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PRAISE FOR SARAH MLYNOWSKI

As Seen on TV

“A fun and telling look at the world of reality TV and the lure of fame.”

—Booklist

“As Seen on TV is funny…. The book is filled with witty characters and Steve, a lovable boyfriend whom you can’t help rooting for.”

—Columbus Dispatch

“As Seen on TV is simply irresistible—one of the best reasons you could find for reaching for the TV remote and hitting the off button.”

—International bestselling author Nick Earls

Fishbowl

“An original and very funny celebration of friendship between women.”

—Waldenbooks, Best of 2002 Women’s Fiction

“…Mlynowski is out for a rollicking good time from the start.”

—Arizona Republic

“Undemandingly perfect…wonderfully bitchy.”

—Jewish Chronicle

“A fresh and witty take on real-life exams in love, lust, trust and friendship.”

—Bestselling author Jessica Adams

Milkrun

“Mlynowski is acutely aware of the plight of the 20-something single woman—she offers funny dialogue and several slices of reality.”

—Publishers Weekly

“This Sex and the City-style story is chick-lit for the modern age.”

—Heat

Twenty-something Sarah Mlynowski was born in Montreal, Canada, and has an honors degree in English literature from McGill University. She is currently a full-time novelist in New York, and her books have been published in more than sixteen countries. Monkey Business is her fourth novel.

If you’d like to say hello, visit her Web site at www.SarahMlynowski.com.

Monkey Business
Sarah Mlynowski

www.mirabooks.co.uk

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many, many thanks to:

my mom, Elissa Ambrose, because she reads each word I ever write, no matter what time it is, and always makes my sentences sound prettier; my editor, Sam Bell, for putting this book on the Slim-Fast diet and showing me how to punch it up; my agent, Laura Dail, for being superb in every way; Corinne Gelman, for still being my favorite interview subject, and for taking the time to read early, cryptic drafts of this book; Lynda Curnyn, because she is one of the nicest editors around, as well as being a fabulous writer and my favorite lunching companion; the RDI team: Farrin Jacobs, Margaret Marbury, Laura Morris, Stephanie Campbell, Margie Miller, Tara Kelly and Tania Charzewski, for their excellent work; my friends and little sister: Jess Braun, Bonnie Altro, Robin Glube, Jess Davidman and Aviva Mlynowski, for always answering my Is-This-Funny?/Does-This-Sound-Too-Canadian? e-mails within thirty seconds of receiving them; and Todd Swidler, because with him beside me, everything makes sense. Life, love and even arbitrage pricing. Okay, he had to explain that last one multiple times and ver-r-ry slowly.

For my dad and stepmom,

Larry Mlynowski and Louisa Weiss,

with love.

Contents

orientation (primarily academic)

kimmy’s big blunder

jamie wants a replay so he can amend his foreplay

russ floats and forgets

layla applies herself

kimmy contemplates the random acts of the universe

russ omits one significant detail

first semester

jamie comes late (literally)

kimmy’s double date

layla makes a good impression

kimmy buys her books

russ goes to war

jamie is a washout

layla’s price isn’t right

kimmy’s quasi quarantine

layla finds her prince in a haystack

kimmy’s fears comes true

layla has a girls’ night in

kimmy does her patriotic duty

jamie snoozes and loses

russ spins the bottle

layla tricks but won’t treat

jamie is shockingly punctual

russ blasts beer

kimmy goes to bat

russ caves in

layla goes fruity

kimmy knows the drill

jamie wants a sex change/jamie wants sex, period

layla gets the job done

russ returns to the land of the loonies

kimmy waits

layla hits the books

kimmy studies it up at the library

jamie’s on fire

russ ignores his conscience

layla thinks she failed (again)

russ finishes his exam

kimmy gets screwed

russ rings in the new year

jamie saves the world one book at a time

kimmy’s prepping

it’s the doghouse for russ

second semester

kimmy’s shrinking basket

layla’s stakeout

the green-eyed monster gets to russ

layla writes a marketing plan

kimmy has a heart-to-heart

jamie’s wake-up call

layla makes her move

kimmy works it

russ almost blows his cover

layla gets bubbly

jamie’s valentine’s day curse

kimmy is pissed

jamie thinks about life

russ gets nailed

kimmy gets lucky

jamie returns to the zoo

kimmy has a boyfriend

russ becomes a copycat

layla’s library libido

kimmy saves her boyfriend’s ass

jamie’s muse makes him miserable

russ is annoyed

layla’s new fantasy

kimmy boards the train to pain

jamie talks the talk

layla’s epiphany

russ gets busted (and drags kimmy down with him)

jamie’s rise to stardom

kimmy rationalizes her future

layla streaks

russ’s depression

layla sees the truth

some news for russ

jamie’s advice

kimmy’s ejection

layla’s birthday

sister kimmy

jamie’s mom knows best

russ has a fleeting regret

layla’s calling

closure for kimmy

layla claims her prince

summer break

kimmy’s elevator

orientation (primarily academic)

Monday, September 1, 11:55 p.m.

kimmy’s big blunder

He aims, he shoots, he scores—all over my silk duvet.

“It’s okay. Not a big deal,” I lie.

“Give me two seconds, Kimmy, and I’ll be ready for round two.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I lie again.

And then he rolls over and passes out.

He’s sleeping, I’m still in my jeans, and my goose-feather duvet—a gift from my father and the only thing I own of any worth—has a puddle on it.

I can’t believe how gross this is. And to make matters worse, this guy I’ve chosen as my one-night stand—make that five-minute stand—is in my class. I can’t imagine spending the next ten minutes with him, never mind the next two years.

Besides being incapable of holding it in long enough to make it to the condom, a lesson the girls were supposed to teach him when he was an undergrad, he’s flabby, short and has a unibrow. Also his penis is smaller than my PDA, and that fits in the palm of my hand.

