No one’s going to stop me from getting what I want. Not my dad and not Sharon. And not my period, since I’m still taking the pills.
As soon as Russ saw me, he slammed my door behind him, pushed me against the wall and kissed me hard. Phew. Maybe they’re over. Maybe he broke up with her. We haven’t talked about it yet. I didn’t want to bring it up when we have so much else to worry about. (I don’t want him to think I’m a nag.) He has Stewart & Co. this morning, BCG this afternoon, and O’Donnel tomorrow. I just have O’Donnel this morning and BCG tomorrow afternoon.
A man pushes open the door. “Ms. Nailer? We’re ready for you.”
Here goes nothing. Or everything.
it’s the doghouse for russ
10:30 a.m.
I shake the interviewer’s hand firmly and sit down. We’re wearing matching Brooks Brothers navy suits, white shirts and blue ties. He’s in his forties, balding at the top of his head. He hands me a pad of yellow paper and a black ballpoint pen, then opens the black leather folder in front of him.
“We’re going to run a case,” he says. His chin disappears when he talks.
No kidding. I relax my shoulders and try to smile. I need to invoke all of my superhuman mental strength. “I’m ready.”
“How many dogs are in the U. S.?” He’s looking me straight in the eye to see if I flinch.
Oh, man. Who gives a shit how many dogs there are in the U. S.? I try to remember all that I’ve learned about answering estimation cases. They don’t expect you to get the right answer. They just want to see how you think. How you analyze the problem and come to a conclusion. First you have to show that you can clarify. So here’s my clarifying question: “Is that just domestic dogs or working dogs, as well?”
He’s still staring. “All dogs.”
All dogs. Wait a minute. Maybe he doesn’t expect a number, like 2,000,577. Maybe he wants a list of types, like beagles and boxers. What the hell do I know about dogs? Wait. Maybe I’ll be creative, and list them by function. “All right. Let’s see now. There are domestic dogs, police dogs, show dogs and racing dogs.”
“Are you sure that’s it?” he says, pointing an accusatory finger.
Am I sure that’s it? I have to appear confident. If I can’t make choices in my real life, how am I supposed to make them here?
“No. Let’s not forget hot dogs.”
He smiles.
Afterward I go straight to Kimmy’s room. She’s lying in her bra and panties. I take off my clothes and carefully arrange them over her chair. (Maybe she’ll be inspired to iron them?)
Four hours to relax before my next interview.
Relax. Now that’s a good euphemism.
I inhale her warm, vanilla smell. “How’d you do?” I ask.
She nestles her knee between my legs. “All right. I’m glad I’m done for the day.”
“Cases suck, eh?”
“Don’t laugh,” she says, “but I don’t mind them as much as I thought.”
I mess up her hair. “Did you enjoy yourself? Did you find the cases fun?”
She giggles. “A little.”
Knowing how ticklish she is, I go straight for her underarms. “Stop,” she squeals, squirming in my hands. Her hands are now under my arms, and we’re both laughing and rolling around.
I spent twenty-one years alone, and now I’m seeing two people at the same time.
Shit. I freeze.
“What’s wrong?” Kimmy asks, sitting up.
Shit, shit, shit. “I forgot seeing-eye dogs.”
second semester
kimmy’s shrinking basket
Thursday, January 22, 2:40 p.m.
“We regret to inform you that we will not be hiring you for the position of summer associate.”
Fuck. In an e-mail, too. You’d think BCG could pick up the phone to shatter my heart.
All my hopes are now on O’Donnel. All of my eggs in one consulting basket. I think the interview went well, but what the hell do I know?
Not much, apparently, according to BCG. I e-mail Russ.
You hear from BCG? I’m a no-go.
He’s sitting diagonal from me at the computer lab, but I like seeing his name in my inbox.
Ding! He says: Yeah. I got a thanks but no thanks.
Ding! An e-mail from Layla:
Hi! What’s up? I’m in the library, where are you?
Guess what? I got the second-round interview with the Manhattan Group! Not my first choice but the interview is in the city and Manhattan Group shares an office building with Lerner Investment Bank-where Bradley Green works! Maybe I’ll meet him…must go to futures and options now! XXX Layla
Layla has second-round interviews scheduled all through next week in Manhattan. And each company is putting her up at some fancy hotel.
Sigh.
On the bright side, if I have no interviews, I won’t have to miss any classes and become even more clueless.
Speaking of clueless, thank God I don’t have to take Futures and Options. It’s Layla’s elective. This semester our block has Finance on Monday and Wednesday at nine, then Marketing at ten-thirty, and GBE, Global Business Economy, at one-thirty. Today and Tuesday we have Operations at ten-thirty, and after an extralong lunch, Russ and I have our one elective, Corporate Strategy with Martin. We’ve both decided to become strategy majors. Why not? Martin’s class last semester was my highest mark, A-minus; maybe I’ll be two for two.
More classes mean more books. Beads of sweat sprout on my forehead. Books I’ll have to buy with my nonexistent money. Why is it so hot in here? You’d think the school would learn to regulate its buildings’ temperatures. The computers could melt.
I look over at Russ to see if he’s looking at me, but he’s fixated on the computer screen and typing away. He’s probably writing to Sharon. A love letter.
We don’t talk about it, but I know he’s still with her. What’s wrong with him?
Not that he has any incentive to break up with her. Why should he? This way he has his cake and gets to eat it, too. Those are Jamie’s words, by the way. Now that he knows about us, he loves to give advice. Yesterday, it was warmer than normal and we sat on the bench in the courtyard, the same one we first kissed on, and smoked cigarettes. I smoked and he talked. He said I deserve better, but I don’t know if he meant it or if he’s jealous. Either way, he said if I don’t ask for more, I’m not going to get it.
I know he’s right. I’m being an idiot. I should tell Russ to choose.
But what if he doesn’t choose me? I should dump him for doing this to me. Tell him to get lost. He’s never going to break it off with Sharon. Why should he?
He will. He’s going to break up with her. He’ll have to choose between us eventually. He can’t marry both of us.
Can he?
No, he can’t.
The clock on the bottom of my screen tells me I have eleven minutes till Corporate Strategy. I tap Russ’s computer and point to the clock.
As we’re leaving Martin’s war dungeon, Russ’s cell phone beeps.
He clicks it on to check. Is it Sharon? He gives me a thumbs-up. Is that his infantile way of telling me they’re over?
“Second interview for O’Donnel,” he says. “Do you have your cell on you?”
I left it in my room. “No.”
“Do you want to check your messages with mine?”
What if it’s a no? Then I’m left with nothing. It’s like giving Russ an ultimatum. Then the answer would be in front of me in black and white. At the moment I prefer the unknown of a shade of gray. “Not yet. Wanna grab a smoke?”
“One new message.”
My chest cavity is taking a beating from my heart. I sit on the corner of my bed, tapping my heels against the floor. I need this job. Otherwise, how will I pay back my ever-in-creasing massive debt?