Crashing into Her

by Mia Sosa

  “Damn, that sucks,” she says, holding down the Cold faucet.

  “It’s not as bad as the manspreading. Good Lord, is there something in the water that gives LA men oversized junk? Because they all sit like they’re smuggling anacondas onto the bus by stuffing them in their pants.”

  “Stop,” she says on a snort, holding out her hand with her back to me.

  “Anyway, since I’m already here,” I say, rising from my chair, “I figured I’d go say hi to Anthony during the break in his self-defense class.”

  She spins around, water in hand, her eyebrows squished together. “That’s . . . cordial of you, but Kurt’s covering for him today. Anthony’s off doing some kind of commercial work.”

  “Oh,” I say, sitting back down. “He never mentioned that.”

  She takes a sip of her water, and then she hides behind the cup and studies me. “You could say hi to Kurt, though.”

  “Nah, that’s okay. I can use the time to return my father’s call.”

  Still sipping her water—or, more accurately, still hiding behind her cup—she joins me at the table. “I was going to ask how things were going with you two, with the class and all, but if you’re seeking him out here, things must be going just fine.”

  “Better than fine, actually. I even met his father the other day. His piononos were delicious.”

  “He took you to meet Tío Luis? And you ate piononos?”

  She’s wearing this odd expression—eyebrows raised, mouth agape—as though I’ve shared a mind-boggling fact. “Yeah. Last Sunday. After class.”

  “Hmm.”

  I sigh and shake my head, knowing where she’s going with this. “We’re friends, Tori.”

  She shrugs. “I didn’t say anything.”

  “You didn’t have to. That ‘hmm’ spoke for you.”

  She sits up straight and puckers her lips, mock snootiness dripping from her pores. “Well, I’ll just tell you this, then. Tío Luis complains that Anthony never brings people to the house. Says he’s worried that Anthony doesn’t ever do anything fun. Works and works out, that’s it. And now you’re hanging out at his place eating piononos.”

  “Nothing you just said undermines my original point. We’re. Friends. Okay?”

  In truth, it’s precisely because we’re friends that Anthony invited me over to his house. Otherwise he’d be violating his own no-dating rules. As much as Tori would like to attach significance to a simple dinner invitation, the fact is, eating at Anthony’s fits within the parameters of the platonic relationship we agreed to. So there.

  Tori throws up her hands. “Okay, don’t bite my head off. Besides, you have a more pressing issue to deal with today.”

  “What kind of issue?” I ask, my mouth going dry. “Is it the class?”

  She nods. “Sort of.” Wearing an evil grin, she hunches over, leans in, and whispers, “I have it on good authority that Ashley’s planning to take your class today.”

  Oh, that I can handle. A complaint about my class this early in the session? Not so much. “What? Is she a terrible dancer?”

  “I’m not sure, to be honest. But she FaceTimed me earlier and I saw a preview of the outfit. It was very Flashdance. You know, with the off-the-shoulder shredded sweatshirt and leg warmers?”

  “Some would say that’s retro.”

  “Then some would be lying,” she says, her eyes wide. “Anyway, I’m not sure what she’s expecting, but I wanted to give you a heads-up. She seemed a little nervous. So maybe you could work your magic and help her thrive? I adore her so much and I want her to love it.”

  Anyone who thinks in-laws only fake getting along hasn’t met Tori and Ashley. They’re sickeningly sweet to each other. And I get why Tori has a sister crush on Ash. She’s a walking ray of sunshine with a filthy mind and no filter. My kind of people, indeed. “Don’t worry about Ashley. I’ll make sure she enjoys herself. It’s my job.”

  Tori nods and stands. “Good. I’ll be at the front desk if you need me.”

  After Tori leaves, I try to reach my father but the call goes straight to voice mail. I send him a short text telling him I’m doing well, but I know he won’t be satisfied until he speaks with me directly. I broke our telephone chain by not calling him sooner, so I’m sure by now my mother’s told him that I’ve started stunt training. I’m happy to delay that conversation indefinitely.

