Monkey Business (16 page)

Tuesday, December 9, 11:55 p.m.

A
t five to twelve, I slam shut my Stats textbook and stand up. Only a few of us are still at the library. Namely, me, Layla and Jamie. I've been reading for the past half hour, and for the half hour before that, Layla and Jamie were tutoring me. (Turns out Layla got the highest mark in the Block on the Stats midterm. Yeah, the one she said she failed.) We only took a few breaks—one for a stroll around the room and another for massage train. A massage train is something Layla used to do at her sorority house. You sit in a line and massage the person in front of you for three minutes. Then the person at the front moves to the back. I started off in the middle. I massaged Layla, and Jamie massaged me. Then I moved to the head of the train, and Layla massaged Jamie. He has pretty good hands. Too bad I didn't ask for a full-body massage the night we hooked up.

“You don't got to go home, but you got to get the hell out of here,” Jamie announces. I'm exhausted. After class I went to a case interview session. Jared, the Block president, has organized a three-hour case session once a week until
Christmas, to prepare us for job interviews. As if we have nothing else to do. Surprisingly, though, I'm pretty good at solving the estimation cases, when they ask you something you couldn't possibly know, like how many buses are in America, to see how you would get at the problem. Who knew? Now if only I could finish my cover letters and résumés, then maybe I could actually get to display my recently discovered talent.

But at the moment I have other things to think about. The highlight of the night—private time with Russ. Most people come to the library because they want to ace their exams; I come because I need to keep Russ out of my bed until after he's spoken with Sharon. This was my first new strategy, and it's been working. We used to start fooling around at ten, and go until I evicted myself for his Sharon nightly phone call. Now that I'm at the library until twelve, there's no pending end for our time together.

My second new strategy was to turn my bed into a sex temple, keeping it smelling clean and girly. I bought red satin sheets and pillowcases to match my duvet, making it impossible for him to even consider wanting to leave.

He can stay all night, and does.

He'll have to break up with Sharon eventually. He can't keep up this deception much longer. No, he's going to dump her, soon. Definitely.

When we reach the Zoo, I immediately start preparing. I shower, spritz on my perfume and change into one of my new silk negligees (bought during the satin-sheet-shopping spree).

It's twelve-thirty, and everything is ready for Russ. I'm lying on my silky bed, waiting.

Soft music playing? Check.

Condom box tucked discreetly under bed? Check. Not that I care so much about the condoms, since I'm on the pill, but I know it's the right thing to do. Actually, he's the one
who insists on condoms. Maybe he's afraid I'll pass his precious girlfriend something unmentionable.

Hmm. My pill. Yesterday was my twenty-first day, which is a bit unfortunate. That means that in exactly three days I'm going to get my period, which sucks. Russ and I are only together for two more weeks before vacation. I can't be out of commission for one of them. I hop off my bed, open my stuff drawer and search for my next month's pill sheet. When I first went on the pill, my doctor told me to take two months straight. Maybe I should do that again so I won't get my period until winter vacation. It can't be that bad for you if he wanted me to do it when I first started, right? When you forget to take two in a row they tell you to start a new pack straight away, so it must be fine. And I'll only do it this once, anyway. I push one of the white pills through the foil and swallow it before I can change my mind.

A knock on the door startles me, as if I'm doing something illegal.

I open it quickly, and Russ shuffles inside.

Illegal, illicit, what's the difference? His lips are warm and I think I might be in love.

 

The alarm goes off at six-ten. Madonna is on the radio. I wonder what she would think about my affair. The Madonna of “Like A Virgin” would have approved. The
English Rose
Madonna, not so much.

Russ reaches for his sweatpants and shirt. “See you later,” he says.

Love you,
I think but don't say. The door shuts softly behind him.

