I park in the spot right in front of the gym. Inga always nags Vernon and I for us both parking in the front spaces, but I like to think of it as my employee-of-the-month parking. Even if I am their only employee. Hey, the pay is crummy. I’ve got to take my perks where I can find them.
Stretching above the windows in our corner of the shopping center is our light-up sign. It reads DOWN FOR THE COUNT with a set of boxing gloves hanging next to it. Below that I can still see the shadow of letters where it once read LIFE CLUB FITNESS.
Bells jingle above my head as I open the front door and run behind the counter to turn off the alarm.
I go through my opening duties: counting out the register, sharpening pencils, printing off new member applications, checking the locker rooms for towels and toilet paper, and doing a quick walk-through and equipment check. I make a game of weaving in and out of the punching bags and tugging on each of them to make sure they’re just as sturdy as they were yesterday morning. Bouncing on my toes, I give the last bag a quick one-two punch.
The bell above the door rings, letting me know someone’s come in.
“Looking good, Millie!”
Sheepishly, I glance over my shoulder. “Morning, Vernon.” My uncle was once the kind of guy parents begged their daughters to stay away from. Thick musclesand sandy-colored curls. But these days he’s more sleep-deprived dad than small-town bad boy. He’s got a few clusters of white in his reddish-blond beard, and his smile lines are more deep set now, but he’s just as sturdy as I always remember him being.
“Your stance is getting pretty solid,” he says. “I don’t think I’d want to mess with you in a dark alleyway.”
I shake out my hands. “I’m just messing around,” I tell him as I head over to the counter and grab my car keys. Learning how to box for real is on my long-term to-do list, after getting into broadcast camp and making out with a boy. (Hey, Oprah says to name your goals, and she’s never led me astray.)
He shrugs. The circles under his eyes and his day-old T-shirt tell me he was up all night with the twins. Not only that, but the gym is really up against the ropes at the moment. (Pun totally intended.) Up until last month, this place was part of the Life Club Fitness franchise, which has specialty gyms (tennis clubs, CrossFit, indoor soccer) all over the country. This meant we had additional resources for marketing and equipment and even doing things like sponsoring local sports teams.
But LCF filed for bankruptcy without any warning, so now Uncle Vernon and Aunt Inga are on their own with this place, and without a safety net. Between all the investments they’ve already made here and newborn twins, the success of this gym has turned out to be more important than ever. Last time I was at their house, I saw a stack of late notices from the water and electric companies, and Ijust can’t shake the image. This place is their last hope, and I’m not about to let it fail.
I point to a puke stain on Vernon’s shoulder. “You’ve got some clean shirts in the office.”
He glances at the stain. “I don’t, actually. This was the last one.” He plops his head down on the counter. “Nothing will ever be clean. Luka and Nikolai had the toxic shits last night. We might just have to condemn the whole house. All is lost, Millie. Poopocalypse has claimed every last soul.”
I try not to laugh, but I can’t help smiling. Vernon is the only person in my family who cusses, and something about him doing it in front of me makes me feel somehow older and cooler than I actually am. “I washed the shirts in your office with the towels last night.” He picks up his head, and I get a good whiff of him. Toxic is about right. “Maybe hop in the showers, too? We normally don’t see anyone for another twenty minutes anyway.”
Vernon lifts his arm up and sniffs. “Well, guess I don’t wanna scare off any potential new members.”
I muster my most encouraging smile. “Right! Now, you know where the new membership packets are, and we’re starting that promo with Green’s Vitamins, remember? Those flyers are on your desk. And just...”
“Don’t take no for an answer,” he says, finishing Inga’s business mantra. (Well, really, just her mantra in general.)
“Yes. Exactly.”
“Inga’s been slashing our budgets like crazy lately. She could star in her own horror movie. Or maybe she could bea wrestler. Invincible Inga the Budget Assassin.” He turns and shuffles toward the showers, his shoulders sloped. I decide not to tell him about the brown mystery stain on his back.
“Just throw that shirt in the dirty towel hamper,” I call as I let myself out the front door.
I slide into the minivan and glance up to theDown for the Countsign flickering above, with theWin “Down” completely out—something I take a mental note of for our long list of needed repairs.
As I pull out into the street, I hit the call button on the steering wheel. “Call Amanda!” I shout.
“Calling Panda,” the robot car voice responds.
“No. End call. Do not call Panda. Call Amanda.”
“Searching for Panda Express.”
“No!” I moan and turn the whole radio off and on before trying again. “Call Amanda!”
There’s a long pause before the robot voice answers me. “Calling Amanda.”
“Finally,” I mumble.
The line rings for a moment before Amanda groans into my speakers.
“Good morning, beautiful!” I say. “You are smart. You are talented. You are kind.”