For the first time ever, my mother was right. I hate that. She nagged me to put a cover on my duvet, one nag among millions, but did I listen? No, not me. My reasoning? I liked the feel of the satin against my skin.

Apparently so did Jamie.

He’s comatose on top of my comforter, his jeans and checkerboard boxers bagging around his hairy thighs. His eyes are closed, his mouth slightly open, and a trail of drool leaks onto my pillow. Hasn’t he already soiled enough of my linen?

The devil-red numbers on the alarm clock beside my single bed say 12:01 a.m. Or is that 1:21? I can’t see too well, as I’m a bit on the dizzy side.

Okay, I admit it. Drunk dizzy.

Dread dribbles through my half-dressed body like nausea after one too many beers. From my uncomfortable position (back pressed up against the thin wooden wall, legs straight like a clothespin to avoid making contact with his), I analyze the situation’s gravity. There’s a balding, tire-around-the-middle, quasi-naked man in my bed. Correction, on my bed.

Oh, God, what did I do?

My class of two hundred is divided into three Blocks (aka sections), A through C, and all my classes are within the same Block. The way to impress my new classmates probably wasn’t to take one home the first night I’m here. Especially not one in my Block. Block B. It sounds like a prison.

His bloated lips are slightly open, his breath gentle and wet. This embarrassment will probably sit two rows behind me ten times a week. It’s going to be a long two years.

Why did I invite Jamie back to my room? Oh, right, I was trying not to think about Wayne. And I thought he could be my replacement boyfriend. I’ll give Jamie cute in a worn, teddy-bear sort of way. He said he was twenty-six, but he looks almost middle-aged. Like a forty-year-old who buys a Corvette and gets an earring to stay hip.

Spew all over my comforter is not cool. Okay, it’s not all over the comforter; it’s relegated to a one-inch Italy-shaped boot on the right side of the bed. But still, what am I going to do, bring it to the dry cleaner? Wash it in the sink? I don’t even have my own sink. I share three sinks with the thirty other people on my floor. I’m not Linus. I can’t start dragging my comforter around the dorm. I’ll have to wait until the middle of the night to sneak through the halls, covert-operation-like.

I have to pee. Too much beer. I swing my legs over the comatose body, onto the raggedy red-and-blue throw carpet, which was the first thing I unpacked when I arrived this morning. (I like a warm ground under my feet.) Then I blow out the potted candle on my desk. That was the second item I unpacked. Unfortunately, the wick didn’t get much of a workout tonight. I didn’t get much of a workout tonight, and you can blame that on his wick.

I open the closet door and disappear inside. The massive space reserved for my wardrobe is the anomaly of my minuscule eight-by-eight-foot room. My bed, desk and chair are squished practically on top of one another, yet my sweaters, jeans and shoes have a huge suite. Go figure. I don’t even like shopping.

I can’t believe I’m here. In the closet. At business school. At business school. What am I doing at business school? What am I doing in Maplewood, Connecticut? Wayne, jackass Wayne, is the one who wanted to attach the letters MBA to his name. I was more interested in the letters MRS.

So we studied together for the GMATs, the standardized business school exam. And then I took the test and scored in the eighty-ninth percentile. Wayne only scored a fifty-seven. And then we separately filled out six applications and wrote the obligatory Why I Want to Go to Your School essays (“I want to go to New York University because New York is the financial capital of the world…I want to go to Stanford because San Francisco is the technology capital of the world…I want to go to the University of Miami so I can have a perma-tan…” Kidding about that last one. Sort of).

I was accepted by four of the six, including LWBS, Winsford University’s business school, one of the top business schools in the country. Wayne didn’t get accepted anywhere.

Wayne then told me we were getting too serious. He wanted space. I want to take a break, he said. I need to focus on my future, he said. But then I found out that what he really wanted to focus on was my friend Cheryl.

No, we’re not friends anymore.

I hope he and Cheryl have a nice, happy, uneducated life together.

I decided to come to LWBS anyway. Why not? I begged my dad to loan me tuition money. I would find myself a new boyfriend. The ratio of men to women here is three to one. Three to one. I read somewhere that single women should head up to Alaska, but this is a billion times better. And a billion times warmer. Well, not that much warmer; it’s Connecticut, not Florida.

In the mirror on my closet door I see that the eyeliner around my eyes is smeared, making me look as if I’m auditioning for an anti-smack ad.

At least my nose is perfect. My father bought me this nose for my eighteenth birthday. I begged him for that, too. In the tenth grade the boys in my class used to rank the girls. I got eight out of ten in personality, seven and a half for body, and five for face. I spent the rest of the day crying in the girl’s rest room.

If pre-nose job my face was a five, post-nose job, I’m at least an eight. In three to one B-school, where the average woman cares more about a flawless résumé than a flawless complexion, my eight translates into at least an eleven.

I should clean up in this place.

I slip on a pair of shorts and look for a sleep shirt. My ripped class-of-2001 college shirt? Nah. That’s best left hidden from the public eye. Instead I squeeze my latest acquisition, a new aqua T-shirt patterned in miniature Playboy Bunnies, over my head. It brings out the blue in my eyes and shows off my curves. I bought it specifically to be my wear-to-the-bathroom-in-the-middle-of-the-night-in-case-I-run-into-a-hottie shirt.

I look slutty. But in the good way.

My head starts to pound. I shouldn’t have brought Jamie back to my room. What was I thinking? I wasn’t thinking. I was wearing beer goggles.

“How many MBAs does it take to screw in a lightbulb?” he asked me.

“I don’t know,” I said, finishing what was left of my drink.

“Trick question—MBAs won’t do manual labor.”

For some reason (too much beer?) I thought he was funny and I thought, that’s what I need. Wayne isn’t funny! I need someone funny! Then I felt his hand on my arm and I thought: This is it. He’s the one! I met the one on my first day, lucky me! When he asked me if I wanted to get some air, I was elated. And then when he said he was in Block B like me, that sealed the deal.

