Sarah Mlynowski - Monkey Business

I hurry off the phone and open the door. Kimmy is pacing up and down the hallway, her face streaked with tears. Frowning beside her, hands on hips, is Layla.

“What happened?” I ask, immediately hugging Kimmy.

Layla sighs. “She’s been accused of p lagiarism.”

Come again?

Kimmy wipes her eyes. “Come into my room.” We follow her inside and she closes the door behind her. “Russ borrowed one of my papers,” she says, sobbing. “Martin accused us of copying. We have to go to the disciplinary committee.”

Russ copied from her? The guy who’s been reading Forbes since the womb is copying from the woman who didn’t know what OB was? “I’m sure Russ has admitted he copied from you, right?”

She hesitates. “He hasn’t.”

“What do you mean he hasn’t?” Layla shrieks.

“He went back to his room to think. What should I do?”

Layla snorts. “Go tell Martin the truth before you ruin your life. You could get expelled. You have to turn him in.”

“I can’t turn him in,” she wails. “I can’t turn in my boyfriend.”

I rub small circles on her back. “I think Layla has a point, Kimmy. You’re jeopardizing your future here.”

She shakes me away. “Don’t you see? If I tell the truth I could still lose everything. The code of ethics says you’re not supposed to show anyone your work, so I’m still responsible for what happened. So what’s the difference?”

“Kimmy,” I say, “showing someone your work is not the same as abetting in a crime. What are you more afraid of losing? School or Russ?”

She doesn’t answer.

“Are you crazy?” Layla yells, eyes flashing. “You didn’t work your ass off all year just to throw it all away to save some guy. Are you not pissed? He used you. He’s been using you from day one. We’re marching right to Martin’s office to tell him what happened.”

Kimmy’s hands start to shake. “You don’t understand. He didn’t use me. He loves me. We’re in love. This MBA thing…I didn’t even want to be here. I came because of Wayne. I’m not losing Russ.”

“Have you thought about what would happen to you if you take the rap for this?” Layla shouts. “Do you think you’re still going to have a job at O’Donnel?”

“I’m trying to be realistic,” Kimmy says.

“What the hell does that mean?” Layla asks.

“It means that this MBA doesn’t mean as much to me as it does to him. In a few years, I’ll want to start a family-”

“So what? Why does a family mean you can’t have a career?”

“I knew you wouldn’t understand,” Kimmy says. “You live in a dream world. You can’t have everything. You can’t have kids and a husband and a company.”

Sometimes I’m amazed at how differently women view the world, from us and from each other.

“Of course you can,” Layla retorts. “Lots of women do.”

“Like who? Your mother? How many times has she called you since you moved here? Did you even see her when you were in town?”

Layla’s face flushes as if she’s been slapped. “She works. Hard.”

“I don’t want my kids to grow up with a Brazilian accent is all I’m saying.”

“Do what you want,” Layla says, and storms out.

Silence.

“Jamie, what do you think?” Kimmy asks.

“I think I’ll support whatever decision you make,” I say, “but I don’t think Russ deserves you.”

“Thank you.” She starts to cry again. “I wish it was you I was in love with.”

I rub circles on her back until she stops crying.

Friday, March 26, 4:30 p.m.

Iknow it’s Layla in the stall beside me, but I don’t say anything. I know she’s disappointed in me, but I can’t turn him in. I just can’t.

She’s been avoiding me since our fight. I think she’s being harsh. She won’t talk to Russ, either, just keeps glaring at him. Not that he’s noticed. They didn’t talk much before, anyway. Things with Russ have been good despite all this. Honestly, I think we’re closer than ever. When we go to the disciplinary committee on the twelfth, we’ll tell them that we talked about the project, that we apologize, that we didn’t realize what we were doing was wrong. And I’ve done some research. Actually, Jamie did some research for me, and he said that it’s not like we’re the first ones to ever get caught plagiarizing, and that out of the last five cases, three got off and the other two failed the course. No one got expelled. So big deal, I’ll fail a course. I can take it again. We can both take it again this summer. So we won’t go to New York. We’ll stay here. Big deal. We’ll stay here together and take summer credits. And then we’ll be together next year and maybe we’ll move into couple housing instead of living at the Zoo. And then next year we’ll move to New York and get great jobs. Get engaged. Get married.

Married. That’s what I wanted anyway, isn’t it? Mrs. in front of my name.

And what if they don’t buy it? Maybe I’ll tell them it was me who cheated. Because, let’s be honest, I was never here to learn how to climb the corporate ladder. And even if O’Donnel were to hire me later full-time, what happens then? I work for two years until I get pregnant, and then what? Let some stranger raise my kids?

I shudder at the thought of day care, remember the ear-picking-up woman, remember how tired and cranky my mother was when she arrived to take me home. Is that the type of woman I want to be? No. So it doesn’t matter if I don’t get my MBA. I want Russ to be happy.

I flush the toilet. Layla flushes beside me. We both hit the sinks at the same time. The silence feels heavy.

“You’re making a mistake,” she says.

“Don’t bother,” I answer.

“It’s my job to bother. I’m concerned. The guy you’re giving up your future for is the guy who cheated on his girlfriend for six months. He’s not long-term potential.”

How dare she? “It’s none of your business.”

“You shouldn’t trust him.” She turns off the tap and leaves me staring at myself in the mirror.

Thursday, April 1, 8:00 a.m.

Isoap my body. Then I rinse the conditioner out of my hair. Then I turn off the water and reach out of the shower curtain for my towel. For my towel. Where is my towel?

I open the curtain. My towel is gone. My bathrobe is gone. What happened to my stuff? I stand there dripping, totally confused. And then I hear it. A pitter-patter of giggling from outside the stall.

“Hello?” I call over the door. “Has anyone out there seen what happened to my stuff?”

“Your stuff?” Jamie asks. “What stuff?”

“I had a bathrobe and a towel and…oh, you jackass.” I suppose this is what you get when you’re involved with a jokester.

“April Fools’!” he screams from the other side of the wall.

“This isn’t funny,” I say but can’t stop myself from laughing.

“What’s not funny?”

It doesn’t seem like I’m getting my towel back anytime soon. So what are my options? I look around. The curtain is hooked up to the shower rod. I could always unhook it and wrap myself in it. I could, if it wasn’t germ infested.

I’d rather be naked. Kind of sexy. I’ll just sprint. Only other problem: my keys are in my bathrobe pocket. “I’ll make you a deal,” I say. “I’ll come out, if you pass me my keys.”

No answer.

Here goes nothing. I take my shower basket and place it in front of my crotch. It doesn’t do the job. Good thing I’ve been keeping my bikini wax up-to-date. Then I sneak out from behind the curtain into an empty bathroom and sprint, grabbing two paper towels, one per breast, as I run.