At home, I took inventory of my old bedroom now that Mom had cleaned. The walls were still pink but for irregular squares of white where the tape from posters had ripped away the surface layer of paint. A crate of Barbie dolls crowded the door. They were, suspiciously, naked. I picked up a Ken doll, considered his hairless, shining perfection. Disturbing that Ken came with underwear drawn directly onto his plastic body while Barbie went commando. Another of society’s provisions for the male sex drive: permanent underwear, impenetrable, to keep Ken’s desires in check.
I reached to place the crate of Barbies with the other dolls that crowded the uppermost ledge of my white bookshelf. The shelf beneath housed boxes brimming with the remaining clutter of my growing up. The one beneath that held two crates of novels. The juxtaposition of childhood play objects and my high school library struck me as emblematic. Dolls to novels: from one romp of imagination to another.
I pulled a heavy sweatshirt on over my pajamas and put on an extra pair of socks before lacing up my tennis shoes. With the flashlight I’d stolen from the kitchen junk drawer clenched between my teeth, I climbed the closet ladder back to the attic and my secret office.
By the watery light of the desk lamp I finished Love in the Time of Massive Diarrhea, systematically chewing the flavor out of the pack of cinnamon gum Mom had put in my Christmas stocking. It was late when I closed the last page. I set the book aside, massaged my jaw. Across the way I could see the neighbor’s television playing in the otherwise dark living room. The commercials flashed on the TV screen, the Christmas lights on the tree beside it chasing one another around the four walls. Together they cast a spinning kaleidoscope of color on the snow where a plastic Rudolph and plastic Santa worshiped a plastic Jesus. Mr. Matlon had passed away while I was in college. I resented the current owners for the garish display they had made of the old man’s house, a reminder that life went on without me in places that I’d once felt I owned.
Without any real purpose, I reread the Things to Do Before Thirty list. My progress had not been good. I had read all of Austen’s novels, but found it unsettling that I’d assigned her name to a list as if she was or could ever have been a chore. No, had not yet skinny-dipped in the ocean.Yes, had kept my own apartment, which had been nice while it lasted, but I was too broke to live alone, much less tour Rome. I didn’t care to take further stock of the remaining ambitions.
Why the urgency to achieve my life’s goals before thirty anyway?
And why was marriage at the end, as if globe-trotting served only as prelude to romance?
My mother had always instructed me to live life before settling down, settling down requiring a seismic shift in one’s energy, from adventure to nurture. The fault in her admonition was the assumption that meeting a man marked the end of the journey. I grew up thinking the single life was the rising action and marriage the climax. Every writer knows climax is followed by dénouement: in other words, it’s all downhill after the wedding
Maybe I would never marry or have children. For the very first time, this future struck me as entirely plausible, if not inevitable. Many women lived alone. I was no more entitled to marriage than the next person. Maybe I belonged to the world of the celibate saint, granted a life of solitude and free to explore the inner world of my imagination while inspiring young minds to greater intellectual and spiritual heights in introductory composition. I thought of my students and was overcome with a feeling of affection. It was very easy to like them when they were miles away.
Yes. To serve the students was my mission, and writing my love.
I thought vaguely of Adam, but didn’t dwell on him. He was like any other of my endless infatuations: the product of too much romanticism stirred by restlessness and indulged to remedy boredom. So much for real men. Men in books were so much more fun.
I picked up a pen; I began to write.
7
“What are you doing?” Zoë asked.
I had wedged myself behind my bedroom dresser and was attempting to unscrew the television cable cord.
“I’ve made a New Year’s resolution,” I said. “No more television.”
“None?”
“None.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
I stood triumphant, the dismembered cable in my hand.
Zoë gave me a disbelieving frown. “What will you do with yourself?”
I lifted the television from its stand and toddled toward the hall closet. “Stop wasting my life,” I managed.
“You’re really getting rid of it.”
“Yes, Zoë. I’m serious.”
“Then can I have it?”
“I thought you didn’t watch TV.”
“I like watching the news,” she said defensively.
We swiped a spot clear on her desk and set the television on top.
“Turn it to the right.” She bounded to her bed. Sitting crosslegged, she made a window frame of her forefingers and thumbs. She squinted an eye at the screen. “Perfectamundo. Thank you, dear.”
“Enjoy.”
I spent my first week back in Copenhagen dedicating the hours typically spent on television to writing. I’d hoped for a short story and instead found myself experimenting with the relativity of time. Thirty minutes in front of Friends is no time at all. Thirty minutes in front of a blank laptop screen lasts approximately four hours and six minutes.
Zoë was enthralled by my new diligence. If she found me writing, she wrote too. Though we both had laptops and were mobile, we remained in our separate rooms for some semblance of privacy. Through her open door I could hear her typing, which meant she could hear that I was not.
I resorted to copying out old stories from my Great American Short Stories collection. An author once told me she copied one of Chekhov’s stories every morning so she could feel what it was like to write the story of a master.
Zoë came to check on me around ten. “How’s it going?” she asked.
“Fine.” I smiled.
“I brought cookies. A midnight snack.”
The “cookies” were made with honey, whole grain, and raisins. Dense as stones, both before and after digestion.
“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 in their schedules.”
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 the copy room in a fury. Turning the corner, I ran directly into Adam’s chest. His eyes scanned my body up and down, catching a moment at my breasts. He grinned. “In a hurry?”
“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.”
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