The Sweetheart (24 page)

Amateurs, perhaps, but better heels than you ever were.

It's only as they come toward the ring, toward you, that you begin to realize these aren't just random women. Your first clue: the one directly behind Mimi is wearing a wig, and the girl behind her has hair so asphalt-black it could only be artificial. But
why
? Wouldn't it have been easier to just recruit dark-haired girls? Take a look at the next girl, Gwen. Recognize her? Sure you do. It's the tall girl from the lobby, the strawberry-blonde who spotted you and whispered to her friend:
It's her!
And there's the friend behind her. You know her, too, don't you? She was also at the shoot. And when she made the cut and her friend didn't—when her friend bundled herself in her coat and hurried out of the park before she could leak a public tear—she did what you should have done: declared it bullshit and walked away. And now here they are tonight, in solidarity with Mimi, in defiance of you and all that you represent.

Mimi climbs through the ropes and takes the microphone from the “stunned” announcer while the troop forks off and marches around until they have the ring flanked. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Mimi growls. “You think Gwen Davies is pretty goddamn gorgeous, don't you?” The crowd screams their answer, an undeniable affirmative. Mimi strolls closer to the Gorgeous Girls' VIP section and stares down. “I know you ladies think so. What is it you call yourselves again? The Gorgeous Girls, right?”

The girls take the bait and scream their unflinching fidelity. Vicky puts her fingers in her mouth and whistles.

“Well, ladies, you're right. Let's face it: Gwen is gorgeous. But there's a lot more to grappling than being gorgeous, and tonight, I am going to kick her gorgeous ass.”

This uncorks the crowd. The jeers, hisses, and invectives that follow produce a din that shakes the walls. One could argue that this passion is born out of love for you, but when you see the way Mimi works them, the way she gets the lot of them eating out of her hand, you see the problem with this argument. They don't hate her because they love you; they love you because they hate her.

Now you understand what Mimi tried to explain on that bus ride to Tennessee: the heel is the
show.

“And just so you know, y'all aren't the only entourage in town. I brought my girls with me tonight. Allow me to introduce the Go-to-Hell Girls. Ladies, tell them what we think about all this gorgeous nonsense.”

The girls hop up on the apron, two per side, and hang one-armed off the ropes. They are no prettier than they were earlier in the day. They have the same wide noses, the same thick thighs. The heckling is merciless. Nevertheless, they are radiant in their go-to-hell glory, each brazenly extending a finger to the crowd.

This might have been the end of it if it weren't for Vicky. Perhaps she handled yesterday's disaster with grace, but it appears this mutiny has pushed the limits of her tolerance. If she must go to hell, it seems she plans to take a few girls with her. She hops out of her chair, leaps to the ring, and yanks the wig off the first girl she can reach. The wigless girl jumps on top of her, and that's all it takes. Soon, girls from each side rush into the fray.

You can't exactly just stand and watch this happen, so you scramble out of the ring and into the melee. The girls are unskilled in the art of self-defense but filled to the brim with anger, so the battle hovers somewhere between school-yard rumble and barroom brawl: chairs overturned, fistfuls of hair grabbed, blouses snatched open, faces scratched with long, manicured nails. You wade through the bodies, try to gently coax the girls off one another, but they're not having it.

This is your first rodeo, but Mimi and the ref, who followed you out of the ring, are riot veterans. They are all too knowledgeable about what can happen if this doesn't get nipped quickly, so they cut through the girls with purpose and force, neither hesitating to employ submission tactics when necessary. The ref sticks to bear hugs, while Mimi hooks them around the back or under the arm. While they do this, you continue working your way to the middle, where the de-wigged girl lies on her back, covering her face with her hands as Vicky straddles her and uses both arms, one after the other, to slap the girl repeatedly. When you reach Vicky, you take her shoulders in your hands and say, “Hey, hey, hey. Stop it. Stop it,” but the inertia of her fury is too overpowering: she wheels around and turns those windmilling arms against you. She strikes you once across the face, and that's enough. When she reaches out to hit you again, you grab her by the wrist. Vicky's face prunes into a silent cry, but you stay resolved and keep her in this hold, the same one you used against that predator in Oklahoma. In your wildest dreams, you couldn't have imagined using it on the president of your fan club.

