Monkey Business. Sarah Mlynowski

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СКАЧАТЬ 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. Damn.

      She sets her cosmetics down beside one of the sinks and pulls out her toothbrush, toothpaste and floss. “Hi!” she chirps as she rolls the bottom of her Crest tube and applies an overdose of paste to her brush.

      “Hi,” I say. “Nice privacy in here, huh?”

      She nods enthusiastically. “It’s pretty good,” she says, and turns on her toothbrush.

      Yikes. I was being sarcastic. Where did this broad grow up that she thinks this is private? On an airplane? “I was kidding,” I say, and splash some water on my face. “We’re like animals in here.” Maybe that’s why they call it the Zoo. If only Wayne were here for me to live with…those with domestic partners are eligible to live off campus. Bastard, Wayne.

      “It’s not ideal,” she continues. “I was trying to be positive. I’m concerned about the excessive bacteria.”

      “Uh-huh.” What is she rambling about? Damn. I forgot my cleanser and toothbrush in my room. I point to her face wash. “Can I use some of that?”

      She spits into the sink, rinses. “Of course.” She squeezes a drop into my palm. Maybe she doesn’t want me touching the tube in case I have bacteria. “One of my nannies always said that the trick to having good skin is that no matter where you are, you have to wash your face before you go to sleep, every single night. I’m Layla. You?”

      Her nanny? I’ve never liked girl-bonding, and getting info about this broad’s nanny is just weird. Most of my friends have been guys. Except Cheryl, and look how that turned out. I don’t trust women. “Uh, Kimmy,” I answer. My voice sounds a bit strangled, I think.

      The girl smiles, reapplies her toothpaste and sticks the toothbrush back into her mouth. A blond strand slips from her head towel and into the foam.

      I pat the creamy cleanser over my face until it’s thick. Just as I lean to wipe it off, the door flings open. There stands Jamie, shirt unbuttoned, hairy, flabby chest protruding, beige pants haphazardly done up.

      “Hey, gorgeous,” he says, strutting into the bathroom. “I was wondering where you were. You okay? I’m zonked. I’m going back to my room to sleep.”

      I know I don’t like him, but that doesn’t mean I want him to see me looking as if I’ve dunked my face in whipped cream. Why does he want to go back to his own room? What, now he doesn’t want to spend the night? Did I do something wrong?

      “See you later,” I say as he strolls toward one of the stalls. His urine tinkles into the toilet bowl.

      Shower girl gives me a nod and then leaves. She must be judging me, thinking I’m a stupid slut for hooking up with someone on the first night.

      Bitch.

      Tuesday, September 2, 12:30 a.m.

      jamie wants a replay so he can amend his foreplay

      I bang the palm of my hands against the walls as I sprint down the hallway. Who knew I’d be the business school stud?

      I hit the jackpot.

      Fine, I might have hit the jackpot a little earlier than intended, but Kimmy didn’t care. And I’ll make it up to her next time and then some.

      Kimmy could have taken home any of the guys at the beer bash, but she chose me. The shmuck in the corner. My dream girl. Almost. My dream girl is Deborah Messing, but Kimmy’s a close second. And I was in her room. In her bed. In her pants. Okay, on her pants. And on her comforter, but that’s not the point. Why was it so easy for me? I wouldn’t hook up with me if I were a girl. I don’t get it. (Actually, I did get it, which is what I don’t get.)

      Russ and Nick, the guys I met yesterday, decided to go out for wings before the party, but I declined. I wanted to get a head start checking out the ladies. Who there weren’t too many of. After a dozen rounds of hand shaking and “Hi, I’m Jamie Grossman, I’m from Florida, I used to work in hospital management, and you?” I switched it up to keep the night lively. I was Jeremy from Iowa, former accountant. And then Bill from Dallas, former gun retailer. I even added a modest twang for effect. My mother had been wrong. The college drama course I’d taken was good for something.

      The party was a total sausage fest. In the common room, the three couches shaped like a horseshoe around the big-screen TV were swamped with men. For the occasion, welcome signs and sagging balloons in the school’s royal-blue had been taped to the freshly painted white walls, which probably destroyed the paint job, but who cares?

      After my fiftieth introduction, a few bowls of pretzels and four plastic glasses of lukewarm Coke, I was bored. Most people were piss drunk, which only heightened their pompousness. Making conversation was like talking to a parrot on Prozac. The people I met couldn’t have cared less about what I had to say. They only wanted to talk about themselves. Which was probably a good thing. I don’t want them to know too much about me anyway. They may start getting suspicious about what the hell I’m doing here.

      I don’t drink. Alcohol makes me depressed and stupid. I prefer my screwups to be done on my own merit. Like failing my first semester of college because I was too in love with Mia Brottman to go to class, or getting fired from my first postdropout sales job because I told my boss he was a dickhead. (He was a dickhead.)

      Anyway, the party was lame. And I was exhausted—I only slept about four hours last night after driving for twenty-four hours from Miami and then partying all night. I was deliberating escaping to my room to relax and watch a DVD. I have three hundred in my room. I am a major movie buff who has wasted many a day enjoying theme specific marathons, such as a Clint-Eastwood-athon, Three-Stoogesathon, etc. (Which might have contributed to my failing my first semester that year.) But as I swallowed the last drop of flat Coke in my cup, in walked a movie star.

      A pint of cold beer to a group of men who’d been chomping on salted pretzels all night, she was wearing a purple silk wraparound top that exposed a liberal expanse of glistening cleavage. Brown curls framed her creamy face, swirling onto her shoulders. I wanted to run my hands over her voluptuous behind.

      I had to talk to her. I was in lust. I maneuvered my way so that I was standing near her, and then, when she looked sufficiently bored with the computer nerd beside her—“D-d-do you know that integrated wire-l-l-less LAN de-de-devices…”—I jumped in with a joke.

      A few drinks (flat Coke for me, beer for her) and several jokes later, my hand was firmly on her arm. And then I asked her to get some air.

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