Santa Monica

by Cassidy Lucas

  “What—she wants to sub out? Tomorrow? Which classes?” he asked Jensen. Bri taught the coveted early-morning weekday workouts, five through nine A.M., all of which were routinely full with a waitlist. Clients adored her. When she subbed out, they were unhappy.

  “All four of them.”

  On the laptop, Zack pulled up the schedule. “She hasn’t submitted a request.” If a trainer needed a shift covered, protocol was to submit a request to Zack via the scheduling software at least twenty-four hours in advance.

  “That’s the problem,” said Jensen. “She feels at complete liberty to bypass you and come to me. At the last minute. It’s unacceptable.”

  “Absolutely unacceptable, man.” Zack shook his head, feeling a surge of camaraderie toward his boss. He wasn’t going to jail, not today! “I’ll set her straight. She won’t be bothering you with low-level stuff again. And I’ll make sure she shows up to teach tomorrow. She knows better.”

  “That’s not the worst of it,” said Jensen. “Not only is she trying to bail last-minute on eighty clients that are counting on her, but get this.” He leaned across the desk toward Zack. “Her excuse is that she decided she needs to go to a fucking women’s march first thing in the morning.”

  Zack rolled his eyes. “Remind me. What even is a women’s march?”

  “Last I checked, it was something like a bunch of privileged women who have perfect lives in the greatest, freest country on earth making angry posters and then meeting up to whine about problems they invented. All because they have too much time on their hands.”

  “Amen,” said Zack. “Since ‘feminism’”—he hooked his fingers into air quotes around the word—“has absolved them of all the duties that female humans have been doing for the past, what—two hundred thousand years?—they’ve got nothing better to do than get together and chant.”

  Jensen barked a laugh. “Right? A women’s march is basically a big fuck-you to history.”

  Zack nodded vigorously. He felt almost manic with relief, a newfound happiness washing over him, words readily available. “What does a woman like Bri have to be angry about? She’s young and healthy and makes enough money to tat up her body, which ain’t cheap. She lives in one of the most prosperous cities in the most prosperous nation on earth. Her workplace is two blocks from the Pacific Ocean. Cry me a river.”

  “Truth, my man, truth. But you know what the deeper problem is?” Jensen lowered his voice confidentially. “It’s that Bri is almost thirty years old. Not that I’m allowed to ever mention an employee’s age, or the Department of Labor will come a-knocking. But I’ll tell you, Z-man, women her age start to get real restless right about now.”

  “One hundred percent, man.” Zack nodded vigorously.

  Jensen went on, “It’s because this garbage culture tells them they shouldn’t start having kids until they’re thirty-five. Which you and I”—he jabbed his index finger toward Zack, then back at his own chest—“and any thinking human with a basic understand of biology, know is completely unnatural.” Jensen clasped his hands behind his head and fanned out his elbows. “Basically, the chick needs to quit going to goddamn marches and start breeding instead.”

  “You’re so right-on, dude.” Zack felt a warm flush of kinship with his boss, his fear of just moments ago withered and gone.

  “Remind me why we live in this deep-blue state full of batshit crazies?”

  “The weather,” said Zack. “The beaches. The tacos. Makes up for all the angry, barren women.”

  “Amen. Plus, I’m a sucker for a perfect avocado.” Jensen grinned, showing the creases in his face. Still, Zack hoped he looked as good as Jensen when he was fifty-eight. Perhaps, after Zack’s business with Regina was done, Jensen would actually become a friend. Zack had zero true bros in California. He was estranged from his crew back in Florida and his own father was a hotheaded asshole who enjoyed berating Zack in every way possible. God knew he could use a spiritual ally here, in this land of rich, white pseudo-yogis.

  “Oh, and, Zee,” said Jensen. “One more thing.”

  “Hit me.”

  Jensen touched his palm lightly to the stiff surface of his hair. “I got wind that you’ve been doing a little side hustling.”

  “Side hustling?” The paralysis returned.

  “Look, I admire the entrepreneurial spirit. Hell, it’s what I’m all about. It’s what got me where I am today. But you can’t be fishing in my well, Z-man. It’s a conflict.”

