by Amber Kay
The lobby is a claustrophobic half-space with barely enough room to house three people at once. The five women already here stand elbow-to-elbow in front of a podium carrying the sign-in sheet. Plain black walls hold various posters of beautiful people with beautiful bodies. I refuse to believe that Tai Chi is responsible for sculpting bodies like those.
A teenage receptionist pays us no mind while texting on her phone and making popping sounds with her mouth, blowing bubbles through gum. She lounges in a swivel chair behind a tall, plywood counter and glances up to eye me as if for one second, she recognizes me. As she realizes she doesn’t—I assume—she continues texting.
“What took you so long?” Sasha asks. My focus wanders elsewhere. I have to know where Vivian is to avoid her. I surreptitiously move my eyes in search of her then spot her near the back of the room, performing the routine warm-up stretches with everyone else. She doesn’t look up and doesn’t even notice me.
In her current state, she’s a human island smack-dab in a roomful of frumpy soccer moms wearing sweatbands and spandex. She’s a bloodstain in the snow, trying to blend in with the masses. She just looks so out of place amongst the other women.
“Cassie?” Sasha asks. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I'm fine.”
Sasha offers a reassuring smile.
“I signed us up for the next class. You ready?”
After another furtive glance at Vivian, I manage to nod convincingly. Sasha loops her arm around mine and escorts me into the workout room. The place resembles something that was once a ballet studio with metal bars hitched to the back wall and a procession of mirrors lining the side walls, reflecting every angle of me.
I stop to catch myself in the glass, fixed beneath the glow of the fluorescent lights overhead. The only thing that draws my eye is the reflection of Vivian, leering at me from across the room. Warmth drains from my cheeks, replaced by a cool chill. My breath seizes in my throat and my body tenses.
“Cassie?” Sasha’s face emerges into view, distracting me from the surrealism of the second before. I blink and look again. Vivian isn’t even facing me. Stress has me seeing things, imagining what I’ve only seen in my nightmares. I'm a paranoid mess.
I laugh at myself to ease the festering tension. Sasha laughs too, but politely, in the sort of way one might do if they heard a horrible joke and laughed anyway to keep from hurting the comedian’s feelings.
“Let’s just get this over with,” I say. Several middle-aged women stretch and warm-up. Some stand in huddles chatting as if they know each other. Others keep quietly to themselves, meditating or talking on their cellphones. Sasha steers me toward two unoccupied floor mats near the back of the room.
“These should be good enough,” she tells me while kneeling onto the mat. I turn once more, in search of her, somewhat peeved that she won’t look at me. Seven floor mats away, Vivian sits like an Indian, eyes closed, attention diverted away from me. I make up for my jitters by doing a few warm-ups to emulate the other women.
“You’re already stretching?” Sasha asks me. “I knew you’d latch onto this with some enthusiasm.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I guess I am getting into the mood.”
After a few pretend stretches, I plop onto my mat, folding my legs beneath me. Vivian moves into lung-stretches then Pilates. She seems so…nimble, so natural. Maybe it is coincidental that she’s here.
“Sas, have you ever seen that woman in this class before?” I whisper while referring to Vivian with my eyes. Sasha gives Vivian a brief onceover then shrugs halfheartedly.
“No, she must be new here,” she says. “Why? Do you know her?”
I answer with a noncommittal shake of my head to disarm her curiosity.
“No, I just figured she looked pretty out of place here.”
“No shit. Do you see that purse she’s carrying?” Sasha remarks. “It’s a genuine Marchesa Valentino.”
I shrug. “Should I know what that means?”
“Those babies don’t come cheap,” she says, scoffing at my ignorance. “There is no way she dropped any less than a cool thirty-five grand for anything Valentino.”
So my initial assessment was right. Vivian is filthy rich. But that’s a total no-brainer. The woman is a walking trophy. She looks like she should be stuffed into a curio cabinet like some prized collectors doll.
