These Boots Weren't Made for Walking (11 page)

“Jump!” she yells as if she thinks we're a bunch of trained monkeys. “Jump! Jump! Jump!” I attempt to do these jumps, but my legs are so weak that I'm afraid I may flop to the floor in a big sweaty mess. So I just sit and pedal. The sweat is dripping down
my face and trickling down my back. I notice the others taking regular sips from their water botdes, and I am so thirsty I want to swipe the bottle from the gray-haired guy who's happily jumping next to me. I wonder if he'd notice.

The class is merely half over when I decide that the only thing to do at this point is sit on this rock-hard seat and slowly pedal with absolutely no pressure on the resistance dial. Everyone else is rocking and rolling and even laughing and talking to each other as if this is a walk through the park. I wonder if they're showing off for my benefit or just being their regular selves. Whatever the case, I feel like the class dummy. The fitness failure. At least I'm not giving up completely. It would be so embarrassing to climb off this bike in the front row and slink out of here with my tail between my legs. I so wish I could just vanish now. Really, right off the face of the planet would be perfectly fine with me.

By the end of the class, which must've lasted at least six and a half hours, my head is throbbing, my legs feel like whipped noodles, and my buns burn so badly that I'm not sure I'll ever be able to sit down again. Plus I am soaking wet with sweat. I can actually smell myself!

“How'd it go?” asks Mom as she and Penny join me after the stretching exercises, which I barely pretended to do.

I wipe my face with my already soaked towel. “Okay,” I mutter.

“Wow, your face is really red,” observes Penny. “Are you okay?”

“And your lips are white, Cassie,” says Mom with concern. “That can't be good. Maybe you should sit down.”

“I'm okay,” I say as I attempt to walk in a straight line toward the door. But my head is actually starting to buzz, and I think I might pass out. That would be so embarrassing. I
can do this.

We're barely outside the door when I start staggering. I feel Mom's hand securely beneath my arm. “Sit down, Cassie,” she insists, leading me to an area with several comfy-looking chairs by a window. I don't resist. I collapse into the closest one and lean back and try to breathe slowly.

“Get her some water, Penny,” orders Mom.

Soon they are trying to pour water down me. While that sounded good earlier, now it makes me want to puke.

“Should we call for help?” asks Penny.

“No,” I mutter, “I'll be okay.”

“You don't look good,” says Mom.

“Thanks.” I close my eyes and wish I were dead. Maybe I will be before long.

“Go get her one of those fitness drinks,” commands Mom. “You know, the ones with electrolytes and things.”

“I'll be right back,” yells Penny, taking off running, which amazes me. The building could be going up in blazes, and I couldn't possibly run. I couldn't even crawl out to save myself—not that I'd care at the moment.

“Breathe in and out slowly,” says Mom. “Just relax.”

“I'm okay, Mom,” I say slowly without opening my eyes. “I just need to rest.”

Penny returns with a blue bottle of something slightly sweet,
which I do manage to slowly drink. And after a few minutes, I feel'strong enough to walk to the shower room with them. They set me down on a bench, and Penny even retrieves my bag for me.

“Feeling better?” she asks sympathetically.

“I guess.” I twist the handle on my worn gym bag. It looks so shabby next to the sleek bags the other women are using. But they're regulars to this whole fitness thing. They obviously know all the secrets. Not only that, they're totally comfortable undressing, showering, and dressing in front of other women. But then maybe I would be too if I were as slim as these women. Of course, the older ones sag here and there, but all in all they look pretty good. Even my mom looks pretty good. And they all look better than I do, which brings me to my next dilemma. No way am I going to strip in front of these women. I stand with my bag, looking for a place where I might disrobe discreetly, and finally decide that the bathroom stall is my only option.

“Where are you going?” asks Mom as she removes her bra.

I look down at the floor with embarrassment. When did my mom turn into such a floozy? Okay,
floozy
isn't the right word, but standing here naked with a bunch of strangers… Okay, maybe not strangers.

“I need a place to change,” I say quietly.

“Oh, Cassie.” It sounds like the same voice I've heard since I was toilet training and not quite getting the hang of it. “You're among girls. You don't have anything we haven't
seen
before.”

Several other women make some comments and jokes, but I
just roll my eyes and head for the John. Its a little awkward, and I keep bumping my sore gluteus maximus on the door, but finally I've peeled off the sweaty clothes and am ready to hit the shower. I forgot to grab a towel. For Pete's sake! Holding my stinky sweats in front of me, I emerge from the stall and hurry/waddle over to the towel rack, grab a towel, which doesn't look very big, and try to wrap it around me while still holding on to my sweats.

“Cassie,” says Mom as she comes around the corner on her way to the showers, “you're making this way too difficult.”

I suppress the urge to swear at her as I go to dump my workout clothes by my bag. As I'm coming back toward the shower area, I happen to catch a glimpse of something that looks like a pink and white spotted pig walking on her hind legs. And then I realize its me. I turn and take a good, long look—reacting almost the way you would at the sight of a horrible car wreck where you know someone's been hurt and you want to look, but you don't want to. What I see right now is truly horrifying. Even with the towel partially covering my body, it's obvious that I am really, really out of shape. How did it get this bad? And the red and white blotches don't help. Plus my face looks swollen, probably from the strain of the workout. All in all, I look sick.

