“Thank you.” She starts to cry again. “I wish it was you I was in love with.”
I rub circles on her back until she stops crying.
kimmy rationalizes her future
Friday, March 26, 4:30 p.m.
I know it’s Layla in the stall beside me, but I don’t say anything. I know she’s disappointed in me, but I can’t turn him in. I just can’t.
She’s been avoiding me since our fight. I think she’s being harsh. She won’t talk to Russ, either, just keeps glaring at him. Not that he’s noticed. They didn’t talk much before, anyway. Things with Russ have been good despite all this. Honestly, I think we’re closer than ever. When we go to the disciplinary committee on the twelfth, we’ll tell them that we talked about the project, that we apologize, that we didn’t realize what we were doing was wrong. And I’ve done some research. Actually, Jamie did some research for me, and he said that it’s not like we’re the first ones to ever get caught plagiarizing, and that out of the last five cases, three got off and the other two failed the course. No one got expelled. So big deal, I’ll fail a course. I can take it again. We can both take it again this summer. So we won’t go to New York. We’ll stay here. Big deal. We’ll stay here together and take summer credits. And then we’ll be together next year and maybe we’ll move into couple housing instead of living at the Zoo. And then next year we’ll move to New York and get great jobs. Get engaged. Get married.
Married. That’s what I wanted anyway, isn’t it? Mrs. in front of my name.
And what if they don’t buy it? Maybe I’ll tell them it was me who cheated. Because, let’s be honest, I was never here to learn how to climb the corporate ladder. And even if O’Donnel were to hire me later full-time, what happens then? I work for two years until I get pregnant, and then what? Let some stranger raise my kids?
I shudder at the thought of day care, remember the ear-picking-up woman, remember how tired and cranky my mother was when she arrived to take me home. Is that the type of woman I want to be? No. So it doesn’t matter if I don’t get my MBA. I want Russ to be happy.
I flush the toilet. Layla flushes beside me. We both hit the sinks at the same time. The silence feels heavy.
“You’re making a mistake,” she says.
“Don’t bother,” I answer.
“It’s my job to bother. I’m concerned. The guy you’re giving up your future for is the guy who cheated on his girlfriend for six months. He’s not long-term potential.”
How dare she? “It’s none of your business.”
“You shouldn’t trust him.” She turns off the tap and leaves me staring at myself in the mirror.
layla streaks
Thursday, April 1, 8:00 a.m.
I soap my body. Then I rinse the conditioner out of my hair. Then I turn off the water and reach out of the shower curtain for my towel. For my towel. Where is my towel?
I open the curtain. My towel is gone. My bathrobe is gone. What happened to my stuff? I stand there dripping, totally confused. And then I hear it. A pitter-patter of giggling from outside the stall.
“Hello?” I call over the door. “Has anyone out there seen what happened to my stuff?”
“Your stuff?” Jamie asks. “What stuff?”
“I had a bathrobe and a towel and…oh, you jackass.” I suppose this is what you get when you’re involved with a jokester.
“April Fools’!” he screams from the other side of the wall.
“This isn’t funny,” I say but can’t stop myself from laughing.
“What’s not funny?”
It doesn’t seem like I’m getting my towel back anytime soon. So what are my options? I look around. The curtain is hooked up to the shower rod. I could always unhook it and wrap myself in it. I could, if it wasn’t germ infested.
I’d rather be naked. Kind of sexy. I’ll just sprint. Only other problem: my keys are in my bathrobe pocket. “I’ll make you a deal,” I say. “I’ll come out, if you pass me my keys.”
No answer.
Here goes nothing. I take my shower basket and place it in front of my crotch. It doesn’t do the job. Good thing I’ve been keeping my bikini wax up-to-date. Then I sneak out from behind the curtain into an empty bathroom and sprint, grabbing two paper towels, one per breast, as I run.
A flashbulb goes off.
The door to my room is open and Jamie’s howling. “That,” he says, “was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Hilarious.” I pull Jamie into my room and kiss him. I know I should be angry with him, furious even, but it is April Fools’ Day, and it’s not as if anyone else saw me streaking through the halls, not that I would have really cared one way or another. But still…I wish sometimes he’d be less of a clown. “You know, I like you when you’re serious, too. You don’t always have to make a joke out of everything.”
“Okay, just one more. What does an MBA call dating?”
“What?”
“Test marketing.”
I shake my head. “Come here, funny-boy,” I say, then kiss him again.
russ’s depression
Monday, April 5, 5:00 p.m.
Seventy-five issues of Forbes, two hundred issues of the Economist, and three hundred viewings of Family Ties, and now I might never graduate from business school.
Unbelievable.
“Anyone else?” Jamie asks. “Any arguments against why, as domestic producers who export half our goods to foreign markets, we would be hesitant to support an import quota? Russ?”
I shrug.
I’m leaning against the door to Jamie’s room, barely paying attention to what anyone is saying. We’re working on an assignment for GBE that’s due sometime this week. Unfortunately, I can’t concentrate. I don’t know how Kimmy can be so focused when we could get expelled next week.
I still don’t think we did anything that horrible. Who cares? Everyone borrows.
“Nothing to add, Russ?” Jamie asks. Again I shrug. I know Jamie’s pissed at me. But what does he want me to do? Admit I copied Kimmy’s paper? If I admit it, I’ll probably get expelled. If they can’t prove it, then the worst that could happen is that I fail the course. None of this is Jamie’s business, anyway. And Kimmy begged me not to tell. She thinks this is the better way to go. Even if we both fail the course-big deal. We can take it again. She doesn’t even think that O’Donnel will rescind its offer.
Someone knocks on the door, and the pounding reverberates against my back. I scoot over so Nick can squeeze inside. Droplets of water from his wet hair slide down his face. He smells like minty shampoo. “I know I’m late, man. Basketball went late. But I wrote up some arguments for the GBE assignment in favor of the quota I thought we could use.”
I haven’t been to basketball all week. I don’t feel like doing anything anymore. Maybe my apathy is from burnout. I took on too many projects and am now devoid of energy.
With great power comes great responsibility. That’s the theme line from Spider-Man. Back in September I had great power. I thought I could do anything.
I screwed everything up.
layla sees the truth
Friday, April 9, 3:00 p.m.
“Hi, Dorothy!” I sing. “Hi, Dennis! Hi, everyone!” Today ends the last week of the task force. Truth is, Dennis and I are the only ones who have weathered it out. The other volunteers have all dwindled away with exams and interviews. But not me. I stick by my commitments.
“Hi, Layla,” Dennis says. His glasses are crooked, and I resist the urge to straighten them.
Dorothy is biting into an apple and packing up her stuff. “Layla, I have to run out early. If you could update some files for me, I’d really appreciate it.”