Monkey Business. Sarah Mlynowski

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СКАЧАТЬ 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. СКАЧАТЬ