by Mia Sosa
“I see some of you are confused,” she chimes in. “All that really means is that I can kick Anthony’s ass.”
Most of the women laugh; a few of them egg her on by shouting, “Yes, girl.”
I put up a hand to quiet them down. “Okay, let’s get to work.” Then I place both hands behind my back and walk across the room as I address them, their eager faces a reminder that what I’m trying to convey in this course is important to them and to me. The idea that any person could be overpowered and sexually assaulted fills me with rage, and if I can pass on my own expertise to help even one person avoid that fate or instill in them enough confidence that they can fight off an attacker, I’ll consider this class an overwhelming success. “In today’s session, I want to give you strategies for dealing with an assailant who’s not in your personal space. At least not yet. And one of the most effective ways to deal with someone who’s within your zone of contact but doesn’t have their hands on you is a groin strike.”
“Kick ’em in the balls,” someone in the back shouts.
“Well, maybe, depending on who you’re dealing with,” I say. “But bear in mind a groin kick is gender neutral. That area is vulnerable for everyone.”
Beside me, Eva shifts, her arms going behind her back to mimic my stance. “Well, everyone’s vulnerable, yes. But testicles don’t have any structural protection, and men don’t tolerate pain as well as women do.”
“Debatable,” I say, flashing her a look of warning.
“Not at all shocked you’d say that.”
Stopping in front of her, I lean over, whispering for her ears only. “Hey, I didn’t ask you to be my verbal sparring partner, too.”
She maintains a straight face while she rubs her lips together and listens intently. Then she says, “No need to thank me. I’m a giver like that.”
She amuses me. Distracts me with her wit. Just two of her many talents. Still, it’s time to get this class on track. I pick up the strike pad and turn to face Eva. She bends her knees and raises her fists to protect her face. “We’re going to show you what you’re aiming for,” I tell them. “Before you think about kicking, a couple of things to keep in mind. First, your feet should be planted firmly on the ground with your hips leaning forward. That will help you kick with power. Second, most of the impact should be on the top of your foot, not your toes. Kicking with your toes could land you in a cast. Third, don’t kick straight on. Kick at a thirty-degree angle at least. That’ll ensure your attacker doesn’t clock you with his head. Anything to add, Eva?”
She straightens to address the class. “The key is not to think of it as a strike to the groin. Really what you’re trying to do is split this person’s groin in half and rip them apart from the balls up. So your task is to crack this person’s head open, but you’ve got to go through the groin first.”
The more she speaks, the more my balls shrink away in protest. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Kurt slip into the studio. He’s here sooner than I expected, but there’s no point in making a switch now. It would be too disruptive. “All right, all right. Let’s talk about engaging with your attacker. In short, you want to make eye contact, because if you don’t, you’re likely looking at their crotch, which is telegraphing that you intend to kick them there. Let’s show them how that can go wrong, Eva.”
Without missing a beat, she stares at my crotch before she strikes the pad. I evade the kick easily and scramble behind her, applying a light choke hold. “So you see—”
It happens fast. So fucking fast. Before I can fully process it, Eva presses a thumb against my hold, sidesteps it, and then pivots to elbow me in the center of my chest. Really hard.
The swift blow knocks the wind out of me and I double over, partly to catch my breath and partly to recover from the pain. Fuck, this woman’s dangerous. And somewhere in my adrenaline-spiked brain, an unwelcome thought comes to me: In more ways than one, Anthony. In more ways than one.
Eva
Oops. I didn’t mean to do that—instinct is a curious thing—but I’d be lying if I claimed I didn’t enjoy that just a bit.
Before I can check on Anthony, a stocky middle-aged white man with bulging biceps for days lumbers forward and places a beefy hand on my victim’s back. “You okay there, A?”
Anthony breathes heavily through his nose as he responds. “Yeah. I’m all right. She just caught me off guard.”
The beefy man, who I assume is his tardy boss, chuckles. “Kind of the point, isn’t it?”
Anthony narrows his eyes into slits and shakes off the man’s assistance. He presses his lips together, his face contorted into an incredulous expression. “You’re late, which left me at Eva’s mercy. I’ll find a way to make you pay for this.” He points at his boss, a stern look in his eyes, but with a smile to signal he’s not serious. “You. Stand in the corner for now.”
Anthony recovers from my unintentional pummeling with remarkable ease, straightening to his full height and stretching his chest wide. Turning to the class, he says, “All right, here’s what this is supposed to look like.”
Silently, Anthony and I move into our respective positions; he holds the strike pad in front of his groin, and I bend my knees with my hips leaning forward as he instructed.
My leg flies up to his crotch with as much force as I can put behind it, landing with a loud thwap that echoes in the room. He absorbs the kick easily, his arms locked in front of him. “Excellent, Eva. Again.” Bending at the knees, he repositions himself and waits for another kick. This time I strike harder, swinging my arms up and then behind me to add more power to the move.
Anthony shouts his encouragement. “Yes, Eva, yes. That’s it.”
We straighten immediately, exchanging guilty glances. I know what I’m thinking. Is he thinking the same thing? Because that sure sounds like what he said to me in Room 308 of the Marriott in Windsor.