Thank God I didn’t actually sleep with him. I’d be branded as the class slut. And not in the good way. Hopefully he’s embarrassed by his performance and he’ll keep his mouth shut.

I slip my enormously revolting size-ten-and-half feet into my pharmacy-bought flip-flops. I exit the closet to see that the flabby half-naked man is unfortunately still sprawled on my bed. Then I open the door to my room. It groans. I jiggle it back and forth in an attempt to cause an ear-exploding screeching sound and thus rouse him from his post-orgasm nap.

CREEEEEAK.

Light from the hallway floods the room, but his eyes don’t even flutter.

Shaped like the letter H, the dorm is made up of a hundred and twenty rooms, thirty on each floor. I live on the northwest side of the top story. I slip into the hallway and quickly close the door behind me to shield any potential hookups who happen to be passing by from seeing my exposed new classmate, then maneuver my way around the sharp corner in the hallway toward the bathroom. The coed bathroom is in the dash in the middle of the H. I push open the bathroom door to three sinks, five toilet stalls and three showers. Apparently people spend more time peeing than washing.

One of the showers is occupied. So far I haven’t met any of my neighbors. Is it a guy? A hot guy?

What would he do if I took off all my clothes and sneaked in there with him?

He’d run his hands down my body, telling me how gorgeous I am.

Yeah, right. He’d probably be repulsed by my seven-and-a-half-rated fat ass.

I open the door to the stall against the wall. Since I moved in yesterday, I’ve tested all of them. I think I like this one best, since it means I get one potential stall neighbor instead of two. It’s one thing to be in the shower with a hot guy; it’s another to be sandwiched between two strangers while you’re peeing.

My stomach feels queasy at the thought of a guy in the stall next to mine. There’s no way I’d be able to pee. And what if I fart? I can’t fart with a guy next to me. What if it’s smelly? I can’t deal.

Again, what am I doing at business school?

I flush and wonder if the shower just got cold. The water stops, and I take a deep breath, compose myself and prepare to meet my future.

Maybe a six-foot, brown-eyed, big-smiled, dimpled god of manhood with a tiny white towel around his waist (he’ll be slightly bronzed) will slide open the shower stall door, water dripping down his naked chest. He will smile, maybe say hi, and the two of us will start talking. Maybe we’ll stand in the bathroom for ten or so minutes, and then, so immersed in the conversation, we’ll stop in the hall to talk some more, sharing and baring our souls until dawn, and just as the sun pours through the hall window onto the faded stained beige carpet, he’ll kiss me gently on the lips, tell me I’m beautiful and wrap his arms around me. I’ll pull the keys out from my pocket, pull him into my room…

Oh, yeah, Jamie.

Jamie is going to ruin everything. First my reputation and now this.

The god of manhood is still in the shower, probably drying himself with that itsy-bitsy towel. I hurry over to the sink and turn on the water. His first impression of me can’t be in front of a toilet.

The man of my dreams turns out to be a tall and voluptuous woman in a maroon terry-cloth bathrobe, a matching towel perched on her head, holding a pink basket filled with at least two shampoos, three conditioners, numerous unidentifiable bottles, an electric toothbrush and a shower puff. Damn.

She sets her cosmetics down beside one of the sinks and pulls out her toothbrush, toothpaste and floss. “Hi!” she chirps as she rolls the bottom of her Crest tube and applies an overdose of paste to her brush.

“Hi,” I say. “Nice privacy in here, huh?”

She nods enthusiastically. “It’s pretty good,” she says, and turns on her toothbrush.

Yikes. I was being sarcastic. Where did this broad grow up that she thinks this is private? On an airplane? “I was kidding,” I say, and splash some water on my face. “We’re like animals in here.” Maybe that’s why they call it the Zoo. If only Wayne were here for me to live with…those with domestic partners are eligible to live off campus. Bastard, Wayne.

“It’s not ideal,” she continues. “I was trying to be positive. I’m concerned about the excessive bacteria.”

“Uh-huh.” What is she rambling about? Damn. I forgot my cleanser and toothbrush in my room. I point to her face wash. “Can I use some of that?”

She spits into the sink, rinses. “Of course.” She squeezes a drop into my palm. Maybe she doesn’t want me touching the tube in case I have bacteria. “One of my nannies always said that the trick to having good skin is that no matter where you are, you have to wash your face before you go to sleep, every single night. I’m Layla. You?”

Her nanny? I’ve never liked girl-bonding, and getting info about this broad’s nanny is just weird. Most of my friends have been guys. Except Cheryl, and look how that turned out. I don’t trust women. “Uh, Kimmy,” I answer. My voice sounds a bit strangled, I think.

The girl smiles, reapplies her toothpaste and sticks the toothbrush back into her mouth. A blond strand slips from her head towel and into the foam.

I pat the creamy cleanser over my face until it’s thick. Just as I lean to wipe it off, the door flings open. There stands Jamie, shirt unbuttoned, hairy, flabby chest protruding, beige pants haphazardly done up.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he says, strutting into the bathroom. “I was wondering where you were. You okay? I’m zonked. I’m going back to my room to sleep.”

I know I don’t like him, but that doesn’t mean I want him to see me looking as if I’ve dunked my face in whipped cream. Why does he want to go back to his own room? What, now he doesn’t want to spend the night? Did I do something wrong?

“See you later,” I say as he strolls toward one of the stalls. His urine tinkles into the toilet bowl.

Shower girl gives me a nod and then leaves. She must be judging me, thinking I’m a stupid slut for hooking up with someone on the first night.

Bitch.

Tuesday, September 2, 12:30 a.m.

jamie wants a replay so he can amend his foreplay

I bang the palm of my hands against the walls as I sprint down the hallway. Who knew I’d be the business school stud?

