Amy Inspired (14 page)

Zoë prescribed somatic antidotes for my writer’s block. She suggested I eat more protein and less empty carbs: The brain functioned on sugar and needed steady fuel to keep it running. She recommended vigorous exercise.

“I don’t need exercise,” I protested. “I need inspiration.”

“Once you get the blood flowing, you can hardly tell the difference between the two.”

I doubted working out would benefit my writing. I wasn’t opposed to the good it might do my post-Christmas waistline. Though I’d long ago resigned myself to the fact that I would never be Michelle Pfeiffer, it wasn’t too late to avoid becoming Aunt Patty.

Copenhagen’s student recreational center stayed open eighteen hours a day, seven days a week, and most holidays, meaning even when you couldn’t find an open library you could find an open treadmill. The three-story multimillion-dollar complex was the newest addition to campus; the year it was finished, student enrollment spiked ten percent.

The cardiovascular machines lined the perimeter of the weight room. Each faced either a mirror or a window. The mirrors were warped at the center, strategically, I assumed, just enough to exaggerate whatever part of your body you felt most sensitive about, assuring you it really was as grotesquely disproportionate as you’d feared and thereby securing your patronage to the gym forever. The walls that did not have mirrors were lined with windows; where you could not see yourself and judge, you could rely on everyone walking by the sidewalk outside for a verdict.

When I got to the gym Monday, the sunrise was a line of pink spilling upward. I’d hoped by arriving early I’d avoid seeing anyone I knew, particularly my students, who did not get out of bed before ten if they could help it, but I wasn’t even there for half an hour before Michael sidled up to my machine. He held either end of a towel draped around his neck in his clasped fists. Zoë must have ratted me out.

“Look at you!” he said in the tone parents use to celebrate their baby’s first steps. “Working out. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you here before.”

“Thanks for reminding me.”

“You shouldn’t be self-conscious. Lots of people have a hard time making room for exercise in their schedules.”

The StairMaster shifted to a more difficult level. I tightened my grip on the handles. I was sweating profusely. “Are you working today?”

He shook his head. “I’ve got Mondays off. Just came to pump some iron. I am teaching cycling starting next week, though.” He nudged my arm with his elbow. “You should come. I’ll get you half price.”

“I’ll think about it,” I lied.

He gestured to the book I’d propped up on the machine’s screen. “You know the worst thing you can do is to get focused on something other than your workout. I’ve trained girls who only spend half the energy exercising when they bring notes to study.”

“A shame to exercise the mind and not the body,” I said.

Whenever I said something Michael didn’t understand, he just pretended I hadn’t said anything. “Well. Better get to it. Call me about that class.” I said I would, and he left me with a muscular, cheerful “Keep up the good work.”

I shared the locker room with two willowy angels, women whose bodies were flawless and underdeveloped as children’s. I splashed water on my cheeks, my complexion an animated illustration of continental drift theory: a pangea of red on my cheeks and forehead breaking apart into floating splotches. The room was lined with adjoining stalls, each partitioned into two sections, one for showering, one for dressing. Dorm life all over again. I left my folded towel and underwear carefully tucked into the far corner of the dressing stall shelf. When I emerged from the shower ten minutes later, both had fallen on the floor and were drenched through. I waited, naked, until the other women had vacated the bathroom before running to the hand dryer and standing beneath it.

I reached the English office forty-five minutes later. My hair crackled toward the roof in a cumulus cloud of static and frizz. I half ran down the hallway to the copy room but was stopped by a folding table set up to block the entrance. Lonnie sat at the table, order forms lined in neat rows along its edge.

“Lonnie!” I said. “What is this?”

“Hey, Ms. Gallagher.” He hazarded a glance at me. “Did you get a chance to read
Flaming Arrow
? I left it in your mailbox.”

“I haven’t, actually, but I’ll be sure to check my mailbox tonight. Right now I really need to get into the copy room.”

“I think you’ll like it,” he said. “I struggled with whether to give you the books chronologically as they were published or chronologically according to the story. It’s very
Star Wars
like that.”

“Lonnie, I’d love to talk, but I really, really need to make some copies.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Did you want to place an order?” He pulled a work order sheet from the stack of paper at his left. “Name?”

“You know my name.”

Despite my protest, he sat waiting, pen poised over the paper.

“Amy Gallagher,” I said. “G-A-L-L-A-G-H-E-R.” I set my bag down on the floor. “I could just fill the form out myself.”

“Code?”

“
Lonnie
.”

“I need your code, Ms. Gallagher. Mr. Benson’s orders.” He tapped his pen against the notice on the wall.

Effective January 8th

COPY ROOM PRIVILEGES SUSPENDED

Teachers: this means you!!

ALL ORDERS MUST GO THROUGH A STUDENT WORKER OR THROUGH ME

NO EXCEPTIONS, EXEMPTIONS, OR EXCUSES

Please include NAME, CODE, and DATE NEEDED on ALL forms

∼Neil Demetrius Benson, Second Secretary to the Chair and Copy Room Manager

“Is he serious?” I asked.

Lonnie was waiting again, pen ready. He glanced nervously at the line forming behind me. It was the first day of class. The copy room would be backlogged with work requests in half an hour. “Code 2468,” I sighed.

“Date needed?”

“Now.”

Lonnie checked his watch. He marked the box for Morning.

