Tales from the Yoga Studio (22 page)

“It's just the carpet,” Becky tells her. “There's a lot of sweat, and I guess it gets ground in. Someone told me to expect this.”

“Oh, okay. Did they also tell you to expect me to run in the other direction?”

“It's not about the carpet, Miss Lang. Just focus on the benefits.”

“If they supplied a gas mask, I might be able to. And we're not even in the room yet.”

The man behind the desk is so cheerful and welcoming, Imani feels a little relieved. He recognizes them—not virgins and not anonymous—but he's being equally nice to everyone. Probably has to be to compensate for the stench.

Imani nearly swoons as soon as she walks into the yoga room. It's a big, open space with an industrial feel to it, and it's crowded with people, pretty much all of them wearing what look like bathing suits. Surely the heat can't be as bad as it seems. She must be imagining it. Or maybe there's some system malfunction, because if it
is
as bad as it seems, it surely can't be intentional. She and Glenn went to Egypt, and the temperature in Aswan was almost 110 degrees. That's what it feels like.

As for the smell, she isn't going to think about it. If all these people can stand it, she supposes she can, too.

It starts out easily enough, some waving of the elbows and the usual loud breathing, but about fifteen minutes in, Imani is drenched in her own sweat and beginning to feel irritable. The instructor is standing on a little podium, and even though there are maybe fifty people in the room, he seems to know everyone's name. There's something a little creepy about that.

“Hold it, hold it, hold it, Thomas. Higher, higher, higher. If you can you
must,
Barry. Thirty more seconds on the clock. Higher, Amy.”

She's all for encouragement, but the combination of the extreme heat and the smell and the militaristic monologue of the instructor is making her want to shout out a big fat
Shut up!

But maybe the worst part of it is that the walls are covered in mirrors. The problem is that they make the room seem like a locked little ecosystem and, worse still, make it impossible for her to look away from her body, dripping in sweat and teetering through half the poses.

Every time she thinks she really is going to lose it completely, she thinks about what Becky said to her: It works. No idea why. All she has to do is believe it. Show up. Do it. Pose by pose. One drop of sweat after the next.

But she tries to imagine that there's a little reservoir of fear inside of her, a pool of it, a finite amount, and that every time more sweat runs down her limbs, she's getting closer to draining it dry. Let the carpet seep it all up. As long as she leaves some of it behind when she walks out of here, she's going to consider it a win.

W
hen the music stops, Graciela is, as choreographed, suspended in midair. Only for a half second, of course, but long enough to make the point that she is capable of some breath-taking leaps that make it look as if she's able to float through the air in slow motion. In the silence, she lands back on the floor as softly as a cat.

There are three people watching her: the choreographer, the director of the video, and a small woman who looks as if the skin of her face has been pulled back and tucked into the elastic of the big flying saucer beret she's wearing.

“Thank you,” the choreographer says, dry as sand. “Interesting choice of music.”

“Especially for
this
decade,” the woman with the hat says, and the choreographer gives a little snort.

Graciela never has a clear idea of how she's done at any audition. There's too much tension in the moment and she's so focused on what she's doing and, at the same time, so inside the music, it's never entirely clear what she looks like. She didn't miss anything she had planned today, didn't pull any muscles, and for the most part, was perfectly relaxed. They let her dance for the full two minutes, usually a good sign.

But the current reception, bland and slightly sarcastic, isn't very reassuring.

“We'll be in touch,” the director says.

“You have my—”

“Yes, yes, yes. We have everything.”

The whole thing feels like a massive anticlimax, after all the preparation, the injury, the weeks she's put into taking it easy, trying to heal. All for this.
Yes, yes, yes, we have everything, see you later. Don't call us.

“Thank you for the opportunity.”

“She's polite, anyway,” the little woman says, as if Graciela isn't standing right there. The woman reaches up to her beret and really does look as if she's tucking her skin under her hat.

Crossing the floor to the exit feels like a classic walk of shame, but she does it with as much dignity as she can muster. As she is about to leave, someone's cell phone rings, and the director calls out to Graciela, “Hold on.”

She doesn't stop so much as freeze, her hand reaching for the door, unable to turn around. She can see the three of them in the mirror on the wall in front of her, huddling over the table, chatting into the phone, and looking over the notes they took. The director finishes the call.

“Graciela, isn't it?”

She turns. “Yes.”

“She'd like to see you perform that again.”

Graciela looks around the room. None of the mirrors looks suspicious, but you never know. There's no question about who “she” is.

