Sarah Mlynowski - Monkey Business

“Would you give them to me? I want to hold on to them and sell them to the first-year students next year. I’m planning to donate the proceeds to help fund the pediatric oncology department at the Children’s Hospital.”

“Definitely,” she says. “I’ll even help you collect them. That’s a great idea. Why don’t we make up flyers and then hand them out door-to-door throughout the Zoo?”

Something occurs to me. There Kimmy was telling me she needs to apply for a loan, and she’s willing to give up the proceeds from selling her books privately next year. She really does have a heart, after all.

I return to my room, feeling a familiar rush at the idea of making a flyer. I don’t think I can handle working for a hospital full-time again-living it, dreaming it, breathing it wasn’t right for me-but doing part-time work makes me feel great. Ideally, I should have a career that’s creative and that allows me time for charity work on the side. I’ll start collecting books tomorrow. Good thing I don’t have too many clothes. My closet is about to become a storage room.

Forty minutes later, boots still in hand, I decide I should go pick up Layla. Why not? I don’t want her to ruin her adorable shoes.

A half an hour later she spots me in the lobby of the Katz building. “You came back for me? I love you!”

If she tells me enough times, I’m afraid I’ll start to believe it.

Thursday, January 15, 10:10 a.m.

I’m sitting in room 316 of the Katz building, waiting for my O’Donnel interview to begin. Five hopeful prospects, including me, are waiting in this mini-classroom, each sitting in a different row. I’m sitting in the back row, and am very uncomfortable in my suit. What is the point of a suit? Really? And why blue? And why a skirt? Of the five waiting to be interrogated, three are guys, and I find their ties even crazier. Why is a rope around one’s neck considered formal? And why for a man and not a woman? Maybe I should apply to Ralph Lauren instead of to a consulting firm. Right. As if any clothing chain besides Frederick’s of Hollywood would want me working for them.

None of us wants to be wearing a suit; we’d all rather be in sweats, or at least jeans, but nope, suit it is. I’d rather be in my bed, naked, with Russ.

I bought this navy-blue atrocity especially for today. Do I have to get a second one if I make it to the second round? My coat is definitely wrong. All I have is a short ski jacket in candy-apple-red from the Gap. The three guys waiting all have dull, gray, wool, appropriate coats. Why didn’t I think of buying an appropriately dull coat? At the moment my highly inappropriate coat is bunched behind me in my seat. Maybe I should hang it up. When they call me in, the interviewer won’t see the flaming mess and think that I’m inappropriate.

I hang it on the back of the door, then return to my seat.

I’m going to do fine. I will. My eggs aren’t all in this basket, anyway. I have an interview with another firm tomorrow. And I’ve been practicing cases all week. All vacation. I can do this.

Not sure what to do with my hair. It’s in a tight ponytail for now, which I think makes me look serious. I hope it doesn’t give me a headache. I’m feeling too good at the moment to have a headache. Russ came back last night. I wasn’t sure what to expect, after a month of Sharon.

No one’s going to stop me from getting what I want. Not my dad and not Sharon. And not my period, since I’m still taking the pills.

As soon as Russ saw me, he slammed my door behind him, pushed me against the wall and kissed me hard. Phew. Maybe they’re over. Maybe he broke up with her. We haven’t talked about it yet. I didn’t want to bring it up when we have so much else to worry about. (I don’t want him to think I’m a nag.) He has Stewart & Co. this morning, BCG this afternoon, and O’Donnel tomorrow. I just have O’Donnel this morning and BCG tomorrow afternoon.

A man pushes open the door. “Ms. Nailer? We’re ready for you.”

Here goes nothing. Or everything.

10:30 a.m.

Ishake the interviewer’s hand firmly and sit down. We’re wearing matching Brooks Brothers navy suits, white shirts and blue ties. He’s in his forties, balding at the top of his head. He hands me a pad of yellow paper and a black ballpoint pen, then opens the black leather folder in front of him.

“We’re going to run a case,” he says. His chin disappears when he talks.

No kidding. I relax my shoulders and try to smile. I need to invoke all of my superhuman mental strength. “I’m ready.”

“How many dogs are in the U. S.?” He’s looking me straight in the eye to see if I flinch.

Oh, man. Who gives a shit how many dogs there are in the U. S.? I try to remember all that I’ve learned about answering estimation cases. They don’t expect you to get the right answer. They just want to see how you think. How you analyze the problem and come to a conclusion. First you have to show that you can clarify. So here’s my clarifying question: “Is that just domestic dogs or working dogs, as well?”

He’s still staring. “All dogs.”

All dogs. Wait a minute. Maybe he doesn’t expect a number, like 2,000,577. Maybe he wants a list of types, like beagles and boxers. What the hell do I know about dogs? Wait. Maybe I’ll be creative, and list them by function. “All right. Let’s see now. There are domestic dogs, police dogs, show dogs and racing dogs.”

“Are you sure that’s it?” he says, pointing an accusatory finger.

Am I sure that’s it? I have to appear confident. If I can’t make choices in my real life, how am I supposed to make them here?

“No. Let’s not forget hot dogs.”

He smiles.

Afterward I go straight to Kimmy’s room. She’s lying in her bra and panties. I take off my clothes and carefully arrange them over her chair. (Maybe she’ll be inspired to iron them?)

Four hours to relax before my next interview.

Relax. Now that’s a good euphemism.

I inhale her warm, vanilla smell. “How’d you do?” I ask.

She nestles her knee between my legs. “All right. I’m glad I’m done for the day.”

“Cases suck, eh?”

“Don’t laugh,” she says, “but I don’t mind them as much as I thought.”

I mess up her hair. “Did you enjoy yourself? Did you find the cases fun?”

She giggles. “A little.”

Knowing how ticklish she is, I go straight for her underarms. “Stop,” she squeals, squirming in my hands. Her hands are now under my arms, and we’re both laughing and rolling around.

I spent twenty-one years alone, and now I’m seeing two people at the same time.

Shit. I freeze.

“What’s wrong?” Kimmy asks, sitting up.

Shit, shit, shit. “I forgot seeing-eye dogs.”

Thursday, January 22, 2:40 p.m.

“We regret to inform you that we will not be hiring you for the position of summer associate.”

Fuck. In an e-mail, too. You’d think BCG could pick up the phone to shatter my heart.

All my hopes are now on O’Donnel. All of my eggs in one consulting basket. I think the interview went well, but what the hell do I know?

Not much, apparently, according to BCG. I e-mail Russ.

You hear from BCG? I’m a no-go.

He’s sitting diagonal from me at the computer lab, but I like seeing his name in my inbox.

Ding! He says: Yeah. I got a thanks but no thanks.

Ding! An e-mail from Layla:

Hi! What’s up? I’m in the library, where are you?

Guess what? I got the second-round interview with the Manhattan Group! Not my first choice but the interview is in the city and Manhattan Group shares an office building with Lerner Investment Bank-where Bradley Green works! Maybe I’ll meet him…must go to futures and options now! XXX Layla