Amy Inspired - Bethany Pierce [3]
“I appreciate the vote of confidence, Mom.”
Everett was gathering his things. With his arms full of loose-leaf papers, he waved briefly at me. I nodded my good-bye.
“Did you take a look at that guest list?” Mom asked, transitioning without warning into her latest favorite topic of discussion: my younger brother’s impending nuptials. Nuptials. The word sounded overtly sensual. Too similar to nude. Navel. Nubile.
“Marie didn’t put the McCormicks on there.”
I tapped the string of the window blind against the glass. “Alice and Jenny? They were my friends, not Brian’s. Why would he want them at his wedding?”
“Alice was over all the time when you kids were little. She was such a nice girl. I used to hope Brian and her would get together.”
“They were ten,” I replied. “Who’s officiating?”
“Pastor Patrick. Brian and Marie meet him once a month for premarital counseling. They have to meet on weekdays, which are so hard for Brian with his schedule, but weekends just won’t work for Pastor Patrick. He has his sermon to prepare and then Saturdays he bowls with some guys from town. They’re a real rough bunch— smoke like chimneys, but the pastor says it’s his ministry—something about ‘in the world but not of it.’ ”
Mom was a devoted member of the First Fundamentalist Church of God. She considered ties on Sunday tantamount to Scripture reading. At thirty-two, their new minister, Patrick Peterson, was the third youngest member of the congregation, and he’d been creating no end of turmoil since arriving. (“You should hear the songs we’re singing in church now,” Mom reported. “We have a guitar player and a drummist. It’s all very modern.”)
“So they’re sticking with Mr. Peterson?”
“Call him Pastor Patrick, honey. He prefers it.”
With a sigh I turned back to the window. Waves of cold emanated from the glass. On the benches below, a young girl in a red coat slapped her male companion on the arm, laughing. He pretended to be hurt before sweeping her up in his arms.
“I’m just glad they’re sticking to an all-American wedding. I was worried a while there that they would want some weird Indian religion, but really her parents are very normal.”
The couple in the courtyard began to kiss.
“I have to go, Mom.”
“Don’t worry about the papers. You’ll get them done. You always do. Tell Zoë hi for me.”
I promised I would and sent love to my brother. Hanging up, I pressed my forehead against the windowpane and closed my eyes, letting the cold numb my thoughts. I started back when the windowpane shuddered. A moment later a second rock pelted the glass. Peering down cautiously, I saw Everett standing on the sidewalk below, waving his arms frantically.
I unhinged the lock and shoved the ancient window up. “What?” I called.
A dozen students crossing the sidewalks below looked up in surprise.
“My briefcase—I left it!” he shouted.
I found the briefcase on the floor, leaning on the trash can. It was stained and studded with pins: No Blood for Oil and Too Many Freaks Not Enough Circuses.
“I’ll bring it down,” I called.
“No time!” He waved wildly, indicating I should throw it. His hands looked jittery even from four flights up. This was not unusual; Everett lived in a perpetual state of panic.
I gave the bag my best pitch. Midway through the air, the top latch sprang open. A dozen papers flew into the air and snapped in the wind like parachutes. They made their way floating to the ground.
I leaned out the window. “Sorry!”
Everett scrambled to gather the papers one by one, wiping them clean on his pant leg. Without a second glance up, he ran down the sidewalk. He had the awkward gait of a man not used to sitting in office chairs all day, more caffeine than blood in his veins: the run of kids who don’t get picked for softball teams.
I slouched in my chair, tapped the bobblehead Garfield with my pencil, and watched its mute smile nod up and down. A form letter lay on the scattered essays cluttering my desk. I picked it up, reread: