Amy Inspired - Bethany Pierce [37]
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