Chapter 46
Willa sometimes pictured herself as Glinda the Good Witch, and not just because they both looked amazing in pink taffeta ballgowns with sleeves as big and puffy as full leaf bags. Willa liked to think she’d created, around FitFams Atlanta, a pink bubble like the one Glinda used for transportation in “the Wizard of Oz.”
Willa’s bubble was safe and warm and protected her people — the clients, her three senior coaches, and the three rookies who had recently joined the team — from what was going on behind the curtain. (“You have no power here!” Willa imagined saying to corporate in Glinda’s trilling voice. “Begone before somebody drops a house on you too!”)
Unfortunately, as was the case in Oz, this was all a dream.
Willa was restocking tank tops and Swiffering lint balls from under the machines on a Tuesday afternoon when she heard the ping. It was an email from Tara, with the following commandments:
Remove towels from shelves, clean and fold, box up and ship to HQ
Turn off the neon at night
Inform coaches that they should no longer refer to clients as “bitches” but rather “family” or “fam” (i.e.: “You can do this, family!” or “I’m gonna kick your asses, fam!”)
Submit daily reports by 4:15 p.m. EST instead of 5 p.m. EST
Cease offering FitFams-branded plastic bags to clients for their dirty clothes
Remove yoni eggs from shelves (nationwide product recall after vaginal injury claims)
Take senior coaches off full classes and move them to off-peak slots
Move rookie coaches to peak classes
Wow. They really buried the lede. What the hell?
Tara’s email continued: “Tell your senior coaches that you so appreciate the hard work they have done to build up their classes, and that the reason we’re moving them is so they can have that kind of amazing impact on more than just their regulars and make our off-peak classes more successful. Tell the coaches that this is a good thing, a compliment, a vote of confidence in their ability to take empty classes and fill them up.”
Oh, this did not sound like the kind of news Willa wanted to deliver to her team. The senior coaches would most certainly see through the spin. And the rookies — Brooklyn, Delia, and Mase — were not ready to coach the popular classes and handle the most demanding clients. This seemed like the kind of thing that could alienate coaches and clients in one stupid swoop.
“Feel free to take your teams out to discuss (use corporate card: maximum spend: $75),” Tara wrote. “We expect this information to be shared with your team by midnight tonight.”
Willa leaned the Swiffer sweeper against the wall and tapped out a text to Pete, who was at work. “I have to meet with the team tonight to pass along some schedule changes they are going to hate. Can you handle dinner and helping Charlie with his presentation on the Louisiana Purchase?”
“Y,” Pete typed back.
His response seemed a little brusque, but Willa wasn’t going to question his attitude when she was the one missing out on family time yet again.
Willa started typing a text to the coaches. “There’s no I in team but there’s an I in Tito’s and —”
Blergh. Delete.
“Who wants a last-minute invitation to hang out with the boss and hear about a pay cut?”
Delete.
“As Melissa Manchester sang: Don’t cry out loud. Just keep it inside, and learn how to hide your feelings —”
For the love of all that is holy. Delete.
“Hi team. Sorry to ask for this at the last minute, but I need to convene a team meeting tonight at 7 p.m. at Sky. We’ll talk about some stuff, eat, and drink. FitFams is buying.”
She sent it off. All six team members texted back their affirmative RSVPs in quick succession.
See, this is what I’m talking about, Willa said to herself. This team gives a shit. They do what’s asked of them and more, like straightening a crooked floormat, bringing flowers for a client’s birthday, or going outside and shooing away the guy who leans against the studio window and plays with himself.
These coaches really care about FitFams. And because they live inside the big pink bubble, they think the company cares about them too.
Willa was not afraid of confrontation; you’d find that out if you ever tried to scold her kids on a playground, or cut her in line at CVS. But she always went to great pains to be liked, ever so slightly shape-shifting her personality to fit in with disparate groups. She’d been a pot-smoking Deadhead, an art gallery snob, a melodramatic theater dork, a hot sorority girl, a glitter-dipped festival follower, a ferociously competitive jock, a hipster kickball enthusiast, a sign-toting pro-abortion rights activist, and a preternaturally peppy fitness coach.
None of those personas seemed quite suited to the task at hand. So Willa decided to hit the bar early to see if a few beers would provide her with clarity and direction — an interesting decision, given that drinking had never provided her with that, ever.
She was four beers in by the time her team arrived. This was followed by several rounds of shots. And then Willa — drunkenly, clumsily — dropped the hammer.
“Hold up,” Jamie said. “You want me to stop coaching the 6:30 p.m. on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday and move to 11:05 a.m. on Tuesdays and 2 p.m. on Thursdays?”
“It’s gonna be great,” Willa slurred. “You’re gonna take those classes and turn them into something special.”
“They’re not special now, with the rookies teaching them?” asked Mase, an African-American 23-year-old who periodically worked as Tyler Perry’s personal trainer and had been known to “mistakenly” leave acting headshots around the entertainment mogul’s house. Brooklyn and Delia watched Willa for her answer.
“I didn’t mean that,” Willa sputtered. “I just meant that those classes are lower-traffic right now and our senior coaches have more experience building up numbers.”
“This change means the senior coaches are going to get paid less,” Jen said, crossing her arms and shaking her head. “That is bullshit.”
“I know, I know,” Willa said. “But that’s only until you fill the classes.”
“It’s almost impossible to fill classes that are off-peak,” Jamie said.
“Did you push back on this?” Ashley asked.
Willa paused for a moment too long.
“Well, that answers that,” Jen said, slamming back the last of her Tito’s and soda with lime.
“We’re gonna make this work. I promise,” Willa said, feebly.
Delia, reaching across the table to squeeze the boss’ arm, blinked her naïve doe eyes and said: “We can definitely make it work.”
“No shit you can,” Jen said. “You’re going to get paid a lot more.”
Delia sat back in her chair, popped out her lower lip, and started twirling the ends of her brown pigtail braids.
“Let’s not let this affect the team,” Willa pleaded. “We’re a family.”
Ashley shook her head and signaled for Jamie and Jen to leave with her. “Whatever you say, boss.”
Willa could almost hear the bubble pop.