I try to fall back asleep, but I can't. That was Russ's only condition for staying the night. The shrieking alarm at six-ten in the morning so he can sneak out without anyone seeing. Come on, what are the chances that Rena will be standing outside and spot him? I suppose he's concerned that
if he gets up at a normal hour, someone will see him doing the walk of shame and mention it to Rena, who will report back to Sharon. He doesn't even want us telling anyone in the group. Fine, I understand. Nick has a big mouth, Jamie would be crushed because of his feelings for me, and who knows what the deal with Lauren is. So it's a secret. For now. Except for Layla, who I had to tell. Eventually he'll break up with Sharon and we'll come out of the closet. Closet, dorm room—pretty much the same thing. He has to, doesn't he? He's not a bad guy; he's just trying to figure out what he wants. And he'll realize that it's me and not Sharon.

I'm sure Russ has no problem falling back asleep. He's been late to almost every morning class in the past two weeks. Matthews launches daggers at him when Russ tries to sneak into OB. I'm worried he's not taking class seriously.

Not like me. Now that I'm up at six-ten, I might as well be studying. I step into my flip-flops and grab my shower supplies.

By seven-thirty I'm at the library. Layla is already there, in her usual seat. “Morning,” she says, waving.

“Hey.” I'm not much for talking this early. At least not until the bland coffee I picked up from the twenty-four-hour campus store kicks in. I'm almost done studying for Economics, which is pretty crazy, considering the exam isn't until next Monday. OB is on Tuesday, Accounting on Wednesday, Stats on Thursday, and Strategy on Friday. I've also done most of the reading for OB and Stats. Tomorrow is the final day of class, so as of Friday I can start studying full-time.

I like being in the library at this hour. From my perch near the fourth-floor window, I watch the sun crawl its way into the sky, illuminating the campus below. Not too many students are around, but every few minutes someone rushes from one building to another. I spot Jamie, a bag of mini-muffins under his arm, on his way to meet us. He comes here
every morning at seven forty-five, follows us to class and then walks back to the Zoo with us at midnight. Funny, I would never have pegged him for a library guy.

Then again, I wouldn't have pegged myself as a library girl, either.

Friday, December 12, 3:14 a.m.

I'
m having that exam dream—you know the one I mean, the one where you're scribbling furiously in the high-school gym and you realize you're butt naked—when the alarm signaling the end of the exam goes off.

Then I realize it's not an exam bell, it's a fire alarm, and I shoot up in bed. Oy. It's 3:14 a.m. It's probably a false alarm, but what if it's for real? When I worked at the hospital, I saw kids who were victims of house fires, and it wasn't pretty. I grab a pair of sweatpants, sweatshirt, a jacket and running shoes, my credit card and new student card with photo (finally got that in the mail today, can't have it go up in flames already), take my keys and step into the hallway. I don't have too much of value in my room except for my TV and DVD collection. And the mini-fridge I rented for a hundred bucks. (Who doesn't want cold drinks and ice-cream sandwiches available twenty-four/seven?) I try to remember what we were instructed to do in a fire situation. I think the brief on fire safety in my welcome package said to line up at the nearest exit.

The hall is empty. Either I've developed schizophrenia and hearing loud, continuously ringing fire bells is a part of my new condition, or I have quicker-than-average reflexes.

I begin to hear a faint rustling in the rooms.

“Make it stop!” someone yells.

I patrol the hallway to see if anyone other than me has deemed it necessary to vacate his or her room.

Nick is standing in his boxers, topless, looking skeletal and confused. “What's going on?”

“Not sure.” I sprint down the stairs to see if I can find anyone who knows why this annoying bell is still ringing. I'm both surprised and impressed with my middle-of-the-night energy and agility.

The people from the second floor are exiting the building. I spot Lauren with an opened coat over red flannel pajamas. Maybe the carbon monoxide has spread throughout the third floor, and for some reason everyone except me is unconscious.

I decide to check on Layla and Kimmy, hero that I am.

I hike back up the stairs, my energy waning, and am poised to knock on Layla's door when she flings it open. She's fully dressed in khakis, a green turtleneck and a long wool coat. She's toting a fishbowl above her head with one hand, her laptop with the other.

She is so cute. “It's a fire alarm, not a flood alarm,” I say, and take the fishbowl from her.

“Thanks. I forgot to back up my documents last night. If this computer melts, I'm a dead woman. Are we supposed to go downstairs?”

“I think that would be the best option. I'll just check on Kimmy.”