I turn away from the mirror and hurry to the showers. At least there are a couple of private stalls so I don't have to do the group thing with the women from class. I can tell they're whispering about the new sideshow freak. Maybe they feel sorry for me. If I weren't so stinky and sweaty, I would probably skip the shower
altogether. I turn the water on lukewarm and stay in there for a long time. I'm hoping all the women will be finished and gone by the time I come out. And maybe some of this redness will fade.

“Cassie?”

I jump. I have no idea how long I've been in here.

“Huh?”

“It's Penny. Your mom was getting worried, so—”

“I'm coming out,” I say as I turn off the spigot and reach for my towel.

“Are you feeling better?”

“Yeah, sure.” I force lightness into my voice.

“We'll be out at the snack bar, okay?”

“Hey, you guys don't have to wait for me.”

“It's not a problem,” she says. “We're getting fruit smoothies.”

“Okay,” I say, still standing behind the shower curtain. “I'll be out in a few minutes.”

“Take your time. And I set another one of those drinks by your bag. Your mom thought you might need it.”

“Thanks.”

When it's quiet, I carefully emerge. I've wrapped the towel around me as best I can, and—sweet relief!—the dressing room is almost empty. Just a couple of women drying their hair and doing makeup as they chat. I decide to chance it by getting dressed in a corner behind the lockers. It sounds easier than the John. But just as I'm tugging on my jeans, which seem to be adhering to my swollen thighs, I hear someone approaching. Not wanting to be
found partially dressed, I tug and tug, nearly falling over with the effort. But it's too late. As I stand there, hunched over and huffing and puffing in my quiet little corner, a fairly overweight woman appears, and I'm afraid I surprised her.

“I'm sorry,” she says, turning away. “I didn't mean to—”

“It's okay,” I puff. “I'm almost done.”

I finally get my jeans in place and zipped, and I decide to vacate my private corner for this woman. I'll put on my shoes and socks in the open area.

“It's all yours,” I say as I come around the corner. The woman is just standing there looking a litde uncomfortable, as if she's not sure what to do. She seems about my age, but I think she might be heavier. And I hate thinking that. I don't remember ever being as body conscious as I am today.

“It's silly, I know,” she says. “But I like a little privacy when I'm changing.”

“Hey, I'm with you there,” I say.

“This club should consider some dressing rooms.”

I agree.

“Are you new here?” she asks.

So I explain about my mom and that its my first time. “You went to spinning class on your first day?” She looks shocked.

I nod. “Yeah, pretty stupid, huh?” “Or brave.”

I tell her they were probably about ready to call in the paramedics, which makes her laugh, “I'm Emma,” she says, “Emma Carpenter.”

“I'm Cassidy Cantrell,” I say. “Or just Cassie.”

“Is your mother Audra Cantrell?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, she's been my inspiration.”

“Inspiration?”

“Yes. I met her about a year ago through a mutual friend. Then I was shopping for a house recently, and I met her again. Wow, has she changed!”

“So I've just found out.”

“Isn't it amazing?”

I nod without commenting.

“Anyway, I asked Audra what her secret was, and she told me about changing her eating habits and joining the fitness club. So the next day I joined. I've only been coming for a month now. But I've lost almost ten pounds.”

“Congratulations,” I tell her.

She frowns now. “I have about ninety pounds to go.”

“But you're on your way,” I point out.

She nods. “Yes, I'm hoping that I can take it off in a year. I've heard about others who've done it.”

“Good for you,” I say. “Now you're an inspiration to me.”

“You look like you're in pretty good shape,” she says.

I guess compared to her, I am. “It sure didn't feel like it in spinning class,” I admit.

She shakes her head. “You should start slowly, like I'm doing. I set things up with a trainer. I'm on a program that's designed just for me and my body type and my needs.”

I nod and make a thoughtful face, as if I'm actually considering this—which I am
not
I plan never to shadow the doorway of this place again. “I'll have to think about that, Emma,” I say, “but I should get going since my mom is waiting.”

“Oh, yes, don't keep her waiting. Tell her I said hi.”

“Nice to meet you,” I say as she goes around the corner.

“You too,” she calls. “Maybe we could work out together.”

“Maybe,” I call over the lockers as I put on my socks and shoes, huffing as I bend over to tie the laces. Then I pack my gym bag with my sweaty things and go out and examine myself in the mirror by the sinks. I still look as if someone's been slapping me around, and even my eyes are bloodshot. I splash cold water on my face and realize that it's useless. I brush out my hair and pull it back into another ponytail, which is really unbecoming now that I'm so red and swollen looking. What does it matter? If I had any pride when I came in here, I surely have swallowed it by now. In fact, I think I can feel it lumped together in my throat—I will probably choke on it before I get out of this place.

feel so bad,” says Mom when I finally join them. “Penny was just reminding me how hard it is to get started in a fitness program after you've been out of the game for a while.”

“Uh-huh.” I take a sip of the fruit smoothie that Mom ordered for me. Its called the Fat Burner. Nice.

“I guess I just thought because you're so young… well, that you'd have no problem jumping into the spinning routine. I'm sorry, honey.”

“It's okay.”

“Maybe you'd rather do yoga,” says Penny. “It's a lot slower and more about stretching than aerobics.”

“Right.” I nod as if this makes sense, but both these women are nuts if they think I'm coming back here.

“I met one of your fans in there,” I say to Mom, hoping to change the subject.