Monkey Business. Sarah Mlynowski

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.

      11:30 a.m.

      kimmy contemplates the random acts of the universe

      What am I doing here? Jerry, the guy sitting four seats diagonal to me started a multimillion-dollar paper company. Juan, sitting in the corner, is an international student from Colombia and has two degrees in neuroscience. The woman I met in the bathroom at the dorm is an investment banker and hangs out with British royalty in her spare time.

      I was in a diaper commercial.

      I’m not sure why I couldn’t come up with something a smidgen more intellectual than discussing my crap, literally. I am so pathetic. I must have been an admissions mistake. Stapled to a worthier application by accident. That’s the only explanation. I don’t know how I aced the GMATs. I must have gotten an easy version.

      The class is laughing now, while my knuckles are gripping the sides of my desk in panic. They’re laughing at a joke where Arbitrage Pricing Theory is the punch line. What am I doing here? I don’t even know what Arbitrage Pricing Theory is.

      Something pings me in the head. A paper airplane is nestled between my freakishly long foot and the leg of the desk. I look over my shoulder to see my nightmare from last night demonically smiling at me.

      I’ve been successfully avoiding him all morning. When returning from the shower this morning, I spotted him standing by my door, knocking and hollering, “Kimmy? Kimmy, you there?”

      I ducked back into the bathroom.

      When I heard him searching inside the bathroom, I sneaked into a stall.

      How could my potential husband have turned into my personal stalker in just twenty-four hours?

      What does he want from me? I thought all men wanted was action, and then they took off. Why was this one still around?

      I rushed into orientation, claimed a desk with my sweater and pen and then disappeared back outside. I correctly assumed that he wouldn’t be able to sit next to me if he didn’t know which desk I’d taken.

      Unfortunately, I didn’t take the law of random act of chance or whatever it’s called into account. Until he threw an airplane at my head, I’d managed to pretend to concentrate on the lecture with intensity usually reserved for a Details magazine. (I love men’s mags. Women’s are so annoying: “What do I do? My mascara is clumping!” Who friggin’ cares?) I spin around and there he is. Two rows behind me.

      The jig is up.

      The entire auditorium is ogling me like I’m butt naked. Nice work. It’s only my second day and I’m the class slut.

      I give him my best thin smile.

      “How are you?” he mouths.

      “Fine. And you?” I mouth back.

      A goofy, buoyant smile is plastered on his face. “Want to hang out tonight?” This time his mouth has sound, and the entire room is in heat waiting for my response.

      Ahhhh! What kind of question is that? Hang out? As if hang out could mean anything but hook up. If I say yes, I’m a slut. No, and I’m a bitch. It’s like I’m at a witch trial.

      Blink, blink. What to do, what to do. I skim the back row to see what the peanut gallery is expecting. And then my eyes lock with the bluest eyes I have ever seen. I feel like I just fell headfirst into a bucket of rich blue paint. They’re opaque and beautiful and I lose myself in them entirely.

      I snap back into focus and check out the rest of the man with the magical gaze. He’s wearing a blue-collar shirt that matches his hypnotic eyes, and he’s leaning forward, his elbows on his desk. Yikes, his tie has miniature Superman S’s plastered all over it. But…his hair is dark, black almost, and those piercing blue eyes—I bet he could easily play Superman in any upcoming remake.

      I’m in love.

      Okay, I know I’ve thought that before, but this time I mean it. And this time the object of my love is looking at me while I’m looking at him. I smile, then turn back to the front of the room. The best way to flirt is to make eye contact, smile and then look away. Screw you Wayne, I’ve found someone else!

      “Um…Kimmy?” Jamie asks.

      I crane my neck backward again. “Yes?”

      “What about tonight?”

      Oops. If I want to marry Blue Eyes, I can’t say yes. But if I say no, the peanut gallery will condemn me for life. What kind of girl fools around with a guy then refuses to see him? Sure, if I were a guy the act would have earned me kudos, but face it, I’m a woman struggling to survive in a testosterone terrain.

      I take a politician’s platform. “We’ll see.”

      The goofy smile returns to Jamie’s face.

      I spend the next hour looking straight ahead, feeling the hairs on the back of my neck prickle