Monkey Business (13 page)

11:45 p.m.

W
hat am I doing, what am I doing? Don't think, don't think. She's taking me out of my boxers now, stroking me. Must stop. Must say stop. Stop. Stoooooop. Her breasts are floating above me like magical, poisonous clouds.

I don't know how I let this get this far. Honestly. Last thing I remember, I was minding my own business, craving Pringles. And then she was kissing me, I was telling her to stop (mentally), and the next thing I know I'm flat on my back and she's undoing my belt.

Oh, man.

Maybe she has secret Iceman qualities and has (zing!) frozen me to the bed.

Ooh. Ah. She's rubbing her nose on my stomach. Lower. Yes, lower. I don't think I've ever been this hard. This is wrong. So wrong. I must stop. I must say stop. I should not be in this predicament. Can't.

Now she's licking me like a Popsicle. Then she wraps her whole mouth around me and sucks. This is even worse.
Must stop her. So good. Must say stop. Stop. Yeah, right. Instead I say, “I'm going to come.”

The good news: she doesn't stop. The better news: she swallows. Sharon never swallows.

At least I didn't have
real
sex.

That's a line I will not cross.

Doesn't that count for something?

Kimmy rests her head on my stomach and I doze off.

Ring.
Phone. Shit.
Ring.
Kimmy stirs. “You getting that?”

Ring.
Gimme a break. 'Course I'm not getting that. It's Sharon. How can I talk to Sharon when I've just come in Kimmy's mouth?

Ring
.

“No.” Thank God for voice mail. Imagine having to listen to Sharon's voice echoing through the room. That would be so wrong. Not more wrong than what just happened, but definitely wrong.

Kimmy scoots up to my pillow and kisses my collarbone.

I feel out her ears. The lobes are nothing special, but there's a pointy pyramid on the top of her cartilage that might be fun to play with. I run the pad of my thumb over it.

“My mother used to get mad at me when I did that,” she says. “She told me that if I kept playing with it, it would grow.”

“Did it?”

“No.”

I continue playing with it, until my thumb gets sore. Is she planning on leaving soon? Not that I'm trying to throw her out. I've never been a wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am kind of guy. But—well, I'll have to call Sharon back. Not this second. But in the next hour or so. Anyway, besides the Sharon-telephone issue, this is a single bed. Two people can't sleep comfortably in this baby, that's for sure.

I shift and stretch in the hopes that she'll realize how uncomfortable she is and leave. Doesn't happen.

Ring
.

Shit. My spine feels twisted and prickly, my skin clammy. I think the walls of my room might be compressing like the trash compactor scene in
Star Wars.

Ring
.

What does Kimmy expect from this? Does she want me to break up with Sharon? Start dating her? I don't want to break up with Sharon. I love the way she's tough but not too tough to make baby kisses into the phone. I love the way she plays with my hair. She picks one strand and then rolls it in her fingertips while we're watching TV, my head in her lap. I love the way she eats chocolate peanut butter cups. She bites off the rim, peels off the top chocolate layer, and then licks the chocolate off the bottom so that all that's left is the peanut butter circle, which she pops into her mouth. Then she closes her eyes and makes adorable “mmm” sounds.

If I break up with her she'll never do that again. Worse, she'll do it again but not with me.

My stomach hurts. My back's in pain. I can't breathe. I can't break up with Sharon. No way. I have to tell Kimmy that this isn't happening again. Now might not be the best moment. Maybe sometime when I'm wearing my boxers. Maybe if I say I'm going to the bathroom, she'll leave. And then I'll call Sharon back. I pat her forehead. “Bathroom time.” I almost said bathroom break, but in the nick of time I realized that she might take that to mean that I'm expecting her to return.

She stretches her arms above her, like Catwoman. “Me, too. I should go back to my room, anyway.”

“Yeah?” You don't say. “Okay.” I re-dress, then peer into the hallway to make sure the coast in clear. A run-in with Rena would not be good. Coast is clear.

“I'll see you in a sex,” she says, heading to her room.

I think she meant sec. Or not. When I see her in front of the sink brushing her teeth, I peck her cheek. “Good night,” I say while hurrying out.

