Sarah Mlynowski - Monkey Business

I lock the door behind me and set off for the dorm. I wasn’t lying to Dennis-I do have a lot of work. I stop at the pharmacy on the way, to pick up antibacterial wipes. Who knows what’s on those applications? I also pick up another conditioner. I go through one a week, which I know is absurd.

I shake some fish food into Martha’s bowl, then study until ten-thirty when I call my friends back home to say good-night. I should do laundry, but the idea of using those revolting machines in the basement makes me cringe. I tried to find someplace where I can send out wash the way we do in the city (I love the way my underwear comes back folded in cubes), but I learned quickly that Connecticut is not Manhattan.

I head to the bathroom to get ready for bed. Reminiscing about those high-school nights has put me in the mood. Okay, fine, I’m always in the mood. Getting off to Darryl could be just the medicine I need to help me fall asleep. And with a smile on my face, to boot.

Jamie and Russ walk in as I’m brushing my teeth. Russ’s head is rolling behind him. Someone’s had too much to drink.

“Someone got too friendly with Mr. Daniels,” Jamie says, his arm around Russ’s shoulder. “Need to get to a stall. Care to help?”

Jamie is funny, in a ha-ha way. He was really funny last week in the shower when he didn’t know who I was, but at the moment I am not amused. I spit my toothpaste suds into the sink as Russ spits up on the floor. It splashes onto my leg. I am definitely going to need a shower.

Jamie continues leading Russ toward the toilet. “Stall, Russ, stall. Did I say floor? I did not say floor.”

I think I’m going to be sick. The smell of his stomach contents is overbearing. I tiptoe back to my room, seize my shower pail and dash down to the hopefully vomitless second-floor bathroom.

Talk about inappropriate behavior. B-school boys seem to think they’re still in high school. But why waste time obsessing over children? Darryl awaits.

Wednesday, October 1, 5:30 p.m.

I’m going to fail school.

No, really. I feel like a six-year-old sitting in on a molecular biology class. It’s been a month since I got here, and I still have no idea what’s going on.

Russ, Lauren, Nick, Jamie and I are sitting in a study room in the library working on our group Accounting assignment, which is due next Wednesday. I already handed in the individual portion, which was due today. I’m sure I failed.

Russ pulls out the case. “Did everyone read it?”

I keep my mouth shut. No need for Russ to think I’m a moron. Which I’m sure he does already. Which I’m sure is why he’s been avoiding me.

“No,” Jamie says. “It looks huge.”

Russ flips through it. “It’s not so bad, man. Mostly graphs. These things are deceiving. Some of them are fifty pages long but have thirty pages of graphs, and others are thirty pages with only five pages of graphs.”

“It’s like fat-free food,” I say. “You have to eat twice as much to feel full and you end up consuming the same amount of calories anyway.”

Everyone stares at me.

I spend the next forty minutes executing my reinstated keep-your-mouth-shut plan while the rest of my group does the work. And as usual, even though Jamie hasn’t done the reading, either-he hasn’t even bought the books yet-he seems to be able to wing it.

“I don’t think you all see the big picture,” he says, then launches into an explanation. The rest of the group nods. How is it that he can barely skim the case yet still have a deep understanding of it? He usually writes up the assignment as we’re discussing it. He’s a great writer. Used to be a journalist, I think.

We’ve already gotten two assignments back, and we got B-pluses on both of them, no thanks to me. I contributed nada.

It’s only Wednesday. Another whole day of boring classes. The weekends are more fun, because at night everyone gets wasted, but we still spend the days in this claustrophobic room.

Every few hours, Jamie, Lauren and I get Cokes from the vending machines, and Nick and Russ disappear outside for a smoke. I think they might be smoking more than cigarettes, but I don’t ask. I did spot the Visine in Nick’s laptop bag. Not my problem. I don’t think I have the right to criticize, especially since I’m so useless.

I repeat, I’m going to fail school. Besides the individual portion of the Accounting assignment, I handed in a Stats assignment today and I am one-hundred-percent sure it was all wrong. Jamie had offered to help me, but I was nervous he would try to molest me if we were alone together. I couldn’t ask Russ, since I don’t want him to think I’m more of an idiot than he thinks I am. Besides, he’s been ignoring me. He won’t even sit next to me. Today he came into the study room, saw the empty seat beside me, then sat on the other side of the table next to Lauren. What’s up with that? When school started he couldn’t get enough of me, and now I have SARS? He’s the one from Toronto.

Lauren waves her hand in front of my face. “Hello? Do you have an opinion on question number five or not?”

“Sounds great,” I say.

She rolls her eyes. Fuck off, I think but don’t say. Here’s one stat I’m sure of: she’s one-hundred-percent bitch.

Friday, October 3, 3:10 p.m.

More applications = more losers.

Be nice, I reprimand myself. They’re not losers. They’re just not right for LWBS.

More unacceptable candidates. More wistful looks from Dennis. I keep catching him staring, and it’s making me uncomfortable.

Next one. Bradley Green.

I skim through his file. Undergraduate degree from Harvard. Now that’s fancy. And he’s worked for the Lerner Investment Bank for the past two years. GMATs? Oh, my. Ninety-ninth percentile. That’s pretty brainy. That’s the highest you can get, since you can’t beat a hundred percent of the rest of the people. Although I suppose if you were the only person who got a perfect score, then you would have done better than everyone else. An issue to ponder another time.

“This guy scored in the ninety-ninth percentile on his GMATs,” I say, waving his paper in front of me like a flag.

Dennis shrugs. “I got a ninety-eight.”

“But this is the ninety-ninth.”

I flip through his application and see an article cut out from the New York Times. “Bradley Green III, son of Bradley Green II…” He’s that Bradley Green? As in Bradley Green, one of the wealthiest businessmen on the East Coast? “…CEO of the media conglomerate PAX Technology, has spent the summer building houses for the homeless in Oregon…”

My eyes skip to the picture. A tall, well-built man with light hair, a cleft in his chin, a dimple in his cheek and a serious look on his face is crouching over rubble.

Oh, my. Bradley Green III is gorgeous.

I pull out one of his essays, entitled “What Matters to Me and Why,” and read the first paragraph:

On my fourteenth birthday I was given a fish tank and two bright goldfish. The tank still sits in the corner of my room, flush against the wall. Along that same wall is my bed with a clear view through the side of the tank. When people walk into the room and take the time to admire the fish they always look at the tank head-on, neglecting the alternate view through the side of the tank. I always hold a high regard for the varied viewpoint offered from my bed that serves as a different, enlightening perspective into the lives of my enclosed aqua-friends. The driving force behind the vast majority of choices I have made is the desire to view issues and experience life through a multitude of perspectives. This is why I have volunteered around the country, traveled extensively and chose to work at the Lerner Hong Kong branch for my first year. I have always attempted to see beyond my own biases into other people’s points of views, and I believe that a business degree from LWBS will allow me a challenging new perspective.