Lucky Break (13 page)

“You have eight minutes to get dressed, get hydrated, and meet me at station one,” the stranger barked, the whistle still stuck between her lips.

“Ten four, Jo!” SBB chirped, sounding much more awake than I thought she had a right to pre-sunrise. “Can I bring my friend Flan? She's my moral support.”

Jo ran her cold beady eyes over me and said, “She either works it or you leave her at home. I have no patience for lollygaggers.” She glanced down at her stopwatch before turning to walk down the dark
hallway. “I'll see you in seven and a half minutes,” she commanded over her shoulder.

“Yikes,” I whispered to SBB. “I never knew an Australian accent could sound so scary. I thought these people were supposed to be laid-back.”

“Shhhh!” SBB hissed. “She'll hear you! Its very important to start training with a blank slate.”

“SBB, what is going on?” I said, finally sitting up and rubbing my eyes.

“Promise you won't be mad,” she said, sitting down at the foot of my bed and whipping her blond hair into a high ponytail. “Last night, Tommy suggested that if I really wanted to get serious, I needed to call in a dedicated specialist. He gave me Jo's number.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “She's the only female rugby coach in the history of the South Sydney league.”

She held up a navy blue rugby jersey, then pointed to the cursive team name,
Rabbitohs
, printed across the chest.

“See?” she said, pulling it over her head.

The jersey was kind of cool, but it was also at least six sizes too big for her.

“What happened to all the cute workout clothes you bought at Saks last week?”

SBB looked up from the leggings she was tugging
on. “Duh,” she said, sounding bewildered. “I burned them.”

“What?” I gasped. “Why?”

“I mean, I didn't literally burn them—I donated them to the Aerobics Instructors for Change campaign, but Flan, those clothes are dead to me. I bought them on Black Thursday—the day you know who”—she pointed at me—“found out about you know what.” She mimed a broken heart. “Solidarity, Flan. I would never wear those clothes in front of you.”

I shook my head, still processing her idea of solidarity. “That's really sweet, SBB, but you didn't have to do that. Those clothes don't have anything to do with …” I trailed off. “I wouldn't have taken it personally if you wore them.”

SBB hugged me. “Then you won't take it personally that I outsourced a personal trainer? It doesn't mean I don't think you were dedicated to the cause. I just need someone to scare me into buffness, and rumor has it Jo's an absolute terror.”

I shook my head and laughed, secretly relieved that this terror was going to take some of the pressure off of me. “I'm glad you found her. But are you sure you want to put yourself through this?”

SBB stood up, took a deep breath, and nodded.

“I'm sure,” she said, “but it'd be a whole lot easier if …”

Timidly, she bent down to grab something from a shopping bag. When she held it up, I could see that it was a second, slightly larger Rabbitohs jersey, and another pair of gray leggings to match the ones she'd pulled on. She held them out toward me.

“Okay,” I said, pulling the jersey over my head. “Solidarity.”

“YOU'RE LATE!” Jo's shrill voice echoed through the house.

SBB and I scrambled into the kitchen, grabbed two of Agnes's homemade raisin bran muffins from the counter on our way out the door, and dashed outside in search of station one.

As we approached, Jo's wide-set eyes sized us up, as if she were taking note of our jogging form. Was it a bad sign that I already had a cramp? Jo did look every bit the terror, with her fierce black strip of zinc oxide down her nose and under both her eyes. She was standing in front of a pale yellow cone-shaped structure that extended at least thirty feet into the air.

“Behold,” she said, “the Challenge Cheese.”

When I stepped closer and could make out the toe-holes scattered across the rubber cone, it really did look a lot like a giant wedge of Swiss cheese.

“Rule number one,” Jo yelled, hands on her hips. “What did I say about lollygaggers? Rule number two,” she continued without pausing. “Don't talk at all, ever, all day. No apologizing. No excuses. No complaints.
No words
. Get it?”

“Yes, Jo—”

“NO WORDS!” she bellowed. “Now climb up and down the Challenge Cheese until I tell you to stop.”

