She sips her wine, slowly, letting her lips linger on the glass. Is she trying to turn him on?
I gulp down my water. I have to get a grip. I’m not going to get the job if I keep this up. I hear the guy next to me discussing the new Spider-Man movie. That I can do. About ten minutes later, Kimmy’s friend excuses himself to use the washroom. I see her trying to catch my eye.
Yeah, right. Now she wants me? I ignore her. Let’s see what she does now.
“Did I hear you say you’re from Cali?” she asks the man across the table from her.
Cali? What’s a Cali?
“Yes, you did,” he says.
“I love California. I spent a summer working in San Diego when I was in college.”
She did? Now she’s flirting with him? I try to block her out and focus on my conversation.
People start leaving, but Kimmy is now deep in conversation with Johnny-boy. I grab my coat and hail myself a cab.
When I get back to the hotel, I call Sharon.
“Hi! I’m so happy you called,” she says. “You said you didn’t think you’d get a chance.”
Her voice sounds soft. I love her voice. I wish she were here with me. “I miss you,” I say.
“You do? You’re so sweet. How did today go?”
I miss her so much that I can barely breathe. The Kimmy-spell has been broken, dead, finito, now that I see her for what she is. “I want you to come visit.”
“Visit New York?”
I flop down on the bed, my shoes still on. “No, visit me at school.”
“Honey, you know it’s hard for me to get away on the weekends…because of tutoring and-”
“Enough with the tutoring. Call in sick for a weekend. Please?” Kimmy probably went home with Johnny-boy. Finally, my decision is made. I won’t get the job, anyway, so I’ll go back to Toronto and be with Sharon. No more lying, no more yo-yoing between them. Maybe I’ll even marry her. And have two-point-two Canadian children. Or would four Canadian children equal 2.2 U. S.?
“When?” Sharon asks.
“Soon. This weekend.”
“I can’t come this weekend! I have to book a flight.”
“So in February.”
She giggles. “Maybe I’ll come for Valentine’s Day. It’s on a weekend.”
I forgot about Valentine’s Day. “Perfect. Valentine’s Day. All settled. And you’ll call in sick on Monday, too. It’s a holiday here. President’s Day.” Maybe I’ll propose then. Forget chocolates, I’ll get her some carats.
“So tell me about tonight. How was it?”
A few minutes later, there’s a knock on my door. I ignore it. What, Kimmy’s back so soon? Did she give Johnny-boy a quick blow job in the bathroom of the restaurant? She knocks again. I ignore her again. I talk to Sharon for twenty minutes and then say good-night. As soon as I hang up, the phone rings. I know it’s Kimmy, but I pick up, anyway. “Yup.”
“What happened to you?” She sounds pissed.
“What do you mean?”
“What do you mean, what do I mean?” she shrieks. “I looked around the room and you were gone. I looked for you forever.”
“I took a cab.”
“Why didn’t you wait for me?”
“You seemed a little busy with Johnny-boy.”
Pause. “Are you joking?”
Joking? “I don’t think so.”
“Go to hell,” she says, and hangs up.
What? Now she’s mad at me? I stare at the ceiling. She can’t be mad at me; she’s the one who was flirting all night.
I touch the side of my face with the pimple. I should just pop it. One time. I won’t start picking again. I’ll just do it quickly before I change my mind.
I jump out of bed, stand in front of the mirror over the dresser and pop it.
Ah.
Let’s see. Is there anything else that needs to be popped?
Stop. What am I doing? I put my hands on the dresser and take a deep breath. I’m not taking out my anger on my face. No way. I was an ass to Kimmy, I know I was, and I’m going to go apologize.
I grab the room key and march over to Kimmy’s.
“It’s me,” I say, knocking on the door.
“Go away,” she shouts.
Uh-oh. What’s wrong with me? Why am I so evil? I’m not a superhero, I’m the evil villain. “Please let me in. I’m sorry. I was an idiot. Please?”
Pause. A few seconds later she lets me in without looking at me. Her eyes are red, as though she’s been crying.
“I’m sorry. I was a big jerk.”
She stands next to the window and looks outside. “I don’t get it. Is that what you think of me? That I’m such a slut that I go home with everyone? Do you have no respect for me at all?”
“Well, I…” I trail off. I’ve been a total ass. How could I make her feel like that? I’m the one who seems to go home with everyone. I’m the slut. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to insult you. You’re right.” I wrap my arms around her waist and feel how tense she is.
“I am right,” she says, and then turns around so we’re eye to eye. “Don’t ever make me feel like that again.”
My heart feels so heavy and all I can do is kiss her. No, not all I can do.
I lead her to the bed.
layla writes a marketing plan
Friday, February 6, 3:00 p.m.
“Can you pass me another application?” I ask Dennis.
He shuffles through the papers. “Sure, Layla. So did you hear from any of the firms yet?”
“Yup.” I stick the end of a piece of licorice in my mouth. “I got a few offers.”
“You did? From Manhattan or Silverman?”
“Both.” Plus a few others, but I don’t want to brag.
He gives me a thumbs-up. “That’s fantastic. Which one are you taking?”
“Silverman.”
We sit and read more applications. After a few minutes, I ask as casually as possible, “Dorothy, when do acceptance letters for prospective students go out this year?”
She looks up from whatever she’s reading. “I think they’ve already started going out.”
“I’m curious if some of the applicants we reviewed were accepted.”
“You can check if you’d like.”
“I can?” I wasn’t going to ask, but if she’s offering…I have to know if he’s coming next year. “I’m just curious.” I finish reading the application on my desk. I don’t want to appear too eager.
Twenty minutes later I stretch and slowly make my way over to the main computer. I add a yawn to show how not excited I am about checking my prince’s status.
I’m still furious with myself for freezing up in Manhattan. I should have forced myself to meet him. What in the world was my problem? I won’t let it happen again.
I perch on the computer and lean into the screen. No need for everyone to see what I’m looking at. Maybe I should search one of the other applicants first. Whatever happened to Tom Price? The guy who claimed he would be thrilled to go to Stern?
I type in “Tom Price.” He’s been…rejected. He must have felt awful when he got the letter. The thin envelope in his mailbox. Poor boy. How could I help destroy someone’s dreams? I type in Bradley Green. A letter was sent to his apartment, informing him that he’s been…accepted! Accepted! Yes! Next year he could be here with me! In the Zoo! That would be amazing. Let’s see-if I remember correctly from his application, he applied to four other schools: Columbia, Harvard, Wharton and Stern. Let’s say he got accepted to three of them. That means there’s a twenty-five-percent chance he’s coming here next year! Of course, LWBS is ranked lower than the other four. If both my parents weren’t alumni, I might not have come here.
Let’s say there’s a ten-percent chance he enrolls here. Ten percent. I can’t wager my future on ten percent.