Amy Inspired - Bethany Pierce [6]
“What is this?” I asked, lifting the lid off the skillet.
“Curry with potatoes and tofu,” she answered. “Sit down.”
“Can I try it?”
“No, sit.”
Placing her hands on my hips, she led me toward the table.
“Okay.” Obediently, I sat. “What’s the big news?”
She stood in front of me, hands behind her back. “Guess.”
“You got a raise.”
“No.”
“Your parents are coming to visit.”
“No.”
“Youuu … are getting married.”
“Um, no.” She rolled her eyes.
I found this response annoying considering the uncensored schoolgirl manner in which she’d gone on lately about her boyfriend’s many admirable attributes. She’d told me twice in the last week that she and Michael were “getting serious.”
“You’re leaving The Brewery.”
“I love my job and you know it. You’re not even trying.”
“I give up.”
She pulled a magazine from behind her back and held it forward happily.
“You bought an UrbanStyle magazine,” I stated, confused.
“I’m going to be in the UrbanStyle magazine,” she announced.
“You’re what?”
“They bought my essay.”
I let this sink in. “Zoë, that’s amazing.”
“I know!” She squeezed her eyes shut and did a giddy hop. “I sent in that article—the one about career women in academia. They loved it, but said it wasn’t quite right for their reader base, so, whatever … that was that. But then they wrote me this week and said they had an opening in the March publication for general women’s interest and would I be interested in submitting another essay for the issue.” She flipped through the magazine, stretching its spine open to show me the spread where she would be featured. “It’ll be for this column—four pages with illustrations and everything.”
I took the magazine from her. Zoë was always publishing articles in local papers and stories in online journals. But UrbanStyle was a national publication, a Bible-thick magazine shelved between O and Self. This magazine was a household name.
“But you’ve never worked in the university,” I said. “How did you write a paper about women and academia?”
“You don’t have to experience a thing to write about it. I watched you.”
She had taken a bite of curry and was fanning her open mouth so that it sounded more like I wa oo. She preferred foods that could make her sweat.
“And I talked to some women on campus.” She stuffed a piece of bread in her mouth to soak up the heat. “It was all informal— just a random conversation here and there. It was incredibly easy to write, actually.” She tapped the spoon against the corner of the skillet and dropped it into the sink. “I have to get dressed. Michael’s on his way over to celebrate.”
I drew myself up from the chair slowly, feeling my mood sink as her excitement increased. That she was commissioned the same week I was rejected: The irony was almost literary.
I followed Zoë to her bedroom, resolving to tell her about Adam later. I leaned on the doorframe while she dressed.
“How was class today?” she asked.
“All right,” I said. “They weren’t very interested.”
“Nothing unusual.” She pulled her sweatshirt over her head and stepped out of her pants.
Her underwear was cut like a boy’s. The word Touchdown! ran across the butt in green glitter. She had a narrow waist and small breasts neatly tucked into her matching green bra. Her freckles tapered as they ran the length of her body so that her shoulders were speckled but her stomach and legs were fair, flawless. Tonight she chose a pleated wool skirt with a pink T-shirt, knee socks, and plastic yellow barrettes shaped like ribbons. Zoë had the body of an athlete and the fashion sense of a five-year-old.
“When’s Meatball coming over?” I asked.
“He’s on his way now.” She held a pair of boots up for my inspection. “Do you think these are okay?”
“To be honest, I think they’re a little excessive.”
“Is that possible? Doesn’t the very word excessive demand that a thing not be little at all?” She reconsidered the boots, now on her feet. “I don’t know. I think they look good.”
“They’re very noticeable.”
“Good.” She pointed to the pimple on her chin. “I need face diversion.”
I was on the couch