Free Monkey Business by Sarah Mlynowski

I’m on a committee), an article featuring my mother in Woman Entrepreneurs, forwarded by her secretary.
    Not in my inbox: a message from the applications committee.
    Bummer. I IM with the girls for twenty minutes, wash my hands in the bathroom to cleanse myself of computer germs, and use a paper towel to open the door. I need to buy more of those antibacterial wipes. I’m already out. In the caf, I buy a burger and a Sprite, then search for a familiar face. I look for people in my work group, but can’t find anyone. They’reextremely competent, but they don’t like to socialize. Two of them are married and live in off-campus housing. The third is the orange-haired Japanese student, who mostly hangs out with the Asian student association.
    I spot Kevin, the last member of my group, sitting by himself in the corner, rubbing his eyes. He’s always rubbing his eyes. And I’ve seen him do it right after he opens the germ-infested classroom door. In Japan, they hand out warm towels to wipe your hands on before you eat. Kevin could use one.
    â€œMind if join you for lunch?” I ask. He wouldn’t be my first choice for a meal partner, but I’ll give him a chance. “Ghjkhjh,” he says, mumbling something. He pushes his tray to the side to accommodate me, so I assume that’s a yes. Obviously I didn’t ask him to be part of my group because of his conversation skills. A former accountant for Ernst & Young, he’s a whiz with numbers.
    â€œAre your eyes okay?” I ask, biting into my hamburger.
    â€œThey’re itchy.” Small bits of pus line the rims. He continues rubbing. His fingers are streaked with ketchup. Then he stops, picks up a French fry and licks the ketchup off his finger. A few seconds later, he’s rubbing his eyes again.
    â€œHjkghfj,” he says, and then eats another French fry.
    I seriously need to make some LWBS girlfriends.
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    Professor Rothman is extremely handsome. He’s almost six feet tall and has sandy-blond hair. And he’s in his mid-thirties, tops.
    Who knew professors could look like this?
    For the first time, all the women in the class are sitting in the front two rows.
    Rothman lifts his muscled arm and writes GDP = C+I+ (X-M)+G on the blackboard. I copy the new equation.
    â€œDoes anyone know what the letters represent?” he asks.
    I raise my hand. “The C signifies consumer goods. The I signifies investment goods. The…” Think! Think! I know this! “The X-M signifies exports minus imports and the G signifies government spending.”
    â€œWell done,” he says, and smiles. Wow. That’s what I want. A gorgeous, intelligent man. A man who knows his numbers. I look away and continue taking notes. He’s talking too fast to stop. I’ve already written eleven pages, and my hand is starting to hurt. I can’t believe he’s teaching so much in the first class.
    The bell rings, and I finish the sentence. I insert my notes into the second section of my Tuesday/Thursday binder, then hole-punch and add the sheets he handed out at the beginning of class. I hope I didn’t miss anything.
    â€œProfessor Rothman?” I ask, waving my hand toward him, and a smile lights up his face.
    â€œYou can call me Jon,” he says, and then looks at the nameplate that’s still on my desk. “Miss Roth.”
    â€œI’m Layla,” I reply. He’s so approachable! “Will videotapes of your lectures be available at the library?”
    â€œYes, the videotapes will be available.” He rubs the back of his arm against his chin. “And I would also like to tell you that your contribution today was excellent.”
    Yes! “Thanks, sir. I mean, Jon. I’ve always enjoyed working with unknown variables.”
    â€œI’m looking forward to having you in my class this year.” He continues to hold my gaze. All right. Time to look away. Why isn’t he