Читать книгу Monkey Business - Sarah Mlynowski - Страница 23

Tuesday, September 16, 5:35 p.m.

russ goes to war

Dribble. Dribble. Big breath. I shoot, I…

Miss. Oh, man.

“You suck, Russ,” Nick says.

“Shit.” I jog toward the basket.

“You see that net, up there?” he says, pointing. “The ball is supposed to go through it. Through.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“Had enough for today?”

I nod. Don’t think I can speak. “I’m too old for this.”

“Gimme a break. You just need some practice, dude.”

I empty a bottle of water down my throat and follow Nick outside the gym. The fall air attacks the sweat on my arms and face.

“Wanna go for a beer?” Nick asks.

“Can’t. Made plans to study with Kimmy.”

Nick raises an eyebrow. “So have you fucked her yet?”

I trip on my shoelaces. “Excuse me?”

He laughs. “You two have been spending a lot of time together. Just wondering what’s going on.”

“Nothing’s going on. I’m a taken man.”

He chuckles. “If you say so.” When we reach the second floor, he says, “Same time tomorrow?”

“You got it,” I say to Nick’s retreating figure. I climb the rest of the way on my own, thinking about his other question.

Kimmy and I have been spending a lot of time together. But nothing is going on. Nothing. Who’s to say I can only make male friends at school? I’m supposed to be networking. We’ve been hanging out for legitimate purposes. Studying. Reading. Working out. Nothing sketchy.

And she knows about Sharon, thanks to Jamie. I was going to mention it eventually, honest, but it’s not something you can easily work into the conversation without sounding like a hoser. Thanks for the movie invite. Did I mention my girlfriend Sharon really likes movies?

I unlock my room, grab a towel, shampoo and soap, and bolt to the bathroom. As the hot water pummels against my back, I tell myself for the umpteenth time this week that I’m not doing anything wrong. There is nothing wrong with having a close female friend.

I’m full of shit.

She wants me—didn’t she say so at the gym?—so, yes, it’s wrong to spend so much time with her. It’s wrong to lead her on when I don’t want her.

I’m so full of shit.

Last night I dreamed we were having sex in Professor Martin’s class. We were actually under the desk, our combat uniforms strewn all over the floor.

I am an asshole. I am the hugest asshole. (But it was a good dream.)

In the dream, under her khaki soldier’s clothes she was wearing what she’d been wearing when we studied together last Tuesday night: a black tank top with red bra straps peeking through. Instead of studying, I spent the entire evening imagining what the rest of the bra looked like. I was thinking the lacy, see-through kind. Maybe with a pair of matching red panties.

When I stopped by her room last Tuesday night to borrow her books, she suggested that we work together in one of the study rooms in the library. I thought, why not. Might be more fun. And there we were. Two people, a man and a woman, in an enclosed room. With the door closed. And no windows. And a big, brown table. I wondered if anyone had ever had sex on that table. I pictured us having sex on that table.

We were supposed to read two cases, one for Organizational Behavior, one for Stats. I skimmed the pages, but it was hard to concentrate when she smelled like vanilla and lemon, like something in my mom’s kitchen.

I shower slowly, enjoying the memory. Eventually I turn off the water, wrap my towel around me and return to my room. Then I pick up the phone. I told Kimmy I’d call her when I was done with basketball.

“Hi, this is Kimmy, can’t come to the phone. Leave a message and I’ll call you back.”

Her voice sounds sexy, smooth then rubbed with sandpaper. I leave a message and pull on the jeans that were crumpled on the floor, the ones that already have my belt in the loops and my change and credit cards in the pocket. My plans with Kimmy are for around five, and it’s five on the nose.

If it hadn’t been for Sharon meeting me, liking me, convincing me to go see a doctor about my skin and kicking my ass into the gym, a girl like Kimmy would never look twice at me.

Where’s my gel?

The phone rings. Must be her. At least she didn’t forget.

“I was waiting for you,” I say, finding the bottle under my desk and rubbing some in my hair.

“You were?” says a familiar voice. Sharon’s.

“Oh, hi,” I say, startled. Sharon. Sharon. My girlfriend. Remember her? The girl who was always there for you? I am such an ass wipe. “I had a feeling you were going to call.”

“Yeah? You must be psychic. What’s up?”

“Not much. Just got back from playing ball.”

“And tonight?”

I wipe the gel residue on my jeans. “Studying, maybe.”

