m working only ten minutes away it makes more sense to stay right here.” I can’t believe I’m staying in this dorm longer than necessary. But there’s no point in moving when I’m working so close by. Hey, I just had a thought. Maybe I’ll be the only one on this floor. Wouldn’t that be great? I’d get the bathroom all to myself. I could even go streaking down the hallway, stark naked, if I want.

  “I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me, Layla,” she says. “You’ve been a true friend. And now it’s time for me to return the favor.”

  “Don’t be silly, I don’t expect anything in return.”

  “I know you don’t. And I also know you hate being told what to do and when you’re wrong. And you know I normally hold things back, and don’t say everything I think, but I want to tell you something.”

  “Sounds ominous,” I say. “Okay, shoot.”

  “You’re being an idiot about Jamie.”

  “Now wait just a min-”

  “No. You’ve taught me all year, and now it’s your turn to listen. Jamie loves you. And he’s an amazing man. He’s funny and sweet and smart, and he would be a wonderful boyfriend for you.”

  “But he was unethical and he lied and-”

  “Yeah, I know what he did. So he’s not perfect. No one is, Layla. No one will ever be. You’ve got to get over your obsession with perfection. No one can live up to it. News flash-you’re not perfect, either.”

  “Maybe not, but I’m not deceitful.”

  “Oh, really. Tell me something, did you ever tell Bradley where you first heard about him?”

  My cheeks do a slow burn.

  “N
ow listen up. You’re bossy and obsessive, and you know what? Your friends love you, anyway. He loves you, anyway. So he made a mistake. Learn from it, and move on.” She takes a long sip of her tea. “You know what I think? I think you use this obsession you have with perfection as an excuse not to get close to someone. If you have to have something wrong with you, the least you could do was get something a little more original.”

  I pick up a pillow and throw it at her, and it hits her hand. And knocks over her tea. All over my bedspread.

  “Aw, crap.” I’m about to sulk, when instead I think, Is it possible she’s right? I got freaked out by Brad, but terrified by Jamie. I do a mental recap of all my past relationships. Oh, my, she is right.

  “You’re right,” I say, my heart racing. “About everything. Especially about Jamie. He is an amazing man. He’s generous and sweet and loving and hilarious and sensual. Sometimes I wish he’d stop joking and be serious, and other times he looks so sad, as if he’s carrying the weight of every sick child on his shoulders, and it breaks my heart. And he has a unibrow. And according to you, a small penis. But I like him.”

  Wow. Did I just say that? I leap off the bed. “I have to fix this, now.”

  Kimmy chokes on her tea. “Of course, only you would have an immediate epiphany and want to take action. You are the most spontaneous and passionate person I have ever met. But I think he might have already-”

  “No time for thinking!” I spritz my Chanel No. 5 across my chest and sprint down the hall. I pound on his door. No one answers, so I open the door. The room is empty. Stark-naked empty. I can’t believe it. I’ve missed my chance.

  “Maybe he’s still packing up his car,” Kimmy offers, standing next to me.

  “You’re right!” I skip down the stairs to the garage.

  “You’re not wearing any shoes!” Kimmy yells after me. “Or a coat!”

  “It’s spring!” I yell back, and run to the garage. Is he there? Is he still here? Please let him still be here.

  And there’s his Hyundai. And he’s shoving a box into the trunk.

  “Hi,” he says, surprised to see me.

  I kiss him before he can say anything, then pull back and look at his face. “I am so sorry. I should never have freaked out the way I did. You are a terrifically imperfect man who’s perfect for me.”

  That so didn’t come out right. He doesn’t say anything, just stares blankly. Maybe it’s too late. He got over Kimmy. Maybe he’s over me. Is he now going to turn this all into a joke and blow me off? “Well?” I ask, hands on hips. “Tell me how you feel. Straight up. I can’t take a joke.”

  He brushes my hair away from my face, then runs his finger from my ear, across my cheek, to my lips. He looks into my eyes and I lose my breath. And then he kisses me.

  summer break

  kimmy’s elevator

  Wednesday, June 2, 1:30 p.m.

  The sky over Forty-second Street is a gorgeous milky-blue, and I can’t stop smiling. I love this city. The honking, the energy, the tossed salad I have tucked under my arm (as per Layla’s passionate suggestion). I especially love Layla’s apartment. I’ve already been there a week, and I still can’t get over the place. The floors are hardwood, the bathroom has a Jacuzzi and toilet with a seat warmer, the bed is a pillow-top-king draped in Ralph Lauren sheets softer than a kitten’s fur, the view is of the entire city, and a housekeeper comes every Monday. And Layla refuses to charge me rent, since she owns the place. She didn’t even stay with me on the weekend when she visited-she shacked up with Jamie at his sublet. They appear to be madly in love, always cooing in each other’s faces and referring to each other by nicknames. He calls her his orange, and she calls him her banana. I’m guessing the orange thing has something to do with their juggling adventures, and I so don’t want to know about the banana. “You missed out” is all I’d let her tell me.

  I wave to the doorman and click-clack against the marble floor in the lobby toward the elevator that will take me to the forty-eighth floor. Yesterday, my first day at work, I spent ten minutes confused as to why the elevator I was standing in didn’t have any buttons that went past forty. I thought I was in the wrong building, walked back outside, came back in…then realized that there were multiple elevators, each assigned to a block of twenty floors. Who knew?

  This elevator, my elevator, only stops on floors forty to sixty. As my elevator zips skyward through the building, my ears pop, and I watch the news on the flat-screen TV, smiling. I know eventually that I’ll stop feeling like the entire city is paved with gold, but for now I’m enjoying the ride.

  I’m happy. Despite having my period. I threw out my pills the day Russ went back to Toronto. My body needs a break. Time to find its natural rhythm again. Whatever that is.

  We come to a nice smooth stop. I’m about to step out when a cute dark-haired guy in a blue-striped suit steps into my path. Oops. I realize we’re only on the forty-fifth floor, not my stop.

  “Hey, Kimmy, good to see you,” he says, still standing in front of me. He looks vaguely familiar, but I don’t remember his name. I think he’s the partner I talked to during the interview dinner, the man who made Russ so jealous. Smiling, he says, “I’m Johnny Dollan, in case you’ve forgotten. We met back in January. Didn’t mean to block your path. Is this your floor?”

  He shuffles in beside me, smiling at me over his shoulder.

  “No,” I say, and hit the door-close button. “I’m going up.”

  Sarah Mlynowski

  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.

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