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I try to catch Russ’s eye to mime the signal that he should say no. That subtle male clue would be me frantically shaking my head.
He says, “Sounds good.”
He’s killing me here. “I thought you wanted to get a head start on your work.”
“It’s only going to get worse, eh?”
Bastard.
8:50 p.m.
kimmy’s double date
“Running late?” I say to Russ as he passes me in the bathroom. Please don’t cancel. Please don’t cancel. I’m leaving the shower stall, and he’s on his way in. I’m holding my towel securely to me. But not too securely. If he wants to tear it off, I won’t stop him. Although he’ll probably scream in horror at my fat ass.
Russ is holding a green towel around his waist with his left hand and a two-in-one bottle of shampoo and conditioner in his right. His stomach is exposed. One, two, three, four…five…six. Yup, that’s a six-pack. “Just a little late,” he answers. “But don’t worry. I won’t leave you alone with you-know-who.”
He’s coming. Oh. My. God. He’s coming. “You’ll protect me?”
“Be honored to.”
Take that, Wayne! I have a date!
I’m still smiling when I get back to my hovel. I’m smiling and dripping. Problem number thirty-seven with the coed bathroom is that I can’t wrap a towel over my head. No one looks sexy with a towel wrapped around her head. You also can’t look sexy in a bathrobe. Which is why I didn’t bring one. Only towels for me. Ones that perfectly reach from just above my breasts to my mid-thigh. They’re also the perfect thickness. Thick enough to keep me warm, but thin enough not to add extra padding to my mid-body problem areas.
Guys love dripping hair and exposed skin.
I discard my towel onto the floor and then realize that the flimsy shade is open again. I keep forgetting to close it. My window faces the dark courtyard, so pretty much anyone sitting outside having a butt just got a nice look at my butt.
First I spray perfume in all the places I’m hoping to be kissed. And I am hoping to be kissed tonight. On my date. My movie date. My first B-school date. Kind of. If you don’t count that three of us are going. Two guys and me. Could be worse. Could be two girls and a guy. I did that once when I was in college. Me, my college boyfriend and another girl in one of our classes. It was my boyfriend’s idea. I wasn’t interested in the girl in the slightest, but it was his birthday and I wanted to be the coolest girlfriend ever. He bragged to all his friends, and then I was the sluttiest girlfriend ever.
What to wear, what to wear. I wrap my towel around my hair, and choose a thong, my best jeans, a padded bra and a low-cut blouse. I don’t have many variations of outfits, but I buy what works. Same with makeup. I own a red lipstick, a black mascara and a bronzer. And that’s all I need. I’d love to use eyeliner, but putting anything near my pupils scares me.
Maybe Jamie won’t show. I’m hoping that Russ had a chat with him, explained the situation and told him to fake a cold, that he’s getting in the way. I know we hooked up last week, but it’s time to move on.
I’m pretty sure Russ is interested. After the hour at the gym yesterday, we grabbed dinner together. And today, even though we didn’t sit together in class, we had that connection going on. That aware-of-each-other connection. I’m not hallucinating—I caught him staring four times. And then we sat together at lunch. And then in Stats. And then we went to the gym this afternoon. And then he asked me if I wanted to get dinner. And now we’re seeing a movie. If he were any more interested, he’d be wearing a red flag.
At ten past nine, I fly down the stairs as quickly as one can in two-inch heels. I hate these things. I spot Jamie in the entranceway, waving from behind the glass. He’s wearing a Marlins baseball hat. Nice try—attempting to cover his bald spot.
Not only is he coming, but he’s early. No surprise there. He was early in bed, too.
I open the door and ask, “Where’s Russ?” Did he change his mind? Oh, no, oh, no. Maybe Jamie begged him to stay home. Yeah, right, begged him. Listen to me, I think men are begging over me. Who do I think I am, exactly? Aphrodite? I stand up straight, sticking out my chest in case anyone important is watching their TV monitor.
“I don’t know,” Jamie says, glancing at his watch. “He still joining us?”
Why does he ask that as if he’s expecting Russ not to show up? Did the two of them have words? I’m about to cry when I spot Russ through the glass. He’s now fully clothed, unfortunately, but still looks hot in jeans and a button-down shirt. His hair has some gel in it. He put gel in his hair for me. He likes me. He’s trying to impress me. I could have an orgasm right here. Metaphorically speaking, that is. I’ve never actually had one.
But that’s a topic for another time.
Our thighs are touching. It’s subtle but happening. He’s sitting on my right and is slightly slanted in my direction, and I’m slanted in his direction and we’re touching. And not by accident. No one touches by accident. His thigh is purposefully pressed up against mine. Saying hello. Our ligaments made contact about four minutes ago, during a preview for a movie in which Kate Hudson and Matt Damon play opposites who fall in love.
