Monkey Business. Sarah Mlynowski

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