Anthony swipes his free hand down his face—as though he’s putting on a mask—and turns to the class. “Okay, everyone. Now you try it. Targets, make sure you protect the groin area. Strikers, settle into your stances without giving your target a warning as to when the strikes will occur.”
As everyone shuffles into position and practices, I slink over to Anthony with the intention of apologizing for what he probably thought was a cheap shot earlier. But our latecomer thrusts his hand in my direction before I can say anything, and Anthony goes off to watch the students—actually, fleeing might be a better description of what he’s doing.
“That was a fantastic move, my dear. Where’d you learn it?” He reaches out for a handshake. “I’m Kurt, by the way.”
I take his hand and pump it with confidence, just the way my father taught me to. “Eva, good to meet you. Took a self-defense class a few years back and got certified after that.”
“She’s being too modest,” Anthony says over his shoulder. “Eva’s a black belt in tae kwon do.”
Kurt’s eyebrows rise like a Phoenix. “Really? What degree?”
“Made it to third.”
“Hot damn,” he says, slapping his thigh for emphasis. “You’d be a perfect fit for my training class. Ever thought about getting into the biz?”
I suppose the biz is shorthand for the entertainment business, and the answer is definitely not. “Acting, you mean?”
“Well, some acting, yeah,” Kurt says. “But mostly we’re talking really physical stuff. Stunt work. Standing in for the actors who are too chickenshit to do the dangerous stuff themselves. We’re always looking to grow our list of stunt people on standby. Especially women. I’m sure you’d get a few gigs in no time at all.”
LA’s a trip. I’ve been here less than a week and someone’s already proposing that I make a living crashing into stuff. “Um, sounds interesting, but I’m good.”
“Well, if you ever change your mind, ask Anthony about it. You never know when you might need a few extra thousand dollars in your pocket. Not bad for a few days’ work.”
He ambles off
to join Anthony, and I stare after him. Back the hell up. Did he just say a few extra thousand dollars? For a few days’ work? Does anyone ever not need a few extra thousand dollars? Do I not need a few extra thousand dollars?
Anthony makes a couple remarks and calls a five-minute break while I process the possibilities. I have so many questions, which I’m eager to ask once I can speak to him alone. After the last student sails through the door with a jaunty wave in our direction, Kurt following a respectable distance behind her, I pounce on Anthony. “This training Kurt mentioned, how long is it? And how much does it cost? How big’s the class? And when and where is it held? Do you help with job placement? Would I need to join a union? How does that work?”
He stares down at me, his brows knitted in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
Obviously, he’s never heard of context clues. Or he’s being purposefully obtuse about this. “I’m talking about stunt training, of course. Kurt thinks I might be a natural, and he mentioned you have some kind of program in place.”
He crosses the room and tosses a towel onto his duffel bag, and then he scrolls through his phone as though my questions aren’t worthy of serious consideration. “Stunt work isn’t a hobby, it’s a career. It’s not something to do on a whim. And it’s dangerous. And there are no guarantees you’ll even get work. That’s Kurt’s thing. Shooting off at the mouth. Don’t take him too seriously.”
Well, damn. Someone’s a Davey Downer. I’m still curious, though, so I refuse to let up. “But what if someone wasn’t doing it on a whim, and they’d thought long and hard about it. How much would it cost for such a person to take your course?”
“Wouldn’t matter,” he says as he strides to the door. “It’s sold out, and we have a waiting list a mile long.” He spins around to face me and uses his back to push the door open. “Thanks for your help today. You saved my ass. Since Kurt’s here now, I’ll finish up the demo with him. Hope your first class goes well.”
And then he’s gone, not having answered a single question I posed. What the hell? What is this man’s problem? Now that I think about it, I should have kicked him in the balls for real when I had the chance.
Chapter Five
When life hands you lemons, squeeze the juice of those lemons right into life’s eyes. That’ll teach it not to mess with you.
Eva
The three dudes in the back of the studio help me get over my new class jitters—and distract me from overthinking Anthony’s puzzling behavior. They’ll rue the day they decided to take Advanced Zumba for the sole purpose of staring at women’s asses. I’ll make sure of it.
With a friendly wave and a welcoming smile, I beckon them to the front. “Hey, guys. Would you mind coming up here? Most of the moves for the second half of the class will be facing the back wall, so I want to be sure everyone can see. You’re all so tall.”
Their heads swivel back and forth between them, and then the lankiest of the three, a white guy with a man bun, steps forward and motions his friends to do the same.
As I see it, my job has three main parts: illustrate the dance steps in an easy-to-follow way; regulate the class environment to ensure a positive and safe experience for everyone; and motivate each student to do their best and have fun. I’m in regulation mode, and given my day so far, I’m going to relish the task ahead of me.
I had them pegged before the end of the first song. They walked in here dressed to play pickup basketball on the court across the street. Two in the trio didn’t even bother to tie their shoelaces, so one of them lost a sneaker after the first sequence with a skip-and-a-hop combo. Plus, they don’t know any of the basic steps. And the biggest clue: They’re literally staring at women’s butts while pretending to dance. The result is that most of the class, including a few men with excellent coordination, are doing a kick-ass job of following my lead, but these three look like they’re making their own dance video for “Rhythmless Nation.”