“Number of copies?”

“Fifty of the first, twenty-five of the second. Front and back for both, stapled—”

“You’re making two orders?” he interrupted.

“I have a different syllabus for Creative Writing than for ENG 102,” I explained. “Can’t I just place one order?”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Gallagher, but we need separate work orders for every document being reproduced.” He pulled a second work order sheet. “Code?” he asked.

I left the copy room in a fury. Turning the corner, I ran directly into Adam’s chest. His eyes scanned my body up and down, catching a moment at my breasts. He grinned. “In a hurry?”

“You’re in my way.” I hustled around him quickly. I didn’t want to waste time noticing how handsome he looked in a new blazer and starched white shirt.

“Mr. Benson is going to have a riot on his hands,” I said to Everett when I finally reached my office.

He was sitting at his computer, a stack of freshly printed syllabi on the desk.

“How did you get those?” I asked.

“Kinko’s.”

“Kinko’s. You know,” I said, “I have this theory that you’re secretly rich.”

He stood and reached behind me for his coat. “Is that why you’re my friend?”

“You should take me out more often. For real food. Not just to graze open house buffets. What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Amy,” he said slowly, his eyes on my chest. “This will sound utterly ridiculous, but I do believe you’re lactating.”

I looked down. The blue polka dots of my bra were floating hazily beneath two wet splotches, left and right on my cotton blouse.

The rest of the week was no improvement. I typed seventy-nine pages of
Great American Short Stories
and moved on to
Wuthering Heights
for variety’s sake. Inspiration did not come. In the meantime, Zoë had finished one short story and outlined an idea for a second
UrbanStyle
proposal. She planned to analyze makeup as a means by which a woman hid her true essence: “How much does concealer conceal?”

“You wear makeup,” I pointed out. By this, I meant the characteristic blue eyeliner and pink Mary Kate and Ashley lip balm she donned for work at The Brewery.

“I wear it to draw attention to the fact that I’m wearing it, which defeats the purpose,” she explained. “I wear it ironically.”

I needed photocopies for Wednesday and Friday, which put me in constant contact with Lonnie, who insisted on delivering the work orders to my office instead of placing them in my mailbox as was protocol. When I wasn’t avoiding Lonnie, I was hiding from the dreaded Ex. Adam had been assigned a Monday, Wednesday, Friday class that met on the first floor just when my ENG 102 ended. After class I wiped the board down slowly, waiting to hear the sound of his morning monologue through the wall adjoining our classrooms before leaving.

Despite my better judgment, I was tempted to go to Adam for help, particularly when I started having disciplinary problems with a student. The entire first week of class, Ashley Mulligan shuffled into my creative writing class late, tiptoeing to the back of the room to hide behind the enormous linebacker who sat in the second to last row. The second week she missed all but the last fifteen minutes of our first workshop. She was unnaturally thin, a stylish girl whose designer jeans hung loose on her hips. She brought a diet Voltage energy drink and a Fiji water bottle with her to class, sipping them daintily and in turn, as if they were delicacies. Despite the ginseng and caffeine, she fought to stay alert. I was certain I had an anorexic.

When she earned her fourth tardy, I decided to speak with her. To my surprise, she took the initiative.

“Could I talk to you a second?” she asked.

“Of course.”

She hugged her books to her chest. Her ponytail was askew in that way that looked messy but had become fashionable. Blue rings lined her eyes.

“I’m really sorry I’m late,” she began.

“I’m afraid I can’t count you present for coming half an hour late to a class,” I replied.

“I know.”

“Three tardies is an absence—and too many absences could really hurt your class standing.”

“I really am sorry, Ms. Gallagher. I promise I’ll do better. I just came up because I thought I should explain …” She lowered her eyes. “My little sister died four months ago. I know it’s been a long time and I should, like, be getting on with it, but sometimes I just have trouble getting out of bed. I just thought you should know.”

I was thrown off guard. “I’m sorry,” was all I could think to say.

Numb to this response, annoyed by it, Ashley shook her head.

“No, it’s okay. It’s not a big deal or anything. I mean it is, but it shouldn’t affect my studies.” She pulled at a hot pink hair twisty looped around her tiny wrist. It snapped back against her skin. “It’s hard to stay motivated sometimes. I wanted you to know it’s not because I’m not interested in the class—I am, honestly, I just might miss sometimes for … unrelated reasons.”

“Thank you for telling me.” I thought a moment. “Why don’t we consider your absences excused in advance? If you can e-mail me the days you can’t come, I can write back a description of what you missed, be sure you get the right assignments.”

“I don’t want special treatment.”

Before she left, I promised I would remember our conversation and that I would be happy to talk with her if she ever needed a listening ear. She was as uninterested in my listening ear as she was in my special consideration.

Though the rest of the day went on in its usual blur of lesson plans and student e-mails, I couldn’t stop thinking of Ashley. I regretted how hastily I’d found refuge in a label. Knowing that she had just buried a sister, I saw every detail of her appearance differently. The rings beneath her eyes were evidence of sleeplessness and weeping, not hunger. She wrapped her arms around her body for comfort, not warmth.

That afternoon Mom called to report two deaths at Kent State.

“It was a fire. Caught while they were sleeping, all of them in their beds completely nonsuspecting. There were ten people in the house total—they all got out but those two. Died of smoke, we can only hope.”