Then again, I wouldn’t have pegged myself as a library girl, either.
jamie’s on fire
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.
russ ignores his conscience
Monday, December 15, 1:00 p.m.
One 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 f
ollow 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.
layla thinks she failed (again)
Thursday, December 18, 10:58 a.m.
“Two more minutes,” Flynn, the proctor/TA says.
I’m going to fail. Completely fail. How am I going to get a job this summer if I fail? It is humanly impossible for a mere mortal to answer all these questions. I still have so much more to write for this last question. My heart is racing and my hand is scribbling and I have to get this all down. Why can’t we write with computers, why why why? Paper and pen are so archaic. How am I supposed to think? To delete? To spellcheck? I should have gone to sleep earlier. I need at least seven hours of sleep to perform properly on an exam. Next semester I’m going to bed early the night before all exams. At eight.
Only four of us are left in the room. Everyone else has somehow finished. How have they possibly finished? I haven’t even started proofreading yet.
· 11a. With a squared multiple correlation coefficient of 78.6 and a standard error of 4.347, these numbers represents a better correlation than the single variable models in 1 and 2.
“Thirty more seconds.”
· 11b. As long as there is not a significant correlation between X1 and X2, a significant multiple linear regression should give you a higher r-sq and therefore a better predictor model.
“Time up, everyone. Pencils down.” One more question!
· 12. Yes. With such a high r-sq value store size is a good predictor of profit.
Done! Flynn picks up my paper. His hands are thin and hairy. “How’d you find it?”
“Impossible.”
“Layla, I’m sure you did fine.”
All my TAs and professors know my name. I ask a lot of questions.
I walk to the door, disgusted with myself. Kimmy is waiting for me outside, smiling. “Not bad, huh?”
“I failed for sure.”
“What?” She’s shaking her head in disbelief. “No way. It was everything we talked about. You knew that stuff cold. You taught it to me.”
“There was too much to write and not enough time.”
Kimmy gestures to the cafeteria, but I have to get away from school. “Let’s go for sushi,” I suggest. “On me.” I know Kimmy doesn’t like spending money when she’s already paid for the food plan. I’m getting tired of cafeteria food.
She hesitates. “I want to get to the library. What about sushi for dinner?”
“Deal.”
“I still don’t believe you failed,” she says as we enter the cafeteria. “You’ve claimed to have failed every exam so far. And you said the same about midterms and you aced them. It’s a little annoying, actually.”
She’s probably right. I do always think I’ve failed, yet I always do well. But I’m not lying when I say the exam was hard. They’re all hard. “We’ll see. You found it all right?”
I take a grilled cheese and fries and she just takes fries.
She nods. “Yeah. Not easy, but much better than the midterm.” She watches me drench my plate in ketchup. “Would you like some sandwich with that ketchup?”
“Ha-ha.” Yum.
We sit in our regular seat. Jamie and Russ aren’t here. They left the exam a half hour ago, so they probably already ate and are either studying or napping.
“I’ve been into vinegar on my fries lately,” she says, dribbling the clear shaker over her fries.
“Yeah? Why?”
“Russ does it, and now I’m addicted.”
I pop a sopping red fry into my mouth. Yum. “Let’s eat quickly so we can get back.”
I think I’ll miss the library when we’re done. Is that weird? I love the quiet, the smell, the sense of purpose. I wonder if the hotel we’re staying at in St. Bart’s has a library. No, that would be weird. To be honest, I’m going to miss taking exams. The rush. The blood pouring from my brain to my fingers. I know I always think I failed,
but I also know I won’t.
“Only one more,” Kimmy says. Her voice sounds almost wistful. Semester’s end means Russ goes back to Toronto. To Sharon.
“Only one more,” I repeat. We eat our fries slowly, as though hoping to prolong the day.
russ finishes his exam
Friday, December 19, 10:42 a.m.
Head hurts, hand hurts, who cares, I’m done. I don’t know how I did, probably not as well as I could have, but I don’t care.
I raise my hand until a proctor picks up my exam. “Have a good break,” he says.
Oh, I will. I need a break. A break from studying, from clubs, from random exam questions, from my life. Exams are so frustrating. After an entire semester, they choose twenty questions to ask. Twenty random questions. Can those really quantify my knowledge?
What I really need is a break from Sharon and Kimmy so I can figure out what I want, who I want. Wish I were backpacking with Nick in Australia for the month. Now that’s a break. He leaves for Sydney tomorrow. It’s summer there, so I guess he’ll be sitting on the beach and playing with kangaroos. No kangaroos or beaches for me. Toronto has already had three snowstorms. I’ll be shoveling, not sunning.
I grab my pencils and student card, and bolt from the room. Kimmy is still scribbling away. She’s all dressed up today, in high black boots, a miniskirt and a tight blue turtleneck. She looks hot. So what else is new?
I pick up a sandwich in the caf, zip up my coat and return to the Zoo to pack. Flight leaves at nine. I have to make some decisions in the coming month about where I want to work, Toronto or New York. Maybe I should let my job determine my girlfriend. If I return to my job in Toronto, I’ll stay with Sharon. If I’m offered something in New York, I’ll stay with Kimmy. Luck of the draw. Maybe random is the way to go after all.
Monkey Business Page 17