Amy Inspired - Bethany Pierce [58]
“Shut the door,” I said. “I’m hiding from Lonnie.”
“Amy—honestly.” He wandered in, leaving the door wide open. “The kid’s not there. I just walked by the copy room, and it’s just Mr. Benson today.”
“Oh, he’s here. He’s waiting. Turn that light back off.”
It wasn’t half an hour before someone knocked on the open door.
“Lonnie,” I said, pretending to be pleasantly surprised. “Come in.”
Lonnie shut the door behind him. I glared at Everett. Everett gaped at me, perfectly baffled.
“What’s up, Lonnie?” I asked.
“I was wondering if I could ask a favor, Ms. Gallagher.” He held a clipboard to his chest. “I’m doing an article for the school paper on the dangers of campus life and was wondering if I could interview you about your accident. I e-mailed you three times about it. And I left you notes.”
I chose to ignore his mention of the unanswered e-mails. “I tripped,” I said. “I hardly think that qualifies for campus danger.”
“I did some research.” He handed me three stapled photocopies. The print was so fine it was almost illegible. “The Copenhagen University Grounds Keeping Manual states that ‘all grounds must be kept in prime condition, including but not limited to the trails and parks within a two-mile radius of the academic lawns.’ It’s in Section 2B ii.” He pointed to the specific line. “Right there, where I underlined the words in red.”
Everett read over my shoulder. “Amy, you could sue. You could quit your job. Buy a condo in Florida and drink margaritas.”
I handed the photocopies back to Lonnie. “I’m not suing anybody.”
“It’s only a small article,” he persisted, his eyes nervously following Everett back to his desk. Lonnie was one of those students who never caught sarcasm in a teacher; he took everything a superior said literally. “It would really help me. No one else has agreed to an interview.”
“They really asked you to write an article about this?” I asked.
Bashfully, he replied, “Well, I was supposed to interview Jessica Baily Barts, the girl that broke her femur in that hit and run last year. But she transferred.”
I hesitated.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll do the interview.”
“Thank you, Ms. Gallagher, thank you. It will only take ten minutes, I promise—quick and painless. I mean, I wouldn’t want to inflict more pain on you, seeing how you have enough and all.”
He took a chair and produced an old tape recorder from the nest of crumpled papers in his backpack. I sighed. I hadn’t realized Lonnie meant now.
“Strictly for the sake of notation,” he informed me. He hit Record, then pitched forward in his chair, notepad balanced against his knee. “Ms. Gallagher, ma’am, could you tell me exactly what happened on that trail that day.”
I gave him the short version. He scribbled a row of indecipherable hieroglyphics. “Which trail were you on?”
“I don’t know for sure. We took the trail that starts right outside Leonard Chapel.”
He nodded. “Tell me about the conditions of the trail that day.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “It was like any trail. It wound, got narrow in some places.”
“Were there an excess of protrusions?”
“Pardon?”
“Were there roots and rocks and such?” he clarified.
“Oh, almost everywhere. Pebbles, rocks, some thin roots.”
“How large was the root you tripped on? Was it blocking the path?”
“To be honest, I really can’t remember, Lonnie—it all happened so fast.”
He waited.
I said, “I think it might have actually been a very thin, wiry root—it was like tripping over a taut rope.”
He nodded quickly, jotted something down. “What is the extent of your injury?”
“A bad sprain. I’m in a brace for a month. Maybe longer.”
“And does the university health-care policy cover this?”
Everett said “Ha!” so loud that Lonnie jumped.
“I pay for my health insurance,” I said.
Flustered, Lonnie ran his pen up and down the list of questions he’d composed beforehand. “Has the injury significantly hindered your ability to perform usual activities?