I hit the jackpot.

Fine, I might have hit the jackpot a little earlier than intended, but Kimmy didn’t care. And I’ll make it up to her next time and then some.

Kimmy could have taken home any of the guys at the beer bash, but she chose me. The shmuck in the corner. My dream girl. Almost. My dream girl is Deborah Messing, but Kimmy’s a close second. And I was in her room. In her bed. In her pants. Okay, on her pants. And on her comforter, but that’s not the point. Why was it so easy for me? I wouldn’t hook up with me if I were a girl. I don’t get it. (Actually, I did get it, which is what I don’t get.)

Russ and Nick, the guys I met yesterday, decided to go out for wings before the party, but I declined. I wanted to get a head start checking out the ladies. Who there weren’t too many of. After a dozen rounds of hand shaking and “Hi, I’m Jamie Grossman, I’m from Florida, I used to work in hospital management, and you?” I switched it up to keep the night lively. I was Jeremy from Iowa, former accountant. And then Bill from Dallas, former gun retailer. I even added a modest twang for effect. My mother had been wrong. The college drama course I’d taken was good for something.

The party was a total sausage fest. In the common room, the three couches shaped like a horseshoe around the big-screen TV were swamped with men. For the occasion, welcome signs and sagging balloons in the school’s royal-blue had been taped to the freshly painted white walls, which probably destroyed the paint job, but who cares?

After my fiftieth introduction, a few bowls of pretzels and four plastic glasses of lukewarm Coke, I was bored. Most people were piss drunk, which only heightened their pompousness. Making conversation was like talking to a parrot on Prozac. The people I met couldn’t have cared less about what I had to say. They only wanted to talk about themselves. Which was probably a good thing. I don’t want them to know too much about me anyway. They may start getting suspicious about what the hell I’m doing here.

I don’t drink. Alcohol makes me depressed and stupid. I prefer my screwups to be done on my own merit. Like failing my first semester of college because I was too in love with Mia Brottman to go to class, or getting fired from my first postdropout sales job because I told my boss he was a dickhead. (He was a dickhead.)

Anyway, the party was lame. And I was exhausted—I only slept about four hours last night after driving for twenty-four hours from Miami and then partying all night. I was deliberating escaping to my room to relax and watch a DVD. I have three hundred in my room. I am a major movie buff who has wasted many a day enjoying theme specific marathons, such as a Clint-Eastwood-athon, Three-Stoogesathon, etc. (Which might have contributed to my failing my first semester that year.) But as I swallowed the last drop of flat Coke in my cup, in walked a movie star.

A pint of cold beer to a group of men who’d been chomping on salted pretzels all night, she was wearing a purple silk wraparound top that exposed a liberal expanse of glistening cleavage. Brown curls framed her creamy face, swirling onto her shoulders. I wanted to run my hands over her voluptuous behind.

I had to talk to her. I was in lust. I maneuvered my way so that I was standing near her, and then, when she looked sufficiently bored with the computer nerd beside her—“D-d-do you know that integrated wire-l-l-less LAN de-de-devices…”—I jumped in with a joke.

A few drinks (flat Coke for me, beer for her) and several jokes later, my hand was firmly on her arm. And then I asked her to get some air.

Love that. Air. A euphemism for let’s get it on.

When I told her I was joining Hillel, the Jewish campus organization, and she said she was thinking of checking it out, I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her.

Gorgeous, in business school and Jewish. My mother would be so farklempt.

Then we were sitting next to each other, almost touching, in the courtyard behind the dorm. She was chewing a piece of gum and I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the sexy way her lips weaved with each bite. I felt like I was in my own porno movie.

Me: Is that the real color of your eyes, or are they contacts?

Her: Real. Do you like them?

She blew out a bubble and then sucked it back into her mouth. I wanted to be the piece of gum moving in and around her lips. I wanted to be that bubble. And when she turned away from me to stretch her legs onto the bench beside her, polishless toes pointed, feet arched—holy foot fetish, I had to have this woman. I couldn’t stop myself from lightly kissing the back of her neck. When she tilted her head toward me, smiling with her juicy, bite-able mouth, I leaned forward and kissed her, savoring the mix of beer and cherry gum in her mouth.

She grabbed my hand and led me up the stairs to her room. She lit a musky scented candle and turned off the lights. I pulled her shirt over her head, then unfastened her black lace pushup bra and let it drop to the floor. A set of gorgeous breasts stared up at me, their nipples like headlights in the dark.

“Good evening,” I said to them.

She unbuttoned my shirt, and then nibbled, bit and kissed my neck, shoulders, chest, nipples, stomach…and then she unfastened my belt, unzipped me and pushed me onto the bed.

I ran my fingers through her hair.

She sat up and licked her lips.

I was as hard as a mezuzah. Which she hadn’t put up on her door, I noticed. I decided that maybe now was not the time to discuss her religious values. Especially since if she wanted to have sex we’d have to do it soon. The cork on my little man was about to pop. “Do you have a condom?” I asked. Or begged, to be more precise.

“Yeah, one sec.” She leaped off me, her fantastic breasts jiggling, opened her desk drawer and pulled out a Trojan. Wow, we’d just moved into the dorm—she must have unpacked them right off the bat. My kind of woman.

She leaned beside me and licked her hand, and used it to play with me while she opened the condom wrapper with her other hand and her teeth.

She had to stop. Don’t stop. Stop. Her hand felt so hot. Don’t stop.

Oy.

I came.

She surveyed the damage. “It’s okay. Not a big deal.”

What a sweetheart.

So tired. Needed to rest my eyes for just a moment. Took a nap. When I opened my eyes, she was gone. And I was still exhausted. I found her in the bathroom, said good-night and headed to my room.