“But wait—” she says, but I'm already out the door and pretend I don't hear.

Voice mail from Sharon: “Hi, honey, it's me. Just want to say hello. See what's up. Miss you.” She blows a series of baby kisses into the phone and I feel like a bastard.

Second message: “Honey, where are you? I want to go to sleep.”

I lie down and dial. “Hi.” A strand of Kimmy's hair is on my pillow.

“Hi, honey. Where were you?”

“In the bathroom,” I answer. At least I didn't have to lie. Yet.

“I can't wait to see you,” she murmurs.

I put on my sweet voice, the one that sounds almost babyish, the one I would never use in front of another guy, ever. “I can't wait to see you, too.”

“It's only two more weeks till American Thanksgiving. You have your plane ticket, right?”

My sheets smell musky, like female sweat. “I have my plane ticket.”

“I'm so happy you're coming home. Do you want to do anything special? I have a bunch of new recipes I can make you for dinner.”

Sure. And would it be okay if Kimmy gave me a blow job for dessert?

How does she not know? All I know is that I can't tell her. Not that I was planning on telling her. You can't tell someone that you cheated only ten minutes after it happened. What's your excuse? Sorry, I was drunk then, but I'm sober now? I didn't realize how special you are, but now I do? I was hard and now I'm not?

What if we get married? Did I just cheat on my future wife?

“Sounds great,” I say.

“Any more thoughts on Christmas? I was thinking about a cruise.”

Christmas? That's two months away. What if I decide I
want to be with Kimmy? Not that I'm planning to decide to be with Kimmy. I don't know what I'm planning. Except changing my sheets. Smelling Kimmy and talking to Sharon is like watching The Hulk turn orange when he gets angry instead of green. Just wrong. “Um, no thoughts yet.”

“Okay, but decide soon or we'll never get reservations. What did you do tonight?”

“Huh?”

“What did you do?”

Better question would be who I did. “Not much.” Ain't it the truth. It was Kimmy who did all the work. “You?”

“I had a lousy day. Remember that exam I told you I was giving to my ninth-graders?”

“Uh-huh.” If she says so. She's always giving some sort of exam to one of her classes.

“I caught two guys in the back cheating.”

I tense at the C-word. “Yeah?”

“They wrote the answers on their shoes. How did they think I wouldn't notice? Do they think I'm an idiot?”

My bed is still warm. So maybe she's not so on the ball. “The nerve.”

“I waited till the end of class before I confronted them. They tried to deny it, as if I couldn't see the evidence on their shoes. I escorted them to Sheila's office. She suspended them for two days. They cried like two-year-olds.”

Odd that she's chosen today to talk about cheating. If she asked me if I cheated right now, I'd admit it. Right now.

“Russ?”

Shit. “Yes?”

“I love you.”

“Me, too.”

She yawns. “I'm tired. Time to hit the hay.”

“Good night.”

“Good night. Be good.”

Too late.

I need to sleep so I don't have to think. Unfortunately, I haven't gotten a full night's sleep since I got to school. Lately, I've been able to get more sleep during the day than at night. Maybe I'm a bat. Batman. It's the light in the hallway that keeps me up. It stays on twenty-four hours a day and the outline of the beam through my door is like an eclipse. Maybe I should tape the light out, eh? Make it a bat cave.

Maybe Nick's up. I think I'll start calling him Robin.

Tuesday, November 11, 4:05 p.m.

“I
t's perfect.”

“Really?” I ask.

The career counselor looks at me across her desk and points a bitten fingernail. I want to recommend my manicurist to her, but that might be insulting. “Would you mind if I kept this on file as an example for others?” she asks.

I puff up with pleasure. LWBS offers a résumé critique. Apparently, I have nothing to be critiqued. My cover letter and résumé are perfect, detailing A-plus work and nice, round 4.0's. “Not at all. I'm flattered.”

“Great,” she says, searching through her files until she finds one labeled Examples. “I'll start sending potential summer jobs your way.” She winks. “Who knows? Maybe a good summer job will lead to something permanent. Graduation is still more than a year away, but won't it be nice to have your life all sewn up way in advance?”

It would. “Thanks.” I stand up and straighten my skirt.

