Amy Inspired - Bethany Pierce [36]
“Thanks.”
The next night was the same, and every night that week. I typed, she typed, and at some point she came into my room uninvited to check up on my progress.
How was it going?
Did I want something to eat?
Did I need something to drink?
Fine, no, no.
Friday night she appeared with a printed manuscript. “Can I read you what I have?” She proceeded to read without waiting for a reply.
“It’s good,” I said when she finished half an hour later.
“That’s all? It’s good? I mean, is the dialogue real? Does the premise seem too outlandish? I feel like Mrs. Sander’s motivation is unrealistic.”
I chewed the end of my pencil. “No. It’s working.”
She twirled her hair around her finger and leaned her head back to peer up at me, still sitting on the floor. Today her nails were lacquered in shiny polish the color of orange soda. On her forefinger she wore a plastic ring mottled with glitter and large as a bottle cap. “What did you write?”
I snapped my laptop closed. “Nothing.”
“Let me see.”
“No—please—Zoë, it’s not very good.”
She took the computer from me and read: “ ‘The hills across the valley of the Ebo were long and white. On this side there was no shade and no trees and the station was between two lines of rails in the sun. Close against the side of the station there was the warm shadow of the building and a curtain, made of strings of bamboo beads.’ Well. It’s good. But the syntax is repetitive—all the unnecessary expletives are distracting—‘there was’ and ‘there were’—all over the page.”
“Good. It’s Hemingway.” I held up the Great American Short Stories I’d concealed beneath my leg.
“Oh. Well, he was a pig anyway.” She got up to sit in my lap. “Maybe it’s not a writing day today.”
“I thought you said there’s no such thing as writer’s block.”
“You’re beginning to make me a believer.”
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