SBB and I had time to shoot each other one terrified glance before Jo's “FASTER!” propelled us into motion. We clambered up either side of the challenge cone, pausing only to smile at each other sympathetically when we reached the top. Every time we got back down to the bottom, Jo would blow her whistle to send us back up again. My arms and my butt were killing me after the third time up the cone, and I could tell SBB was straining too.

“I am
so
out of shape,” I whispered the next time we both reached the top.

“Before this week, the last time I worked out, Bendel's was still carrying fur!” SBB commiserated quickly, before jetting back down the cheese cone.

Before I could even crack up, Jo laid right on her whistle.

“What part of NO WORDS do you two pansies not understand? Do I have to take you to the Suicide
Slide to shut you up?” she barked. “Station number two. NOW!”

The Suicide Slide at station two was even more of a butt-cruncher than the cone. And the Death by Ropes course at station three totally killed my abs. By the time we'd been through all eight stations, SBB and I could hardly breathe, and we definitely couldn't walk.

“Please tell me I'm going to wake up a gladiatrix,” SBB moaned, collapsing on the sand.

“Actually, you're going to wake up quite sore,” Jo said, in a much softer, much more human voice. “Here,” she said, holding out a cupped hand to SBB. “Aspirin and aloe water. The world's greatest muscle-mending cocktail. You too, Flan—drink up.”

“Am I hallucinating?” SBB said, turning to me. “Or did Jo just say something moderately nice to us?”

“Only
moderately
nice, am I?” Jo laughed, taking a seat on the beach between us. She unzipped a backpack and pulled out a few Tupperware containers, opening them up and offering us a selection of tropical fruit, whole wheat crackers, and cheddar cheese. SBB and I watched in silent awe.

“Since you only hired me for the day, I can let you guys in on my little secret.” She shrugged. “I'm actually an incredibly nice person. The coarse façade is
just my work face, when I need to get the job done.” For a second her tone shifted back to the old Jo as she threatened, “But don't you dare tell any of the rugby mates that—or else all of Australia will blame you for a losing season.”

SBB nearly choked on her chunk of cheddar cheese. “Can I just say, when I become a member of the Academy, I will totally give you an Oscar for your performance today. How did you
do
that?”

Jo stood up and moved behind SBB to start massaging her tense shoulders. “I've seen your movies, Sara Beth. You do the same thing yourself. We all do.” She turned to me. “Right, Flan?”

The first thing that shot into my head was the façade I was putting up in front of SBB so she wouldn't know that I was still feeling really down about the breakup. Obviously that was not something to bring up in present company, so I just stammered something like, “Oh, I'm not a very good actress.”

“Ha!” SBB laughed. “That's the understatement of the millennium. Flan has the worst poker face ever. You can always tell exactly what she's thinking.” She patted my knee. “But it's one of her most endearing qualities.”

When I looked up at SBB, I couldn't figure out whether it was a good thing or a bad thing that she
didn't know how badly I was hurting. Sometimes I thought it would feel so good just to vent to her, but then, I didn't want to distract her from her training. And also, who was I kidding? I was terrified of the wrath of Bianca. I wondered if there was any chance that Bianca would turn out to be like Jo—with just a tough exterior to get the job done.

“Speaking of bad poker faces,” Jo chimed in, “neither one of you can fool me that you're totally and completely wiped out. The buzz is that there's a big party tonight in your honor.” She smiled, then turned back on the drill sergeant one last time. “Now get home and recharge for at least three hours. That's an order!”

It looks so harmless now, doesn't it?” SBB asked later that evening. We were standing on the deck, watching the sun set over the very same beach where Jo had kicked our butts just a few hours earlier. Since then, we'd spent the mandated three recharging hours washing the sand out of our hair and sleeping off some of the exhaustion. But even though we'd cleaned up pretty well in our patterned silk maxidresses, the training pain was still very fresh in both our minds.

“I'm never going to look at Swiss cheese the same way again,” I agreed, slurping down my third aloe water of the day.