“I'm going to let you go,” you say to her, even-voiced and holding steady in your squat despite the jostling crowd above you. “And you're going to get off of her and stop this nonsense. Got me?”

Vicky's mascara-smeared eyes squint into hard, flat lines. She nods her agreement, so you release her. When Vicky steps off her victim, you extend your hand down to help the girl up. Instead of accepting it, she adjusts the strap of her bathing suit, which has slipped off in the battle, and then gets herself up onto her feet. Large swatches of hair have escaped from her strawberry-blond bun. Her face pinks, and there's a small dot of blood under her eye at the end of what appears to be a scratch. She wipes her eyes with the back of her arm.

“Are you okay?” you ask.

The Go-to-Hell Girl swallows one last cry and nods, so you turn your attention to Vicky, who is massaging her wrist. “What about you, Vicky? Are you okay?”

She lifts her eyes to meet yours. “How could you do that?” Her voice is emotionless: not sad, or hurt, or angry.

How could you do that?
It's a perplexing question. What is she really asking you, Gwen? Does she mean the wristlock? The photo shoot? Or is she referring to something else, something larger? You have no idea how to answer your biggest fan.

The three of you stand there for a minute while the riot peters out. Eventually, a pair of cops cut their way through the spectators, many of whom are still standing on their chairs, hooting and pounding their fists.

•    •    •

Later in the evening, you and Mimi share an otherwise unoccupied holding cell, waiting for Costantini to finish the paperwork that will get you both the hell out of there. For reasons that are murky at best, the cops decided that you and Mimi were guilty of instigating a riot and hauled the two of you—and no one else—off to the pen. At first, you were furious, and then, you have to admit, a little pleased—there was something exciting about the prospect of a little scandal and notoriety—but now, you are just tired and cold. You're still wearing your suit, and the bench you share with Mimi feels icy beneath your thighs.

“I don't see why I have to be here,” you say, crossing your arms and rocking for warmth. “You're the one who marched in those girls.”

Mimi squints her eyes and rubs her forehead with the heel of her hand. Is this weariness or exasperation? “Yeah, well, I only did it 'cause you were so lousy to them.”

“Don't give me that,” you say. Mimi has always been self-interested to the end, and the one good thing you could say about her was this: at least she didn't pretend otherwise. This is hardly the time for her to start acting as if her concerns were larger than herself. “It wasn't about those girls and you know it.”

She hugs her knees and turns her face toward you. “Then maybe you should tell me what it was about.”

You draw your knees up to your chest too and hold them. In your attempts to stay warm, both of you have contorted yourselves into the smallest shapes possible. “Oh, I don't know. Same thing it's always about—you sticking it to me.”

“Me? What have I ever done to you?”

This baffles you. She really doesn't seem to know. If it weren't for all of the problems she'd caused you—the money, the pejorative
champ
—you might still be her partner. Before you can pick up your jaw to say as much, she continues: “You know, I really thought you were going to be different. You weren't too stubborn to learn, and you learned fast. You thought on your feet. You took a punch without crying. You've got a helluva dropkick. And you were hungry. I could tell. You really wanted it.”

Listening to Mimi list your admirable traits might have softened you up if it weren't for the last couple. What does she mean you
were
hungry, you
wanted
it? No need to use the past tense; nothing's changed. “I still do.”

“No, you don't. You want fans.”

Well, yes. Of course you want fans. That's what this has always been about. The sensational suit, the outrageous persona: why else would you do these things if not for fans? “What's wrong with that?”

“You really don't get it, do you?”

No, you really don't. It seems clear to me now—almost painfully so. It is not just about the championship. Anyone can get a belt, and anyone does. It is about the skill. The knowledge. The history, and the fellowship. It is about the ability to walk into the blowing winds; it is life on your own terms. I wish you understood this, but you don't. Not yet, at least.

Mimi turns away, and the two of you sit on the bench, rubbing your limbs for warmth. Eventually, the guard unlocks the door and slides it open. Sal stands behind him, hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels.

