Attach ments(31)

Poor kid. Poor Christine.

This isn’t a big deal, Lincoln told himself. The plan is flexible. He could still go see a movie this weekend. He could pick up his comics. He could call Justin.

There were twenty-three red-flagged messages in the WebFence folder. There might even be something in there that Lincoln should take care of. He opened it, telling himself that he may as well earn an hour of his paycheck tonight.

He opened it, hoping.





From: Beth Fremont

To: Jennifer Scribner-Snyder

Sent: Thurs, 09/30/1999 3:42 PM

Subject: If you were Superman …

…and you could choose any alter ego you wanted, why the hell would you choose to spend your Clark Kent hours—which already suck because you have to wear glasses and you can’t fly—at a newspaper?

Why not pose as a wealthy playboy like Batman? Or the leader of a small but important nation like Black Panther?

Why would you choose to spend your days on deadline, making crap money, dealing with terminally crabby editors?

<<Jennifer to Beth>> I thought we agreed not to swear in e-mails.

<<Beth to Jennifer>> We agreed that it would probably be a good idea to stop swearing in e-mails.

<<Jennifer to Beth>> Still thinking about Lois Lane?

<<Beth to Jennifer>> Sort of. I mean, I get why Lois Lane went to journalism school. I know her type. Wants to make a difference, wants to uncover great truths. Nosy. But Clark Kent …why not Clark Kent, sexy TV weatherman? Or Clark Kent, mayor of Cincinnati?

<<Jennifer to Beth>> Aren’t you missing the point? Clark Kent doesn’t want to be famous. He doesn’t want people to look at him. If they really look at him, they’d see that he’s just Superman with glasses.

Plus, he needs to be someplace like a newsroom, where he’s the first to hear big news. He can’t afford to read “Joker attacks moon” the next day in the newspaper.

<<Beth to Jennifer>> You make an excellent point. Especially for someone who doesn’t know that Superman never fights the Joker.

<<Jennifer to Beth>> Especially for someone who doesn’t care. I hope you’re not right about life sucking for everyone who can’t fly and wears glasses. That describes everyone in this room.

What are you working on?

<<Beth to Jennifer>> We do all wear glasses. Weird.

Another Indian Hills story. I’m not so much working as I am waiting for a phone call.

It turns out, the hospital next door to the theater already bought the land. Months ago. They’re going to make it a parking lot. I’m waiting for the hospital spokesperson to call me back so that she can say, “No comment.” And then I can write, “Hospital officials would not comment on the sale.” And then I can go home.

Do you know how mind-numbing it is to sit around waiting for someone to call you back so that they can officially tell you nothing? I just don’t think Superman would stand for it. He could be out finding lost Boy Scouts and plugging volcanoes with giant boulders.

<<Jennifer to Beth>> Superman works at a newspaper because he’s trying to get with Lois Lane.

<<Beth to Jennifer>> He probably makes twice as much as she does.





ON FRIDAY MORNING , Lincoln picked up a spring schedule from the city college. There was a professor in the anthropology department who specialized in Afghan studies. Why not take a few classes? He had plenty of time during the day, and he could always study at work. He’d love to study at work.

“What is this?” his mother asked when she saw the class schedule.

“Something that I thought I’d put in my backpack.” He took the brochure from her hands.

“Seriously, Mom, what are you doing in my bag? Are you steaming open my mail, too?”

“You don’t get any mail.” She folded her arms. You could never be offended or dismayed with her —she always beat you to it. “I was checking your bag for dirty dishes,” she said. “Do those papers mean that you’re going back to school?”

“Not immediately.” The fall semester had already started.

“I don’t know how I feel about that, Lincoln. I’m starting to think you might have a problem. With school.”

“I’ve never had a problem with school,” he said, knowing how lame that sounded, knowing that refusing to take part in the conversation wasn’t the same as avoiding it.

“You know what I mean,” she said. She wagged a dirty spoon at him. “A problem. Like those women who getaddicted to plastic surgery. They keep going back and going back, trying to look better until there is no more better. Like they can’t look better because they don’t even look like themselves anymore. And then it’s just about looking different, I think. I saw this woman in a magazine who looked just like a cat. Like a cat of prey, a big cat. Have you ever seen her? She has a lot of money. I think she might be from Austria.”