After a few more warm-up exercises, the instructor arrives. She is a perky blonde wearing spandex yoga pants and a camisole. She is much younger than most of the woman in class aside from Sasha and me. The women here are probably bored homemakers with a day away from kids and marriage.
This class is probably the only time any of them have to themselves. I wonder if the same is true for Vivian. She doesn’t seem like anyone’s mother and she’s in much better shape than most women her age.
She lifts her gaze to meet mine. I turn away before she notices me staring. I don’t know what’s come over me, acting this way. I reproach my behavior, ordering myself to ignore her. This is for Sasha. Any uneasy feelings I have toward Vivian need to vanish. I face the instructor and listen as she introduces herself to the class.
“Hello class, my name is Kelsey and I will be your instructor,” she says. “Sadly, your last instructor had to leave abruptly and I'm proud to be stepping in her place. I hope to pick up where she left off. First, let’s get to know each other better. I’ve announced my name and I’d like every one of you to do the same. Starting with the front row, announce your name to the class, ladies.”
I listen as the first two rows of woman announce themselves and I nearly clam up when she points to me.
“My name…is Cassandra,” I say, suddenly aware of every person in the room. Each of their heads turn in unison as if on strings. I clear my throat to expunge the nerves, to carry my voice above a rasp whisper. “This is my first Tai Chi class. I'm here as a favor to my friend.”
I gesture at Sasha who waves at the women that acknowledge her. Then I risk a glance over my shoulder at Vivian, observing her eyes as they watch me. I can't tell if her subsequent smile is phony or if it’s a gesture of sincerity. I imagine a pumpkin with a monstrous grin craved into its face.
After the next few introductions, I hear a familiar voice announce, “And I'm Vivian.”
Her voice alone is enough to make everyone take notice, but Vivian doesn’t buckle under the pressure. She effortlessly commands the room. Kelsey beams as if she’s just heard the voice of God.
“Are you…Vivian Lynch?” Kelsey asks and Vivian nods.
“Oh my god,” gasps Kelsey while applauding. “Ladies, we’re honored to be joined by Vivian Lynch!”
The room is abuzz with conversation amongst the other women. It’s a collective murmur of mixed emotions. Some share the instructor’s enthusiasm. Others look around, clueless about all the commotion. I am in that group and so is Sasha.
“Excuse my ignorance,” says Sasha. “But what’s the excitement about?”
Kelsey glares at Sasha then promptly decides to ignore her question.
“Ms. Lynch, what brings you into the city and how long will you be staying?” Kelsey asks.
Vivian, without hesitation, replies, “A charity event has me busy lately. I’m currently organizing a fundraiser gala in honor of the new scholarship program I’ve put together for a local university in town.”
“Oh? Which university?”
“Northham,” Vivian replies. My eyes widen. Sasha and I exchange glances, seeking some mutual affirmation.
“Wow, that’s weird,” Sasha blurts. “Me and my friend are students there.”
Vivian is expressionless; only her eyes emote what she doesn’t say aloud. I force myself to stare into those eyes, but there is no light in them. Gone. Zapped. Like the final flicker of a dimmed bulb.
“That certainly is an outstanding coincidence,” she says in an indifferent tone, but I think otherwise. In a matter of days, this woman has injected herself into every aspect
of my life. First work. Now school. Where will she show up next? Ignoring her is becoming more of a hassle than I’d like it to be.
After everyone finishes fawning over Vivian Lynch, we begin class. Tai Chi isn’t my hobby of choice, but I agree it’s everything Sasha said it was. The half-hour session is more serene when Kelsey turns on music and all of us move along with the ambient sounds.
Afterwards, we wrap up with warm-down stretches and end with a water break before dismissal. Sasha stretches her arms overhead with an orgasmic sigh. She looks at me, beaming from ear-to-ear.
“God, I feel spectacular!” she says. “Don’t you?”
I smile and this time it’s not a forced one.
“This did do me some good,” I say. “I feel like jogging a few laps around the park. You want to come with me?”
