Sarah Mlynowski - Monkey Business

We pick through the pile of haphazardly thrown coats on her sister and brother-in-law’s bed until we find ours. My scarf was once stuffed in my jacket’s arm, but is now missing.

Beep. Apparently there’s a message waiting for me on my cell, which was inside my jacket pocket.

Sharon looks at me with curiosity. “Who called?”

Beep. I should definitely have turned off the message alert. “I’ll check later.” Beep.

“No, hon, check now. It could be an emergency. You never know on New Year’s.” Her forehead scrunches, and I know her well enough to know that she’s imagining her parents stuck in an overturned car, their only means of survival getting in touch through my cell phone. I open the phone and type in my code.

“One new message, left January first at twelve-oh-three.

“Hi, it’s me,” Kimmy says. Oh, man. I press the phone tight against my ear in the hopes of shielding her voice. “Happy New Year! I’m at a bar right now, drinking!” She sounds hammered. “I miss you. I have something important to talk to you about…” I erase the message quickly and turn off the phone.

Sharon stares at me funny, as if I’m changing into The Hulk while she’s watching and she’s not sure if she should tell me I’m turning green. “Who was it?”

I shove the offending mechanism into my pocket. “Friend from school.”

She’s still staring at me. “Female friend?”

Could she hear the message? “She’s in my group.”

“Stop picking,” she says, swatting my hand away from my face. I’ve been staring at her pimple all night, I didn’t realize I had been picking one of mine. “You’ve never mentioned a female friend in your group.” Her fingers are doing up her coat, but her wide brown eyes are still on me.

“I haven’t?”

“No. You haven’t. What’s her name?”

I concentrate on looking for my scarf, which should be somewhere on the bed. “Kimmy. There are two girls in my group.” I’ve decided that the best way to play this is to act as though it’s totally normal that she called me practically at the stroke of midnight.

“Who’s the other one?”

“Good, here’s my scarf.” I pick it up and double wrap it around my neck. “Lauren.”

“Did she call you, too?”

“No.”

“Don’t you think it’s weird that this Kimmy-girl called you?”

I shrug. She probably wants to listen to the message. That’s why I erased it, in case she asks. “No. She probably called everyone in the group.” Good one.

“Is she pretty?”

Damn. She can sense something. “She’s all right.”

She folds her arms across her chest. “Maybe I should come and visit you this semester.”

Oh, man.

Monday, January 12, 1:00 p.m.

Instead of basking in the Miami sun, I’m back at the overheated Zoo, quizzing Layla before her interview with Silverman Investments. I’m sprawled across my bed, my booted feet hanging over the edge. She’s pacing from one side of the room to the other. Click-clack (she’s on the wood), silence (she’s on the carpet), click-clack (other side of the room near the desk), pivot. She accidentally kicks my pile of last semester’s textbooks and swears under her breath. (I don’t know what to do with those books. The school bookstore won’t take them, and there’s no used bookstore in the area. Do they really expect us all to buy new books at full price every year when these are available?)

She looks tanned and fantastic. In her knee-length charcoal-gray skirt suit and matching fitted jacket, she looks like a serious teacher who might at any moment rip her clothes off.

Sexy Pacing Goddess: Ask me something else.

Me: If you were a flower, what kind of flower would you be?

SPG: That’s ridiculous.

Me: That is not a good answer. You will not get the job if you call the interviewer ridiculous.

SPG: Then I’m a Venus flytrap. Because I can trap success wherever I go.

Me: Much better! (She can trap me anytime she wants.)

SPG: (Scowling.) I hate interviews.

Me: You’ll be great.

SPG: Thanks. Crap. It’s one-ten. I have to go.

Me: Your interview isn’t until two. And it’s in the Katz building. You don’t want to sit there for forty minutes.

SPG: You’re causing me unnecessary stress. I have to go. Crap. My shoes. I can’t wear these shoes outside. It’s snowing. My nylons will get soaked. I can’t show up at an interview with soaked nylons. I need to carry my shoes. But what will I do with my boots? I don’t want to bring my schoolbag. What do I do? (Her eyes look wild as if she’s about to get hysterical.)

Charming gentleman: Milady, I would be honored to accompany you to the Katz building and then return here with your boots.

Layla gasps, then joyfully hugs me. “Thank you!” she gushes. “You’re a godsend! Can we go right now?”

I escort her first to her room to get her coat and boots, and then to the Katz building. She sits on a wooden bench in the main hall and reaches to remove her boots. I gently slap her hands. “Allow me, milady. I wouldn’t want you to go to your interview with soiled hands.” I unzip each boot slowly, relishing the moment.

“Oh, wow, I love you,” she says, blows me a kiss and runs to the elevator. “Wish me luck!”

Love you? I wish. “Good luck,” I say. I have no doubt she’ll get the job. I saw her first-semester transcript by her bed this morning. She had a 4.0. Who has a 4.0 in business school? I only got a 3.3. I wish I were in her group. Both so I can work with her, and so I can watch her work.

I step outside and the snow lands directly on my bald spot, numbing my head. I forgot my hat. Again, why am I not in Miami?

This week is interview week, which unfortunately cuts into winter break, but it’s not as if I have any interviews lined up. I just can’t bear to work for a bank or a consulting firm. They seem so soulless. I need to have a job I’m passionate about. I guess I can always go back to writing. But I think I prefer to be in a career that involves more companionship than a computer.

So why am I here? Sunshine notwithstanding, I was bored in Miami. And I knew Layla would be back.

I have it bad.

“Excuse me,” sings a blond undergrad in a parka and hat. Ringing a bell, she says, “Can you spare some change for the Children’s Hospital? We’re trying to raise money for the new pediatric oncology department.”

I get instantly depressed. Here I am whining about my future. There are people out there, children, who might not even have a future. I reach into my pockets. All I have is a five. “Here you go,” I say, placing the bill onto the tray. I wonder how the kids’ ward at Miami General is doing without me.

As my bald spot continues to freeze, I have an epiphany, which I decide to share with Kimmy. Back at the Zoo, I knock on her door.

“Hold on,” I hear from inside. The door clicks open, and she scampers back under the covers. As far as I can tell, it’s just her.

“Kimmy, my sweet, welcome back! Lover-boy not here?”

“No. He’s flying back today, I think. His first interview isn’t till tomorrow.”

“When did you get back?”

She sits up in bed. “Last week.”

I lean against her desk. “So early?”

“I had to apply for a loan.” She groans. “Don’t ask.”

I don’t. “When are your interviews?”

“I only have two. One on Thursday, one on Friday. I’m glad you woke me, Jamie. I should start researching the companies.”

“I’ll let you be, then. I just have a question. What did you do with your last-semester books?”

“Nothing. They’re piled over there.” She points to the corner of her room. “Why?”