  “What well? I’m not following, Jens.” Zack felt dizzy. A stamping-out of all the good feelings he’d just been riding.

  “A little bird told me you threw a party to rustle up some private training. And that most of the guests were Color Theory clients.”

  “Oh! Yeah, I did throw a party.” Zack was confused. Again, Jensen did not seem to be referencing the transfers or threatening to call the police. “But where’s the conflict? The privates are just supplements to group training. It’s a cross-sell to Color Theory. You know these women, Jens, they’re always looking to do more, not less. I would never step on your toes, man.”

  “Sorry, Zee. It’s a violation of the non-compete you signed. Last page of your employment agreement. Explicitly prohibits you from recruiting CT clients for private coaching. I can show you a copy.”

  “Who ratted?” said Zack. “Who told you about my private training?”

  Jensen paused. “Just between us, it was Lindsey. You know, the manic little thing with the pigtails, who’s here every single day? Her last name is escaping me.”

  “Leyner.” Zack felt anger replacing his fear. “Yes, I know who she is.” Lindsey fucking Leyner, the queen of babble. Of course. He wished he could punch Lindsey smack in her puffy lips, silence her motormouth once and for all.

  “For the record, she wasn’t trying to turn you in or anything. I follow her on social media because she’s great about promoting the gym, and I happened to see a bunch of posts and stories about your, ah, event on Saturday. She was really raving about it on Instagram. Bunch of great shots of you and some other CT clients. Lots of Regina Wolfe. Looking awfully good for a cougar, if I do say so myself.”

  At the mention of Regina’s name, Zack felt himself shrink in his seat and his eyes shift to the floor. She was the last person he wanted to discuss with Jensen.

  “Lindsey is . . . very intense,” Zack said lamely.

  Jensen laughed. “That’s diplomatic of you. Anyway, I asked Lindsey to delete all her posts related to the party you guys threw. Sorry, but it’s basically advertising that works against Color Theory’s success. The woman’s got like two thousand followers.”

  “I’m not one of them,” said Zack.

  “Good choice, my man. Though I noticed you do show up on her feed pretty regularly.”

  “I do?” Zack was genuinely surprised. He had never looked at Lindsey Leyner’s social media. After today, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to face her in class again; he might be unable to stop himself from ripping her pigtails right out of her scalp.

  “Evidently she starts snapping the second every class ends,” said Jensen. “The woman is a posting machine. Hashtag FitFam, hashtag TurnedUpTuesday, it never ends. Anyway, moral of the story here is that you gotta read the fine print of any contract, bro. I don’t mean to be an asshole. But business is business. I can’t put mine on the line to rev up yours. Are we clear?”

  “Clear.” Zack’s head began to throb.

  “Thanks, buddy. You won’t have time for privates soon, anyway. We’re about to close on the Malibu location, and then you and I will talk serious business about what’s next for you. I just need another week or two. You still in?”

  “Sure,” Zack managed.

  “Rad.” Jensen stood and extended a hand to Zack. “You’re a keeper, Z-man.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And you’ll call the tattooed wildcat, right? Make sure she gets her tatted little ass in here first thing tomorrow morning?”

  “You kno
w I will, man.”

  Jensen opened the door, letting in a draft of mercifully cool air, finally leaving Zack alone.

  He popped some Advil, then sat fingering the rosary at his neck, thinking of what St. Thérèse might say to him now.

  By humiliation alone can Saints be made.

  Lindsey was a moron, but Zack’s real anger was at Regina. How had she neglected to prohibit photos at V2Y!, on top of not thinking about Zack’s non-compete? Wasn’t she supposedly some hotshot business woman?

  He reminded himself Regina was a quarter-mil in the hole. Not exactly a hotshot’s situation.

  He took some long, slow prana breaths. He would get through this. There had to be another way. He didn’t need Regina. Didn’t need Jensen, didn’t need his dickhead father, didn’t need anyone, except God.

  By humiliation alone.

  Zack relaxed a little, his hands unfurling under the desk. He closed his eyes and thanked Thérèse, and God, then whispered a repeated Hail Mary until an alert on his phone interrupted his prayer. Ten minutes until he had to teach a class. And he still hadn’t finished yesterday’s tallies. Who gave a fuck?

