Page 2 of Fun at Parties
“Morning,” I sing as we enter the room. Aran, our camera operator, waves, a new Dodgers hat atop his head. “I knew you’d cave and get the black one eventually.” I make my way to the bike.
He flashes a sheepish smile. “I couldn’t resist it.”
“Hey, I willneverargue against you buying yourself a treat, Aran.”
The studio is dark and minimalist. Neutral tones, a plain background, the only lighting focused on me. Other than Aran and Isabel, the room is usually empty during my classes. This is a recent change, and it took some getting used to. Before Tracy recruited me, I taught live to big groups of people, and for my first eighteen months here, we had in-studio riders.
The company got rid of them after a shake-up with the board of directors—something about a meddling investor and a failure to maximize our stock price. At the time, I didn’t pay much attention. I didn’t realize corporate politics would have such a big effect onme.Maybe I should’ve watchedSuccession.
But then they implemented “strategic changes.” New music licensing deals that oblige us to highlight certain artists. Odd brand partnerships, including one that required me to apply deodorant on camera in the middle of class. And toughest of all, scrapping the in-class riders.
I always used to feed off everyone else’s energy. Now it all has to come from me.
I climb onto the bike and clip in. My water bottle is here, and my sweat towel is neatly rolled in the left cupholder, exactly where I like it. My plan for class is cued up on the monitor to my left.
But something isn’t right: Tracy is in the corner of the room, with her chunky round glasses, meticulous gray bob, and suit-and-sneakers combo. My stomach lurches. Tracy is great, but she rarely watches my classes live. This can only mean one thing: She saw the video.
CycleLove has more than fifty instructors, and I’m not dead last in terms of popularity, but I’m not near the top either. It didn’t concern me before the board shake-up—I get paid generously to do what I love full time, and that was enough—but then people started getting fired. Replaced with instructors who better fit the new strategy.
Tracy’s always had a brilliant vision, and she’s committed to nurturing talent. She spends time with each of us individually, reviewing recordings of our classes, critiquing fairly, and listening to us when we express an opinion. She’s a badass who goes toe-to-toe with the other executives and uses words likestakeholderwith confidence, but she’s also perceptive and creative. With everything happening at the corporate level, she’s under a lot of pressure. The last thing I want to do is let her down.
Besides, I don’t have a choice. This job is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I get to do something fulfilling and, thanks to the healthy paycheck, rebuild my dismal credit score in the process. To secure my place, I have to claw my way up the ranks, not hover in the middle.
I need to prove to Tracy and the board that I’m irreplaceable, regardless of how many other cheerful blondish cycling instructors there are in this world. And now, it appears, is my chance.
“One minute,” Isabel says.
In the video, Caleb talked to Paige as they sipped their cocktails.On the outside she’s bubbly and perky, but on the inside? There’s nothing there. She’s a cold, empty person. I actually feel bad for her.
I lean forward so no one can see my face, pressing my towel against my eyes. Breathe: in and out, in and out. Are those five hundred extra riders here for a workout or to see whether I let the humiliation get to me?
“Thirty seconds, Quinn. Are you going to be able to do this?” Isabel asks. The bright lights prevent me from seeing Tracy, but I know she’s waiting to hear my answer.
Guts, the brick wall says.
“Yes.” I fight to keep my voice steady.
“Fifteen seconds.”
I take one more deep breath. As I exhale, I visualize everything bad I’m feeling—the swirl of unpleasant emotions threatening to overwhelm me—as an awful red mist filling my body, and I breathe out every last bit of it. When I inhale again, it is lush, sunlit green, the color of springtime and fresh starts.
“Five,” Isabel says. “Four.”
I can do this. I will do this.
“Three. Two.”
I slam the towel to the floor with as much force as I can muster. My head snaps up, and I feel my long, straight ponytail arcing backward over my head as I make eye contact with the camera, a broad smile on my face.
“One.”
I raise my arms. “Welcome to CycleLove! I’m Quinn Ray, and I’m so excited to be here this morning. I don’t know what the weather is like where you are. It’s surprisingly cloudy today in Los Angeles. But it doesn’t matter, because for the next forty-five minutes, we’re going to create our own sunshine right here on the bike.”
The first forty-two minutes are great. My playlist works, my stories and jokes and motivational words flow. Without in-studio riders, I can only gauge my performance by how it feels, and this ride feels good.
I exhale as we near the end of the final climb. “All you have to do to get through this moment, and any difficult moment, is breathe and keep going.”
I scroll through the leaderboard to choose a few people for shout-outs. It’s then that I see the hashtags below someone’s name: #welovequinn #raysofsunshine.
