Monkey Business. Sarah Mlynowski

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      layla hits the books

      kimmy studies it up at the library

      jamie’s on fire

      russ ignores his conscience

      layla thinks she failed (again)

      russ finishes his exam

      kimmy gets screwed

      russ rings in the new year

      jamie saves the world one book at a time

      kimmy’s prepping

      it’s the doghouse for russ

      second semester

      kimmy’s shrinking basket

      layla’s stakeout

      the green-eyed monster gets to russ

      layla writes a marketing plan

      kimmy has a heart-to-heart

      jamie’s wake-up call

      layla makes her move

      kimmy works it

      russ almost blows his cover

      layla gets bubbly

      jamie’s valentine’s day curse

      kimmy is pissed

      jamie thinks about life

      russ gets nailed

      kimmy gets lucky

      jamie returns to the zoo

      kimmy has a boyfriend

      russ becomes a copycat

      layla’s library libido

      kimmy saves her boyfriend’s ass

      jamie’s muse makes him miserable

      russ is annoyed

      layla’s new fantasy

      kimmy boards the train to pain

      jamie talks the talk

      layla’s epiphany

      russ gets busted (and drags kimmy down with him)

      jamie’s rise to stardom

      kimmy rationalizes her future

      layla streaks

      russ’s depression

      layla sees the truth

      some news for russ

      jamie’s advice

      kimmy’s ejection

      layla’s birthday

      sister kimmy

      jamie’s mom knows best

      russ has a fleeting regret

      layla’s calling

      closure for kimmy

      layla claims her prince

      summer break

       kimmy’s elevator

orientation (primarily academic)

      Monday, September 1, 11:55 p.m.

      kimmy’s big blunder

      He aims, he shoots, he scores—all over my silk duvet.

      “It’s okay. Not a big deal,” I lie.

      “Give me two seconds, Kimmy, and I’ll be ready for round two.”

      “Don’t worry about it,” I lie again.

      And then he rolls over and passes out.

      He’s sleeping, I’m still in my jeans, and my goose-feather duvet—a gift from my father and the only thing I own of any worth—has a puddle on it.

      I can’t believe how gross this is. And to make matters worse, this guy I’ve chosen as my one-night stand—make that five-minute stand—is in my class. I can’t imagine spending the next ten minutes with him, never mind the next two years.

      Besides being incapable of holding it in long enough to make it to the condom, a lesson the girls were supposed to teach him when he was an undergrad, he’s flabby, short and has a unibrow. Also his penis is smaller than my PDA, and that fits in the palm of my hand.

      For the first time ever, my mother was right. I hate that. She nagged me to put a cover on my duvet, one nag among millions, but did I listen? No, not me. My reasoning? I liked the feel of the satin against my skin.

      Apparently so did Jamie.

      He’s comatose on top of my comforter, his jeans and checkerboard boxers bagging around his hairy thighs. His eyes are closed, his mouth slightly open, and a trail of drool leaks onto my pillow. Hasn’t he already soiled enough of my linen?

      The devil-red numbers on the alarm clock beside my single bed say 12:01 a.m. Or is that 1:21? I can’t see too well, as I’m a bit on the dizzy side.

      Okay, I admit it. Drunk dizzy.

      Dread dribbles through my half-dressed body like nausea after one too many beers. From my uncomfortable position (back pressed up against the thin wooden wall, legs straight like a clothespin to avoid making contact with his), I analyze the situation’s gravity. There’s a balding, tire-around-the-middle, quasi-naked man in my bed. Correction, on my bed.

      Oh, God, what did I do?

      My class of two hundred is divided into three Blocks (aka sections), A through C, and all my classes are within the same Block. The way to impress my new classmates probably wasn’t to take one home the first night I’m here. Especially not one in my Block. Block B. It sounds like a prison.

      His bloated lips are slightly open, his breath gentle and wet. This embarrassment will probably sit two rows behind me ten times a week. It’s going to be a long two years.

      Why did I invite Jamie back to my room? Oh, right, I was trying not to think about Wayne. And I thought he could be my replacement boyfriend. I’ll give Jamie cute in a worn, teddy-bear sort of way. He said he was twenty-six, but he looks almost middle-aged. Like a forty-year-old who buys a Corvette and gets an earring to stay hip.

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