Sarah Mlynowski - Monkey Business

A knowledgeable jerk, then. “Very interesting. When I graduate, I’m going to donate money for a glorious salad bar in the cafeteria. I hate that there’s no salad bar. I’m obsessed with the idea. I was contemplating starting a petition.”

“Hilarious.” Jamie spots the bowl of M &M’s and digs his entire hand in. “So what else are you obsessed with? Homework?” He starts chomping away and a piece of green shell sticks to his lip.

“I’m a little obsessed with the Economics assignment.” The assignment I should be working on right now instead of staring at a green shell. Does he not feel the shell? Lick your mouth, dammit!

“You’ve started that already?”

Started? Is he kidding? “I’ve already written three drafts. I’m thinking of taking off in a few minutes to continue it.”

“It’s Friday night. And it’s Halloween. And the assignment isn’t due until Thanksgiving.”

“Don’t you see? That’s what I mean about obsession. I can’t stop thinking about it. I want it to be perfect.”

He shakes his head, and the green shell bobs from side to side. “You need to relax, darlin’. I think you need a drink.” He sighs. “The more I think about the assignment, the more depressed I get.”

I laugh again. “In that case, since you’re already depressed, why not join me?”

Monday, November 3, 9:10 a.m.

“Iwill be grading you on attendance,” Professor Small-Penis Matthews says. “Organizational Behavior is not optional.”

It is to some, I think, looking around.

Only ten of us have made it to class today. Ten out of sixty-six. Oy.

I’m not sure what amazes me more, that only ten people decided to come to class or that I’m one of them.

Those absent are most likely nursing hangovers from last night’s continuing Halloween bash. The student council bought too much beer for Friday’s party, so it decided to keep it flowing all weekend. Last night the common room was humming until three a.m.

“Can someone define Expectancy Theory for me?” Matthews asks.

Layla raises her hand. She has a really nice hand. Her fingers are long and thin, and her nails French-manicured. I’m surprised I haven’t noticed them before, considering she’s always raising it to answer Matthews’s questions. And Douglas’s. And Gold’s. And Martin’s. And Rothman’s.

Nick and Russ have taken to rolling their eyes every time she opens her mouth.

The professors love her. Especially Rothman. He’s always eyeing her. For all I know they’re involved. It wouldn’t surprise me that a top student would hook up with the young and hip professor.

“Yes, Layla?” Matthews says.

“The force of motivation is equal to Expectancy times Instrumentality times Valence.”

“And all this time I thought it had something to do with pregnancy,” I say.

Matthews glares at me.

I don’t know how I didn’t recognize Layla’s voice that time in the shower. It’s so distinct. Throaty and sexy. If she weren’t in B-school, she could be a phone sex operator.

Strange how Kimmy and Layla have become so close. The two of them are definitely the odd couple. I’d love to be a fly on the wall for one of their conversations. It would be like listening to Mary Ann and Ginger from Gilligan’s Island.

Kimmy, as well as the rest of my group, are conspicuously absent from class today.

Organizational Behavior rolls into Accounting, and still none of the others show up. Apparently my group has declared November 3 a holiday. The bell finally rings, and Layla stretches then returns her hole puncher, ruler, pink Hi-Liter, yellow Hi-Liter and purple pen to her furry pink pencil case. At the beginning of OB, I watched her remove these items in exactly the reverse order. Pen, yellow Hi-Liter, pink Hi-Liter, ruler, hole puncher. I find her attention to orderliness intriguing. And sexy.

She secures the pencil case in the front pocket of her school bag, then puts away her Accounting binder, the Accounting textbook, the Accounting course pack, and finally, her tape recorder. Layla’s schoolbag isn’t any ordinary schoolbag. With its wheels and handle, it looks more like a piece of luggage. She rolls it behind her wherever she goes, and I’m beginning to want to know why. I’m beginning to want to know everything about her.

We cross paths at the door. She does an unenthusiastic little wave, as if she’s just been crowned Homecoming Queen but has no energy. I try to think of something funny to say, but all I have is, “Good morning.” Which just isn’t funny. Even with a Spanish accent. Which is what I do, for no reason that I can think of. I am nowhere near Spanish. I don’t look Spanish. I’ve never even been to Spain. Or Mexico. The only Spanish encounter I’ve had was when a burrito went down the wrong way and I nearly choked.

“Did you have a good weekend?” I ask, quickly losing the accent.

“Yes, I did. You?”

I’m probing my brain for a wheelie-bag-related joke, but my brain’s find-key has finished searching the document and the search item has not been found. Lightbulb! Maybe I’ll be chivalrous and offer to wheel the bag for her. I open my mouth and close it again. What’s wrong with me?

“I’ll see you in Stats,” she says, and does her little wave again before disappearing down the hallway.

“Bye,” I say. And then it hits me. I should have said When’s the flight? Maybe I can use it later?

Before going to the cafeteria, I pick up the pictures I dropped off on Saturday at the campus drugstore. I sit on a bench in the middle of campus and flip through them. First are the ten pictures of the Halloween party, which didn’t come out that well. Too dark. Then there are a few from last week’s beer bash. A little brighter. Next, Kimmy’s breasts. Covered by a fuchsia shirt, of course. I took it last week in an attempt to liven up our group meeting.

The next ten pictures are of Nick’s skinny butt and Lauren’s jiggling breasts from their post-spin-the-bottle streak.

Now that was a night to remember. Not that I remember much of it. The four shots of vodka went straight to my head and made me cranky. The next morning all I could remember was why I shouldn’t drink.

I flash back to the accident I had in the ninth grade. I was riding my bike, and the car was making a left turn. The driver didn’t see me, and I was thrown right across the street. I was in the hospital for two weeks with a broken jaw, leg and arm. The drugs made me sad and crazy. The days weren’t so bad. I got to watch movies. But the nights were unbearable. I stared at the ceiling, imagining myself in a coffin. I thought a lot about death. About what it feels like to die. About the moment just before death. I’d been knocked out immediately when the car hit me. What if I had died? Which is worse, knowing or not knowing the end was coming? And what difference would it make? When you’re dead, you’re dead.

Did Dara know? Can an infant know?

Why does God let a six-month-old baby die?

I should never have worked at the hospital after college. My mother got me the job-she became a nurse after Dara died. She still works at that hospital, loves it there. She claims it makes her feel stronger. In control. But working there had the opposite effect on me. It brought me right back to that horrible frame of mind. After getting laid off, I realized I never want to be in a hospital again.

My grumbling stomach snaps me out of my depressing trip down memory lane and propels me toward the cafeteria line.

Smiling at the lunch-line lady in the hair net, I do my best Brando. “Stella!”

“Hi, sweetie. Take the pizza today.”