And now, here I am, inexplicably wide-awake, pounding my hand against the bathroom wall. I love B-school. Who knew? I want to scream out to the world how much I love this place. But I don’t want to tell anyone why. I’m not the type who boasts. I can hold my tongue, just not my cum. Ha-ha.

Maybe I should U-turn to Kimmy’s room for another go. Nah. I don’t want to overwhelm her, or, God forbid, appear too eager (I already scored too high in the eager department). I can wait until tomorrow. We have all year to shtup. Tonight was just a warm-up.

But I’m too hyper to sleep. Should I watch a movie? Or read? I have a drawer full of movie scripts in my room. I’ve been buying and reading scripts of famous movies since I was ten and I wanted to be an actor.

Nah. I’m suddenly too hyper to sleep.

Maybe Nick and Russ are back. Instead of making a sharp left to my room, I hang a right toward the southeast side of the dorm, hoping they’re still up.

Still up? Under the circumstances, I should probably rephrase that.

12:32 a.m.

russ floats and forgets

I’m contemplating taking off to call Sharon so she doesn’t go ape-shit, when someone knocks on Nick’s door. “Who is it?” Nick asks, eyeing the glass tube of hash on his desk.

“Jamie,” a deep, low-pitched voice responds.

Nick inhales from his joint and then exhales out the open window. “Come in.”

“Good evening, gentlemen.” Jamie pushes open the door and nods at Nick on the computer chair, and then at me. I’ve made myself comfortable, sprawled across the wooden floor. Oh, man, I’m way too relaxed. My arms, legs and ass are numb. I try to raise my hand in a wave, but find that my body won’t cooperate. Instead my fingers feel like they’re floating on the floor.

“Russ?” he says to me. “Are you conscious?”

Jamie’s voice doesn’t match his body. He’s like an Ewok with Darth Vader’s set of pipes. His rumored sexual prowess doesn’t fit, either. Do women really go for the geriatric look?

He looks at the TV. We’ve been watching the security video. Some rich alumni donated the money for a camera in the entranceway, and now anyone with a TV in his room can watch the entrance on channel two. Sure to provide hours of stoned entertainment.

Nick rolls his chair over to Jamie, then slaps him on the back. “Whassup with you, Mr. Stud?”

Jamie smiles coyly. “Great time at the beer bash, I tell you.”

“You got action, eh?” I say, attempting and failing to lift myself up by my elbows.

“How’d you know that?”

Nick laughs. “People talk, dude.”

I’m not crazy about the word dude. Too wanna-be surfer-boy. Nick’s from California, so maybe he’s allowed. His pale skin and skinny body, however, suggest that the only kind of surfing Nick does is for porn.

But he’s a good guy. A cool guy. He has a guitar in the corner of his room, and cigars on his desk. I’ve always wanted to be friends with the “cool” guy. After making a small fortune at a start-up five years ago and then blowing most of it on two failed ventures, he decided to invest in an MBA.

As for me, I’d planned on coming to B-school since I started watching Family Ties and wanted to be Alex P. Keaton. Later, I wanted to be Bill Gates. I also wanted to be a superhero but decided that Bill was the more realistic role model. And I wouldn’t have to wear tights. I slaved over my B-school application for months and then agonized for even longer while I waited for the schools to get back to me.

I met Jamie and Nick yesterday. They came up to school one day early to settle in. I came one day early to attend the international student orientation. Canadians should not have to sit through a four-hour international student orientation. I learned how to use American money. Thanks. The international student orientation also taught me that in Amerika, people have to tip. No shit.

The only entertaining part of the boredom marathon was the bit about greetings. The lecturer asked two male students, one from Brazil and one from Japan, to come up to the podium and say hello as if they were at a business meeting. The Brazilian guy jumped the lecturer and kissed her cheeks. The Japanese man bowed and wouldn’t go near her. She then taught us that in this wonderful country, you shake hands. Thanks again.

After a full day of more useless instruction, I headed back to my room, pushed my duffel bag off my slightly stained mattress and stared at the wall, feeling overwhelmed. As I lay on the bare, squeaky mattress, I congratulated myself on finally getting here. Of course, I’d paid a price. I’d given up a top-paying consulting job in Toronto. And left my girlfriend. And taken out a massive loan.

Hoping that someone would come by and make me feel better, I left the door open. Ten minutes later Jamie stood just outside my room. When he invited me to join him and Nick in wandering around, I gladly accepted. Nick and I quickly led the group to the closest bar, where we got pissed.

We’d sat together at the dean’s welcoming address today. Nick had occupied himself by reading the Wall Street Journal on his PDA while Jamie checked out the women and promptly fell asleep.

I listened in awe, rubbing the felt of my chair with adoration and amazement. I was sitting in a top B-school auditorium. I was finally here. A B-school student majoring in…well, I don’t know yet what I’m majoring in. There are so many amazing choices. Finance, Marketing, International Business, Entrepreneurship…

“You are the future Fortune 500, the future entrepreneurs of America, the future CEOs of the world,” the dean had told us, sending chills through my spine. I had expected him to look more like Dumbledore from Harry Potter, but he looked more built than wizardly, with his wide shoulders and buff upper torso. Kind of like The Hulk. Sharon would have thought he was hot.

Oh, man. Sharon. “I gotta take off,” I say, carefully rolling myself off the floor. I don’t want to touch the tissues strewn around. I’m not sure what’s in them.

Nick pushes me back down. “Come on, dude, finish this joint with me.”

Why not? I’ll stay a few more minutes. Arm officially twisted, I inhale, hoping it’ll help me sleep. I’ve been too excited to get any rest. “So,” I say to Jamie, “while we were at the sports bar, you were getting laid, eh? We stopped by the beer bash, but someone said you’d left with a chick.”

I pass the joint to Jamie, but Jamie motions it away and grins. “Your information is correct, Russ. I did leave with someone, but I don’t like to kiss and tell.”

Nick boots up his sleek-looking laptop. “What’s her name? Was it the tall blonde?”