  Twenty minutes later, I stroll to Studio B and stumble to a halt when I see dozens of people hanging around outside the room. Tori’s directing everyone to line up against the wall.

  “What’s going on?” I ask, raising my voice to cut through the laughter and chatter.

  “It appears word’s gotten out that your class is not to be missed, so we’ve got a bit of a traffic jam here. The room’s capacity is forty people. We’re going to need to turn some folks away. First come, first served.” She leans over and whispers in my ear. “The other instructors are going to hate you.”

  I’m a little breathless from the adrenaline rush coursing through me. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. All these people are here to take my class? I never got this type of reaction in Philly, and I don’t know why it’s different in LA, but I’ll take it. Goddamn it, I’ll take it and run like the wind with it.

  Tori’s busy counting out the students entering the studio, while I search for Ashley. A minute later, I find her in the line, waving her hands at me in a happy greeting. She’s added a headband to the outfit, and I must admit, Tori’s right that none of it is retro.

  “I’m excited and nervous and ready to go,” she says breathlessly.

  “Ashley, I think you’re building this up in your head. It’s just Zumba.”

  She looks around her, taking in the people bustling around. “Then how do you explain all this? Doesn’t look like ‘just Zumba’ to me. I think you’re selling yourself short and I don’t know why, maybe it’s the confident way you carry yourself, but I never expected that from you.”

  Tori ushers her to move forward before I can respond. “Made it just in time, Ash. The person after you is the last one.” She turns to me. “Now go teach, chica. I’m going to think about adding more classes to your schedule despite probation. Demand for a specific instructor is an exception I can live with.”

  Ashley’s soft-spoken admonition’s still rattling in my head. I don’t think I belittle my work the way she’s suggesting, but maybe I should be more attuned to how I speak about what I do. Starting now. So when I enter the classroom, I set the music player to Ciara’s “Gimme Dat” and clap my hands to get everyone’s attention. “Thanks for coming, everyone. In case you didn’t know it, this is Advanced Fucking Zumba. Get ready to dance your asses off and have a good time.”

  Everyone laughs and shouts their approval. I’m so pumped about teaching that I’m jumping to the music even before I find my spot on stage. Advanced Fucking Zumba, indeed.

  Anthony

  “All right, gentlemen, they’d like you on set now.”

  The production assistant walks away without a backward glance, one of his hands pressed against the earpiece that warns everyone he’s got shit to do and no time for us.

  A simple job involving a twenty-second fight sequence, today’s work coincides perfectly with this evening’s training class on hand-to-hand combat. The commercial itself is clever, too. In it, a bunch of football fans at a game taunt the fans of the losing team, but they’re seemingly unaffected by the insults, which get increasingly antagonistic, until someone throws a beer and it’s revealed that the fans for the losing team are wearing cordless noise-canceling headphones—and the guys are huge. That’s when the fight begins. I’m on the losing team’s side, so I get to knock some heads. Heh.

  We’ve been practicing all morning, and I’m relieved that I know a few of my co-actors. It alleviates some of the stress of wondering whether someone’s lacking the necessary experience to ensure a relatively uncomplicated job remains injury-free. No one’s talking. It’s an unwritten rule among
stunt professionals that the minutes before an action sequence are best spent getting your head in the game. Focus is essential in this business.

  The stadium isn’t a stadium at all; it’s a simulated scene in the corner lot of a huge film studio. Eighteen men and various extras shuffle to the set and get in position, ready to perform the scene we mapped out in rehearsal. Two separate camera crews prepare their equipment, while the producer and director fire off instructions to assistants and the director of photography. The gaffer, who I’m surprised to see is a woman, makes last-minute adjustments to the lighting.

  I’m supposed to throw a punch, duck when my opponent (a guy I’ve worked with before) tries to return the favor, and spin his body around so I can put him in a headlock. If I’m lucky, Bobby won’t act on instinct and elbow me in my chest like Eva did during defense class.