“No,” she says, giving me a meaningful look. “Thank
you.
”

I'm smiling as I skip down the stairs of the Katz building
and into the sunlight. It smells like crunching leaves and fresh new clothes. I can't wait to go home for Thanksgiving so I can exchange my fall wardrobe for a winter one. I've placed a few items on hold at Bendel's, including a heavenly mid-length sheepskin coat I saw in
Vogue
. I miss shopping in the city. I also miss the perpetual motion, the high-speed of important people rushing to important places.

As I walk through campus to the library, I'm overwhelmed by all that I don't miss about home—the barrenness, the concrete, the lack of natural color. Here, the red, yellow and orange leaves are a kaleidoscope of color. I'm walking through a Picasso. In the midst of it all, Jamie is leaning against a tree, reading.

As usual, seeing him makes me feel guilty about making the recommendation for the hospital merger. How awful that I'm responsible for him losing his job. I should tell him. No, I can't.

I crouch beside him and glance at his reading material. It's the script to
Casablanca
. “Hard at work?”

He smiles when he sees me.
“Layla,”
he sings. “I bet you get pretty sick of hearing that Eric Clapton song, huh?”

“Not if you're singing,” I say, smiling. He doesn't have a bad voice, actually.

“Let me guess, off to the library?”

“I have an exciting hour of Economics research, and then a group meeting.”

He stuffs his paperback into his back pocket. “I've made a decision. No more reading for either of us. I'm going to teach you to juggle.”

Juggle? That doesn't sound like something that can go on my résumé. “How do you know how to juggle?”

“My parents were in the circus.”

Is he serious? “Come on.”

“Fine, I made that up. They don't let Jews in the circus.”

I don't know what to say about the Jews comment. He's
kidding again, right? “I bet you're lying about juggling, too. I've only seen you throw one thing into the air at a time.”

He wraps his fingers around my wrist. “It's time for a lesson. Follow me.” I laugh and let him pull me. Oddly, I remember reading something about juggling in the paper, that it enhances your brainpower. In which case, I suppose it could be beneficial.

“Where are you taking me?”

He leads me all the way to the cafeteria.

“Will we be juggling M&M's?” I ask.

“Stella!” he says, voice booming, to the woman at the cash.

“Hi, Jamie!”

She knows his name? He knows hers? Who introduces himself to the cafeteria people?

He sets his elbows onto the counter. “Stella, my sweet, do you have any oranges today?”

“I should think so.” She rifles through a basket of fruit. “How many do you need?”

He holds up two fingers. “I think three would be a good start.”

He is too weird.

She laughs and cherry-picks the best oranges. “Are you making juice?”

“I'm teaching Layla here how to juggle. Layla, do you know Stella?”

“Hi,” I say, suddenly shy.

“Hello,” she says. “You're the one who always has her nose in a textbook.”

“How much do I owe you?” asks Jamie.

She winks. “Don't worry about it. It's your reward for getting this serious one to have some fun.”

I follow him to the courtyard outside, and he stands directly beside me so our legs touch. “We'll start with one orange,” he says, dropping the other two onto the ground. “I'm
going to throw it to you, and you're going to catch it. And then you're going to throw it back. Got it?”

“Sounds simple enough. I should warn you that I'll probably be good at this. I have excellent aim. Remember that season when Disneyland closed?”

“Can't say that I do,” he says, tossing the orange from one hand to the other. “Why?”

“It was because I'd cleaned them out of all their stuffed animals.”

He laughs and then throws the orange up, up, up in the air, and it squishes when I catch it. It's heavier than I expected and cold. I toss it back and it soars way beyond his head. A few feet beyond. “Oops.”

“The catching is easy, focus on the throwing. Make a nice easy arc.”

Nice, easy arc. Can do. He throws it again and I catch it. Then I throw it back to him, in a nice, easy arc. He catches it. Yes! We go back and forth until he tells me it's time for the next lesson. “We're adding an orange. Keep doing exactly what you're doing.” He throws the first one and I catch it. Yes! Then I focus on throwing it. Unfortunately, that's when the second orange flies through the air at me. Slam. I miss it by miles.