“Nope.” Jamie sits down on the corner of the desk. “Oh, why not. Her name is Kimmy. She just got here today.”

“I’m going to need her last name, dude.”

“Kimmy Nailer.”

“Come on!” I laugh. “Nail-her? That’s her name?”

Nick clicks away on his keyboard, and I peer onto the screen. “Are you going to Google her?” I ask.

“Much better than that, dude.” He clicks on to the LWBS Web site. Then he clicks on to a section labeled Calling Card. A list of names pops up on the screen. “Every person in our class is on here. With photos.”

“Why are some of the names purple and some blue?” I lean toward the screen to take a better look. “Why are all the girls’ names in purple?”

“Because I’ve checked them all out,” Nick says.

“Someone’s been busy.” Maybe that’s what the tissues were for.

“Hey, Jamie Grossman,” Nick says, then pauses. “Why don’t you have a picture up? I thought you might be a babe.”

The term babe might be just as annoying as dude. I prefer “chick”—Sharon hates it.

Jamie looks away. “I keep forgetting to bring it in.”

Nick clicks on Kimmy’s name. A sexy brunette with significant breast exposure flashes across the screen. Nick whistles. “Nice work, dude.”

I nod. “Hot.” Too bad it’s not a full-length picture. Nice top. She’d look great in matching tight white pants. Love it when women wear white pants. Don’t know what it is about the white, but it turns me on.

Nick clicks on me. I’m making my best “I’m serious” face. I got a haircut specifically before taking the picture and put on my favorite suit and tie.

“Bet you were wearing jeans underneath that jacket, Russ,” Nick says. “Like everyone does.”

Now why didn’t I think of that? I wasted a clean pair of pants. Stupid. I have a twenty-thousand-dollar tuition loan over my head, and dry cleaning is a splurge. I nod so I don’t look like a moron.

Nick clicks back to Kimmy Nailer. “I didn’t think babes like her went to B-school.”

“They do,” Jamie says. “And she’s mine, so keep your grubby hands off.”

“You two already a couple?” I ask.

He half nods. “Working on it.”

“That sucks,” Nick whines, kicking the side of his bed, jolting me. “I wish we hadn’t gone to Moe’s for wings. Then I could have had a crack at her. That rack is A-plus.”

I shrug. “I thought the wings were A-plus.”

“What do you care?” Nick says. “You have a woman.”

Jamie looks down at my hand. “You married, Russ? I don’t see a ring.”

Married? Oh, man. “No wife,” I answer. “Girlfriend.”

“Serious?”

“Pretty serious.”

He accidentally knocks over an empty binder from the desk, then leans to pick it up. “Do you date other women?”

“No.”

“Even if you don’t tell her?” Nick asks, eyebrow raised.

“Never have.” Nope, never cheated on Sharon. And since Sharon was my first real girlfriend, that means I never cheated on anyone.

She wasn’t thrilled with my plan to come to the States. She didn’t understand why I couldn’t go to B-school at home. There are some great schools, like Western and U of T, but I’ve always dreamed of going to an American top ten. I promised her I’d come home after I graduated. Go back to my old job or get a better one in Toronto. She’s not a big fan of living in the U.S. Hates the health-care system, thinks the corporations run the place. Her family is all in Toronto, and she wants to buy a house next door to her sister, get married and have kids. Lots of kids. There are pictures of other people’s babies all over her apartment.

I take a longer look at the hot chick’s cleavage. What if I come across a BBD (translation: Bigger Better Deal)?

“What’s your girlfriend like?” Jamie asks, making me feel like shit.

“She’s…she’s great.” Then I lower my gaze from the cleavage to the clock on the bottom right side of the screen. What kind of jackass am I? I’ve been in school for one night and I’m already looking to trade up? Did Clark Kent try to trade up Lois Lane when he became Superman? Don’t think so.

I stay slumped on the floor for the next while, imagining myself metamorphosing in a phone booth. It’s a bird, it’s a plane, it’s B-schoolboy!

One-eleven. Shit. Sharon’s going to murder me. “I gotta go.”

“See you tomorrow,” Jamie says.

Nick continues clicking on his female classmates’ attributes. He zooms in on the breasts of a woman named Lauren. “I heard this babe is bi. Later.”

When I return to my room, I immediately pick up the phone and punch in Sharon’s number. One ring. Two. Three. Clank, clank. Smash. Clank, clank. “Hello?” She sounds more drugged out than I am. Not that she would ever smoke pot. She hates when I get high, even though she’s the one I tried it with in college. She thinks that now that I’m a professional I should act mature. I haven’t smoked in a long time, and probably wouldn’t have if I hadn’t met Nick. Thing is, it relaxes me. Stops me from worrying. Helps me sleep. I’ve got to keep my voice steady so she won’t be able to tell. Luckily she’s not here. My thumb and index finger still smell of it.

“I woke you, eh?” Of course I woke her. Sometimes I’m such an ass.

“What do you think?” she murmurs.

“Sorry, hon. Go back to sleep.”

“No, wait. How was your day?”

I lie back on my unmade bed. Crunch my head against a pillowcase stuffed with T-shirts. I forgot to bring a pillow. I don’t know how I did since pillow was definitely on the Do Not Forget list that Sharon made for me. Sharon makes a lot of lists. They’re taped all over her apartment. Floss is also on her list. Which I didn’t forget because my dentist made me promise I’d floss every night. Unfortunately, I did forget to do it last night and tonight.

“Good,” I say. Voice remaining steady. “We had orientation. Hung out with the same guys I met last night. Took a campus tour. A library orientation. Set up our Internet. Got our class schedules.”

“Yeah? How is it?”