“Can you do that for us? Run through it again?”

“Of course.”

“If you were cast in the video, would you agree to cut your hair? ”

“I would,” she says.

The little woman wags her head in a sassy sort of way. “Right answer. We're planning on long hair anyway.”

W
hen she steps out of the building and onto the street, Graciela has the distinct impression that her life has changed. She wasn't given any assurances, but after her second run-through, the phone rang again, and this time they asked her if she knew how to do the Charleston. “We're using a lot of surprise elements,” the choreographer said.

When Graciela was a girl, she was obsessed with Josephine Baker—her elegance and glamour and that crazy dance style of hers that wasn't like anything anyone else did before or since. She had only a faint memory of a grainy black-and-white video she saw of Josephine Baker doing a Charleston in a documentary, but, filled with hopefulness and optimism and a touch of pure joy, she launched into twenty seconds of what she hoped was a close approximation.

Now that “she” had given her nod of approval, “they” were downright friendly.

Lindsay is waiting in the lobby of the building. She silently asks Graciela the inevitable question. Graciela shrugs and then can't help but burst into a huge grin. Lindsay screams and runs toward her, arms open.

“You got it?”

“It wasn't a ‘no' anyway. I'm pretty sure it was a solid ‘maybe.' ”

“Did they love the routine?”

“ ‘She' did.”

“
She
was there?”

“Not exactly. In another room, I guess. Anyway, she saw it. And called them.” And then, Graciela can't help but scream: “
She
thought I was great! Is Daryl here?”

“He called. He's on his way. I can't believe your feet are actually touching the ground. Why aren't you floating?”

They step out onto the sidewalk, arm in arm, and that's when Graciela sees the big hulking frame of Conor, leaning against the building. He nods and smiles at her and starts walking toward them.

“Hey, Graciela,” he says.

Graciela smiles at him. She has done nothing wrong, she reminds herself, has not encouraged him in any way. Maybe she should have just talked to him when he first started calling, but that's past, and she has to let go of it.

“Hi, Conor,” she says, trying to make it sound cool but not unfriendly. “What are you doing down here?”

“I've been trying to get in touch with you for a while now.”

“I just had this audition and . . .”

“I know.”

“Katherine told you?”

“No. Chloe, up at the studio. How did it go?”

Lindsay has stepped aside in a discreet sort of way, pretending to do something with her cell phone. It makes Graciela feel even more uneasy, as if she's picked up some vibe between them.

“It went okay,” Graciela says. “I'm sorry about the calls, but I've been really busy . . .”

She lets her voice trail off. There's no good way to finish the sentence.
I didn't want to encourage you
?
What made you think I was interested
?

“Yeah, you yoga girls are pretty bad about returning phone calls, I gotta say.”

Graciela looks him straight in the eyes. It's always best to just get it said. In the end, it makes things easier, doesn't it?

“I live with someone,” Graciela says. “On top of that, Katherine's become a good friend of mine.”

“I know you're Katherine's friend,” Conor says. “I didn't know about the boyfriend, but . . .”

“But now you do know.” It's Daryl, standing behind Graciela. He puts his hands on her waist. “Now you do know, okay?”

I
f there's an upside to not having taken any of Lee's classes since Alan's insulting comments about the money, it's that Katherine has been spending way more time on her pink bicycle. She's been working off her stress and anxiety by pedaling it up and down the streets of Silver Lake until her thighs are aching, and then around and around the reservoir until she feels some of the emotional release she usually feels after taking a class. And these days, there's a lot she needs to release.

Today, as she pedals around the reservoir for the second time, she starts to feel a little giddy. Probably the bad air she's sucking into her lungs, or maybe just an overwhelming sense that things aren't going the way she'd like. The funny thing is, she can't really blame Alan for questioning her about the accounting. As much as she resents, maybe even loathes, Alan for his assumption that she's a weak person who, based on her past actions, is destined always to fuck up, she can't help but think he's got a point. Maybe all the fucked-up shit that happened to her as a kid really did mess up her brain chemistry forever.

As she's rounding the north side of the reservoir, a hot wind kicks up a storm of dust, and she decides to take a break and sit on one of the benches that look up toward the hills. She opens up the little leather pack strapped in under the bicycle seat and takes out her eyeglass case. Too bad she doesn't wear eyeglasses. She takes out the joint she put in there this morning and lights up. One good hit of it, and the rough edges of the day start to smooth out. The idea that pot is a gateway drug is a joke; with her,
life
was the damned gateway drug.