“Ladies,” he says, smiling to beat the band, “that was phenomenal! Any chance you can do that again on Wednesday?”

TWENTY-TWO

I
n the run-up to Wednesday's bout, the only other in his territory, Costantini floods the airways.
Last time these two went head-to
-head, they both landed in jail,
says an ominous voice.
Trust me: you don't want to miss the mother of all grudge matches
. These are not the truest words ever said, but they are probably truer than Costantini knows. Before DC, you might have considered this series of matches with Mimi as being slightly more than theatrical. Now, everything is different. This next fight is as scripted as any, with you its predetermined winner, but the rivalry is real as rain.

The fight occurs in an outdoor ring set up on some fairgrounds somewhere in—where are you now? Maryland? Virginia? The stars are so densely clustered in this region of your map, they bleed into one another. Wherever it is, it seems nearly perfect at first glance. The evening sky is the special lavender of twilight. Picnic blankets have been spread; children chase one another. But it's much too chilly for an outdoor event. It is hard to muster the swagger of a sex symbol when it is all you can do to keep from snatching one of those blankets and throwing it around yourself. How on earth will you get your grip on the ropes with fingers this numb with cold? How secure are those ropes, anyway? You don't place much faith in this mat, which sways beneath you as if it's floating on water. It wouldn't surprise you if the whole shebang collapses at the worst possible moment.

The ref, looking crisp and slick in his white T-shirt, calls you both to the center of the mat to go over the rules. It's the usual no-brainers: no knees, no hair pulling, no choking, no leveraging the ropes. “What about hitting?” says Mimi, her glare fixed on you. “Does it have to be open fist?”

There is no need for her to ask this question; you both already know the answer is no. She clearly means to intimidate you, and she is succeeding. Sure, wrestling is more performance than athletics, but that doesn't mean she can't rough you up in the process. You return to your corner and lean into the ropes to loosen your quickly tightening muscles, your confidence as shaky as the goddamn ring. When the bell rings, your heart sinks into the toes of your Green Goddesses. Given your druthers, you'd rather climb out than take a step toward Mimi, but you don't have much choice: all you can do is turn around and attempt to hold your own.

Mimi doesn't waste any time. In short order, she is on top of you, taking you by the head and shoving your face into the mat. Thankfully, this flips the switch on some instinctive defense mechanism deep in your brain.
Sweep her leg.
Before you know it, she's on her back. You spin around, pulling her leg with you into a toehold, and arch your back in an attempt to pin her shoulders. Her arms flail about with more animation than she really needs to avoid the pin.

It's something to be grateful for, you suppose: at least she's still willing to put on a show.

Try the ropes, Gwen. Go on—the ref's not looking. Put your feet up there. Get some leverage. Of course, as soon as you do, Mimi gets you into body scissors and crab-walks you both into the center before rolling you all around the ring. You have to get out of this before she makes you too dizzy to operate, but her thighs are nutcrackers, locked on your rib cage and threatening to snap you in half.

The ref breaks it up, but the relief is only temporary. As soon as you get to your feet, Mimi socks you with a right hook, and then, while you are still staggering, a left that connects just right of your chin and forces you onto the mat, flat on your back, your face on fire. Has she knocked your jaw out of the socket again? No, you don't think so, but the pain still sears, and you roll onto your side, your knees tucked in, your hand cupped around the throbbing corner of your face.

Briefly, you glimpse, between the ropes, a threesome of Gorgeous Girls: eyes wide, fingers pressed to mouths. Terrific. Maybe you should just go ahead and die. You're in the right position, after all. While you're still curled up on the mat, Mimi executes a step-over leg lock, and part of you considers releasing the tension from your shoulders and letting them press into the mat. Sure, you're supposed to win this match eventually, but right now all you want is to end your humiliation.

Don't give in to this impulse, Gwen. Keep those shoulders up. Kick out of it. Fire one of those Green Goddesses right into her gut. Roadwork has given you legs that are more than just photogenic, you know. Watch her fly backward and hit the mat. Sure, some of that is theatrics, but some of it is
you.
Mimi is undeniably fierce—your jaw will attest to this—but you, sister, are no slouch.

