Monkey Business. Sarah Mlynowski
Читать онлайн книгу.
the ones you’ve had were jealous of your beauty and talent,” I say, and wink.
She laughs and pushes her soup bowl away from her. “Maybe.”
I blow her a kiss. “Unlike the other profs, at least she didn’t give an assignment for Wednesday.”
“I know,” Russ says, shaking his head. “I bet we get just as much work tomorrow,” he complains. “Better start my reading now. But first I’m getting a bag of chips.”
Yes, Russ, why don’t you go study…somewhere far away, maybe?
“So what are you doing tonight?” I ask, once Russ is safely away from the table and in the food line. “Want to see a movie?”
“I…we have a ton of reading to do,” she says.
Not what I wanted to hear. I was looking for a more positive response, like maybe, “Sounds fabulous!” or dare I hope for “I’d love to be entertained by both you and Hollywood!”
“Come on, it’s only the first day of school. It’s just going to get worse, my darlin’. Enjoy it while you can.”
“That’s true. Maybe. Where’s the movie theater?”
“Only a ten-minute drive away. It’s just past the Children’s Hospital, if you know where that is.”
“You have a car at school?” she asks, leaning toward me.
“Yeah,” I say smoothly. Score! Who doesn’t want to date the guy with the car?
Russ slides into the seat beside Kimmy and slashes open his bag. A ketchup cloud wafts above the table. “Chip?” he offers.
“No, thanks,” Kimmy says.
I take a few.
Kimmy turns to Russ. “Jamie just suggested we go to a movie tonight. What do you think?”
We? What we? Who invited Russ? She and I equals romance. Russ, she and I equals group goes to movie.
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