“Good idea,” she says. I doubt that. Then she adds, “I miss you.”

Maybe she can sense my wandering eye. “I miss you, too,” I mumble.

Knock, knock. Oh, man. “Shar, someone’s at the door, I gotta go. Can I call you later?”

“Who is it?” she asks.

At the moment, I’m hoping Nick.

But no. Voice from behind the door. “Russ? You there?” Kimmy.

“One second,” I say to the door. Then I say to the phone, “I have to go.”

“Where are you going?”

“To study.”

Kimmy knocks again. “Russ? You inside?”

Oh, man. I have a pain in my arm, and I think I could be having a heart attack. Breathe. So I’ve been flirting. Big deal. No harm in flirting.

“Who are you studying with?” Sharon asks, relentlessly.

“Just some guys,” I answer. Now I’m lying. I’m not just flirting. I’m lying and flirting.

“Okay, call me tonight.”

“Will do.” I try to keep my voice upbeat and blameless sounding.

“Be good. Love you.”

“You, too.” I leave out the love in case Kimmy can hear. Not sure what else “you, too” could mean. Good luck? You, too. Have a good dinner? You, too. Have fun screwing around? You, too.

Now I really feel like an ass. After all she’s done for me, how can I flirt with someone else? I can’t treat her like this. No more private study sessions with Kimmy.

I open the door and find Kimmy in combat clothes, slinging a rifle over her shoulder. I blink and the vision disappears.

She’s wearing that black tank top with the red bra straps peeking through.

Oh, boy.

“What do you say we go for a beer instead?” I ask.

She smiles. “Sounds even better.”

“I think Nick wants to join us.”

A cloud passes her face. “Lead the way.”

My alarm doesn’t go off when it’s supposed to. My eyes pop open at ten to nine. Oh, man. How did I do that? I check to see if there was a power failure. Nope. Apparently I set my clock for eight p.m. instead of a.m. Good job.

I jump out of bed. No time to shower. Need clothes. I can keep on the same boxers, since I just put them on after I showered last night. Sharon hates when I don’t change my boxers in the morning, but what’s the point if I showered the night before? She goes through three pairs of panties a day. One in the morning, a thong at night, and then a clean pair to sleep in. Who has time for that kind of laundry?

Eight fifty-four. I can’t believe I’m going to be late for class. I’m never late for anything.

I zip up the same jeans I was wearing last night, and throw on the closest available T-shirt. Did I wear that yesterday, too? I think I wore that yesterday. It smells like I wore it yesterday.

Ready. Must brush teeth. No time to floss. There’s never time to floss. I rummage through the papers on my desk, looking for my toothpaste and toothbrush, then sprint to the bathroom, brush, pee, shove my stuff back in my room and sprint to class. Professor Matthews is about to slam the door, when I rush in.

Kimmy waves from the back row, and I weave through the desks and sit beside her. “You were almost late,” she says.

“Had some trouble getting out of bed.”

“No kidding,” she says. She looks at me with speculation. “How come? We didn’t get back that late last night.”

I don’t answer. We left the bar at around twelve-thirty. But then I hung out in Nick’s room smoking joints and watching the security monitor till two. Then I called Sharon. We were on the phone till three, and then I tossed in bed till four-thirty.

I slump into my seat. Should have picked up coffee.

Kimmy starts to doodle on the piece of blank paper on my desk. “Are you going to the club fair at lunch?”

Club fair, club fair. “Will there be rides?”

“A Ferris wheel in the center of the cafeteria,” she deadpans.

The door creaks open. Jamie waltzes in, coffee in hand. He scans the room for a seat, and climbs up the stairs toward the back. Matthews is watching him, steam shooting from his nostrils.

Kimmy taps me on the arm with her pen. “So, are you coming to the club fair?”

What the hell is a club fair? “Definitely.”

By that afternoon, I’ve signed up for the American Marketing Association, LWBS Intramural Basketball, the Entrepreneurial Club, the Microbrew Society, the Ice Hockey Association and the Consulting Association. I think I might be overdoing it. But they all sound interesting, eh?

We’re in the main hall of the Katz building, and there’s no Ferris wheel. But there are desks set up against each wall, with groups of second-year students manning them, hollering at passing first-years to join them. There are at least eighty clubs, and it’s like I’m in an electronics store and all the televisions, radios and CD players are tuned into different stations at full blast. How can there be so much to meet about? And why did I just sign up for all of them?