Chapter 24
Willa was trying not to scream. She gritted her teeth, pressed her lips together, and hugged her arms around herself. It felt like every muscle in her body was engaged in the effort.
She was at Charlie’s soccer game, and his team was losing.
Last week the coach sent a note to the parents, politely asking them to please shut the hell up on the sidelines, reminding them that their shouts — some soccer-intelligent, others soccer-stupid — could be confusing for a group of 11-year-old boys.
This proved very difficult for Willa. Yes, she’d seen the video on YouTube of Lionel Messi, or whoever, silently watching his son play soccer. Good for him. She wasn’t that evolved. It was in her DNA to let Charlie know when his man was open or to step to, and she felt it was her duty to help the ref with handball and offsides calls.
After last weekend’s game, a particularly painful loss of 4-5 on a penalty kick, Charlie asked his mother to please be quiet.
“But I know the game,” Willa protested from the front passenger seat.
“I know you do. But we’re only supposed to listen to Coach,” Charlie said from the back, while eating drive-through McDonald’s. “And it’s kind of embarrassing.”
So today she was sitting as quietly as possible, even tucking her chin and mouth into the zip-up collar of her running jacket, resisting every natural urge to coach and commentate.
“You’re doing very well,” Pete said from the camp chair next to her.
“Thanks,” she grumbled into her jacket.
Her phone, tucked under her leg in her chair, was buzzing. She was trying to ignore it until halftime. She didn’t want to be one of those parents who stare at their phones instead of watching their kid.
“You can get that, you know,” Pete said, keeping his eyes on the field.
“No, I’ll wait,” Willa said.
“Can I play Among Us on your phone?” James asked, from another camp chair.
“No. Watch the game,” Pete and Willa said in unison.
At halftime she picked up her phone and saw four missed texts. The first was from Tara.
“Willa, I have a proposition for you. I know you’re currently on the schedule three times a week. Would you like to add one more, and also become Studio Manager?”
Me? They want to promote me?
The next text was from Jamie: “I hear you might become Studio Manager! Congratulations!”
Then, a text from Jen: “Congrats, boss!”
Then four flexed-biceps emojis from Ashley.
“They want me to become studio manager,” Willa said to Pete as they watched Charlie in the halftime huddle.
Pete was quiet for a moment. “What would that involve?”
“More money, I’m guessing. And a little bit more work.”
“Do you want to do it?” he asked.
Did she? Willa wasn’t sure. Her graphic design jobs had slowed down a little bit lately. Frankly, FitFams was a lot more fun than getting berated by a gluten-free baker in Norcross who didn’t like her new logo.
“I think I might,” Willa said.
“If you think it’s the right fit, and it will make you happy, I’m all for it,” Pete said.
Game play began again, and Willa asked: “Have I seemed unhappy lately?”
“Well, no, not exactly,” Pete said. “But you know what they say.”
“Do not say it. Do. Not.”
Then Pete and James said it together: “Happy wife, happy life.”
She punched Pete in the shoulder.
---
Three days later, Willa arrived at the studio an hour early to prepare for her new class and her first shift as studio manager in Atlanta. She looked at the chalkboard propped near the towels and noticed that someone had erased Jem’s name under the welcome message and written Willa’s in loopy script.
As studio manager, Willa was expected to continue to complete her coaching duties in addition to the following: manage coach schedules and sub requests; hold one staff meeting per month; review each coach’s daily checklist after each class to make sure all duties were fulfilled; fill out a daily report in an electronic template — with information on attendance, utilization, attitude, cleanliness, and the like — and send it to corporate by 10 p.m.; host events with community partners selected by FitFams’ leadership team; create eight, instead of three, social media posts per week; represent FitFams at local social, health, and wellness events; evaluate coaches every 30 days; and respond to all verbal and electronic questions, concerns, and complaints from clients.
Tonight, Willa hustled through as many of her responsibilities as she could. Then, with 30 minutes left before the start of the class, she put on her headset, cued up the pre-class music, and posted up behind the reception desk. Then the door opened. But it wasn’t a client.
It was Jem.
She stopped in the doorway, noticed Willa, and her mouth fell open.
“Wait,” Jem said. “What are you doing here?”
It was now Willa’s turn to be surprised.
“I’m … I’m getting ready to teach class,” she said. “I’m on the schedule for the 5:30 p.m.”
“Since when?” Jem asked.
“Since … I don’t know … a few days ago?” Willa stammered. “Wait. I thought you’d agreed to this. No one told you?””
“No,” she snapped. “No one told me that you were going to be snaking my classes out from under me.”
“Whoa,” Willa said, putting both hands up in a defensive posture. “I didn’t snake anything. I didn’t even ask to take over your classes or your job.”
Jem’s eyes widened. “Hold on, you’re the Studio Manager now?”
Oh crap, Willa thought. She started picking at the cuticle on her right pinky finger.
“Excuse me,” a client said, trying to get past Jem, in the doorway. “I’m so excited for your class!”
“I’m not teaching it,” Jem said, her voice dripping with anger. “Apparently, Willa is. And nobody told me.”
The client looked legitimately crestfallen.
Hold up, Willa thought. This is not cool. We can’t do this in front of a client.
“I’m sure there’s just some miscommunication going on,” Willa said to the client in a cheerleader’s voice. “Come on in and make yourself comfortable.”
Jem took a dramatic step out of the way. “Yes, make yourself comfortable. You too, Willa. I guess I’ll be going.”
She stomped onto the sidewalk and out of sight.