  He tapped out a text to Regina. V2Y is dead. Jensen found out from frickin Lindsey and says it’s basically illegal. Will explain more later. He added a panicked-face emoji, along with a skull.

  She wrote back immediately: Explain NOW.

  Zack sighed and typed out the basic details. Then he pulled up the tattooed wildcat’s number, thinking, as he listened to her perky voicemail message, how nice it must be to be a person like Bri Lee, lucky enough to invent their own problems.

  8

  Leticia

  LETTIE’S BOSSES WERE IN LOVE WITH THEIR ELECTRONIC CALENDARS, sending Lettie an invite every week for each of their appointments. As if she needed to know exactly when Lindsey Ratface Leyner was having the hair on her chin ripped off.

  She wondered if her bosses thought her too stupid to remember. Like she’d forget to show up for the work, and the money she and Andres so desperately needed. Only a rich person needed a calendar to remember how to live. Lettie had two things to remember—work and Andres. But her bosses’ days were as stuffed as their medicine cabinets, with lunches and exercise dates and parties and weekend vacations to the desert to hike and to the mountains to ski. The wealthy white people of Santa Monica hated to be still; even on vacation they were busy-busy.

  Many of the appointments on her bosses’ calendars had strange names Lettie could not translate—microblading, dermaplaning, fractal laser treatment—and took many hours, often in the middle of the day. Lettie did understand, though, that each appointment focused on perfecting a certain part of the body. Her bosses returned with thicker eyebrows, lighter hair, and long, silky lashes that Lettie would later find on her employers’ pillowcases. They returned with their lips suddenly plumped, foreheads wrinkle-free, faces pink and shiny as raw chicken from being scraped and injected. Even the patch of hair that hid under their panties received special attention. It took time, being beautiful, Lettie had learned. Some of her lady bosses, like Sukie Reinhardt, who used to be on TV, wore a full face of makeup every day, even shading in parts of their cheeks and nose and forehead so their bones stood at attention. Lettie had worn that much makeup just a few times in her life, and only to special events, like her niece Chiara’s quinceañera and Andres’s First Communion.

  Since the first notice to appear in court had arrived, Lettie had known she needed new ways to save money but also to make money. She took on more work, at night, in addition to days spent cleaning houses and babysitting the children who lived in those houses.

  Mondays, she collected cans and bottles from the bins in Virginia Avenue Park, overflowing with weekend trash, to bring to the recycling center in exchange for cash. She waited until the park was empty but for a few homeless camped in the shadows of the leafy moonlit trees. God forbid any of the parents from Andres’s school saw her gathering sticky soda cans and empty water bottles like a no-good broken-down person.

  She imagined she was Blanca Flor hurrying through a winding dark forest, fleeing a terrible queen mother in love with her beautiful reflection. Of all the stories her abuela had told Lettie and her cousins back home, Blanca Flor was Lettie’s favorite. A selfish mother, a band of friendly thieves, and a petite outcast saved by the purity of her heart (and a movie-star kiss from her handsome prince)—what was there not to love?

  Tuesday nights, after cleaning houses all day, she worked at Color Theory gym. Zacarias, bless his delincuente soul for this at least, had found her work wiping down exercise machines streaked with sweat and organizing the weights and other equipment in neat rows.

  She’d forced herself to ask each of her employers if they knew anyone else looking for a cleaner, a babysitter, a dogwalker—never mind her fear of dogs. Her requests had resulted in three new jobs—babysitting for a sweet three-year-old with loopy blond curls and her naughty bed-wetting twin six-year-old brothers every Wednesday night; a weekly trip each Thursday to the supermarket to purchase six-packs of Ensure, tubs of tapioca pudding, and packages of adult diapers for Marlene, Sukie Reinhardt’s elderly mother; and a daily morning walk for a nervous little dog, Simon, who made Andres giggle with his funny little bark and soft-as-cotton white fur. The dog’s owner claimed Simon was “famous” and had many thousands of followers on Instagram, but it seemed to Lettie that everyone in Santa Monica claimed to be “famous.” She tried not to think of all the money trembling little Simon made on social media as she picked up the dog’s shits that steamed in the cool early-morning air.

