Monkey Business. Sarah Mlynowski

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СКАЧАТЬ try to trade up Lois Lane when he became Superman? Don’t think so.

      I stay slumped on the floor for the next while, imagining myself metamorphosing in a phone booth. It’s a bird, it’s a plane, it’s B-schoolboy!

      One-eleven. Shit. Sharon’s going to murder me. “I gotta go.”

      “See you tomorrow,” Jamie says.

      Nick continues clicking on his female classmates’ attributes. He zooms in on the breasts of a woman named Lauren. “I heard this babe is bi. Later.”

      When I return to my room, I immediately pick up the phone and punch in Sharon’s number. One ring. Two. Three. Clank, clank. Smash. Clank, clank. “Hello?” She sounds more drugged out than I am. Not that she would ever smoke pot. She hates when I get high, even though she’s the one I tried it with in college. She thinks that now that I’m a professional I should act mature. I haven’t smoked in a long time, and probably wouldn’t have if I hadn’t met Nick. Thing is, it relaxes me. Stops me from worrying. Helps me sleep. I’ve got to keep my voice steady so she won’t be able to tell. Luckily she’s not here. My thumb and index finger still smell of it.

      “I woke you, eh?” Of course I woke her. Sometimes I’m such an ass.

      “What do you think?” she murmurs.

      “Sorry, hon. Go back to sleep.”

      “No, wait. How was your day?”

      I lie back on my unmade bed. Crunch my head against a pillowcase stuffed with T-shirts. I forgot to bring a pillow. I don’t know how I did since pillow was definitely on the Do Not Forget list that Sharon made for me. Sharon makes a lot of lists. They’re taped all over her apartment. Floss is also on her list. Which I didn’t forget because my dentist made me promise I’d floss every night. Unfortunately, I did forget to do it last night and tonight.

      “Good,” I say. Voice remaining steady. “We had orientation. Hung out with the same guys I met last night. Took a campus tour. A library orientation. Set up our Internet. Got our class schedules.”

      “Yeah? How is it?”

      “Monday and Wednesday I have Organizational Behavior at nine, Accounting at ten thirty, Statistics at one…one…one-thirty.” My body has sunk into the mattress, and I feel numb again, but I continue talking. “Tuesday and Thursday it’s Strategic Analysis at ten-thirty—that’s a sleepin. Economics at one-thirty, IC at three. But IC is a half-semester course, so it only runs until the end of October.”

      “What’s IC?”

      “Integrative Communications. Presentations and stuff.”

      “Sounds fun.”

      She’s being sarcastic, but the truth is, I’m excited. “Fun, fun, fun.”

      Silence. “Did you smoke?” she accuses me.

      Oh, man. “No.”

      She sighs. “You swear?”

      “No.”

      She sighs again. “You have to stop. You know what pot does to your attention span. School’s for real now.”

      “What?”

      “Your attention span, Russ.”

      “I know, I know. You’re right.” She is right. What am I doing? When I smoke I have no attention span. I can barely remember five minutes ago. Where was I five minutes ago?

      “So no more?” she says.

      “No more,” I promise. She’s right. I can’t screw this up. She’s always right and I’m an idiot. “How was your day?”

      “Good. I prepared. Tomorrow is my first day of school. I’m giving my grade-ten class a surprise pop quiz on the details leading up to Confederation. They’re going to thrilled.”

      At sixteen I wouldn’t have cared what test a hot teacher like Sharon gave me as long as I could keep looking at her. Thank you, miss, may I have another? With my zit-infected face and scrawny pipe-cleaner body, watching her teach would have been the most action I’d get. “But it’s only the first day,” I say, regaining my senses. “A test already?”

      “If I don’t whip them into shape at the beginning, they’ll walk all over me.”

      “Wanna come over and whip me into shape?”

      She laughs. “Is that an invitation?”

      “What do you think?” Don’t think she’d be too impressed with the saggy single bed, shit decor and hike to the showers.

      “You miss me already, don’t you, Russ?”

      “Uh-huh.”

      “I figured. Okay, I’m going back to bed.”

      “Good night,” I say. “Good luck tomorrow.”

      “You, too.”

      “Thanks. We meet our Blocks in the morning.”

      She yawns. “Good. And, hon?”

      “Yeah?”

      “Can’t you call me slightly earlier tomorrow?”

      I knew I was going to get flak for that. “But you told me to phone before I went to sleep.”

      “I did. But it’s a school night. You should be going to bed earlier.”

      “Sorry. I won’t call you so late tomorrow.”

      “Good. Go to bed now, okay? Love you. Be good.”

      “Love you, too.” I press the end button on the cordless.

      Now what? Clock says 1:40. Still excited about tomorrow. And worried. I thought pot is supposed to make me sleepy.

      Maybe I’ll visit Nick. Oh, yeah. Already did that. Maybe I’ll call Sharon.

      8:45 a.m.

      layla applies herself

      I’m pacing outside the door to the Carry the Torch Committee office on the third floor of the main MBA building, the Katz building. I’ve been here for forty-five minutes. Someone better arrive shortly or I’m going to be late for orientation. I’d sit on the floor to wait, but who knows when someone last swept the hallway.

      I hear the click-clack of a woman’s heels coming down the hall. A short redhead in a black Theory suit turns the corner…finally. Yes!

      I stretch out my hand. “Hello, I’m Layla Roth and I’m here to apply for the committee.” You can judge people by their handshake. Firm means strong personality, trustworthy. Limp means weak, whiny. The woman’s hand is flaccid. No matter. I СКАЧАТЬ