Amy Inspired - Bethany Pierce [38]
“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