Me: Actually, I did find something. Your contact gave me a bunch of names. I’ve decided I definitely want to get a job in movies. And I’ve spoken to a few production companies. They all seem interested, but none of them want to pay me. I’d be a kind of intern, aka slave laborer.
Layla: With half an MBA you shouldn’t be working for free.
Me: It’s not always about the money.
Layla: You’re right. You are so right. I love that you’re following your passion.
Me: (She’s my passion. Maybe I should start following her.) You do?
Layla: I have a confession to make. I’m jealous that you’re not going for the money, that you’re going to do something you love.
Me: (What I’d love to do is you.) You love what you do.
Layla: I love working. But I wish I worked somewhere where I could make a difference, instead of pushing papers and million-dollar deals that don’t mean anything.
Me: What would be your dream job?
Layla: Remember Danielle Grand? The executive director of the Girls Group in Danbury? I would like to do what she does.
Me: So why can’t you do that?
Layla: Because I already have a job. And you don’t get to wear Chanel suits at a nonprofit. And-this is going to sound horrible-working at a nonprofit just feels like such women’s work.
Me: Excuse me?
Layla: It’s such a stereotype. Like teaching. My sister is in Teacher’s College. And I’m disappointed in her. I thought she could do better.
Me: (I hate that she said, “I thought she could do better.” For sure she’d never go out with me.) Teaching shapes the minds of our youth. Isn’t that one of the most important jobs there is?
Layla: I know, I know. Rationally, I know. But I would still worry about people putting down what I did, like it was some kind of woman’s hobby. (She sighs loudly.) Isn’t that dumb?
Me: Yes. Do you want to be a banker?
Layla: My mother is a banker. My father is a banker.
Me: That’s the worst answer I ever heard.
Layla: (Laughs.) I love working. I’m just not crazy about the projects I work on. (She sighs again.) Let’s talk about something else. So is it quiet there? Empty? Is it weird?”
Me: It is weird. Like that scene in Vanilla Sky when Tom Cruise is walking through an empty Times Square.
Layla: I loved that movie. So what did you do all week?
Me: I instant-messengered my mom. Never show a lonely mother how to use the Internet. She’ll use it against you.
Layla: My mother wouldn’t have time to IM me. She works twenty-five-hour days. But if we didn’t communicate by e-mail, I would never hear from her.
Me: What about your dad?
Layla: Same.
Me: You must have seen them this week while you were in New York.
Layla: Nope.
Me: That’s so sad.
Layla: Isn’t it?
Me: Were you a lonely kid?
Layla: I had my sister. And my friends. And my work. Yeah. I guess I was. (She laughs again.)
Me: Maybe you want to be a banker because you think it’ll bring you closer to your parents.
Layla: (Pause.) That’s very astute of you, Jamie. Maybe you should look for a shrink job instead.
We stay on the phone until I look out the window over my bed and the light has started to eat its way over the empty campus, turning the sky vanilla.
layla’s epiphany
Sunday, March 21, 7:00 p.m.
I can’t wait to see Jamie. He’s funny and sweet and smart and passionate, and he organizes book drives.
I pull my car into my underground parking spot and take a deep breath.
Jamie’s the one.
He’s perfect for me. He gets me. I don’t know how I didn’t realize this before. As soon as I see him, I’m going to tell him. No, I’m going to throw my arms around him and show him. Unless he’s still in love with Kimmy.
How silly of me, encouraging him to go for Kimmy when he’s so perfect for me.
I shift the gear into Park, grab my bag and lock the door. If only the Zoo had a valet. Or a doorman. This is taking too long! I have to know if he feels the same way I do.
I sprint out of the garage, into the Zoo and up the stairs, run right to his room and pound on the door. “Jamie! It’s me! Open up! I have something to ask you!”
From behind the door I hear, “You want the truth? You can’t handle the truth.” He’s watching A Few Good Men. I love that movie. See? We’re made for each other.
He opens the door and I throw my arms around him.
“Hello to you, too,” he says, looking vaguely flabbergasted by my greeting.
“Are you still in love with Kimmy?”
He snorts. “Noooo. Why?”
Before he can say anything else I tilt my head down and kiss him hard on the mouth.
He just stands there.
Oh, no.
He doesn’t want me. What did I do? I didn’t even stop to think, I just did it and…wait a sec. He’s kissing me back. Yes! He’s kissing me back! His tongue explores my lips, my mouth, my tongue. Tingles explode down my face and neck and chest and arms. He tastes sweet, like ice cream.
It’s a perfect kiss. I knew it. I am so clever. I pull away and smile.
He looks shell-shocked. “If that’s how you say hello after a week apart, what will you do after summer vacation?”
“I have no intention of keeping you in suspense,” I say.
russ gets busted (and drags kimmy down with him)
Tuesday, March 23, 12:30 a.m.
I’m high and lying on Kimmy’s bed.
“I found a great sublet in the West Village,” Kimmy tells me.
“Yeah?”
“It’s a one-bedroom, and it has large windows, and a rooftop patio with a charcoal barbecue. How amazing is having a barbecue?”
It does sound amazing. I want a charcoal barbecue. I haven’t even looked for an apartment yet. “Wanna shack up for summer?”
I can see the possibility rolling around in her mind. Come on, Kimmy, say yes! I want a barbecue!
“Why not?”
I love how spontaneous she is. And I love that she doesn’t care that she did all the work. Truth is, I’m not sure if I love her. I know I told her I did, but I didn’t mean it. I like her a lot, and I’m in lust with her, but-love?
She kisses me and I forget what I was worried about.
I walk in fifteen minutes late to class, and sit in the spot Kimmy reserved for me.
She points to her watch. Thanks, Mom. She can’t get over the fact that I’m late to every class. I pat her on the knee. She pats back.
The trip was great, except for her excessive how-do-I-look and do-you-think-that-chick-is-hotter-than-me whining. How is someone so awesome so insecure?
Sharon wasn’t insecure. Shouldn’t think about Sharon. Can’t stop thinking about Sharon. Did I make a mistake? No. Kimmy is right for me. We’re moving to the same city. We’re working at the same place.
When there are only a few minutes left of class, Professor Martin pulls out a stack of assignments from his briefcase. “The class average was a seventy-three, which isn’t too impressive,” he says. “Apparently the majority of you failed to understand the difference between synergy and leveraging.”
I don’t even remember the assignment. Not a good sign.
I brace myself for a low sixty. I couldn’t have failed. I assume that if you bother showing up you deserve a passing grade. And I’ve shown up. Some of the time.
Martin hands back the assignments. Hands back every assignment but mine. Kimmy nudges me. She doesn’t get hers back, either. When the bell rings, Martin is out of papers. He returns to the front row and says, “Russ and Kimmy, I’d appreciate it if you two could stay after class.”