Sarah Mlynowski - Monkey Business

Besides, if he loves her so much, what the hell was he doing flirting with me?

All right, then. Time to review some vital statistics:

1. He’s not married.

2. He’s not engaged (yet).

3. He’s dating someone who lives in another city. Another country.

4.

5. A guy doesn’t get poached unless he wants to get poached. (I’d be doing Sharon a favor if I win; she doesn’t deserve to spend her life with someone who doesn’t really love her.)

6. And last but definitely not least, I’ve caught him staring at my boobs on more than one occasion.

I spot Nick in line for lunch. “Hey, you.”

“Hey, dude,” he says. How can I be called dude with this cleavage? “What’s going on?”

“Not much. Just hungry. Where’s your sidekick?”

“Marketing meeting. Real estate club. Who knows with that guy?”

For once I’m glad that Russ is missing in action. I want to talk to Nick without interference.

I pick a few vegetables from the salad bar. “Mind if I join you?”

He blankets his plate with a glob of macaroni and cheese. “I was going to head back to my room, but we can eat here if you want.”

“Why not? We could use the break.” I try to appear blasé, as if a break is the reason I’m here. We chitchat for a few minutes while I try to come up with devious and clever ways to uncover information about Sharon. “How’s the studying going?”

“Not bad. Having some trouble concentrating, though.”

“A side effect of pot, I’m told.”

He smiles sheepishly. “Is it that obvious?”

“The Visine gave you away.”

“Russ is the one who’s paranoid about anyone finding out.” And then finally he throws me an unintentional bone. “He’s nerdy that way. Afraid some girl in second year will tell his girlfriend or something.”

Covert research is easier than I thought. “Does Sharon have spies?” I ask jokingly.

“I think she has a friend at LWBS.”

Oh. I take a bite of salad and try to appear thoughtful. “She doesn’t know he smokes?”

“Nope. She doesn’t approve.” He shoves a forkful of macaroni into his mouth. “This is really terrible.”

I try to sway the conversation back to Sharon. “Is she controlling?”

“Who?”

Who? Must I do all the work here? I stop myself from rolling my eyes. “Sharon.”

“I don’t know. Maybe. She makes him call her every night. I think it annoys him.”

Excellent. “Why didn’t she move here to be with him? Are they not that serious?”

“They’re serious, but she has a job teaching in Toronto. She didn’t want to give up her seniority, and besides, it’s not easy getting a visa to work here. Immigration laws are really tight. I think he’s planning on going back to Canada, anyway.”

What? My Prince Charming wants to live north of the border? Don’t they live in igloos up there? Kidding. Kind of.

“I can’t believe we still have two classes left today,” he says, abruptly changing the subject. “Mondays and Wednesdays are way too long.”

“At least we have no school Fridays,” I say, then quietly finish my salad, absorbed in my thoughts.

I’m told it’s easy to immigrate to the U. S. if you’re married to a citizen.

I spend Economics updating my strategic plan.

She’s closer to achieving her goal than I thought if he’s planning on moving back to Canada. I mentally review her weaknesses. She’s controlling, she’s bossy, she’s prudish (schoolteachers aren’t slutty, are they?), and she’s not here. Time for an attack!

Strategy: Illustrate that unlike Sharon, I am not controlling.

· Tactic: Smoke pot with him.

· Tactic: Never tell him what to do.

Strategy: Illustrate that I am not prudish.

· Tactic: Wear revealing clothing.

· Tactic: Allude to sex during conversation.

Strategy: Since he is not brand loyal, show him that there are other, better brands available.

· Tactic: Show him how compatible we are. Play up the business/LWBS power couple angle.

· Tactic: Show that our schedules coincide and Sharon’s and his don’t. (Too bad Toronto is the same time zone.)

Strategy: Since he is easily influenced by peers, make sure that his peers approve of me and not Sharon.

· Tactic: Smoke pot with Nick.

· Tactic: Make Nick believe that Sharon is a bitch.

Strategy: Benefit from his impulse-buying tendencies.

· Tactic: Increase my exposure #1

(i. e. practice borderline stalking).

· Tactic: Increase my exposure #2

(i. e. wear less clothing).

· Tactic: Increase my exposure #3

(i. e. combine #1 and #2, especially when his defenses are down).

When the bell rings after IC, Nick pulls back his chair and says to Russ, “Time for a four-twenty.”

I lean over their desks in my tighter, lower-cut, redder outfit. “Please, shed some light on this four-twenty.”

Nick laughs and Russ looks embarrassed. “It means, it’s time to smoke a joint,” Nick says.

“I think it’s the police code in California for drugs,” Russ says.

“No, dude,” Nick says. “That’s a myth. It was some group in the seventies who met at 4:20 every day after school, and they used four-twenty as their code for marijuana so they could talk about it in front of teachers and parents.”

“Ah. Just like you two. And it’s now-” I use my right arm to point to the watch on my left hand, thereby pressing together my breasts and enhancing my cleavage “-four-twenty.”

Nick nods. “Pretty clever, huh?”

“I think I’ll join you,” I say. Strategy in motion.

I haven’t smoked since college. Wayne wasn’t into it, so I wasn’t into it. But duty calls.

“Are we meeting now?” Lauren asks, poking her annoying head between the boys.

“No!” I say.

“But what about the Organizational Behavior assignment?”

Why is she butting into my tactics? “We’ll meet at five,” I say, leading the boys away. Once back at the Zoo, Nick opens the window in his room, then shoves a towel into the crack between the floor and the door.

I plop down onto Nick’s bed, my back against the wall. Nick sits backward on his computer chair, as if he were riding a horse.

Russ sits next to me. Excellent.

Nick opens a drawer and pulls out what looks like a wooden jewelry box. He takes out his stash, a shot glass and a long pair of scissors.

Russ closes his eyes and leans his head against the wall.

“Tired?” I say.

He blinks. “Yeah. I think I signed up for too many activities.”

Time to commiserate. “This place is a killer. I know just how you feel.”

I let my shoulder gently touch his.

He doesn’t move away.

Monday, October 27, 8:39 a.m.

The alarm on my clock radio sounds again. Eight thirty-nine. Only a moron like me would choose nine minutes for a snooze time. Why not ten?

October 27 floats somewhere above the time. The significance of that date weaves through my semiconscious state. Twenty-nine years ago today, my sister Dara died.

I hit the snooze again. And then again.

Shit. Three minutes to nine. I’m never going to make it on time. I might as well skip the class. I haven’t done the reading, anyway. I haven’t even bought the books. That’s what I’ll do. Sleep for another hour and then get my books and make it to Accounting. So tired…

Knock, knock.

“Go away.”

“Jamie, you slept through your first two classes, you jackass.” It’s Nick.

I slither deeper under the sheet. “Tired.”

“We’re all tired. Open up.”

Grumbling, I open the door, then flop back onto the bed.

Nick sits on my computer chair. “We got back our OB papers.”