Chapter 12
“Yes, it’s almost done. You’ll have it tomorrow morning,” Willa told the client, an editor from the Crescent magazine, who was waiting on the layout for a story about how more and more Phi Phi alums were getting into floral arranging.
Truthfully, Willa had been putting off the project in favor of studying the FitFams instruction manual. The company had begun building anticipation in the Atlanta market, with Instagram ads, Facebook posts, and even a Midtown billboard of Dee’s disembodied abs and the words “coming soon” in the FitFams font. The grand opening was in five days. Willa wouldn’t be coaching that first day, but she was on the schedule for the second. So Dee and Tara were going to evaluate her progress this afternoon.
Willa muttered the moves to herself as she dressed in a high-neck swing tank that said “Everything Hurts” and star-printed, high-waisted leggings. She fumbled the script as she pulled on her black slip-on Adidas sneakers, so she grabbed a yellow sticky note and used her own shorthand to create a tiny cheat sheet. It wasn’t quite the masterpiece of formulas she’d scribbled in pencil on the inside of her calculator case for an Algebra 3 test in high school (when other kids moved up to pre-calculus, she stayed in an algebraic holding pattern). But it was small enough to hide from Dee and Tara, and it would help if Willa got nervous and blanked out.
She climbed into her car and gunned it for the studio, knowing that points would be deducted on her evaluation if she didn’t arrive the required 30 minutes early.
It occurred to her that it was kind of strange that coaches were not paid for that half-hour of pre-class time, which was spent folding towels, troubleshooting any technological glitches with the sound system, and greeting early clients.
Coaches also didn’t get paid for the required after-class tasks, which included: validating client parking, wiping down all of the machines, emptying garbage cans, replacing used-up cans of spray deodorant in the bathrooms, refilling soap dispensers, making sure the small bowls in reception were filled with gum and earplugs, recording any merchandise purchases, turning off the aromatherapy machine, bringing in the sandwich-board sign from out front, turning off all but the neon light, setting the alarm, and locking the doors.
At the YMCA, all Willa had to do was teach and punch her time card afterward. At Ryde or Die, some of the spin instructors sauntered up just minutes before class was set to start. But maybe all of this prep and aftercare was just standard operating procedure at boutique gyms? Maybe it helped coaches feel like they had more of a stake in the studio’s success?
Willa entered the studio with 40 minutes to go until her “class” was set to start. Dee and Tara were already sitting on stools in one corner, laptops on their laps, saying nothing. This was meant to be a simulation of a real studio experience, from start to finish, so no room for superfluous pleasantries. Willa took a deep breath and began.
She placed her belongings behind a sliding door, then walked into the studio and up on to the stage. She put on the mic and headphone and cued up her pre-class playlist at a volume level of 6 out of 10. Then she went to the reception area and checked to make sure all of the cubbies were clear and that there were 20 tri-folded towels on the shelf. She picked up the towels and laid them across the front consoles of each machine, with the raw edge facing the window, as required.
Next Willa checked the bathrooms to make sure they were clean, wiping an errant drop from one of the sinks and replacing an empty box of tissues. She wondered how much of this was set up for the evaluation — it wasn’t like there’d been any real classes here yet, so how could we be out of tissues already? She shoved that thought aside to leave room for everything she had to remember to do next.
Willa tested the mic as she moved behind the reception desk, then took another deep breath and waited. Tara approached, pretending to be a client.
“Hi, what’s your name?” Willa chirped. “And is this your first time at FitFams?”
“Uh, yeah, my name is Tara, and yes, I’m new,” she said, eyes darting.
Oh, OK, she’s playing the part of nervous newbie. Got it.
“Welcome to the first day of your best life! I’m Willa, and I’m gonna kick your ass!”
“Thanks?” Tara said. Willa could see that Dee was watching closely and, just as she had with Jamie’s mock class, she was taking copious notes. Willa wondered what there was to report at this point. Had she skipped a step?
Willa continued by showing Tara where to put her things, getting her the shoes (and pretending to charge her for them), bringing her into the main studio, and then introducing her to the machine and the workout.
I am killing this, Willa thought as she cued the next song, turned it up, hit the air horn, turned off the house lights, turned up the neon, and started the countdown.
“3-2-1 …”
And then she froze. Shit. What comes next? She tried to peek at the sticky note she hid in her palm, but sweat had rubbed off most of the useful information. She watched Tara move slowly on the machine, awaiting guidance, and Dee typing furiously. Surely they’d take a little pity on Willa, given that she’d only had a few hours of training and most coaches had at least two weeks, if not six, before they were evaluated like this.
No dead air. No dead air. Sweat dripped into her eye.
And then: there it was. The selected sequence snapped into focus. Willa called out the moves, touched Tara on the shoulder and knee the prescribed number of times, said her name, and got about halfway through the 60-minute class before Dee yelled out.
“STOP.”
The music was so loud that Willa didn’t immediately process the command. She only realized what was happening when she saw Tara stop moving her feet, unclip from the pedals, slip off the FitFams shoes, and head back to her seat in the corner.
Willa slid the volume bar down and turned up the lights.
“Is something wrong?” she asked, oddly out of breath.
Dee exhaled with her eyes closed. Then: “Let’s go sit in the reception area.”
The three women settled on to the bench. Willa grabbed one of the fluffy pink pillows and held it like a security blanket.
“Willa,” Dee said, unblinking. “I’m not gonna lie. This needs work.”
“Oh,” Willa said, stung. “OK.”
“I usually talk about what I liked, what I loved, and what I never want to see again,” Dee said, perhaps not remembering that Willa had heard this spiel after Jamie’s mock class. “But in this case … I’m just not sure that would be the most productive approach.”
Willa pinched the skin between her thumb a pointer finger, a technique she’d learned after too many tears in the Rochester newsroom. Her desk there had been far from the bathroom, so when her editor would lay into her, she’d have to run the gauntlet of pretend-concerned co-workers before she could take cover and cry.
Dee’s list of complaints was astoundingly detailed.
Then: “You know why we hired you, right?” Dee asked.
Willa felt stripped to the bones, so she wasn’t at all sure anymore.
“You present in a way that works for the ‘real-people’ segment of our client base,” Dee said, going big on the air quotes. “You’re not what we’d call one of our ‘super-aspirational’ coaches.”
Willa nodded.
“According to our research, you’ve been a popular instructor on what we’d call the ‘junior varsity level’ in Atlanta,” Dee said. “You’ve built a following of ‘regular’ people — moms, dads, people who have never worked out before, people who might be intimidated by ‘perfect’ bodies — because you are a ‘regular’ person. And we want those clients.”
Willa pinched her skin harder.
“But that doesn’t mean there’s any room for you to be less than stellar,” Dee said. “You will be representing our brand, representing me, so you need to step it up.”
“OK,” Willa gulped.
“Great. So keep practicing, and I’ll see you again on opening day, at the first class. All coaches are required to attend,” Dee said, standing up and gathering her things, then inspecting Willa’s shirt. “Don’t forget to input a credit card into the system so you can buy some FitFams gear to wear.”
“Will do,” Willa said. Don’t cry yet. Don’t cry yet.
Dee put a hand on her shoulder. “Welcome to the first day of your best life.”