Thigh, make nice to your new friend, Thigh. The heat being generated by the gentle touching of our denim is unbearable. I must rip off his clothes. I simply must!
Something to my left is talking and poking me in the shoulder. “I’m getting popcorn. Want to come with me?” Jamie asks.
“No thanks,” we both say.
He shrugs and creeps down the row.
“The previews are my favorite part,” Russ whispers, distributing shivers all over my ear.
“Me, too,” I lie. Previews are a waste of time. I want to get to the good part. But I’ll agree to anything Russ says. Want to have sex right here? Okay. Want to lick the gum off the underside of my chair? Sounds delicious.
Keanu Reeves does some sort of high-tech tae kwon do move on screen. “Doesn’t that look cool?” Russ asks. Then the next preview starts. “I definitely want to see this,” he says.
I can’t help but laugh. “You’re a marketer’s wet dream. You want to see everything.”
“Can’t help it. They all look good.”
“That’s because you only see the best part of the movie. You don’t have to sit through the boring dialogue, bad editing and predictable plot.”
I feel his eyes on me instead of the screen. He’s going to tell me I’m nuts. Instead he says, “That’s an interesting way of putting it.”
He is so close. I can smell the M&M’s on his breath.
Is he going to kiss me? I think he’s going to kiss me. Now. Any second.
Suddenly there’s a thump in the seat beside me.
“Russ, you greedy bastard,” Jamie says, stuffing his mouth with popcorn. “You have to leave some women for the rest of us.”
Huh? What does that mean?
Russ withdraws back into his seat, like a scared turtle into his shell.
“He’s not being greedy,” I say. Why does Jamie think he owns me?
“Yes, he is. He has Sharon to whisper to during movies. He can’t have you, too.”
Sharon? What’s a Sharon? Any chance Sharon is his sister? This preview is really interesting. So interesting I think I’ll keep staring at it. Yup. Keep staring. And not look as though I am upset or surprised in any way whatsoever.
Jamie continues chomping on his popcorn, inadvertently spurting out both kernel remnants and more information. “So Russ, how long did you say you and Sharon have been going out?”
Nail. Slammed. Deeper. Into. Heart. Russ has a girlfriend. I’ve already named our children, and he has a girlfriend. Maybe they’re not serious?
“Hasn’t it been since college?” Jamie says, answering his own question.
Russ shifts in his seat. His thigh is no longer touching mine, but is a continent away. I cannot cry. I cannot cry. That would be pathetic. Not more pathetic than me imagining he was interested in me in the first place, but pathetic nonetheless.
This had better be a short movie. Or a sad one.
I will stare straight ahead. Beautiful, tragic movie screen.
The movie starts and I continue staring ahead.
“Do you want some popcorn?” Jamie whispers to me.
“Sure, thank you,” I say in a seductive voice, just loud enough for Russ to hear. Ha. You’re taken? Fine. Then watch me flirt with Jamie. See how you like that.
My fingers accidentally touch Jamie’s and a smile twitches his face. Uh-oh. Maybe this isn’t a good idea.
“Where do you think they filmed this?” Jamie asks a few minutes later. A kernel remnant lands on my ear.
Who cares? “New York.”
“Yeah? I was thinking Montreal. Isn’t that the Olympic Stadium?”
How should I know? “Maybe.”
“I think it is. I love Montreal. It’s so European. Have you ever been?”
No. And I never will. I now hate Canada and all Canadians. Especially Russ. Jamie better shut up. If he keeps talking throughout the entire movie, I won’t be able to properly fixate my thoughts on Sharon. Sharon. She sounds like a bitch. I bet she’s blond.
Jamie’s still staring at me. “Have you?”
Have I what? Oh, right. Montreal. “No.”
Definitely blond. With dainty feet. Men love small feet. I bet the guys in her high school ranked her a ten. The entire package, I mean. Her feet are probably size six.
I hate B-school.
Tuesday, September 9, 10:40 a.m.
layla makes a good impression
I love B-school.
And I would love it exponentially more if Professor Martin stopped spitting on me. But he appears to love what he teaches, Strategy, and that’s what’s important.
He’s wearing an army hat. This is because he is trying to make the point that business is war, which is written in block letters on the blackboard and on the class agenda, lest we forget.
As usual, I’m sitting in the front row. This time, I’m regretting the seat choice due to Professor Martin’s tendency to spit every time he uses the letter P.
Kimmy seems to be enjoying the class even less than I am. She looks horribly uncomfortable in the front row, and keeps reclining her neck as though attempting to get away. She’s wearing a look of distaste, as if the maid forgot to empty the kitty litter. And she’s not even taking notes. I suppose she’s planning on borrowing them later from the library, where the professors keep them on file.
