“Go on a romantic ski resort vacation in Montreal!” the computer cries out to me. Fireplace. Hot chocolate. Cuddling. Lots of cuddling. Skiing. French. It’s like going to Europe but much, much closer. Canada it is. I have always wanted to go to Canada. Really. Mountains. Clean air. Fun. How cold can it be? I’ve always wanted to learn to ski. Slaloming down the mountain. Sexy. In one of those sexy ski outfits. Tight and impractical. Look, I’m a ski bunny! Skiing in Montreal it is. And there’s a last-minute special.
At ten, Jamie comes by looking for Russ and his part of the assignment. “He said he’d have it done by five,” he moans. “It’s due tomorrow.”
“He’s almost done,” I lie.
“Tell him I’m going to bed early, and that I’ll put it together during lunch tomorrow.”
At eleven, yes eleven, Russ knocks on my door. “Do you think I can finish the assignment tomorrow?”
Is he joking? “Russ, you need to get it to Jamie tonight.”
He fidgets with a pimple scar on his cheek. He’s been breaking out a lot lately. What’s wrong with him? “That’s slightly problematic,” he says.
“Look, why don’t I help you with it? It won’t take more than an hour.”
We work on it until one. He keeps glancing at his watch.
“What?” I ask. “You turning into a pumpkin?”
“I just want to start studying for tomorrow.”
Oh. My. God. “Did you just say start? It’s 1:00 a.m.! Are you crazy? Why didn’t you tell me you haven’t started? Why haven’t you started?”
“I’ve been busy.”
“I’ve been busy, too, but I still managed to study for my midterms. Especially the one tomorrow, which let me remind you is worth twenty percent.”
He looks at his watch again.
“Go,” I say. “I’ll finish this and send it to Jamie.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
He kisses me on the lips. “I love you.”
I love you? Did he just say the L word? He looks surprised that he said it. I don’t know if he meant to, but it’s too late. It’s out there, suspended in the air like potent cologne. He loves me. “I love you, too.” Mission officially complete!
jamie’s muse makes him miserable
Thursday, March 11, 11:38 a.m.
I finish my Operations midterm and hand it in. “Have a great week, Professor Sholtz.”
“Thanks, Jamie. You, too.”
And that’s it. Another half a semester gone. Three-eighths of my postcollegiate education is over.
Layla is still scribbling away with furious intensity as I pass her on my way out. She’s shaking her head angrily as she always does during a midterm, which is her way of claiming that she failed.
Yeah, right.
Now, how to enjoy my next week? Oh, right. Torturing myself with visions of Layla screwing Kermit. And looking for a job. I’m excited by the idea of working for a movie studio. I don’t know what it is about Layla. I think she might be my muse. Before I met her, everything seemed like a waste, a joke, and now I want to do something with my life. Make something of myself. Partly to impress her, but mostly because she makes me want to be a better man. Where’s that line from? Oh, As Good As It Gets. See, I’m made for the movies!
I pretend to use the Internet terminals in the hallway while I wait for Layla to finish writing her exam. Ten minutes later, I spot her and wave.
“I failed,” she says.
“Sure you did.”
“I didn’t have time to finish! How could he give us only an hour and a half to answer eleven questions? It’s absurd.” She’s wearing her hair in a high bun, and tendrils are framing her face.
“Absurd.”
She laughs and leans against the terminal. “I have to pack.”
“What time are you leaving?”
“As soon as I can.”
“Last chance to spend the week here with me. It’s going to get crazy here at the Zoo.”
She laughs again. Thinks I’m kidding. Thinks I don’t really want her to stay. She pats me on the head and says, “You sure you don’t want to go home? It’s going to be lonely here. Do you know that Kimmy and Russ are going to Montreal?”
“Quiet will be good for me. It’ll make me focus. So tell me, how’s Kermit?”
“So far so good. He’s the type of guy I could fall in love with.” She shivers. “Saying that out loud just scared the crap out of me.” She kisses me on the cheek. “I must go pack. Your job over the vacation is to find yourself a career. Got it?”
“Got it.” I watch her and her bag roll away and I feel like crying.
russ is annoyed
Tuesday, March 16, 8:00 p.m.
Kimmy squeezes into the hotel bathroom, hogging my space. “Russ, which shirt do you like better?” she asks for the third time.
Oh, man. “That one.”
She sighs, apparently exasperated. “Before you said you liked the other one.”
I’m rubbing gel in my hair, trying to decrease my head’s static. In the mirror I look like a porcupine. It’s our second night at a boutique hotel in Old Montreal. Tomorrow morning we’re going up to Mont Tremblant to ski. At the moment she’s contorting her body so she can see herself in the mirror behind me. I move, so she can have a full view. Again. “Yes, because you look good in everything.”
“No, I don’t. I looked like a fat cow in that one.”
Kimmy is constantly criticizing her body and her looks. “You do not look fat.”
“So you’re saying I look like a cow? I should never have eaten that poutine today.”
“I told you it was filling.”
“Who eats fries, cheese curds and gravy? It’s disgusting.”
“You, apparently.” She felt differently while she was inhaling it.
“I hate this shirt,” she says. “I’m changing.” Ten minutes later, she’s still changing. I’m sitting on the bed, flipping through the channels. TSN. CTV. CBC. Good old Canadian television. I miss my channels. I miss Peter Mansbridge.
“What do you think of these pants?” Kimmy asks. “Does my ass look big?”
I keep my eyes trained on the TV. “No.” I don’t understand. If she didn’t like the way any of her clothes looked, why did she bring them?
“You’re not even looking.”
Oh, man. I look at the clock. “Are you almost ready? We’re going to miss our reservation.”
“I’m trying. I’m trying to look nice-for you.” The last segment comes out as a sob. She storms into the bathroom and slams the door. What is her problem? Why is she acting like such a baby? She comes out, five minutes later, eyes red.
I turn off the TV. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
Then why is she crying? I don’t get it. When Sharon was pissed, she told me. “Fine.” I’m not going to fight with her. When she wants to tell me what’s wrong, she’ll tell me.
She changes back into the first outfit she tried on.
“You look great,” I say, meaning it.
“No, I don’t. Let’s go. Do you have the room card?”
“Yes.” I stop her with my hand as she opens the door. “You look great, eh?”
She smiles. “Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“Thanks.” She kisses me and we head out the door, only ten minutes late.
I ask the concierge how to get to the restaurant.
“You can walk, monsieur,” he says. “Eez only tree block down.”
The cold air attacks us as soon as we step outside. “Why can’t we take a cab?” Kimmy whines. “It’s freezing out here and my feet hurt.” She hasn’t stopped complaining about the cold or her feet since we got here.
Oh, man. “Why didn’t you wear the hat we bought you yesterday?”