“Jamie to the rescue.” She makes a kissing noise and disappears down the stairs.

Funny, she doesn't notice that I rescued her first. She's possessed with the notion that I'm in love with Kimmy.
I wish I could tell Layla that it's her I can't get out of my head, but it's obvious she's not interested in me. If I told her, I'd end up being another class joke, the way I did with Kimmy.

“Hello, Martha,” I say to the bowl. Then I knock on Kimmy's door. “Darlin'? That alarm blaring? It normally signals fire. It's best to leave the building so you won't burn.”

I hear swearing from inside. Male swearing. There is a male swearing in Kimmy's room. Must be Russ, I figure (not that it would take a rocket scientist to figure it out). Three pj-clad people pass me, and I'm standing by myself in the hall. “You two can come out now. Coast is clear.” No sound. “Russ, I know you're in there.”

The door opens slowly. Russ is sitting on the desk, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, looking extremely pale. Maybe the carbon monoxide has gotten to him. Or not.

“Studying late, are we?” I ask.

He ignores me and peers into the hallway. “Do we really have to go out?”

I tug on my ear. “The bell does seem to indicate that.”

“Isn't it a false alarm?”

“I assume so,” I say. “I don't smell smoke, but I'm leaving the building, just in case. You two do what you want.” Like you're doing already. I turn and leave them, disappointment overwhelming me. He should know better. She should know better.

Of course, it's snowing. I find Layla through the flakes, clasping her laptop to her chest. She takes the fishbowl from me and puts it beside her on the ground. Nick and Lauren join us, and a few minutes later Russ approaches us, Kimmy following a few discreet feet behind. There are no fire trucks, no sirens blaring, no flashing lights washing the campus in red, so either this is a false alarm or the firefighters need to work on their game.

Russ is looking around, probably for Rena, the woman I've
seen him talk to, the woman who knows his girlfriend. He spots her and waves. She waves back.

Layla's teeth are chattering. I put my arm around her waist to warm her, but then I realize she might get the wrong idea, or the right idea, so I put my other arm around Kimmy and bring them both into a group hug, Layla's laptop elbowing me in the stomach.

“You know,” I say, “an orgy would really warm us up.”

“Does your mind ever come out of the gutter?” Layla scolds me.

“What about a massage train?” I ask. Now that was fun. Being touched by Layla and touching Kimmy. I thought I'd died and gone to heaven. I certainly wouldn't mind a repeat performance.

The fire alarm stops.

We wait a few seconds, holding our breath, then collectively exhale.

Russ pats Kimmy on the ass as they go through the door. I wish I could pull that move on Layla, but I think she would assault me with her laptop.

Monday, December 15, 1:00 p.m.

O
ne eye is open. One eye is closed. Don't think I can study and nap at the same time. Too bad these notes don't come on tape. Then I could let them suggestively enter my consciousness.

Ten-minute nap. I deserve it. I wrote the Economics exam at the ungodly hour of nine this morning. I deserve a ten-minute nap.

I poke Kimmy in the shoulder. She's sitting in the cubicle next to mine at the library. “Wake me in ten minutes,” I say.

She glances at her watch. “Okay. Ten minutes.”

Mmm. Sharon. Mmm. Kimmy. In my dream they're both giving me an excellent rubdown.

“Wake up,” Kimmy says, patting my shoulder.

“Ten more minutes.”

“Russ, I let you sleep for an hour.”

An hour? I open my eyes and lean back. “I think I need a coffee.”

“You've already had three today.”

Thanks, Mom.

Over the course of the next several hours and countless cups of coffee I attempt to stick to my study schedule.

“My back is killing me,” Kimmy whines at seven.

Jamie pops up and starts massaging her shoulders. He must be doing it to piss me off. He knows I can't really touch her in public. Ever since Jamie saw Kimmy and me together, he's been giving me attitude. I'd like to punch him in the face, but I can't have him spilling split lips to the entire school, can I? Why is he touching her, anyway? He doesn't still think he has a chance with her, does he?

His fingers continue to dig into her shoulders. Maybe he does think he's still in the running. Maybe Kimmy's sleeping with him, too.

