It’s an all-too-familiar feeling that she now finds repugnant.
As much as Chelsea loves her girls, as much as she misses them with every heartbeat and thinks of them every moment, she could never go back to living under David’s particular brand of oppression. She couldn’t fit herself back into that tiny box, cut off parts of herself like Cinderella’s stepsisters chopping at their feet, all to contort into some prearranged shape to suit someone else. She may be broke right now, she may own three outfits and one pair of shoes and the cheapest underwear at Target, but no one can make her do a goddamn thing. And it feels fantastic.
What’s more, it feels like a starting point.
Back in her old life, everything felt like a dead end.
That night, she falls asleep more quickly than anticipated. It was exhausting, her bout, and even if she loved those old, familiar, most welcome sparkles of performance magic, what came after was draining. The whole tour bus is quiet. No one knows what will happen next. The VFR could be totally done. They could be sent home tomorrow. Some of them have no home to return to. Chelsea doesn’t even have a car. If they let her go, she’ll have to…
God, what?
She has no idea.
Hope Amy will invite her along, maybe. Amy still has a car, locked behind the gates back at the fair lot.
If not, maybe Maryellen. She likes and trusts Steve and Matt but isn’t yet ready to enter into any sort of relationship, even friendship, where a man has power over her, or even where his vote counts for more because he owns all the resources. She knows all too well that the cycle can’t be broken that easily, that if she had nowhere to go and a man told her to jump, there’s a chance she’d bow her head and ask how high.
The next morning is likewise somber. Arlene tries to inject some levity, playing the B-52s as they brush their teeth and hair and take turns for tepid two-minute showers in the little RV cubicle.
“Y’all are all acting like it’s the end of the world,” Arlene says, shaking her head. “We’re just getting started. If you think it’s over, you don’t know Harlan Payne too well.”
Of course they don’t know him. He’s a celebrity. He changed personalities five times in his career, from hero to villain to lunatic and back again. And as for his fighters, they’re all losers and killers and weirdos, and they know it.
Harlan has money and friends and resources. They don’t.
That’s why nobody corrects Arlene.
They shuffle over to Sienna’s RV in a loose line, no one really talking. The sky is gray, threatening rain, the air as thick as soup. The scent of sausage floats up, and as they arrived first, the girls dig in, scooping up eggs from Sienna’s big pot and pulling bananas from a bunch and pouring coffee from a giant carafe that no one can live without.
“Sleep well?” Steve asks Chelsea when he arrives with the boys, looking smaller in his Nirvana T-shirt and jeans as compared with last night’s costume. There’s still mascara stuck in his lashes; someone needs to teach the guys how to use oil to remove eye makeup.
“Yeah, but then I woke up.”
He laughs, and she smiles a little. That’s another thing she’s learning at the VFR—she still has a sense of humor, for all that it’s been buried for decades. For the past few years, she and David never chatted or watched shows together or went on dates, unless it was for a work function, and it’s nice to have banter in her life again.
“Have you guys seen this?” Amy says, rushing up, holding out her phone.
VFR BLOWS UP, the news headline says—on CNN.
And right there dominating the screen is a shot of Chelsea standing on Steve, her face a feral mask, all teeth and crazy hair and mad eyes.
She really does look like Florida Woman—batshit insane and dangerous. She doesn’t even recognize herself.
“Oh my God.” She wants to take the phone but isn’t yet that kind of person. “What does the story say?”
Amy squeezes in between her and Steve and slowly scrolls through, although it’s hard to read.
“Surprises abounded in the first Violence Fighting Ring event,” she recites. “Horrible grammar, but whatever. Ahem. It’s not quite illegal, but it’s definitely underground, and it’s brutal. We saw a granny beat up a goth, a stripper cuss out an MMA fighter, and the embodiment of Florida Woman kick a banker’s ass. And we loved it.” Amy looks up at Chelsea. “They loved it! Um…” She scrolls a little further. “The event was cut short when an audience member stormed with a legitimate case of the Violence and was neutralized by the VFR fighters and Harlan Payne himself. Tickets for tomorrow night’s show in Jacksonville are sold out, but the event can be streamed with a subscription.” Amy looks up. “So that’s good, right? We’re okay?”
“That’s just what I was coming here to discuss.” Harlan Payne has appeared among them in his uniform, his scarf bright red and black. He’s grinning, showing all his teeth. “I know we were all worried. Hell, I’ll admit I had a difficult night. But we’re a hit! Every event on the schedule is sold out and subscriptions are through the roof. Even the reviews that didn’t like it had to admit that it was compelling and, I quote, gleefully fills the empty shoes left by the WWC.”
It’s another odd moment. Chelsea’s heart lifts, but she’s not sure she can trust it.
“So we still have jobs?” Amy asks. Chelsea is grateful to have an Amy around, someone willing to ask the questions everyone else worries are too pushy or too stupid.
Harlan barks a laugh. “Of course you still have jobs. And everybody gets a bonus this morning for making it happen.” He pulls out a stack of cash—greasy, crumpled bills. Chelsea can imagine them passing hand-to-hand last night, ten dollars for parking and a sliding amount for seats inside, based on how close they were to the ring. Harlan peels off some bills and hands matching stacks to her and Steve. “You two done good. I spent the morning tuning up your websites.” He winks at Chelsea and turns to distribute the rest of his gifts.
Chelsea inspects her bonus. It’s only two hundred dollars, but it’s hers, and there’s no David in her life to snatch it away.
“Not bad,” Steve says with a grin. “Wait. Did he just say websites?”
Chelsea longs for complete access to the internet. She used to think nothing of her phone and laptop and tablet, how she could look up anything she wanted, anytime she liked. She’s going to use this money to get a new card and pay-as-you-go account on George’s phone so she can have that power again. Right now, she’d settle for a calculator so she could run numbers on how much they must’ve taken in last night, although she suspects most of Harlan’s financial triumph comes from subscription sales.
“Oh shit.” Chelsea looks to Amy, who has her money tucked behind her phone, still scrolling, her breakfast forgotten and her jaw dropped.
“What?”