“Monday and Wednesday I have Organizational Behavior at nine, Accounting at ten thirty, Statistics at one…one…one-thirty.” My body has sunk into the mattress, and I feel numb again, but I continue talking. “Tuesday and Thursday it’s Strategic Analysis at ten-thirty—that’s a sleepin. Economics at one-thirty, IC at three. But IC is a half-semester course, so it only runs until the end of October.”

“What’s IC?”

“Integrative Communications. Presentations and stuff.”

“Sounds fun.”

She’s being sarcastic, but the truth is, I’m excited. “Fun, fun, fun.”

Silence. “Did you smoke?” she accuses me.

Oh, man. “No.”

She sighs. “You swear?”

“No.”

She sighs again. “You have to stop. You know what pot does to your attention span. School’s for real now.”

“What?”

“Your attention span, Russ.”

“I know, I know. You’re right.” She is right. What am I doing? When I smoke I have no attention span. I can barely remember five minutes ago. Where was I five minutes ago?

“So no more?” she says.

“No more,” I promise. She’s right. I can’t screw this up. She’s always right and I’m an idiot. “How was your day?”

“Good. I prepared. Tomorrow is my first day of school. I’m giving my grade-ten class a surprise pop quiz on the details leading up to Confederation. They’re going to thrilled.”

At sixteen I wouldn’t have cared what test a hot teacher like Sharon gave me as long as I could keep looking at her. Thank you, miss, may I have another? With my zit-infected face and scrawny pipe-cleaner body, watching her teach would have been the most action I’d get. “But it’s only the first day,” I say, regaining my senses. “A test already?”

“If I don’t whip them into shape at the beginning, they’ll walk all over me.”

“Wanna come over and whip me into shape?”

She laughs. “Is that an invitation?”

“What do you think?” Don’t think she’d be too impressed with the saggy single bed, shit decor and hike to the showers.

“You miss me already, don’t you, Russ?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I figured. Okay, I’m going back to bed.”

“Good night,” I say. “Good luck tomorrow.”

“You, too.”

“Thanks. We meet our Blocks in the morning.”

She yawns. “Good. And, hon?”

“Yeah?”

“Can’t you call me slightly earlier tomorrow?”

I knew I was going to get flak for that. “But you told me to phone before I went to sleep.”

“I did. But it’s a school night. You should be going to bed earlier.”

“Sorry. I won’t call you so late tomorrow.”

“Good. Go to bed now, okay? Love you. Be good.”

“Love you, too.” I press the end button on the cordless.

Now what? Clock says 1:40. Still excited about tomorrow. And worried. I thought pot is supposed to make me sleepy.

Maybe I’ll visit Nick. Oh, yeah. Already did that. Maybe I’ll call Sharon.

8:45 a.m.

layla applies herself

I’m pacing outside the door to the Carry the Torch Committee office on the third floor of the main MBA building, the Katz building. I’ve been here for forty-five minutes. Someone better arrive shortly or I’m going to be late for orientation. I’d sit on the floor to wait, but who knows when someone last swept the hallway.

I hear the click-clack of a woman’s heels coming down the hall. A short redhead in a black Theory suit turns the corner…finally. Yes!

I stretch out my hand. “Hello, I’m Layla Roth and I’m here to apply for the committee.” You can judge people by their handshake. Firm means strong personality, trustworthy. Limp means weak, whiny. The woman’s hand is flaccid. No matter. I still intend to apply. My mentor at Rosen Brothers Investments did this job when he was in business school, and I want to do it, too. It sounds fun. The committee chooses ten people to read over next year’s applicants, and I want to be one of those ten.

The redhead looks as though she’s surprised someone is waiting for her before nine in the morning. “Layla, like the Eric Clapton song?”

“Yes, like the song.” If I earned a dollar for every time someone refers to the Eric Clapton song when I introduce myself, I wouldn’t have to work a day in my life. Not that I could stand not working. Not that I have to work for financial reasons. But what would I do all day? Volunteer for the Salvation Army? Please.

“Well, Layla, you’re my first applicant. But you didn’t have to wait for me.” She points to a box marked Applications beside her door. “That’s what the mail slot is for.”

What if everyone else handed them to her in person? What if I crammed my application inside the box and she didn’t check? What if it got stuck to the side of the box, like a chewed piece of gum, and was never seen again? Just in case, I’ll take the extra two minutes, thanks. “I prefer to introduce myself.”

She tilts her head and smiles. “Aren’t you a go-getter! I’m Dorothy. Nice to meet you.”

We chitchat for a few minutes about school, and I peek inside her office while she turns on her lights and boots her computer. I give her my application, then shake her hand—firmly—and say goodbye.

In the elevator I glance at my Rolex. I meet my Block in an hour! The back of my neck tingles with excitement. I can’t believe this day is finally here. I’m going to be surrounded by kindred spirits. Imagine, networking every day. These are the people who will help me find jobs, help me move up the corporate ladder. These are the people who will one day rule the world, the people who will one day hire my children who will one day rule the world.

These are my people.

I stop at the admissions office to pick up my schedule. I already reviewed it online, but I want to have the original hard copy to post in my new room.

The next time I glance at my watch, it’s nine-twenty. Forty minutes! I’d better get a move on if I want to get a good seat in orientation. I stop at the women’s bathroom, which isn’t coed and therefore less germ infested. The bacteria propagation is the one thing I’m not looking forward to about the coed dorm. I’ve never shared a toilet with a man, and I’ve heard it’s not a pleasant experience. When I lived at home, my mother always complained that my father had lousy aim. Good thing they have his and hers bathrooms. And a housekeeper who takes care of the spills.

I squat over the toilet so I don’t have to touch the seat. Who knows how often they’re disinfected? Then I flush with the heel of one of my new Prada shoes. I wash my hands, retie my long blond hair into a pony off my face and take a paper towel to protect my hands from the microorganisms on the door handle.

Last week I did a virtual “First Day” walk on the LWBS Web site, so I know precisely where the orientation is being held. Room 107. The door is open, the ten-row auditorium empty. Eager to begin this next stage of my life, I sit in the front row and set my plastic name card at the front of my desk.