  She was making a little more money here and there—drip, drop—but it was always less than she owed. There was always the need for a trip to Western Union to get money orders, then straight to the post office to mail them to her landlady and the gas company; Andres’s physical therapist; her lawyer, Sandra Ochoa; and, of course, the collection agency that sent the medical bills with big red letters across the front.

  Pay what you can to the hospital, Ms. Ochoa advised. If you don’t, ICE is more likely to find you before our court date.

  And then there was that, even scarier than Lettie’s bills: her order to appear before the West Los Angeles Superior Court in April. If she were deported for stealing the Pokémon cards, and Andres stayed behind with Auntie Corrina or (God forbid) Zacarias, her son would need money until Lettie figured out how to return to California or (God forbid) bring him to Mexico with her. The thought of leaving Andres made Lettie’s chest ache, but imagining her boy in the dusty doctor’s offices and crumbling schools of Oaxaca—after all she’d done to give him this life in the USA—pained her even more.

  Some nights, after work, she and Andres traveled to food banks in search of a free dinner. Lettie tried to alternate so she and Andres didn’t show up at the same place too often (rich boy Zacarias had his nose in the air about Lettie and Andres “begging”—he’d even dared to use that word). There was the Mount Sion food bank in Culver City (broccoli and cheese soup on Wednesdays), and the Monte Sion Center, who handed out leftover fruit from the fancy Santa Monica open market. Oh, how she and Andres enjoyed those juicy five-dollar pears, even with their bruised skin, served on scratched plastic trays. They had tried the food closet near UCLA (with her full cheeks and long hair, she could pass as a college student, no?) but the university police in their padded vests and helmets reminded Lettie of immigration agents, making the vegetarian chili stick in her throat.

  Then Lettie sat in on a special event at Andres’s school—an assembly that would, she hoped now, change her and Andres’s lives. The topic was climate change. Climate change is another hysterical liberal lie! she’d heard Zacarias complain many times. How can climate change be real when it’s so freaking cold on the East Coast with those polar vortex and Snowpocalypse things? So, she was supposed to listen to her not-to-be-trusted brother instead of scientists? No, Lettie did not think so.

  At the assembly, a pretty woman in a doctor’s white coat
explained the giant cleanup job heavy on the backs of Andres’s generation. The doctor-lady spoke calmly and slowly. Enough that even Lettie could understand—none of those big words that made a mess of meaning like when arguing with Zacarias.

  As Lettie scanned the hundreds of little heads staring up at the stage, the scientist explained how it was up to you (she pointed a long finger at the children) to save Earth. She spoke of melting ice and warming seas; floods and storms; and the death of polar bears and bees. Lettie spotted a little girl in blond braids crying, a teacher hunched over her, smoothing circles onto the girl’s back.

  The scientist spoke about recycling with a hopefulness that reminded Lettie of church.

  Everything is reusable. Nothing should be thrown away. You can make a difference.

  Afterward, as the children made paper sprinkled with plant seeds, Lettie and the other parent volunteers (no one spoke to her but for a quick hello, always a disappointment but also a relief) operated several blenders, the sharp blades grinding the soggy pieces of printer paper the children had soaked in water overnight into a pulpy mush. Then the idea came to Lettie. A revelation that felt like one of the miracles in Zacarias’s Holy Saints book.

  Thursdays, she spent walking the alleys behind the fanciest houses north of Montana Avenue. There was money to be made everywhere in Santa Monica. The things people threw in the trash—what a waste! TV sets and stereos and printers, all of which worked once Lettie lugged them home and plugged them in. Plush sofas and armchairs with stains she scrubbed away with OxiClean. Coffee tables and dressers made from beautiful heavy wood—a little paint and they were, as Lettie’s employers said, “good-as-new!” All of these things, and more, Lettie sold on the site that had become her heaven on earth, her salvation—Craigslist.org. Her little apartment was so stuffed with furniture she’d found on the street that Andres was always complaining about his bruised shins. She gave thanks to God for the bedbugs that kept other people from snatching up her treasures. What were a few bugs compared to her legal problems? She’d sleep in a tub of bedbugs if it meant she could stay with Andres in America.