“Sorry,” Sasha says. “I have Chemistry in an hour. Then it’s off to music rehearsal for the rest of the afternoon. I have to kill that Paganini piece for the summer concerti and I am not letting Kerri Miles upstage me for the lead. Are you ready to head back to the apartment? I can drop you off before heading over to the campus.”
“I can give you a ride home if you’d like,” replies a voice.
We both turn and notice Vivian nearby, leaning against the wall as if she’s been here the entire time, eavesdropping. She doesn’t appear to have broken a sweat, not even a touch of makeup smudged.
“Um…no thanks,” I reply as politely as possible. “I don’t want to impose and—”
“I'm happy to do it,” Vivian interjects. “I'm free for the day. All business dealings have been cancelled for the rest of the week.”
I look to Sasha, hoping she’ll provide me with a lie to get me out of it, but she doesn’t. Vivian transfixes her in a way I’ve never seen. The two stare each other down. Sasha gives Vivian a quick sweep with her eyes. Vivian does the same to Sasha with more intent. There must be some secret non-verbal language between rich people that the rest of us can’t translate.
“Vivian, I don’t think it’d be a good idea,” I say. “My apartment is probably completely out of your way.”
“Trust me,” she replies in an insisting tone. “I don’t mind.”
Still, Sasha says nothing. In her eyes, I spot suspicion. Something is stirring in her brain.
“Go with her, Cass,” Sasha says. “You shouldn’t sit in that damn apartment alone. I'm sure that Ms. Lynch will take good care of you.”
Vivian nods affirmably. With them both ganging up on me at once, I can’t outright reject Vivian’s offer without feeling rude.
“I’ll meet you back at the apartment later,” Sasha replies. When leaning in to hug me, she whispers in my ear, “Check her out. She could be harmless.” She leaves before I can object, obliviously subjecting me to Vivian Lynch. My body feels cold, empty, as if something important was stolen from inside.
“Don’t worry, I promise to deliver you home in one piece,” says Vivian while standing too close to me. Our shoulders graze, elbows mere inches apart. I flinch away to widen the space between us.
“You’re a very skittish girl,” she teases. “I hope you aren’t afraid of me.”
“The last time we saw each other, you almost broke my arm,” I retort.
Her smile fades. “I’m sorry for that, but you didn’t leave me any other choice.”
“Excuse me?” I fashion a glare, wishing I could set her aflame with my eyes. “What the hell does that even mean?”
“If you had just talked to me in a civilized manner, I wouldn’t have gotten so assertive,” she says. I storm toward the exit, heaving the door open. Vivian follows as I cross the parking lot, but lingers at a safe distance without saying a word. I peek at her through my eyelashes. Her lips pout purposefully as she concentrates on me.
“Do you intend to walk home?” she asks. “You’re free to leave. I won’t hold you against your will if you’re determined to get away from me, but I do urge you to hear me out. Decide then whether or not you want any more to do with me.”
I look at her, unsure of what to say or how to say it. I don’t have a rehearsed response for her like I do for my mother and Sasha.
“What do you want?” I finally ask though the words sound more desperate aloud than they had in my head. Vivian smirks, reaches into her purse and removes a carton of cigarettes along with a ring of keys. She tosses me the keys then saunters toward her Porsche.
“Why are you giving me your car keys?” I call out.
“You’re driving,” she replies over her shoulder. I scurry to catch up to her, but she’s already claimed the passenger seat, leaving me no choice, but to helm the steering wheel.
I saunter to the passenger side, poking my head in through the window. “Ms. Lynch, I can’t—”
“Rule number one,” she interjects. “Call me ‘Vivian.’”
“But I—”
“Rule number two, don’t second guess any decision I make from this point forward. If I want you to drive my damn car, you’ll drive it whenever and wherever I tell you to take it. Now get in, put the key into the ignition and drive, Cassandra!”
I flinch at her tone, like my own mother has just scolded me. I hesitantly obey. As she lights her cigarette, I start the car up and turn to her, expecting additional instructions. She takes a few heavy puffs of the cigarette and sits back against the passenger seat with a loud contented sigh.