All the men around me are eagerly leaning forward in their seats, enjoying the war metaphor. I’m finding the environment mildly testosterone heavy.
“Do you people understand?” Professor Martin spits, waving his hands. “Your competitor is the enemy. You must be prepared to fight for every consumer dollar and every point of market share or you will not prevail in business.”
Too bad I’m a pacifist. Why do men think everything is about war?
Yes! The bell rings, and I head to the computer terminals to check my e-mail. The application committee was supposed to get back to me early this week. It’s Tuesday. Today is the last possible day for it to still be considered early in the week. Tomorrow is the middle of the week. I type in my e-mail address and password. My password is always the same. It’s the license plate I memorized off a cab when I was five, thinking that the driver was the gray-haired man who had killed his wife in that week’s episode of Unsolved Mysteries. I wanted to call the show, but my then nanny wouldn’t let me.
In my inbox: five e-mails from my best girlfriends back home in the city, a bunch of e-mails from the LWBS administration regarding class add/drop dates, a reminder about my ten-year high-school reunion this summer (for which I’m on a committee), an article featuring my mother in Woman Entrepreneurs, forwarded by her secretary.
Not in my inbox: a message from the applications committee.
Bummer. I IM with the girls for twenty minutes, wash my hands in the bathroom to cleanse myself of computer germs, and use a paper towel to open the door. I need to buy more of those antibacterial wipes. I’m already out. In the caf, I buy a burger and a Sprite, then search for a familiar face. I look for people in my work group, but can’t find anyone. They’re extremely competent, but they don’t like to socialize. Two of them are married and live in off-campus housing. The third is the orange-haired Japanese student, who mostly hangs out with the Asian student association.
I spot Kevin, the last member of my group, sitting by himself in the corner, rubbing his eyes. He’s always rubbing his eyes. And I’ve seen him do it right after he opens the germ-infested classroom door. In Japan, they hand out warm towels to wipe your hands on before you eat. Kevin could use one.
“Mind if join you for lunch?” I ask. He wouldn’t be my first choice for a meal partner, but I’ll give him a chance. “Ghjkhjh,” he says, mumbling something. He pushes his tray to the side to accommodate me, so I assume that’s a yes. Obviously I didn’t ask him to be part of my group because of his conversation skills. A former accountant for Ernst & Young, he’s a whiz with numbers.
“Are your eyes okay?” I ask, biting into my hamburger.
“They’re itchy.” Small bits of pus line the rims. He continues rubbing. His fingers are streaked with ketchup. Then he stops, picks up a French fry and licks the ketchup off his finger. A few seconds later, he’s rubbing his eyes again.
“Hjkghfj,” he says, and then eats another French fry.
I seriously need to make some LWBS girlfriends.
Professor Rothman is extremely handsome. He’s almost six feet tall and has sandy-blond hair. And he’s in his mid-thirties, tops.
Who knew professors could look like this?
For the first time, all the women in the class are sitting in the front two rows.
Rothman lifts his muscled arm and writes GDP = C+I+ (X-M)+G on the blackboard. I copy the new equation.
“Does anyone know what the letters represent?” he asks.
I raise my hand. “The C signifies consumer goods. The I signifies investment goods. The…” Think! Think! I know this! “The X-M signifies exports minus imports and the G signifies government spending.”
“Well done,” he says, and smiles. Wow. That’s what I want. A gorgeous, intelligent man. A man who knows his numbers. I look away and continue taking notes. He’s talking too fast to stop. I’ve already written eleven pages, and my hand is starting to hurt. I can’t believe he’s teaching so much in the first class.
The bell rings, and I finish the sentence. I insert my notes into the second section of my Tuesday/Thursday binder, then hole-punch and add the sheets he handed out at the beginning of class. I hope I didn’t miss anything.
“Professor Rothman?” I ask, waving my hand toward him, and a smile lights up his face.
“You can call me Jon,” he says, and then looks at the nameplate that’s still on my desk. “Miss Roth.”
“I’m Layla,” I reply. He’s so approachable! “Will videotapes of your lectures be available at the library?”
“Yes, the videotapes will be available.” He rubs the back of his arm against his chin. “And I would also like to tell you that your contribution today was excellent.”
Yes! “Thanks, sir. I mean, Jon. I’ve always enjoyed working with unknown variables.”
“I’m looking forward to having you in my class this year.” He continues to hold my gaze. All right. Time to look away. Why isn’t he looking away? I smile, look down, close my binder, zip up the rolling bag I bought so I wouldn’t strain my back and roll it down the hall.
