Monkey Business

closure for kimmy

12:30 p.m.

Almost done. My books have been stacked in a storage area downstairs for Jamie to sell next year, and I’m almost finished packing my clothes.

I lie back on my bare mattress and take a minibreak. I’m exhausted. Physically, mentally and emotionally. I haven’t pulled an all-nighter in a while, but it was worth it. I think I might have actually passed the exam. Layla is a genius teacher. She’d make a great professor one day. I hope I have some time to hang out with her before I leave today. My flight home isn’t until eight. I wonder if Russ already left. Guess he didn’t want to say goodbye. Too awkward.

All right. Break over. I stand up and stretch. I should probably call back Claire Moss. I tried calling her earlier this week to tell her I no longer wanted to work for them, but she wasn’t in and we’ve been playing phone tag ever since. Not that I’ve been trying very hard to get in touch. I’m not looking forward to the conversation. Between me and Russ revoking our offers, they’ll probably stop hiring LWBS students.

I find the number and pick up to dial. Why isn’t it ringing? Has the phone company already cut off my dorm line?

“Hello, Ms. Nailer?” says a gruff voice.

“Yes?”

“Professor Martin here.”

Not again. Please tell me Russ didn’t copy my exam. Ha-ha. “Yes?”

“I’m calling to congratulate you on your final mark. You scored a ninety-five on your exam, which means that combined with your assignment marks, you scored the highest mark in the class.”

Oh. My. God. “I did?”

“Yes. And I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but the top students in all three second-semester Strategy classes will receive the Hunder Strategy Award.”

An award? They’re giving me an award? Are they crazy? I don’t deserve an award. I don’t deserve anything.

Maybe it’s time for me to become someone who’s award-worthy.

“Thank you, Professor,” I manage to squeak.

“With the award is a scholarship for fifteen hundred dollars, and I hope it will encourage you to specialize in Strategy next year.”

They’re giving me money, too? Holy shit. “Um, that’s what I was thinking of doing.” Well, I am now.

“Also, I’d like you to consider applying for a teacher’s assistant position next fall for the Strategy Intro class.”

Wow. “I could do that, too.”

“Great. I’ll be mailing the scholarship and TA application to the address the school has on file in Arizona. And I look forward to seeing you next year. Have a great summer.”

“Thanks,” I say, unable and unwilling to stop smiling. “You, too.” I can’t believe a professor has so much faith in me that he wants me to help first-years. Who knew?

The phone rings again. Maybe I won the Finance scholarship, too. Maybe I should stop dreaming.

“Hello?”

“Hello, is this Kimmy Nailer?”

“Speaking.”

“Hello, it’s Claire Moss returning your call from O’Donnel. Sorry for the phone tag we’ve been playing.”

My heart jumps to my throat. “Oh. No problem. Thanks for calling me back.”

“Do you have any concerns?” she asks.

Do I have any concerns? Yes, about a million. I’m concerned that I’m going to spend the rest of my life being someone I hate. I’m concerned that I won’t be tough enough to make it in the corporate world. I’m concerned no one will ever love me.

The thing is, I want this job. I want this life. I want to come back to LWBS next year. I want to be a TA. I want my own damn freshly squeezed orange juice. “I want to confirm that the starting date is June first,” I say quickly, before I can change my mind.

“Yes. And orientation is May thirty-first.”

“Looking forward to it,” I say. And I am.

My entire year is packed into two duffel bags. How sad. The walls look bare and small dust bunnies peek out from the corners of the closet. Gross. My hands are filthy and I smell like I forgot to use deodorant this morning. I’ve packed the clock, but my watch says it’s four-fifteen. Still a while to go.

Knock, knock.

“Hold on.” Maybe Layla is coming to say goodbye. I can’t wait to tell her about New York. She’s going to be so proud of me. I open the door and a lump instantaneously forms in my throat.

It’s Russ.

“Hey,” he says.

“I thought you were gone.” I look at the floor.

“Leaving now. Can I come in?”

I nod and hold the door open, still not meeting his gaze.

“How’d you find the exam?” he asks.

“Fine. You?” I lean against the empty desk that came with the room. I don’t think I can take much more of this small talk. The lump is threatening to expand and block my speaking capabilities, possibly choking me.

“I came to say goodbye,” he says softly. I continue staring at the floor, the disgusting dusty floor, and he touches my arm. “I needed to say goodbye.” His voice trembles, and I finally look up.

And then my eyes lock with the bluest eyes I have ever seen, and I fall headfirst into them all over again. His eyes are glistening, and he’s trying to blink away his tears. I wonder if I’ll ever lose myself in eyes like those again.

My cheeks are wet, but I don’t care. “Goodbye,” I say.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

I know, I think but don’t say. Me, too.

He hugs me tightly, and I let his smell overwhelm my nose and throat. “You’re doing the right thing,” I whisper into his ear, and realize I mean it.

“Yeah?” He sounds relieved.

“Yeah.”

Would we have worked in the long run? I thought so, but I’m not sure. Eventually the Spider-Man soundtrack would have driven me crazy.

That and the fact that I didn’t trust him.

“Good luck,” he says.

I pull back. “Good luck to you.”

He kisses me on the cheek. “Be good.”

I laugh even though I can barely breathe. “You, too.”

He squeezes my hand and lets himself out. And I sit back on the bare mattress and cry.