  The memory makes me laugh. Eva’s something else.

  Bobby pats me on the arm, his eyebrows raised in a question. “You okay? I’m not used to dealing with anything but your mean mug on set.”

  I shake off the loss of concentration. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Just thought of something funny.”

  The director calls standby on the set and everyone quiets. The first take is cut when an actor flubs his lines. The second take is cut when the same actor flubs a different set of lines. In my head, I can picture Eva asking, “Can we give someone else the fucking lines, then?” And I’m grinning at the thought before I realize we’re in the middle of the third take and I’m supposed to take a swing. Somehow I manage to time it perfectly despite my momentary disorientation, but then I forget to duck and get popped in the mouth.

  Fuck, that stings. So when Eva’s on the brain, I get hurt. That must be a metaphor for something, right?

  I’m still pissed about my subpar performance when I get to EST a few hours later. In my line of work, being distracted isn’t inconvenient, it’s dangerous. But I don’t have much time to think about it because tonight’s training session begins in ten minutes, and I still need to change my clothes—and get a cold compress for my lip.

  “Hey, what do you think of Eva?”

  I immediately recognize Damian’s voice when I push the restroom door open.

  “Shit, I’d tap that ass in a hot minute.”

  That’s Brett. The pretty boy with a thick neck and even thicker arms.

  I slow down before I come into view, hoping to eavesdrop some more. I’m classy as hell that way.

  “Megan, too,” Brett continues. “At the same time.”

  They roar with laughter and exchange pounds—I didn’t even hear them wash their hands—and we pass one another on their way out.

  “Oh, hey, Mr. Castillo. Looking forward to class.”

  This from Damian. Although I’m seething inside, I keep it professional. “Call me Anthony.”

  “Cool,” Brett says.

  I stop them before they can leave, blocking the passageway with my body. “Listen, fellas, this is a place of business, and your reputation in this industry begins here. As early as today. We don’t want to make this an uncomfortable environment for anyone in the class. And it goes without saying that discrimination and sexual harassment are grounds for removal from the course. At a minimum. So keep your thoughts to yourself and treat everyone with respect, okay?”

  Brett’s eyes go wide, and Damian clears his throat. “Okay,” they say in unison. And then they bolt out of the restroom.

  It’s a wonder the towel dispenser doesn’t come crashing to the ground given the abuse I put it through when I’m done washing my hands. I’d like to think I’m upset because the guys were being sexist assholes, but that’s only part of it. I’m incensed because they were talking about Eva that way. And I’m ashamed to admit that I probably wouldn’t have reacted this strongly had they been talking about Megan only. Sure, I still would have curbed their language, but I would have done it because it’s the right thing to do. I wouldn’t have been seconds away from knocking Brett out. That’s a problem. On several levels. And my earlier slipup on set only compounds my concerns about it.

  I’m still thinking about my reaction when I walk out the restroom and see Brett and Eva talking in a corner. Eva’s expression is open and friendly, and Brett’s giving off a vibe of mild interest, his shoulder and tilted head resting against the wall as he looks down at her with a half smile. Jesus. This is like standing at a high school locker, watching the jock flirt with the pretty girl.

  My teeth aren’t clenched because I’m jealous. That’s not my style. I’m concerned for her, that’s all. But I’m not going to do anything about it—not yet. Instead, I’m going to focus on teaching hand-to-hand combat, and I know exactly who my first volunteer will be.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Is there an aspirin specifically formulated for sexual tension headaches?

  Eva

  Ugh. That fucking shirt Anthony’s wearing is going to be the death of me.

  Although the dark gray compression tank leaves only his sculpted arms exposed, it clings to his body not like it’s a second skin, but like it is his skin, highlighting his barrel chest and taut stomach. I detest that garment with the fiery passion of a thousand suns and just as many ghost peppers. It’s making me notice Anthony the man, when I should be paying attention to the person who’s both my friend outside the training room and Mr. Castillo in here.

