Chapter 20
Jem wiped down the headphone-microphone and handed it off to Willa for the 12 p.m. Friday class that marked the end of her first full, paid week at FitFams.
“Thanks,” Willa said, pulling on the headset and following the pre-class protocol that by now had become almost second nature. She’d found her groove and was getting rave reviews on Yelp, ClassPass, and Google.
A woman with long, thick, chestnut hair — Willa found herself wondering if the woman had extensions, and can you sweat in those? — hurried into the studio about six minutes before the start of class. She was wearing an expensive white T-shirt, probably from James Perse; a hip-grazing gray blazer with the sleeves rolled up; a pair of black cigarette pants that showed just the right amount of ankle; and what Willa recognized from a recent covetous scroll of neimanmarcus.com as Christian Louboutin’s Hot Chick multicolored pumps. In the woman’s right hand was a baby blue Coach laptop bag, and on her left shoulder was a Stella McCartney gym bag in black.
“Alexis Junot,” she said to Willa, then hurried into the bathroom to change.
Willa continued her pre-class rituals of meet-and-greets, pep talks, DJ’ing, and here’s-what-to-know until Jem beckoned her away from the podium.
“Excuse me, team,” Willa said on the mic. “I’ll be right back. Set your intentions for class while you enjoy the sounds of the Backstreet Boys.”
Willa turned off her mic and whispered to Jem: “What’s up?”
“Alexis forgot her sports bra,” Jem said.
Willa looked at Jem blankly. “OK. And?”
“And we are all out of her size on the merch wall. She’s the same size as you.”
Willa looked down at her C-cups, comfortably strapped down and lifted up in an Alo Yoga bra beneath a FitFams muscle shirt.
Willa said: “Are you saying —“
Jem nodded. “Yes. You need to give her your bra.”
Wait, what?
Listen — Willa was proud of her breasts. They’d survived two rounds of breastfeeding and she still had what that downtown street trumpeter who played the theme from “I Dream of Jeannie” on a loop called a “great rack.” But her boobs were not meant to go without spandex support.
“You want me to go braless for class?”
Jem looked impatient. “We are supposed to do everything for the client, remember? Ev-ree-thing. I’d help her, but look at me. I’m way too little.”
Willa scanned the merch wall; the bras were all tiny A-cups, priced at $80 per. Size inclusive, my ass.
“She’s waiting in the bathroom,” Jem said. “You better hurry.”
Willa whipped off the headset and quickly did one of those bra removals she’d learned at soccer tournaments:
Leave the shirt on and pull the left arm inside.
Take that arm and thread it through the bra so that the bra, on that side, now sits on the shoulder.
Bring left arm back out of the left arm hole of the shirt.
Pull the bra over your head so it now sits on the other shoulder.
Make sure the top layer is not tangled or riding up to reveal any naughty bits.
Reach into the right arm hole of the shirt and pull the bra out.
And now Willa was swinging free.
She knocked on the bathroom door. “Hi, Alexis. It’s Willa.”
Alexis opened the door a sliver, then snatched the bra.
Willa pulled the headset back on and returned to the class with one minute to spare. “OK, everyone, get ready!”
Though she was trying to focus on the sequence of moves for the class, Willa was intensely distracted by her own chest. Did women in the 1960s really feel liberated when they burned their bras? Because right now, Willa did not feel like bursting into songs from “Hair.” Concerns crowded her mind: Am I nipping out? Should I cross my arms, or would that be — as with the time I tied a sweatshirt around the waist of my white jeans when my period showed up, unannounced, during a chorus trip in junior high — a dead giveaway?
The FitFams manual required good posture, as Willa recalled from Jamie’s evaluation, but Willa felt even more self-conscious when she stood up straight and pulled back her shoulders.
Let’s put it this way — the resulting class was not one of Willa’s best.
“3-2-1, you’re done!” she yelled out, then turned down the music, brought up the house lights, and held her tank top by the hem, attempting to make it less form-fitting by pulling it away from her body.
Alexis, like the other 19 clients in class, was a sweaty mess. She quickly grabbed her things and took over the bathroom while Willa self-consciously talked to clients and cleaned up.
Eight minutes later Alexis emerged, looking as fresh as when she arrived. Willa guessed the woman had brought body wipes for a bird bath in the sink; washed her face with something expensive and exfoliating; followed a quick skincare regimen that left her flushed skin looking dewy; sprayed on some dry shampoo and blow-dried her roots; pulled her beautiful hair into a smart ponytail; swiped on some all-natural, lightly scented deodorant; applied fresh concealer, foundation, blush, brow pencil, and lipstick; and changed back into her work clothes.
Alexis handed her parking ticket to Jem for validation, then swept out the door.
Where was Willa’s bra?
She went looking, and found it — soaked, in a ball, in the corner of the bathroom.