“Was that online Economics workshop really, um, necessary? Because I didn’t do it.”

I do not believe the guy in the back row. Isn’t it a little late to be asking a question of that nature? I did the workshop back in June. And it took me thirty-three hours. Poor boy. He’s going to be so lost.

The second-year student leading the orientation fingers the mole on his cheek. “It’s a good way to brush up on your skills,” he says. His voice cracks like a twelve-year-old muddling through puberty. “But I don’t think it’s something that will be tested.”

Oh. But still. I’m glad I did it. I learned a lot, and that’s the point.

“If you have no more questions,” our mole-leader says, “we’ll move on to the get-to-know-you exercise.”

Yes! At last, an activity designed to help us bond with our classmates. I wish I could have been here for the beer bash last night, but one of my best friends back home was having a birthday party, and I couldn’t miss it. So I drove in late last night, and went directly to my room to start decorating. I hope my fish, Martha, likes her new home. I put her right by the window so she gets lots of sunlight. Yes, I named her after Martha Stewart, and I don’t care what anyone says, I’ll defend her innocence to my death.

The second-year leader walks through the rows, passing out index cards. “Please write down your name, where you’re from, where you worked and an interesting fact about yourself. Then pass up the cards and I’ll read out the information. Stand up when I say your name. And then to lighten the mood, please tell your Block something embarrassing that happened to you.”

Being a leader next year would be a fantastic experience. So would the Carry the Torch Committee. I’d be able to help shape next year’s class. Maybe I should drop by the office again after orientation to reiterate how badly I want to be part of the program.

I must stop obsessing.

The Japanese woman with dyed orange hair sitting to my left looks dazed. I begin writing the information on my index card. She taps me on the shoulder. “What I do?” she asks.

Poor girl. How is she going to manage this year? I show her my sheet. “Name. Layla.” I point to myself. “Where I’m from. Manhattan. Job. Rosen Brothers Investments. Interesting fact.” I haven’t answered that question yet.

“Oh! Thank you.” The girl smiles and nods. “My English not so good.”

“Don’t worry. It will be.” I have to think of an interesting fact and something embarrassing. Can it be the same thing? What if I can’t think of something? How embarrassing! Could I use that?

Let’s see now. Embarrassing…embarrassing…The time I was supposed to introduce a guest speaker in the third grade and was so overcome with stage fright that I refused to go? No, can’t say that. I don’t want them to think of me as the girl who cracks under pressure. After that little disaster, I forced myself to be in two performances to conquer my fear, and I did just fine. What about the time at summer camp when I was a counselor and had so much to drink that I passed out and wet my pants (so they said) in front of the five other staff members who later had to take me to the infirmary? As if I’d admit to that.

When everyone has passed up their information, the mole-leader begins to randomly read out names. I try to pay attention but instead think about my Carry the Torch application. It was good. Perfect. There’s no reason for me not to make the cut.

“Jamie Grossman,” the mole-leader says, “is from Miami. He worked in management at the children’s ward at Miami General, and of late was a freelance reporter.”

That hospital sounds familiar. What have I heard about it? The mole keeps talking but I can’t concentrate. Where do I know that hospital from? Oh, right. From a deal I worked on when I was at Rosen Brothers. We merged two hospitals. Recommended a bunch of layoffs. I wonder if he was one of the “superfluous” personnel. Perhaps why he became a freelance journalist? That’s what I hated most about my job. Knowing my recommendations often ended with people getting axed. What can I do? That’s my job. I’m in mergers and acquisitions. And that’s where I want to go back to after I graduate. That’s where they’ll pay me the big bucks. And I get to wear those cute Chanel suits.

I daydream about putting on my favorite Chanel suit. I love my Chanel suits.

“Kimberly Nailer.”

Suddenly there’s whispering and rustling from the back row. Kimmy, the woman I met in the bathroom, stands up, and the male students in the back row give each other knowing looks.

Tell me I didn’t see that. I’ll give the men here the benefit of the doubt and assume they’ll be treating women as equals and not as second-class citizens or as sex objects. I wave to Kimmy as she stands up. I’ll always stand behind my fellow females. Thirteen years at an all-girls school teaches you to take pride in the sisterhood.

“Kimmy is from Arizona and worked in leasing. An interesting fact about her,” the mole-leader continues, “is that she was in a TV commercial when she was a baby.”

Lighthearted laughter wafts through the class.

“What’s your embarrassing fact?” the leader asks.

Kimmy blushes. “They were diaper commercials.”

That is so cute. Do I have anything that adorable? True, calling attention to one’s bare behind probably isn’t the way to curtail the sex-object problem, but still, everyone will remember her, and isn’t that the point?

She sits down, and the leader continues listing names.

“Layla Roth.”

I jump from my seat and stand at attention.

“Layla grew up in Manhattan and worked for Rosen Brothers Investments. Her interesting fact is that her mother was one of the first women to graduate from the Leiser Weiss Business School. What’s your embarrassing moment, Layla?”

Someone in the back row is humming the tune to the Clapton song.

“I was in London when I was nine, and I was at a party that Princess Diana was also attending. When it was my turn to meet her, I was so overwhelmed I couldn’t speak. My parents had to take me home.” I shiver at the memory.

“So you never met her?” the leader asks.

“Oh, I did, but not until four years later at a benefit.”

I loved Diana. Instead of pictures of Kirk Cameron, I had posters of the princess of hearts up on my wall. Not on my wall proper, obviously—the tape would have ruined the paint. I thumbtacked them to the corkboard inside my closet.

Ah. That’s what I forgot to buy. A corkboard for my schedules. Dorothy had a terrific one in her office with a gorgeous chrome frame. I must remember to ask her where she got it when I inquire about the job.

She must have read my application by now.