“Oh, I’ve missed these things,” she says. “I was kidding myself thinking I could give up smoking.”
“Those things will kill you,” I say.
She chuckles, clearly unintimidated by my warning.
“We’re all going to die someday,” she says. “Some of us are leaving much sooner than planned.”
6
“Take the highway and keep driving until I say otherwise,” Vivian orders. I obey without stopping to think, stomping the gas pedal and veering out of the strip mall parking lot.
A heady stench of tobacco and rubber fills the car, making gas fumes coagulate in my throat. Breathing takes effort. Vivian’s lips pucker like a wound corset around that cigarette, exacerbating the wrinkles near her mouth.
“What kind of music do you prefer?” she asks while fiddling with the radio buttons.
“Anything is okay, I guess,” I say and she turns the volume up until Madonna’s voice blasts from the speakers. Vivian sings Like a Virgin at the top of her lungs, as I remain hostage behind the steering wheel.
I don’t blink. I don’t even look her in the eye. I just drive. Going eighty on the highway, I listen to Vivian croon five songs in a row. She stops occasionally to give me further directions, but offers no explanation. I make note of the traffic signs and watch several exits disappear behind us.
The city livens around us, alive with a populace of cars and pedestrians crossing streets, jogging sidewalks and congregating in crowds like flocks of birds. A spotlight of sun soars overhead, reflecting a sepia glow onto skyscrapers in the distance.
Orange County always looks its best this time of day. When the sun peaks, every person, car and skyscraper, resembles those airbrushed photos from the tourism brochures. The beach looks a little brighter, the sky bluer. The water clearer. When Vivian is no longer watching me, I savor this view and wish I could photograph it. I grip the steering wheel tighter, feeling the car’s vibrations thrum against my palms. The faster I drive, I swear, this car has wings.
“You like this car, don’t you?” Vivian asks.
I nod. “But I can barely afford gas for my own car. There is no way in hell I can afford a Porsche.”
“You can if I give it to you,” she says.
“What?”
“I could give you this car,” she says. “It wouldn’t be an inconvenience for me. I can certainly afford a new one. Would you like for me to give you this car?”
I look at her and wonder if she’s serious. When she doesn’t withdraw any of her words, I remain speechless.
“Well?” she prompts.
“Under a few…conditions, yes.”
“Of course,” I mutter. “There is no way a stranger would offer me an expensive car without strings.”
“Don’t sound so disappointed,” she says. “I haven’t discussed the terms with you yet.”
My eyes narrow as my suspicions take form. “What terms?”
“You’ll soon see,” she says beneath her breath. “Turn off at the next exit.”
“My apartment isn’t for another twenty miles,” I say.
Vivian looks at me as if I'm an idiot, babbling words in some foreign language.
“We’re not going to your apartment.”
“What?”
“Just turn off at the next exit,” she orders. “We are not discussing business in a car.”
“Business?” I ask, but she doesn’t respond. I continue driving. After exiting the highway, we rejoin metropolitan traffic and file in line behind an onslaught of cars cluttering the six-lane street. We drive further down the boulevard then pass a plethora of strip mall boutiques that I can’t afford to shop in. I'm unfamiliar with this expensive part of town. It’s always been like a secret society for those who belong, kept hidden from those who don’t.
“Turn into the parking lot up ahead,” Vivian orders. I pull into the private driveway then slow the car to pinpoint where we are—a beachside eatery, sharing the coast with a strip of several neighboring restaurants.
A large, pinstriped awning holds an unlit neon sign above the restaurant’s double glass doors. The sign, as I squint to see it, reads: Tropolis Sushi Bistro. Palms flank each side, towering over the restaurant, bent at their trunks like broken fingers reaching for the sky.
It’s a picturesque sight with a perfect view of the beach behind it. I’d be impressed if I weren’t so suspicious.
“Why are we at a sushi restaurant?” I ask.
“You like sushi, don’t you?”
“Yeah, but…wait, how do you know that?”
She finishes her cigarette and flicks the butt out the window.