Mimi leaps at you, and you flip her over your shoulder. Listen to the roar of your contingent as the flat of her back claps against the mat. Watch her squirm. And just where are the Go-to-Hell Girls tonight? Back in their girdles and swing skirts, no doubt. Not that Mimi would have tolerated the foolishness of a visible fan base for long. When she staggers to her feet, it is just as she wants it: all on her own steam.

This is your chance to win. This whole rig is shaky at best, and the safety of those ropes is questionable, but you'll have to make it work. Atta girl. Up on that top rope. Lean forward and make it fast.

If Mimi was ever genuinely dazed, she recovers shortly after you leap, just seconds before you will rain down on her with the foe-­vanquishing Bombshell. And while this shouldn't prevent her from allowing your blow to connect and deliver the defeat that is rightfully hers, this is not what happens. Instead, she backs out of the way, causing you to crash unceremoniously and somewhat painfully on the jerry-­rigged mat, which feels like concrete.

While you try to wrap your head around what just happened, Mimi puts the sole of a boot against your wrist, bears down on it, and then squats to look you in the face.

“Sure got a lot of fans out there tonight,” she says, her eyes locked on yours. “Let's show them what you're made of.”

This shouldn't throw you. Holding your own against Mimi will be no minor feat—her skill set is solid gold—but you are more than just glitter. You can execute a number of legitimate holds; you can land a kick and a forearm blow that would knock a small horse off its hooves. You made Spider drop like a hot rock, didn't you? This last thought gives you the strength to kick her off and send her stumbling backward into the ropes, which allows you the time and confidence you need to get on your feet and meet her gaze.

Mimi uses the ropes as a catapult and comes at you with a running kick that sends you flying backward and then ricocheting back toward her before you can blink. Some part of you understands that you need to use this inertia against her, but you realize this too late to build on to it with your own gusto, and the move you attempt—an unimaginative clothesline is all that comes to you—is weak, obvious, and easily avoided by a forearm blow that wallops you in the chest like a length of pipe. While you stumble around, attempting to stay out of her reach while you catch your breath, she stands in the center of the ring, patient and collected, hands resting on her hips.

“That's it?” she says. “After all this time, that's the best you've got?”

You're burning now—with rage and shame. Focus, Gwen. Direct these emotions into a rally. Let them fill you with the superhuman strength you need to topple the giant. Haven't people in desperate circumstances found the strength to lift cars and boulders?

Oh, if only that were how the world actually worked. Instead, panic ensues, which causes you to resort to catfighting. You pull her hair, take swipes with your fingernails, and claw at her suit, which stokes the audience—whistles and hoots abound—but only causes her to laugh. While your hands are tangled in her wiry hair, she takes hold of your wrists and presses her mouth to your ear.

“This ain't exactly the school yard,” she says, her breath hot, “but if that's how you want to fight—”

Mimi squeezes your wrists, forcing you to release her. As soon as you do, she throws your arms down, rears back and slaps you hard across the mouth with her open palm, and then again with the back of her hand. Your jaw shivers with new pain.

The response from the audience is unanimous: their voices blend into the low moan of disapproval. Mimi is undeniably the superior athlete, but this wins her no converts. Exposing your truth, your core—perhaps you are not all style, but substance seems to be in short supply—does not sway this crowd. Their faith in your character is blind and unconditional.

While you are curled into a comma on the mat, your back turned to her, Mimi squats down beside you and takes your arm.

“That's enough,” she says, her voice softer. She pulls your arm back into a hammerlock and eases you up to your feet. “Your turn. Go ahead and flip me.”

Mimi's had her fun. She's asserted herself enough to feel satisfied and is ready to get back to the business at hand—helping you stage a face-saving victory. And you do as she says. She plays along nicely, releasing her grip on your arm as you reach back to grab her, spring-boarding off the mat and over your shoulder, smacking the mat with her hand as she lands.

