Sarah Mlynowski - Monkey Business

Layla starts scribbling furiously.

“Most of you here tonight,” Ms. Grand continues, “have probably noticed that only thirty percent of the students at LWBS are women. To significantly increase the number of female business owners and leaders, we have to increase the flow of women into key educational gateways such as business schools. And one way to do this, something that I do at Girls Group, is to motivate young women to prepare for a business career at an early age.

“Nonprofit work is not for everyone. You must have passion for the cause. That’s the intangible reward that compensates for less income. And trust me, the income is much, much less than what you’d make at a bank or consulting firm. The cause-arming young women with the tools to make a difference in their lives-is something that fuels my passion.”

I fade in and out of the rest of her speech. The truth is, I can’t stop thinking about my application lie. About why I got accepted. About why I applied.

It was research. For an article. I had just seen the movie Soul Man . The one where C. Thomas Howell pretends to be black so he can get a scholarship to Harvard. There were articles about affirmative action everywhere, and I thought it would be an interesting study. I researched different programs and found that MBA schools claimed that they were committed to diversity but that women didn’t have a competitive advantage when applying. I thought it was bullshit and that women would have an easier time getting in. So I decided to apply to ten different schools. Five as a male and five as a female. I handed in the exact same application to all ten schools. The only difference was my gender.

Out of the ten schools I applied to I was rejected at all of the ones I applied to as Jamie the male. For the ones I applied to as a female I was rejected at two, but accepted at one, and asked to interview at another two. I thought, busted! My thesis was proven correct. I would write the article and expose the bullshit.

But there was the acceptance to LWBS. Sitting on my desk. Signed by Layla’s boss, Dorothy. Winking at me. Packaged with a brochure promising career advancement, wealth and leadership positions. And I thought-well, why not?

Why not go? Why should women have the advantage? If LWBS claimed they didn’t accept based on gender then it shouldn’t matter anyway, right?

I look at Layla staring intently at the speaker. She’s one person who wouldn’t agree with me. Who might even turn me in.

Maybe I shouldn’t have asked her to change my official gender for me. But I didn’t have a choice. I needed to get a new student card, or I wouldn’t be allowed to write my exams. And she’s the only person I knew who had access to change the letter F to a letter M , so my student card could be printed out and not give me away.

And she did get me fired in the first place. Not that I’m angry. I hated being in the hospital anyway.

And I shouldn’t worry. If LWBS claims to be gender blind then they shouldn’t care about my lie if I ever got caught.

Yeah, right.

I try to stop worrying and pay attention instead.

After the lecture, Layla runs to the podium to thank Ms. Grand for her inspiring speech. I approach the two of them just as Layla is whipping out her checkbook.

“I’d like to make a donation,” she says, scribbling.

“I certainly didn’t expect to fund-raise at a women’s business panel,” Danielle says. She glances at Layla’s check and looks astounded. “Wow. Thank you. The Girls Group sincerely appreciates your overwhelming generosity. Have you ever considered a career in nonprofit?”

“Me?” Layla says. “No.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m in Mergers and Acquisitions.”

“So was I,” she says, and smiles. “Here’s my card. If you ever want to volunteer, or perhaps apply for a summer job, call me.”

We say goodbye and leave the auditorium. How cool is Layla? “That was nice of you to give a donation,” I say.

“Yeah? I thought I’d feel good, but now I feel worse for some reason. It would be fun to work somewhere where I felt I was making a difference. And not just…you know.”

“Making a fortune? Why don’t you apply for a summer job with them, then?”

She laughs. “Yeah, right. I’m a banker. I’ve worked at banks for the last three years. I’m majoring in Finance. My parents are bankers. I’m going to be a banker. Maybe all I need is an extracurricular activity, like bridge or square dancing. Only something I can be passionate about.”

I want to tell her she’s welcome to be passionate about me, but I hold my tongue.

Wednesday, November 26, 4:50 p.m.

Print! Print! Come on, come on, you can do it!

I have precisely ten minutes to print out my Economics assignment and haul butt to the Katz building. It’s four-fifty. Rothman wants the assignment by five, and he warned us to get it in on time because he’s leaving for Thanksgiving. Why did I have to be so nitpicky? I’ve been working on it for months. What if I’m too late? What if I don’t make it? All week classes have been empty because everyone else was working like crazy to finish. I showed up and now I’m going to fail? Where is the justice in that?

Print! Print! Page three pops out. Five more to go!

I don’t see why Rothman doesn’t let us e-mail our assignments. Why must he make my life difficult?

Print! Print! Two pages left!

I ram my feet into my shoes (no way to treat Prada loafers) and do up my coat. Then I double-check his office number. Six twenty-four. No problem. Time check: 4:54 p.m.

Yes! The final page is done. I slam it into the stapler, and run.

I pass Kimmy in the hallway. “Hey, Layla,” she says. “Where are you going?”

“To hand in Economics,” I say on the move.

“How’d you find the Stats midterm?” she asks quickly.

“I failed for sure,” I answer, and hit the stairs two at a time, and then sprint over to Katz. Stats was impossible. My paper flaps in my hand. I heave open the door to the building. I shimmy between the elevator doors as they’re closing and thump the sixth-floor button. Two students are inside, and they seemed to have already pressed the second and fourth floor.

Current time: 4:59. Crap!

The elevator stops at the second floor and a woman in a parka slides out. All right, let’s go, off to four. But then the elevator jerks and stops at three. No! A man in a suit steps in and presses…five. Oh, come on, give me a break. This is crazy. Are the Fates conspiring to make me late?

By the time we hit the sixth floor, it’s 5:07 and I’m late, I’m late, I’m late. I gallop to his office and-what if he left, what if I fail, what if my entire career is over because of this one useless paper-I stop. His door is open. His lights are on. I hear two men laughing inside.

My heart is still racing from the run. I poke my head around the door.

Jamie is leaning against the wall. “Well, hello there, Layla. We were wondering if you forgot.”

“Hi, Jamie. Hi, Jon. Sorry I’m late, sir.” I deposit the paper on his desk.

“Hi, Layla. Thanks for bringing it by. You see, Jamie, Layla still managed to make it to class this week even though there was a paper due. I suppose you were sick yesterday, but have since miraculously recovered?”

Jamie smirks. “You hit the nail on the head there, Jon.”

The professor laughs and looks directly into my eyes. “Layla, what are you doing this weekend?”

“Going home,” I say, and look away. He’s doing it again! Flirting with me!

“Have a good Thanksgiving, you two.”

I back out of the room. “Thanks, sir. You, too.”