I need to establish from the outset that I’m not to be trifled with, and although I can’t kick them out, I can use them to demonstrate the complexity of the moves our students will be learning over time—and make them suffer while doing so. But I’ll give them one more shot to save themselves. “Before we begin again, I just want to make clear that there’s no shame in deciding these moves are too advanced for your skill set, and I won’t be offended if the choreography or music isn’t to your liking. I want everyone to enjoy themselves, but if this class isn’t a good fit for you for whatever reason, feel free to step out now.”
It’s a risky statement to make, but it serves two purposes. One, it helps to ensure the students are enthusiastic. Group fitness feeds off the collective energy of its participants, and if that’s low, your class will be a dud. Two, it gives my three stooges a chance to leave without embarrassing themselves any further.
No one’s leaving, though. In fact, people are shaking out their limbs and stretching in anticipation of the next dance. Okay, then, embarrassment it is.
My heavy-handed claps get everyone’s attention, and I’m gratified to see several students looking at me expectantly, their bodies and faces vibrating with positive energy. “Okay, everyone, I’ve been playing around with a few new routines of my own that add strength training to the mix, and I’d love to try them out with you. Sound good?”
Most of the students cheer me on, but my three Zumba drop-ins aren’t taking part in the celebration. Instead, they’re exchanging furtive glances, probably because we’re still facing the front of the room, and that’s where they’re positioned.
“Now, I recognize some of you may not be familiar with these moves, so I’m going to break them down for you. And to do that, I’ll need a few volunteers.” I spin around and ignore the enthusiastic hands in the air. “How about you guys? You’re strapping young men, right? This should be a piece of cake for you.”
There’s a moment’s hesitation as they consider my request, but then the ringleader pivots to face the class and hams it up, alternating between poorly performed salsa moves and bicep curls.
I can’t help picturing Lin-Manuel Miranda performing Hamilton’s title song, and in my head, I’m singing along with him, my voice sure and strong: “Just you wait. Just you wait.”
“First, we’re going to begin with twelve burpees, each one in four counts.” I get in position to demonstrate the sequence, walking everyone through each part of the exercise. “Down. Back legs out. Back legs return. And stand up.” I turn to my unwitting assistants. “Okay, show them twelve burpees and finish with a salsa travel in two counts.”
There’s a lot of eyebrow scrunching and frowning going on, but I pretend not to see it. Eventually, they get in position and perform twelve burpees. When they’re done, they shake their hips in a sad approximation of a salsa travel.
Each is huffing from the exertion. Splendid.
Next, I demonstrate a plank followed by a salsa side step in plank position. It’s a dance and exercise combo that was very popular in my Philly classes; it’s not as popular with these three, though. And I am here for it.
“Okay, now we’re going to add a few basic moves and see how it all looks together.” I click the remote and shuffle to “Macarena.”
I’m so petty, and given the way some of the students are trying to hide their laughter, they are, too. This is going to work out just fine.
At the end of the class, Tori meets me at the door. “So, how was it?”
She’s biting her lip, her nose scrunched as if she hopes it’s not bad news. I’m certain she’s nervous because she wants me to be happy, and if this job doesn’t work out for me, she’ll feel partially responsible for selling me so hard on the idea. But I’d never blame her. I’m determined to succeed despite any obstacles that dare to block my way.
“It was great,” I say. “The people were enthusiastic, and I was feeding off their good vibes. I had a few guys who treated the class like a check-in meeting at Ass Watchers, but I set them straight.”
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Tori places a hand on my wrist, a sneaky grin on her face. “What’d you do?”
“Broke out the good ol’ ‘Macarena.’”
She throws her head back and cackles. “Love it.”
I slip my arm through hers as we walk toward the staff room. “I do have something I want to talk to you about, though.”
She looks down at me, a grave expression on her face, and motions me inside when we get to the threshold. “What’s going on?”
The staff room contains several steel round tables, each with seating for six. We drop into the seats at the table closest to the door. I hate that I’m bringing this up on my first day, but if I can’t talk to Tori about this, I’ll explode. And every woman needs that one friend who’ll let her vent and then squeeze her arm when she’s done. “Turns out my father isn’t going to help me with the move. Says he thinks it’s a mistake and he doesn’t want to enable me.” I wipe at the tears welling up in my eyes. “I don’t know why I’m being so emotional about this. So I won’t buy a used car like I planned. I’ll survive. It’s just—”
She nods, throwing on her puppy dog eyes. “You feel betrayed.”
“Not exactly. Betrayal would mean I didn’t see it coming, but I wasn’t surprised. Above all, I was disappointed.”
Right on time, Tori leans over, takes my hand, and squeezes it. “You’re allowed to feel that way.”
“A part of me knows that to be the case. Another part of me—a teeny, tiny part of me—thinks maybe he’s right. Maybe I will fail, and he’s just trying to save me a ton of grief.”
She pins me with a now you listen to me stare, her gaze fierce and commanding. “That teeny, tiny part of you needs to shut the fuck up.”