You should accept this for what it is and go along; you should just get the pin and get the hell out of there as fast as you can. But you are smarting in more ways than one. The fact that even now, when it is your time to shine, she is the one calling the shots is more than your hot head can handle. And so, when she staggers up, you grab her by her wiry head of hair and thrust your knee into her sternum as forcefully as you can. Do you hear a crack? In your imagination, perhaps, but the sound is redeeming, as is the praise from the audience: a loud
Hot damn!
slices through the less articulate noises of the crowd. For a second, as Mimi falls back, landing gracelessly on her rump, you're feeling good, as if you might be able to pull this one off after all.

Mimi looks up at you, her breath quick, her hand spread across her chest. Her face shifts quickly from surprise to realization to determination. She says, narrowing her eyes, “You really don't know when to quit.” Before you can answer, she's off the mat, and she comes up swinging—first with a right, which you dodge, and then another with the southpaw, which connects in just the same place it did earlier. How is it that she can always zero in on your weaknesses? Your jaw already feels larger than normal. You can just imagine what the next couple of days will be like—milkshakes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and plenty of ice packs.

While you are stumbling around wincing, hand cupped to your face, Mimi gets one hand on the back of your neck, another through your legs, and lifts you onto your side, your belly pressed against hers. She puts her hand around your throat and keeps a loose hold—not choking you, but showing that she could. Her hand there, against your jugular, makes you go cold. Finally, she drops down to her knee, draping you over top of it. Your body folds like a lawn chair. You tumble off and roll away.

You have two choices here. You could admit defeat and let her win. This is the logical choice. There is very little fight left in you, and she has answered every one of your assaults with a resounding thumping. But you haven't relied on reason this entire match. Why start now? Why not throw your all into one more last-ditch Hail Mary maneuver? Sure, a sleeper hold is probably against the rules, and it will definitely be outside of Mimi's personal code of ethics, but it is the only physical advantage you have over her other than your appearance, and fat lot of good that has done you these last two nights. Better make it good, because this is it. This one will have to take her out.

It is your big gun, Gwen. Go for it.

It works like a charm, just like it did the last time. In short order, Mimi hits the mat with a thud. But the sight of her—eyes closed, face slack—hits you even harder. Panicked, you drop to the ground and grab her shoulders. You're not thinking about a pin any longer; you simply want to make sure she's okay. The ref misunderstands your motives and yanks you off. He checks her pulse with his ham-knuckled fingers and you swallow air, your throat dry. But this is not the worst of it. That would be the sight of the audience standing in their chairs, roaring at the sight of the vanquished villain.

Wolves, the lot of them.

Thankfully, the ref says, “Pulse is steady,” and, as if responding to his voice, Mimi stirs beneath his touch. Now that the drama is over, the ref turns to you, staring daggers. He motions to the announcer and yells, “DQ!” If he was expecting a fight, he won't get it; there will be no argument from you. Not with this guy, not with Joe, who will call later tonight to order you both back to Otherside to straighten this mess out, and not with Mimi. Moments from now, when you turn to her in your shared dressing room and offer your sincere apologies, she will tell you that you have finally gone too far, and that she is done with you. She will say this in a voice so still and quiet that it cannot be misunderstood. There is nothing arbitrary about the line you have crossed. There will be no more rivalry. Even that bond has been severed.

•    •    •

Later in the evening, when you return to your room at the motor lodge, you call Sam. There is no telling what he might say, but you are desperate to hear a voice other than the one inside your head. You let him talk first, and he is noticeably cool. His dad is looking into booking him in some of the Western states soon; do you want him to look into booking you, too?

“Of course,” you say, incredulous.

“I thought I should check first,” he answers. “You know. I don't want to
suffocate
you.”

While you have not unraveled all the complicated feelings you have for Sam, there is a lot you want to say to him. You want to say
I'm sorry.
You want to say
I miss you.
You want to say
Sometimes I have to swallow my jealousy, so why can't you?
and
Sometimes I think you're the only person I have in this world
and
You're almost perfect, but I need you to be just a little bit better
and
Are these things you should work on or are they things I'm supposed to learn to live with or are we supposed to meet in the middle? I've never loved anyone else and I don't know how it works
. But after the bout with Mimi, you have neither the energy nor wherewithal to pick up any of those strands. Instead, you sink onto your bed and begin to cry. “I can't take this right now, Sam,” you say. “I've had a terrible week.”