  He begins to pace in front of us. Well, in my mind, it’s more like a strut, the roundness of his firm ass visible in profile. “Today’s class is all about filming a fight scene.”

  Mother of mercy, now that he’s walked past me, I can see the dips and planes of his well-defined back. I’m so weak it’s embarrassing.

  Megan leans into me and whispers in my ear. “You okay, Eva?”

  I tap my head with the side of my hand, trying unsuccessfully to knock some sense into it. “What?”

  “Thought I heard you moan. Do you have a belly ache or something?”

  “No, I’m fine,” I say. Smacking my pasty lips, I struggle to come up with an excuse for my inadvertent outburst. “Just remembering what I had for dinner last night. It was so good.”

  “What did you have?” Megan asks.

  “A salad.”

  “Must have been some salad.” She gives me a conspiratorial smile. “Finding it hard to focus?”

  I finally meet her gaze and see the humor in her eyes. “Yes, goddamn it, yes.”

  We both share a laugh, until Anthony plants his feet in front of us, his lips pursed and his neutral gaze settled on me—and only me.

  “Eva, what are the five tenets of tae kwon do?”

  The question evokes a Pavlovian response—but my mouth’s still dry when I recite them. “Courtesy, integrity, perseverance, self-control, and . . . indomitable spirit.” I bite down on my lip to stop myself from ending with Sir. Shit, the way he’s looking at me, Daddy might be appropriate here, too. Okay, no, that’s not happening.

  “What’s that first one again?” he asks, cupping his ear.

  “Courtesy.” I narrow my eyes at him. “Understood, Mr. Castillo.”

  He nods and resumes his insufferable pacing. “Good.”

  The desire to stick my tongue out at him is strong. So very strong. Why didn’t he call Megan out, too? I wasn’t the only one laughing. And why am I kind of turned on by the way he took control of his classroom? I drop my head in shame.

  “Fight scenes don’t reflect actual combat, of course,” he continues. “It’s a combination of acting, throw kills, sound effects, and camera angles. Think of it as a dance between the two fighters with the sound effects serving as the song you’re dancing to. If even one step in the choreography is off, the whole sequence just looks bad. Google ‘terrible fight scenes’ to see some examples.”

  “Actually, just Google ‘Gymkata,’” I add.

  I can’t help it. When there are good points to be made, I make them. But he just chastised me for being discourteous, so I give him a reluctant smile and mou
th, “Sorry.”

  To my surprise, Anthony’s eyes brighten. “You’ve seen that one, too?”

  I answer immediately, psyched that he’s willing to engage with me about this. “Oh my God, yes. It’s awful. What person thought it was a good idea to build an entire movie around an Olympic gymnast with no acting experience?”

  Anthony’s answering chuckle is loud and uninhibited, the deep rumble sparking a different kind of vibration in my own body. I want to hear it again and again and again. Wait. No, I’m better than this. These aren’t the types of thoughts we agreed to. I’m calling foul on myself.

  “Exactly,” he says, thrusting out his hands in a yes-you-get-me gesture. “He spends the entire movie flipping through the air and conveniently finding ancient structures that look a lot like gym equipment.”

  I slap away my traitorous thoughts and try to recall as much as I can about the film, my smile broadening when I remember a particularly ridiculous scene. “The pommel horse in the middle of the village square. Do you remember that one? Genius.”

  Anthony holds his chest and falls over. “That one’s the worst. It was made of stone.”

  “Don’t forget it had handles, perfectly spaced for him to do flairs.”

  Megan clears her throat. “Sounds hilarious. I’ll definitely Google it later.”

  Anthony straightens when she emphasizes the word later. I scan the faces of my classmates and confirm what I already suspected: They’re utterly bored with my and Anthony’s conversation. Okay, then. I’ll shut up now.

  “Right, everyone,” Anthony says, back in serious instructor mode. “Sorry, we got off track there. Today, we’re going to start out with one of the easiest fight sequences and a personal favorite of mine, the punch. Everyone stand up and find a partner.”