Sarah Mlynowski - Monkey Business

“I doubt that.”

So true in this case. “No, really. I’ve never even met him.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Huh?”

I know I shouldn’t tell, but it’s not like Jamie’s going to pass along the info to anyone. And I haven’t done anything wrong. I wasn’t the one to call him. “All right, but you can’t repeat any of this. See, I’m on the applications committee for prospective students. And I fell a little bit in love with one of the applicants.”

He rolls one of the oranges between his hands. “You fell for a guy’s application?”

Why do I have such a big mouth? “Yes. Bradley Green. Is that nuts?”

“As long as his middle name isn’t Forest. Or Jade. It isn’t, is it?”

He’s too much. “Nope.”

“Do you think you can love someone you’ve only seen on paper?”

He makes Brad sound like a centerfold I’ve taped to my locker. “I know it sounds moronic, but I felt a connection when I read his application. Like I was destined to read it. He’s perfect for me. He’s my prince.” That sounded sophomoric in my head, and it sounded even worse out loud, but that doesn’t mean I can’t imagine our glorious royal wedding.

“I’m glad you didn’t read my application. It was hysterical. You would have started stalking me, too. Let’s keep going, you almost had it.” He passes me an orange.

Forty minutes later, we’re still juggling away and I’m improving. Pass, throw, catch, Pass, throw, catch. I’m having a blast even though my hands reek of orange. I think the citrus might be making me high. My brainpower must be increasing. Yes! Perhaps I should start doing this every day.

“Ready to try it on your own?” he asks.

I nod, very ready and very seriously. He places my feet shoulder-width apart and inserts two oranges into my right hand, one into my left. I fill my lungs with air and throw.

They all hit me in the head.

“Crap!” I scream, falling to the ground. I spot Kimmy and Russ approaching and wave. What is it with those two? Kimmy hasn’t filled me in on what’s going on with them since the spin-the-bottle experience, presumably because of my disapproval over their kissing fiesta. But I bet they’ve been at it again.

“What are you two doing?” Kimmy asks, running her fingers along her ear.

“I’m learning to juggle,” I say. Uh-oh. I wonder how Jamie feels about seeing Russ and Kimmy together. I know from Kimmy that Jamie likes her, but I don’t think Jamie has a clue about what’s going on with Russ. Why on earth is she so fixated on Russ, when Jamie is such a sweetheart?

Jamie is rolling an orange in his hand, staring at it.

“Jamie,” Russ says, “we’re thinking of going over our OB assignment now. Don’t want to interrupt you, of course. Busy, eh?”

“Ha-ha,” Jamie says. “As if the rest of you could answer the questions without me.”

I look at my watch. “Crap, it’s already five past five! I’m supposed to meet my group.”

“You’re late for a group meeting?” Kimmy says, feigning shock. “My, oh, my, you two must have really been having fun.”

“You want fun, Kimmy? I’ll give you fun.” Jamie raises his eyebrows suggestively.

We’re going to have to work on his presentation. He obviously didn’t pay enough attention in IC. “Hey there’s Dorothy!” I say, waving at the Carry the Torch administrator across the field. “Yoo-hoo, Dorothy!” I call. “Let me introduce you.”

“You know what, Layla?” Jamie says, grabbing his bag. “I gotta go.”

And just like that, he takes off. What was that about? Apparently, we have to work on his communication as well as his presentation skills.

Tuesday, November 18, 11:20 p.m.

Another day, another blow job.

I’m getting cynical in my old age. It’s almost eleven-thirty, and Russ and I are lying on his bed, wrapped in each other’s arms, as though we have just made love and are now basking in the afterglow.

Wrong. We’re still not having sex. We kiss, we fondle and we oral, but that’s it.

These dates give a whole new meaning to foreplay, but I’m beginning to get a little annoyed. Yeah, yeah, he reciprocates the favor, but since I can’t come, I don’t get much pleasure. The thing I like about sex is the closeness. While you’re doing it, nothing else matters, nothing but the weight of his body, the smell of his neck, the feel of his skin.

My favorite part is now, listening to his heartbeat slowing down, my head nuzzled in his chest. He’s wearing a T-shirt but no pants, and I’m completely naked. Sometimes he plays with my ear. It’s the same spot that I like to play with and I think this must be a sign.

The Zoo is quiet, and there are a few noises outside, a car driving off, two friends laughing, but they’re in the distance. Any second now the phone is going to ring, furious and loud, demolishing the harmony, like a wineglass slipping out of your hand onto the tiled kitchen floor. Any second now. His clock says 11:29 p.m. and she always calls at eleven-thirty.

If I had any self-respect I’d make a furtive exit. I’d kiss him on the forehead, tell him we’ll speak soon, or something equally evasive, and let the phone ring when I’m long gone.

I don’t move. The thing is, I need to hear the phone. If a phone rings and I don’t hear it, did it really ring at all? Hearing the phone ring is my only way of monitoring the relationship. I wait for the day when the phone will stop ringing.

Ring .

I guess it’s not today.

Ring. Ring. Voice mail picks up.

Russ’s back tenses. Then he forces himself to relax. At eleven-forty I kiss him on the forehead. “See you tomorrow,” I say, and reach for my crumpled panties and socks, which always end up squeezed between the corner of the bed and the heater. I get dressed quickly and quietly.

“Good night,” he says. I press my head against the door to see if I can hear anything outside. I’m holding a textbook as my alibi in case anyone is lurking in the hallway. Nothing. I open the door a crack and don’t see anyone outside. I wave, and close the door behind me. Then I wait. After a few minutes, I hear him move inside. He listens to the message. And then dials her number into the phone. “Hi,” he says. “I’m good… No…nothing new… You?”

I hear someone walking up the stairs, and decide to take off before I’m caught eavesdropping. What I should be doing, instead of eavesdropping and giving blow jobs, is writing my cover letter and résumé. I think I want to be a consultant. Sounds glamorous. Lots of travel, high salary, get to be based in New York. Get to play with goals and tactics and strategies all day long. I’m applying to all the strategy consultant firms, including Bain, McKinsey, Accenture, BCG and O’Donnel.

Back in my closet of a room, I flip open my laptop. The job I really want is that of girlfriend. But before I can get that job, Russ has to fire the person currently hogging my position. I’m hoping he’ll lay her off over Thanksgiving.

I really don’t feel like writing a cover letter. Maybe this is what I’ll write instead:

HR Jerk

100 Skyscraper, #666

New York, NY 69696

212-no-chance

Kimmy Nailer

The Zoo

1-555-AMB-ORED

Dear Mr. HR:

A consistent objective throughout my life has been to acquire skills that will not in any way, shape or form help me get a job. Such as Pilates and blow jobs. I believe that my skill set can be successfully leveraged as a Summer Associate at your incredibly boring place of work.

Upon graduating from college, I worked for my father in a job I detested, where I spent most of the day phoning my boyfriend. Then the jackass cheated on me and I came to business school to find a new boyfriend.