“Ouch, I know—just thinking about it sends a shooting pain down my glutes.” SBB winced, reaching around to massage her muscles. “Oh my God, do I have buns of steel or do I have buns of steel?” She grabbed my hand to make me cop a feel.

I laughed. “Jo might be a terror, but she delivers results. Those are the most gladiatrixed-out buns I've ever felt.”

“Maybe you need a second opinion on that?” a guy's voice asked from behind us. It was Dave, looking amazing in a pristine white linen shirt and faded jeans. His look was a far cry from that of most of the posh city boys we usually ran with, but SBB shot me an approving thumbs-up.

I stepped toward him to give him a hug. “I thought you were going to meet us at the party,” I said.

“I thought you two could use an escort.” He shrugged.

At that moment, I realized that I actually had no idea how to get to the party. Patch had said something about a pier at the north end of Bondi, but he was never very good with directions.

“I was told it's just a couple miles down the beach,” Dave said, reading my mind and pointing north.

Just a couple of miles? SBB and I exchanged a worried look. It was hard enough to walk on the beach in kitten heels when you
hadn't
spent six hours working your legs to the consistency of Jell-O.

Dave cleared his throat. “I hope it's okay that I brought a few friends. They know the way a little bit better than I do.”

Following his finger with my eyes, I expected to see a few other guys on the beach, but Dave was pointing at a palm tree on the other side of the deck. I squinted to make out three white horses tethered to it with a rope. “Shall we?”

Being fashionably late in New York means showing up twenty minutes after the invitation time with a box of Fat Witch brownies and a Diane von Furstenberg dress that no one else is wearing.

Being fashionably late in Sydney means arriving half an hour late because you decided to take your gleaming white horse for a little bit longer of a beachfront joyride. The Diane von Furstenberg dress that no one else was wearing didn't hurt either. And having a boy as cute as Dave lead us in made up for the fact that I couldn't get my hands on any of Manhattan's favorite brownies.

The “haute” barbecue was being held on a wide pier overlooking the cliffs of Ramsgate Point. A band was playing chilled-out reggae versions of Beatles songs, and a bunch of beach chic–clad partygoers were already dancing on blankets spread out around the sand. The sun was just hitting the water on the horizon when we walked through the line of tiki torches to be greeted by waiters serving oyster shooters off adorable mini surfboards.

“Killer party, Patch,” I called to my brother, who was manning the grill at the edge of the pier.

“Hey, Flan.” He waved his tongs at me. “
Haute
dog?”

I guessed he'd put his foot down despite Agnes's arguments that
haute
meant catered. SBB and I grabbed a couple hot dogs and sat down on a picnic table to watch Agnes angrily multitask—arranging a cluster of red gladiolas in a vase while berating Tommy for showing up in just a bathing suit. When SBB and I stepped past them to find a spot with less drama, Agnes was yelling, “No shirt, no shoes, no haute barbecue!”

Aside from the BBQzilla, the party seemed like a total success. After dinner, we nibbled on caramelized banana skewers and slurped virgin piña coladas out of coconut shells. SBB and I made a cameo appearance on the dance floor for the limbo, even though the aftermath of the day's workout caused us both to get eliminated in the first round. But it was still so fun to watch Danny, Patch, and Tommy all hang on until the very last round. Looking around the beach, it was amazing to be halfway around the world, but still be at a party that felt so much like home.

When SBB went up to the band to request that
they play some Jake Riverdale songs, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

“There you are,” a soft voice said. I turned around to see Jo, who gave me a quick hug. I had to will myself not to clam up—I still wasn't used to not being terrified of her.

“I want to introduce you to someone,” she said. “But she's a new client, so I'm going to have to act tough, okay?”

“Sure,” I said, surprised but a little flattered that Jo was seeking me out to meet one of her clients.

“You'll love this girl,” Jo said as we walked back over toward the grill. “She's from Manhattan and she reminds me a lot of you.” She paused behind a thin blond girl with her back to us.

“Ahem,” Jo said, leaning over to tap her on the shoulder. “This client actually
succeeded
at my workout. Try to take a lesson from her.”