Sarah Mlynowski - Monkey Business

Layla has second-round interviews scheduled all through next week in Manhattan. And each company is putting her up at some fancy hotel.

Sigh.

On the bright side, if I have no interviews, I won’t have to miss any classes and become even more clueless.

Speaking of clueless, thank God I don’t have to take Futures and Options. It’s Layla’s elective. This semester our block has Finance on Monday and Wednesday at nine, then Marketing at ten-thirty, and GBE, Global Business Economy, at one-thirty. Today and Tuesday we have Operations at ten-thirty, and after an extralong lunch, Russ and I have our one elective, Corporate Strategy with Martin. We’ve both decided to become strategy majors. Why not? Martin’s class last semester was my highest mark, A-minus; maybe I’ll be two for two.

More classes mean more books. Beads of sweat sprout on my forehead. Books I’ll have to buy with my nonexistent money. Why is it so hot in here? You’d think the school would learn to regulate its buildings’ temperatures. The computers could melt.

I look over at Russ to see if he’s looking at me, but he’s fixated on the computer screen and typing away. He’s probably writing to Sharon. A love letter.

We don’t talk about it, but I know he’s still with her. What’s wrong with him?

Not that he has any incentive to break up with her. Why should he? This way he has his cake and gets to eat it, too. Those are Jamie’s words, by the way. Now that he knows about us, he loves to give advice. Yesterday, it was warmer than normal and we sat on the bench in the courtyard, the same one we first kissed on, and smoked cigarettes. I smoked and he talked. He said I deserve better, but I don’t know if he meant it or if he’s jealous. Either way, he said if I don’t ask for more, I’m not going to get it.

I know he’s right. I’m being an idiot. I should tell Russ to choose.

But what if he doesn’t choose me? I should dump him for doing this to me. Tell him to get lost. He’s never going to break it off with Sharon. Why should he?

He will. He’s going to break up with her. He’ll have to choose between us eventually. He can’t marry both of us.

Can he?

No, he can’t.

The clock on the bottom of my screen tells me I have eleven minutes till Corporate Strategy. I tap Russ’s computer and point to the clock.

As we’re leaving Martin’s war dungeon, Russ’s cell phone beeps.

He clicks it on to check. Is it Sharon? He gives me a thumbs-up. Is that his infantile way of telling me they’re over?

“Second interview for O’Donnel,” he says. “Do you have your cell on you?”

I left it in my room. “No.”

“Do you want to check your messages with mine?”

What if it’s a no? Then I’m left with nothing. It’s like giving Russ an ultimatum. Then the answer would be in front of me in black and white. At the moment I prefer the unknown of a shade of gray. “Not yet. Wanna grab a smoke?”

“One new message.”

My chest cavity is taking a beating from my heart. I sit on the corner of my bed, tapping my heels against the floor. I need this job. Otherwise, how will I pay back my ever-in-creasing massive debt?

“Hello, Kimmy, this is Claire Moss at O’Donnel. We’d like to bring you down to Manhattan for a second interview…”

Oh. My. God. She keeps talking, but my hand is shaking as I note down the number. Word on the street is that they make offers to three-quarters of those who make it to second round. Oh. My. God.

I dial her number immediately.

“Hi, Kimmy. Thanks for calling back. Would you like to come to the Manhattan office for our second round?”

Oh, no thanks, I’d rather remain unemployed. “That would be great.”

“Good. Second round will be next Thursday, and then we’re having a dinner for the prospective employees that night.”

Amazing. I’ve never been to New York. Russ will be there, too, and it won’t matter who sees us together there. We can sleep in the same bed in the same hotel the entire night without setting the alarm for six-ten. I hate six-ten. I hope I never have to see six-ten again on my clock.

I’m going to need a new suit. And an outfit for dinner. After I make the arrangements, I check my bank balances online.

Bank account: $400.00.

Visa balance: $1,000. (Stupid second-semester textbooks.)

Loans…no need to torture myself and look at that link. Today I’m focusing on the positive. New York. Hotel. O’Donnel. Me and Russ.

Wednesday, January 28, 4:00 p.m.

Iam stalking Bradley Green.

All I need is a long-lens camera, a trench coat, cigarette hanging from my lip and dark sunglasses. I bet most stalkers don’t wear Chanel suits.

The best part is that I didn’t even break in. Since my interview was at one, I just stayed in the building’s coffee shop. The woman behind the counter makes a mean vanilla chai. I’ve set up camp with my New York Times directly against a glass wall that faces the elevators. And it’s not just the potential of catching a glimpse of my potential Prince Charming that’s exciting me; it’s the energy. I love working. I seriously love the pulse of getting things done.

Why hasn’t Bradley come in for a cup of coffee? Then I can casually bump into him and we’ll finally meet. Everyone needs a four-o’clock break. Maybe he’s not in his office today. I could be waiting here all day for nothing. I should call him. Why not? I’ll call and hang up. I take out my cell phone. No. Sitting here, minding my own business (meeting the man of my future is my business) is one thing, but stalking him on the phone is totally unethical.

What the hell. I’ll star 67 and block the call. And Kimmy thinks she has nothing to teach me. I dial the company number, which I looked up just before I left for New York, and ask his receptionist to connect me to him.

Connect me to him. That has a nice sound to it.

It rings. I am going to hang up, aren’t I? I will. I will not speak to him. I can’t speak to him. I’ll sound like an idiot.

“Hello, you’ve reached Bradley Green, it’s January twenty-eighth, and I’m either on the phone or away from my desk…”

Fantastic. He’s in the office today. I hang up the phone.

At six-thirty, I see him.

It’s him. I know I’ve only seen one picture of him, although I did enlarge it on my screen, but I feel that it’s him deep in my soul. It’s him. My prince. I’m going to meet him!

He’s about six feet tall, and wearing black pants and a silvery-gray shirt. His hair is light brown, and he’s talking to a woman in a short yellow suit. He’s holding his folded jacket over his arm. Is he leaving? So early? Is he a slacker or is business slow? And who is that woman? And why is she wearing yellow? Vile. That is so not her color.

I hate being catty. It is not nice to be catty. It’s time to meet my prince!

I’m paralyzed in my chair.

I can’t. I just can’t. I don’t have an excuse.

The door flaps behind him as he leaves for the night.

I pretend to read the paper.

Thursday, January 29, 7:10 p.m.

The cab jerks forward and then backward, and then forward again. Oh, man. I try to steady Kimmy by putting my hand on her knee.

“Russ, I think I’m going to be sick,” she says.

“We’re almost there.”

“That doesn’t help. I’m nervous.”

“What are you so nervous about, eh? You said the interview went great.”

“I think it did. But…this is it. If I don’t get this, I’ll probably end up back in Phoenix.” She uncrosses her legs and then crosses them again. “I can’t take out more loans if I’ll never be able to pay them back.”