long time, and probably wouldn’t have if I hadn’t met Nick. Thing is, it relaxes me. Stops me from worrying. Helps me sleep. I’ve got to keep my voice steady so she won’t be able to tell. Luckily she’s not here. My thumb and index finger still smell of it.
“I woke you, eh?” Of course I woke her. Sometimes I’m such an ass.
“What do you think?” she murmurs.
“Sorry, hon. Go back to sleep.”
“No, wait. How was your day?”
I lie back on my unmade bed. Crunch my head against a pillowcase stuffed with T-shirts. I forgot to bring a pillow. I don’t know how I did since pillow was definitely on the Do Not Forget list that Sharon made for me. Sharon makes a lot of lists. They’re taped all over her apartment. Floss is also on her list. Which I didn’t forget because my dentist made me promise I’d floss every night. Unfortunately, I did forget to do it last night and tonight.
“Good,” I say. Voice remaining steady. “We had orientation. Hung out with the same guys I met last night. Took a campus tour. A library orientation. Set up our Internet. Got our class schedules.”
“Yeah? How is it?”
“Monday and Wednesday I have Organizational Behavior at nine, Accounting at ten thirty, Statistics at one…one…one-thirty.” My body has sunk into the mattress, and I feel numb again, but I continue talking. “Tuesday and Thursday it’s Strategic Analysis at ten-thirty—that’s a sleepin. Economics at one-thirty, IC at three. But IC is a half-semester course, so it only runs until the end of October.”
“What’s IC?”
“Integrative Communications. Presentations and stuff.”
“Sounds fun.”
She’s being sarcastic, but the truth is, I’m excited. “Fun, fun, fun.”
Silence. “Did you smoke?” she accuses me.
Oh, man. “No.”
She sighs. “You swear?”
“No.”
She sighs again. “You have to stop. You know what pot does to your attention span. School’s for real now.”
“What?”
“Your attention span, Russ.”
“I know, I know. You’re right.” She is right. 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?
“So no more?” she says.
“No 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?”
“Good. 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?”
“If I don’t whip them into shape at the beginning, they’ll walk all over me.”
“Wanna come over and whip me into shape?”
She laughs. “Is that an invitation?”
“What do you think?” Don’t think she’d be too impressed with the saggy single bed, shit decor and hike to the showers.
“You miss me already, don’t you, Russ?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I figured. Okay, I’m going back to bed.”
“Good night,” I say. “Good luck tomorrow.”
“You, too.”
“Thanks. We meet our Blocks in the morning.”
She yawns. “Good. And, hon?”
“Yeah?”
“Can’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.”
“I did. But it’s a school night. You should be going to bed earlier.”
“Sorry. I won’t call you so late tomorrow.”
“Good. Go to bed now, okay? Love you. Be good.”
“Love 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 is waiting for her before nine in the morning. “Layla, like the Eric Clapton song?”
“Yes, 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.
“Well, 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 in person? What if