Am I juggling deficient? Why can't I do this? My heart starts to flutter nervously. “What's wrong with me?”

Jamie laughs. “Nothing. You're new at it.”

Big deal. Doesn't mean I shouldn't be able to master it. “Perhaps if I saw you do it, I could learn by example. Let me see you.”

He gathers the three oranges and starts juggling. Wow. It's just a matter of aerodynamics. I can do this. If I can stop a company from going bankrupt, I can certainly stop an orange from smacking the ground.

We try again. I wonder if Bradley Green can juggle. He certainly has a lot of brainpower. I drop the orange and it hits the ground.

“Layla,” he sings. “You're not concentrating. What are you thinking about?”

I blush. “Sorry.”

“Sorry? You were thinking
sorry?
”

We try again. My hand smells like citrus. Should I tell Jamie about Brad? Why not? Maybe I should get a man's perspective. “No. I was thinking about some guy. A guy who doesn't know I'm alive.”

“I doubt that.”

So true in this case. “No, really. I've never even met him.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Huh?”

I know I shouldn't tell, but it's not like Jamie's going to pass along the info to anyone. And I haven't done anything wrong. I wasn't the one to call him. “All right, but you can't repeat any of this. See, I'm on the applications committee for prospective students. And I fell a little bit in love with one of the applicants.”

He rolls one of the oranges between his hands. “You fell for a guy's application?”

Why do I have such a big mouth? “Yes. Bradley Green. Is that nuts?”

“As long as his middle name isn't Forest. Or Jade. It isn't, is it?”

He's too much. “Nope.”

“Do you think you can love someone you've only seen on paper?”

He makes Brad sound like a centerfold I've taped to my locker. “I know it sounds moronic, but I felt a connection when I read his application. Like I was destined to read it. He's perfect for me. He's my prince.” That sounded sophomoric in my head, and it sounded even worse out loud, but that doesn't mean I can't imagine our glorious royal wedding.

“I'm glad you didn't read my application. It was hysterical. You would have started stalking me, too. Let's keep going, you almost had it.” He passes me an orange.

Forty minutes later, we're still juggling away and I'm improving. Pass, throw, catch, Pass, throw, catch. I'm having a blast even though my hands reek of orange. I think the citrus might be making me high. My brainpower must be increasing. Yes! Perhaps I should start doing this every day.

“Ready to try it on your own?” he asks.

I nod, very ready and very seriously. He places my feet shoulder-width apart and inserts two oranges into my right hand, one into my left. I fill my lungs with air and throw.

They all hit me in the head.

“Crap!” I scream, falling to the ground. I spot Kimmy and Russ approaching and wave. What is it with those two? Kimmy hasn't filled me in on what's going on with them since the spin-the-bottle experience, presumably because of my disapproval over their kissing fiesta. But I bet they've been at it again.

“What are you two doing?” Kimmy asks, running her fingers along her ear.

“I'm learning to juggle,” I say. Uh-oh. I wonder how Jamie feels about seeing Russ and Kimmy together. I know from Kimmy that Jamie likes her, but I don't think Jamie has a clue about what's going on with Russ. Why on earth is she so fixated on Russ, when Jamie is such a sweetheart?

Jamie is rolling an orange in his hand, staring at it.

“Jamie,” Russ says, “we're thinking of going over our OB assignment now. Don't want to interrupt you, of course. Busy, eh?”

“Ha-ha,” Jamie says. “As if the rest of you could answer the questions without me.”

I look at my watch. “Crap, it's already five past five! I'm supposed to meet my group.”

“You're late for a group meeting?” Kimmy says, feigning shock. “My, oh, my, you two must have really been having fun.”

“You want fun, Kimmy? I'll give you fun.” Jamie raises his eyebrows suggestively.

We're going to have to work on his presentation. He obviously didn't pay enough attention in IC. “Hey there's Dorothy!” I say, waving at the Carry the Torch administrator across the field. “Yoo-hoo, Dorothy!” I call. “Let me introduce you.”

“You know what, Layla?” Jamie says, grabbing his bag. “I gotta go.”

And just like that, he takes off. What was that about? Apparently, we have to work on his communication as well as his presentation skills.