Nah.

“Time for a dinner break,” I say, attempting to clear my head. I have enough issues to worry about, most prominently my own dual-dating, without having to worry about Kimmy's extracurricular activities.

We go to the caf for some food and then back to the library. At eleven Nick starts making toking motions. I know smoking a joint the night before an exam isn't a brilliant plan, but after all that coffee, I don't think I'll fall asleep if I don't come down a bit. Also dulls the jagged blade of the I'm-an-asshole guilt that now pierces into my stomach lining on a daily basis.

I follow him back to his room, where we smoke a short, quick one. Then I go back to my room to call Sharon.

She decides that tonight is a good time to ask me, “Do you ever think about getting married?”

I'm lying on my bed, still dressed. I wonder if she means to her, or in general, but I don't want to talk too much in case she realizes I'm stoned. She'd kill me for smoking during exams.

“Do you?” I ask.

Often the best way to avoid a question is to deflect the
question with another question. I should have tried that on today's exam.
As identified by the Federal Reserve Bank, what are the three different components of the overall money supply?
I could have gone with,
What do you think the three components are, eh?
Right.

Sharon laughs. “I asked you first.”

Guess it doesn't work on her, either. “I'll get married when I'm settled,” I say.

“When you're settled, or we're settled?”

Another good question, and another I don't answer. I can't exactly say,
At the moment I'm involved with someone else, and I can't decide who I prefer.
Maybe I should use a food metaphor. I can say,
I'm sitting at a restaurant and there are two menu choices, but both are my favorites. Which do I choose? Chicken parmesan or fettuccine alfredo?
Just what all women dream about. Being compared to food. Objectified and put on a plate. Pass the pepper, please! “When we're settled,” I say. I am too chicken-shit to start. Chicken parmesan, please.

Something else I haven't told Sharon is that I've applied for summer jobs in New York. She's under the impression that I'll be going back to the IT consulting firm I worked for before. The firm, too, is under this impression. But since everyone else applied to jobs through school, I figured I should, too. So now it comes down to this: life in Toronto with Sharon or life in New York with Kimmy?

Ten minutes later, I say my
love you, toos
and
good-nights
and
be goods,
then wash up and walk over to Kimmy's room.

She stands behind the door when she opens it so no one can see she's naked. Not that anyone's up. I love that she opens the door naked. I wonder how long she lay there in bed, naked, waiting for me. Or does she strip off her clothes when she hears the knock on her door?

I drop my jeans and sweatshirt and briefs onto her floor, and she puts her mouth on me before I can even get into bed.

Then I push her down and lie on top of her. We rub
against each other for a bit, and I can feel her getting wet beneath me. She tries to slide me into her, but I reach out to get a condom. She pulls me closer.

I know she wants to do it without a condom. She keeps telling me that she's on the pill. But I can't. Even though I know it would be a million times better. Cheating on my girlfriend without a condom reaches a whole other level of repulsiveness.

I really know how to draw the line, eh? The only problem is, the line keeps fading, inch by inch.

I slip on the condom and then push myself inside her. She wraps her legs around my back. I try to make her come with my fingers, the way Sharon likes to, but she stops me.

“Just fuck me,” she says, and I do as requested. After I come, I throw the condom into the garbage beside her bed.

“Did you set the alarm?” I ask.

“For eight?” she asks with a half smile. “Don't you want to sleep in before the exam?”

“Don't give me a hard time. Six-ten, as usual.” I don't know where I got the six-ten. Maybe it's because I don't expect anyone to be out in the hall at six-ten. Six-thirty maybe, but six-ten? Doubtful.

“Fine. Whatever.” She reaches across me, her breasts hanging deliciously over my mouth. “Alarm set. Six-ten.” She turns her back to me.

“'Night.” I wrap my arms around her so she's not mad. She curves into me, and I kiss her neck good-night.

When the alarm rings at six-ten, I get dressed quickly, then open the door gently. As I expected, the hallway is quiet and empty. The lights are on—they're always on—and the windows over the stairs are mirrors because it's still dark outside, so instead of seeing outside, I see myself.

I quickly look away. I don't think I like what I see.