Page 1 of Fun at Parties
Chapter 1
I’ve always had a knackfor making the best of a bad situation.
Everything is an opportunity, Mom used to say. Today I’m using the fact that the bags under my eyes are deep enough to hold a Costco grocery order as anopportunityto wear the electric fuchsia lipstick that’s been biding its time at the bottom of my makeup bag for months. It’s amazing. It’s wrong for my skin tone. And today, it’s going to distract everyone from the top half of my face.
At least that’s what I tell myself as I crowd the mirror, filling in my lips. The camera picks up every detail in high definition, so each swipe needs to be perfect, the corners precise.
My chest is tight, and I can feel my heartbeat in my head. Everyone has seen the video.
Michelle, my friend and roommate, pops her head into the dressing room. “I told everyone to give you space. You have five minutes.”
“Great!” I force some chirpiness into my voice. If I actlike I’m okay, eventually I will be. And whether I’m okay or not, this needs to go smoothly.
I close my eyes and mist my face with setting spray. I’ll be talking and sweating for forty-five minutes, so this paint can’t budge.
Michelle’s face is circumspect as she watches me. She’s older than me, early forties, with closely cropped dark hair and a knack for seeing through bullshit. She’s a CycleLove instructor too, but today she’s only here for moral support. “People are on your side, if that’s any motivation,” she says. “But if you want to cancel, you absolutely can. Or I can sub in.”
“No. Thanks.” My voice wavers this time. “I have to do this. Can I just have a minute alone?”
“You can have four.” She grabs the door handle. “I’ll be in the studio.”
I usually don’t need reminders about the time. I’m always prompt.Let’s be early girlies, Mom used to say before every Jolee sales “party,” and while she may have been wrong about ninety-seven percent of things, I agree with her on this one.
Normally I spend the last few minutes before class listening to the day’s playlist and doing visualization exercises. Yes, I know, shut up. It works for me.
Today I pull up the video instead, ignoring the ashamed, sinking feeling in my gut that tells me this is a terrible idea. I don’t need to watch it. I’ve already done that plenty of times in the twelve hours since it’s been posted. In the video, my ex-boyfriend, fellow CycleLove instructor and indiscreet asshole Caleb, is sitting in a booth at a restaurant, cozied up to our colleague Paige. He’s talking shitabout me, clear as day, oblivious to the person filming surreptitiously from several feet away.
I skip to the comments.
She’s annoying as hell. Too peppy. Don’t know how he put up with her for 2 years.
Umm CULT. They broke up and now he’s with Paige? Or was there overlap? Are these people only allowed to date each other?
He’s kinda right about her tho. I always thought she looked dead in the eyes even with that big smile.
Was not expecting the people who tell me how to ride a bike to give me so much drama but I. AM. HERE. FOR. IT.
This is BS. She’s a genuine ray of sunshine. I look forward to her rides every week.
That one. That last one, that’s why I need to suck it up and get out there. Approximately fifteen hundred people are clipping into their spin bikes at home right now, waiting for me to show up and kick their asses with rainbows (metaphorical) and glitter (occasionally literal, though not today) so they can feel good in their bodies.
I straighten my sports bra—fuchsia, to match my makeup—and pull up the waistband of my metallic black leggings. I may have the sad brown eyes of a basset hound right now, but I also have the lipstick, and my recently highlighted horse mane of a ponytail is as perky as ever.There is nothing I can do about the video, or the things people are saying about it on the Internet. The only thing I have control over right now is what I do when I walk out of this room.
I lift my chin and open the door.
My producer, Isabel, is hovering outside, an unfamiliar pinched line between her eyebrows. “Oh, thank god,” she says. As we stride toward the studio, she scrolls through metrics on her phone. “There are a lot more people than usual taking your class today. You’re up, like, thirty percent.”
“Awesome!” My heart thumps. “You’re a star for helping me with the playlist. I don’t think they’ll be disappointed.”
She blinks. “And you’re, uh, good?”
“Of course.”
The tension in her face disappears. “That’s my girl.”
I slap the faux graffiti on the brick wall just outside the studio, like every CycleLove instructor does before class, putting enough oomph in it to make my hand sting.Guts, it says in white spray paint. I used to get chills every time I performed this ritual. It felt like a miracle that Tracy, our VP of Content, chosemeto join the ranks of the largest interactive fitness platform on earth.
I still love the wall. It’s a symbol of determination, only keeping you out if you aren’t tenacious enough. Or if you can’t find the door.
