Chapter 16
Willa turned on the house lights and yanked a handful of sanitizing wipes from the dispenser, then delivered them and the required fist bumps to each of the six women who had showed up to try out her first free class at FitFams.
Four were strangers. Willa properly memorized three of the names on the fly but mistakenly kept calling Sarah by the name Velma because she looked like the character from “Scooby Doo.” The other two were wives who lived down the street from Willa in Decatur.
She’d come up with the name “Hoodbros” for her husband’s male friends on their street, based on their tendency to share still images from Disney movies that actually looked like porn and their impressive commitment to analyzing the lyrics from Shaggy’s “It Wasn’t Me” (“OK, so his girlfriend caught him having sex on the counter, the sofa, the shower, and on camera, and he still tried to say it wasn’t him?”).
The wives became known as the “the Hoodhoneys” (the name “Hoodhos” was quickly and summarily rejected) and would regularly meet in one of their tricked-out screened-in porches to gossip by the working fireplace, drink canned wine from the special mini-fridge, or yell at reality shows on the mounted flat-screen TV.
Given Decatur’s growing status as a down-to-earth place with excellent schools, families who otherwise might have moved to uptight, shiny, and monochromatic Buckhead were beginning to make their way into neighborhoods like Willa’s. She tried to stay away from those new arrivals, ever since one of them — when they crossed paths while walking their dogs — purred: “Isn’t it lucky that you bought your house before you could get priced out? We’re just so happy you’re here.”
Two Hoodhoneys showed up for Willa’s free FitFams class. There was Cara, a white, 42-year-old communications executive at Home Depot with a 12-year-old daughter, a two-year-old oops-baby boy, and a husband-approved hall pass for Justin Timberlake. Next to her was Vanessa, a white, 39-year-old, stay-at-home mother-of-one who would crochet you a scarf and roll you a joint for your birthday. They both looked almost traumatized as they recovered on the reception bench and waited for Willa to finish chatting with other clients and clean up.
“You spent 40 more seconds working the right oblique than the left, so I feel lopsided,” said the woman Willa had properly called “Brie” because her skin resembled the pale, gray-tinged color of the cheese. “Also, the music was too loud, not at all upbeat, and you were too talkative.”
Awesome.
Forcing a grin on her face, Willa tried not to reveal how badly she wanted to punch Brie in the head.
“Thanks so much for the constructive feedback!” Willa said. “This is a learning process for me too, so I’m really glad to have strong, athletic, and knowledgeable clients like you around, to help me get better.”
Then Willa pulled a gift card out of the reception desk, one of three she was permitted to share with clients who might need an extra push to sign up for paid classes. “I’m really not supposed to do this,” Willa said, conspiratorially, “but I feel like I can learn so much from you, so I want you in my classes. I’m going to give you a pass for two free sessions if you sign up for a 10-pack today.”
Brie considered the card with one hand on her hip, then gave a small smile, and Willa knew: She’d hit the E-spot (“The best coaches know how to locate and stimulate the ‘E-spot,’ or Ego Spot,” the FitFams manual said. “What does this mean? It means you know how to stroke a client’s ego, which makes them feel important and increases their willingness to book and buy.”)
Brie turned the card over in her hand. “Well, yeah, I know a lot about working out, so I’m sure I could help you,” she said.
Never mind that she’d told Willa, before class, that her workout regimen consisted of once-a-month Zumba. Willa could picture it — Brie botching a Reggaeton Pump-Cumbia Party-Merengue March combo, then taking a break to apply lipgloss and take a selfie.
Willa pulled out the studio iPad and opened up Brie’s account.
“Yeah, I’ll sign up,” Brie said.
“Great,” Willa said, and hit the purchase button.
“Wow,” Vanessa said, after Brie, “Velma,” and the other clients had left the studio. “That was impressive.”
“The workout?” Willa said, folding towels.
“Well, yeah. I mean, look at me,” Vanessa said, pulling her soaked tank top away from her chest. “But I’m really talking about the way you sold her.”
Willa smirked. “All part of the job.”
“You’ve never struck me as the salesman type,” Cara said, getting up to fill her water bottle.
This was an astute observation. When Willa was 15, she bungled an easy sale at her summer job in an Indonesian boutique in New Jersey (“Does that batik shirt look good on you? I mean, I guess? Or maybe you want to go up a size?”) and was thereafter forbidden to leave the stock room when customers were around. Her biggest sale during Girl Scout Cookie time was to her mother, who bought two cases of Tagalongs but never ate a single delicious, chocolate-and-peanut-butter patty, instead sticking to her grapefruit diet and carefully noting her daily weight — 94, 96, 95 — in a notebook on the kitchen counter.
“I guess this job is bringing out a skill set I didn’t know I had,” Willa said, emptying the garbage can behind the front desk at FitFams. “If only I could use that power for good.”
After Willa finished filling out the closing checklist, she pulled the studio door closed to lock it, and all three women climbed into Vanessa’s don’t-judge-me-I-hate-it-too minivan.
“Are you going to try to sell memberships to us?” Cara asked.
“Nah, I’ll let you save your money. You can buy me a bunch of Bloody Marys instead,” Willa said. “Let’s get to brunch before our husbands can text us to come home and help with the kids.”