As Amy crunches her bar, her eyes go far away, and this, too, is familiar. Chelsea did it with Sienna a few moments ago, and…well, almost all of them do it, sometimes. Get lost in a thought from the past. Shell-shocked, like they’ve come back from a war and can’t help but fall back into it now and then. No one asks anything so common and tawdry as, So what are you thinking about? because they know from personal experience that they don’t want to know the answer. It’s strange to suffer from a trauma in which the main event is forever hidden from memory while its aftereffects continue to cause horror and pain. Every time someone takes a sip of water out of a Yeti cup, Chelsea has a quick flash of Jeanie driving the minivan, and she has to force herself to focus and not fall into the memory. It’s like stepping back from the edge of a cliff.
They get called over to Arlene last, and Chelsea has heard all sorts of odd noises coming from what she thinks of as the interview room. The door has been closed all day, so whatever’s happening in there must be intense. It’s cooler, at least, the air conditioner grinding and the plastic chair cold against the backs of her legs. She’s still wearing her clothes from yesterday, and she hasn’t yet figured out how to ask to borrow something less filthy and bloody. They sit around the conference table with Arlene, who has a notebook, a smile, and a new, brightly patterned green turban.
“We’re here to develop your characters,” Arlene says, meeting each person’s eyes with a warm smile. Chelsea wonders if she was once a therapist or social worker. She’s got that way about her—kind, warm, wise, but like she could shutter down and kick physical, mental, and emotional ass if she had to. “And I’m going to tell you the bad news first: We’re leaning heavily into tropes and clichés. Entertaining the public is a cheap stunt, and we connect with what’s primal in them and what they want to see, whether they know it or not. Nobody here is going to be Superman. Or Batman.” Matt deflates a little. “You’re all going to be more like their kookiest evil villains. But you’re not alone. We’re all in it together.”
Feet shuffle, and everyone looks around as if their characters are going to jump out from behind every closed door.
“Amy, let’s start with you. Did you have some kind of character in mind?”
Amy’s fingers tap on the tops of her thighs, and Chelsea gets the idea she wouldn’t choose to go first.
“Well, I’m hapa, so I’m guessing something traditionally Asian and pretty racist?”
Arlene nods. “Sure, but it doesn’t have to be based on your actual racial makeup. You’re looking to play on what the more ignorant side of America would expect you to be, but something that you could connect with and inhabit. You could even twist it so you’re taking back your power.”
Amy shakes her head. “I’m not down with that bing-bong Chinese shit I used to get in elementary school or the geisha girl thing. I’m Hawaiian on my mother’s side, but most ignorant assholes just ask me where I’m from.”
“Go with that. Hawaiian. What could you do?”
Amy meets Chelsea’s eyes, a little desperate. Chelsea gets the idea she’s not the most creative woman; she was an accountant and has thus far seemed very logical and straightforward. Chelsea gives a little shrug and makes wavy motions with her hands.
“I could do something Hawaiian,” Amy says, nodding along like Chelsea has thrown her a life preserver. “Like, wear a grass skirt and a coconut bra? Hula Lulu? Honestly, it’s the dumbest thing I can think of.”
Arlene grins. “Hula Lulu. That’s fantastic. It just rolls off the tongue. Your trademark moves could have to do with lava and tiki and surfing. Good job.”
Amy sits back, relieved, but still uncomfortable. “But isn’t it…I mean…isn’t this just giving racists what they want?”
Arlene raises an eyebrow. “I don’t think I’ve mentioned this, but I’ll be on the mats with you as well. I’ll be Shaka Zuri. Merging Black Panther with bright kente cloth. So believe me, I get that you can both accept it and do your best to inhabit it while being uncomfortable with it. It’s okay to have challenging feelings right now. And we’ll do more workshopping tomorrow and as we train, so don’t worry. You’ll have support every step of the way.”
And then Arlene turns to Chelsea. “Now. Chelsea. I saw you give Amy a little tip there. Got any ideas for yourself?”
Chelsea realizes that not only hasn’t she given it any serious thought, but perhaps she’s been actively avoiding it. Who is she? Or worse, what stereotype does she fill?
“I could be some kind of homemaker,” she thinks out loud. “Or maybe Karen who always wants to speak with a manager?”
Arlene’s smile is apologetic. “Good thought, but we’ve already got someone doing that, and she even has the hairstyle to do it. Remember Liz, who joined us yesterday?”
Of course. The lady with the Karen haircut. She was so bland that Chelsea totally forgot about her.
“Okay, so a homemaker. A stay-at-home mom. A crunchy mom? An MLM boss bitch? I could have a rolling pin from baking or…throw essential oils in people’s eyes and tie them up with leggings.”
There are a few rumbles of laughter from around the circle of chairs—not mean, just an acknowledgment of how true it is. Not that Chelsea will ever admit she fell for an MLM herself.
Arlene gives her the sort of look Hannibal gave his patients right before they made a breakthrough.
“We have an idea for you, but I was hoping you’d come upon it yourself. This sort of thing…it works best with your input. What are you best known for?”
Chelsea looks down at her hands. She’s not known for anything. She has no accomplishments. She’s not a particularly good baker or one of those moms who’s heavily involved in the PTA. She’s never had a thing for painting or writing or sewing or gardening. Looking back, she’s not even sure what she did to fill all that time.
Worry, mostly.
But known for?
Nothing.
She’s a cardboard cutout of a woman.
She looks to Amy as Amy looked to her, and Amy smiles encouragingly at her like a mom working with a little kid who can’t quite remember her colors but is soooo close.
“Florida Woman,” Amy says quietly.
Chelsea wants to shrink down into herself.
Florida Woman.
It’s been an online joke for decades, thanks to Florida’s freedom of information laws. Florida Man rides tiger down the road naked on meth, Florida Woman beats clown to death in a Burger King.
And yes, Chelsea is now a member of the Florida Woman club, at least as of yesterday. She hasn’t checked her phone today, because it’s not really her phone—it’s George’s phone, and he disconnected service. Her phone is still in her minivan. Or, most likely, in an evidence bag.
She wonders briefly if all those other Florida Women had any idea what they were doing while they were doing it, if meth or crack or whatever is as consuming as the Violence. What Chelsea did, that’s not her. She has never wanted to hurt anyone except David. Jeanie was her friend. It doesn’t seem right to turn her into a Florida Woman story if she had no choice about what she did.
But that’s out of her hands.
She already is Florida Woman.
The question now is: Can she embrace Florida Woman?
Can she embody that crazy-haired wildness, the madness, the…what, beating people with selfie sticks?
If it’ll help her get her girls back from her mom, hell yeah she can.