Monkey Business Read Online Free Page B

What am I doing? When I smoke I have no attention span. I can barely remember five minutes ago. Where was I five minutes ago?
    â€œSo no more?” she says.
    â€œNo more,” I promise. She’s right. I can’t screw this up. She’s always right and I’m an idiot. “How was your day?”
    â€œGood. I prepared. Tomorrow is my first day of school. I’m giving my grade-ten class a surprise pop quiz on the details leading up to Confederation. They’re going to thrilled.”
    At sixteen I wouldn’t have cared what test a hot teacher like Sharon gave me as long as I could keep looking at her. Thank you, miss, may I have another? With my zit-infected face and scrawny pipe-cleaner body, watching her teach would have been the most action I’d get. “But it’s only the first day,” I say, regaining my senses. “A test already?”
    â€œIf I don’t whip them into shape at the beginning, they’ll walk all over me.”
    â€œWanna come over and whip me into shape?”
    She laughs. “Is that an invitation?”
    â€œWhat do you think?” Don’t think she’d be too impressed with the saggy single bed, shit decor and hike to the showers.
    â€œYou miss me already, don’t you, Russ?”
    â€œUh-huh.”
    â€œI figured. Okay, I’m going back to bed.”
    â€œGood night,” I say. “Good luck tomorrow.”
    â€œYou, too.”
    â€œThanks. We meet our Blocks in the morning.”
    She yawns. “Good. And, hon?”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œCan’t you call me slightly earlier tomorrow?”
    I knew I was going to get flak for that. “But you told me to phone before I went to sleep.”
    â€œI did. But it’s a school night. You should be going to bed earlier.”
    â€œSorry. I won’t call you so late tomorrow.”
    â€œGood. Go to bed now, okay? Love you. Be good.”
    â€œLove you, too.” I press the end button on the cordless.
    Now what? Clock says 1:40. Still excited about tomorrow. And worried. I thought pot is supposed to make me sleepy.
    Maybe I’ll visit Nick. Oh, yeah. Already did that. Maybe I’ll call Sharon.

8:45 a.m.
layla applies herself
    I ’m pacing outside the door to the Carry the Torch Committee office on the third floor of the main MBA building, the Katz building. I’ve been here for forty-five minutes. Someone better arrive shortly or I’m going to be late for orientation. I’d sit on the floor to wait, but who knows when someone last swept the hallway.
    I hear the click-clack of a woman’s heels coming down the hall. A short redhead in a black Theory suit turns the corner…finally. Yes!
    I stretch out my hand. “Hello, I’m Layla Roth and I’m here to apply for the committee.” You can judge people by their handshake. Firm means strong personality, trustworthy. Limp means weak, whiny. The woman’s hand is flaccid. No matter. I still intend to apply. My mentor at Rosen Brothers Investments did this job when he was in business school, and I want to do it, too. It sounds fun. The committee chooses ten people to read over next year’s applicants, and I want to be one of those ten.
    The redhead looks as though she’s surprised someone iswaiting for her before nine in the morning. “Layla, like the Eric Clapton song?”
    â€œYes, like the song.” If I earned a dollar for every time someone refers to the Eric Clapton song when I introduce myself, I wouldn’t have to work a day in my life. Not that I could stand not working. Not that I have to work for financial reasons. But what would I do all day? Volunteer for the Salvation Army? Please.
    â€œWell, Layla, you’re my first applicant. But you didn’t have to wait for me.” She points to a box marked Applications beside her door. “That’s what the mail slot is for.”
    What if everyone else handed them to her