Chapter 51
The best part of being Studio Manager was the requirement that Willa be available to answer texts and calls from coaches and clients at all times — be it 4:30 a.m., when Delia was locked out of the studio (the door code is 1-2-3-4, not 1-2-3-3, you moron), or midnight, when a client was begging to cancel out of the next day’s class without financial penalty (cough, cough, bullshit, bullshit).
At least the senior coaches were talking to Willa again. She’d smoothed things over by letting them take protein drinks from the supply closet (FitFams wasn’t great at inventory control and loss prevention, and it was easy to slip a carton into your bag without getting caught by the cameras once you knew where they were).
It wasn’t much, but it also didn’t require Jen, Jamie, and Ashley to do any additional work, so they were, for the moment, pacified.
“Are you coming in to the studio this afternoon?” Jamie texted. “There’s a client in my class who I’m concerned about.”
“What’s going on?” Willa texted back, pausing her avocado analysis at the grocery store.
“It’s Clara. I think she’s, I don’t know, having problems.”
Willa sighed and looked at her watch. She could probably manage to zip through the aisles and grab the rest of the stuff on the grocery list if she skipped items like “those things that taste like lemon” (from Charlie), “dino parts” (from James), and “adult diapers for the lady of the house” (very funny, Pete). She could drop off the goods, hustle to the studio, see what was up at the 2 p.m. class, and get home in time to meet the boys’ bus.
“OK. I can stop by for your class,” Willa texted.
“Thank you!” Jamie texted, along with a prayer-hands emoji.
Willa arrived at FitFams, out of breath, just as the 2 p.m. was starting. She lurked outside the main room and sought eye contact with Jamie, who — while cueing the “Flying Wallenda” move and cranking “Up” by Cardi B — gave a small nod in the direction of machine number 11.
Willa moved to get a better, closer, subtle look and smiled at the client. Jamie’s concern was immediately clear: Clara was thin, almost frail, with puffy cheeks and what looked like a fine layer of hair on her face.
During her time in the psychiatric facility, Willa’s unit was home to all kinds of hard cases — those with suicidal ideation, like her, but also alcoholics and a guy who said he was the Statue of Liberty. Willa met a few teenagers with eating disorders that, at least for the moment, were being treated secondary to borderline personality disorder, cutting, and major medical depression.
So Willa knew why Clara had, on her face, the kind of downy hair that covers the body and limbs of a newborn. It was intended to keep her warm while she starved herself.
Shit, Willa thought.
“Hey, so there’s a client here who is having a hard time and my coach is worried about her. I should stick around after this class to manage the situation. Can you meet the bus?” Willa texted to Pete.
His response was a thumbs-up. Willa decided to take it at face value.
She manned the reception desk for parking validations, waiting for Clara to approach.
“Hey, Clara, how are you?” Willa asked.
“I’m great!” she said. “Such a good class. Jamie is so tough.”
“I know, right?” Willa said, stamping Clara’s ticket. “Did you know she’s studying to become a registered dietician? It’s gonna be so helpful for everyone here, just learning more about how we can best fuel our bodies for the workout.”
“Totally,” Clara said. “Thanks!”
And then she left.
When the studio was empty, Jamie approached the desk. “Well that didn’t move the needle much, did it?”
“No,” Willa said. “I wasn’t sure how to approach the situation.”
“Yeah, me neither,” Jamie said.
“I think we need to ask corporate,” Willa said. “They might have a policy about this, or resources in place, or something.”
“OK,” Jamie said. “Because I’m not just concerned about Clara. I’m also concerned about clients who might … I don’t know … get ideas from her.”
“Ideas? About their bodies?”
Jamie looked down at her Nikes. “I mean, yeah. We’re all impressionable. If we see that someone is super-skinny and killing it in class and the coaches are celebrating that, other clients might think they’re supposed to be super-skinny too.”
“Right. Of course,” Willa said. “OK. I promise I’ll get clarity from corporate and we’ll figure this out. For Clara, and for everyone else who is part of this community.”
Jamie looked relieved. “Thanks, boss.”
As Jamie headed out for the afternoon, Willa sat down at the reception desk and typed an email to corporate. Surprisingly, the response was almost immediate.
“Hi Willa,” Ben wrote. “Thanks for reaching out about this. The short answer is: do not engage. You really have no idea whether she has a problem or whether this is just her body type. Skinny can be strong, right?”
Um, what? What part of “she has lanugo on her face, which is a clear indication of an eating disorder” did he not understand?
“We’re not in the business of evaluating each client and whether they are eating enough or working out too much,” Ben continued.
So we’re supposed to just ignore it when it’s clear that someone is sick and might need help?
“Our job is to give them the best fitness experience possible and keep them coming back,” Ben continued. “We can’t be policing their habits outside the studio. Thanks.”
Willa put her head in her hands. Fitness was supposed to be an industry that cared about people and improving their well-being. Every day clients put aside anxiety, pride, and insecurity to step into these studios and try to become stronger, healthier, and happier. The least the industry could do is create safe spaces, places where people felt good.
Really, though, did Willa honestly expect FitFams to step up and help a client who looked too fragile to complete one class, much less the two-a-days listed in Clara’s client profile?
No. She knew the truth. FitFams, like most of its competitors, didn’t care about people. They cared about profits, and they were too short-sighted or stupid to realize that they could make more money if they had healthy, happy coaches and healthy, happy clients.
Willa’s phone buzzed. It was Jamie. “I know it’s soon, but did HQ get back to you?”
“I told them what was going on,” Willa thumbed into her phone. “They said we cannot engage with Clara about what’s likely going on with her. I completely disagree with corporate on this. But we have to follow their rules. I’m sorry.”
Willa watched Jamie’s three dots materialize on the screen. Then they disappeared.