The next morning, Arlene’s phone alarm goes off, and the women rumble awake. The fairgrounds have showers…of a sort. Basically, Harlan somehow jury-rigged showers into the horse stalls behind the hall, and that’s all they’ve got. Women on one side, men on another, separated by a firm wood wall that’s had any conspicuous knots filled in. The water is cold, but there’s shampoo and conditioner and body wash and razors and a big stack of cheap towels.
As if sensing the crowd’s discontent, Sienna says, “Don’t worry. It won’t always be like this. Once we’re under way and touring, we’ll have better facilities.”
“Easy for her to say,” Amy murmurs to Chelsea as they wait their turn. “She has a real shower in her RV.”
Once everyone’s clean, and it does feel wonderful to be free of all the dirt and sweat from moving yesterday, they head to a little kitchen in the agricultural hall and have a much better meal than Chelsea was expecting. The eggs are soft, the bacon is crisp, the bananas aren’t brown, and the coffee is…brown. Chelsea misses real creamer as she pours in the powdered stuff, but it could be a lot worse. In a different world, after what happened the other day, she might be in jail.
Again, Sienna warns them not to overindulge.
“You need fuel, but you don’t want to train with too much on your stomach.”
“More puke problems?” Joy asks.
Sienna nods knowingly. “Trust me: It’s going to happen. Just make sure it’s not you.”
After breakfast, they clean everything they prepared yesterday, sweeping and spraying and polishing. Chelsea gets stuck wiping down every mat and rope and prop with harsh industrial cleaner. At least they give her long yellow gloves. Once she realizes what’s coming next, she’s glad they had an hour to let breakfast settle, even if it was spent cleaning.
Training, it turns out, is no joke.
Chris takes control, explaining that they need a mix of cardio and weights. They start with stretches, then sprints. Despite the exercises she did in her room back home, Chelsea is so out of shape that she’s embarrassed, but she’s not alone. At least Chris isn’t the type of guy to yell at them like an army drill sergeant. He’s honest but encouraging, and everyone has to finish their laps, even if they do it walking and clutching their sides.
After a water break, Chris divides the room into three different stations and he, Sienna, and Arlene each take up a post. Harlan is noticeably absent, Chelsea realizes.
Her first station is with Chris doing weight training, and…she hates it. She feels like her arms are floppy noodles. She hasn’t done anything like this since high school, and even then, her heart wasn’t in it. No one in her group seems to know what they’re doing—they were probably divided up like this on purpose. Chris is patient but firm as he shows them the exercises they’ll be expected to do every weekday, demonstrating and perfecting their form over and over until they get it. He’s markedly relieved when the alarm goes off and it’s time to switch stations.
Next, they go to Sienna, and Chelsea is grateful to not be doing anything physical at all. Sienna has a notebook and leads each person behind a screen one by one to take measurements. Chelsea isn’t sure what the screen is for until she’s taken behind it and realizes that that tape measure is going everywhere.
“This is worse than a TSA patdown,” she murmurs as Sienna nearly unfurls her measuring tape in her birth canal.
“Tight costumes,” Sienna says before nodding and writing more numbers in her little notebook. “Because you’re going to get thrown around, and everything needs to stay in place. If I’m gentle and respectful, your costume doesn’t fit, and then we have to fix it or sew it again. I’m not the sort of person who likes to do things twice.” She steps back and smiles, warm and real, woman-to-woman. “And you’re not allowed to lose weight, either.”
Chelsea chuckles and exhales, no longer sucking in her belly. “See, no one’s ever said that to me before.”
Sienna puts a hand on her shoulder. “We need you strong, not skinny. Muscles and curves are all good here. Never make yourself smaller to suit someone who wants to feel big.”
She turns away to write in her book, and Chelsea has one of those rare moments of complete clarity in life. It reminds her of looking at one of those Magic Eye posters and crossing her eyes just right and suddenly seeing what’s really there.
David wanted her small for a reason.
He wanted her thin and weak. He didn’t like it when she wore heels. He liked to loom over her.
And she’s felt small, just like that, for years and years.
She remembers back to their time in student housing at David’s college, that tiny one-bedroom cinder-block box where the windows didn’t open and the heat gathered while she cooked until the hair curled up the nape of her neck. They had this little stool for reaching the top cabinets and he would make her sit on it while he talked at her, and her knees would scrunch up to her chin. He was so annoyed when she got too pregnant to fit on it, and when they moved out, she made sure it got placed poorly in the U-Haul truck and snapped a leg.
Even then, he wanted her small and scrunched up so he could stand that much taller.
“Chelsea?”
She blinks.
She lost time.
Oh God, did she…
No. She didn’t storm. Sienna is smiling at her.
“You’re all done. Just chill out until Arlene calls you.”
Chelsea gives a wobbling smile and thanks her and heads back out to the stack of exercise mats the rest of her group is relaxing on. The big guy’s name is John. Amy and Matt are also in her group, along with three other new people, none of whom stand out in her mind. Matt heads back to get measured, and Amy hands Chelsea a granola bar.
“So that was intrusive,” Amy starts.
“Right? I mean, what are we wearing—bikinis?”
“Leotards, probably. Something like that.”
“But do they assign it or what?”
Amy shrugs. “No idea. But we’re in it now. I’ll wear a giant purple dinosaur suit if it’ll get me vaccinated and earn more money than running myself ragged delivering takeout.”