A Special Place for Women, Laura Hankin [brene brown rising strong .txt] 📗

The guys whistled and whooped. One of them shouted, “If one of the things you’re hunting for is your last one-night stand, Chad is up for it!”

“Thanks, but not in a million years,” I said.

My chaperone giggled. “You guys are so bad!” And then, as the pack drifted off, leaving a cloud of Axe body spray in their wake, she said in a low tone stripped of any sweetness at all, “Assholes. And not even attractive ones.”

“I didn’t miss my chance to have Chad rock my world?” I said as I tried to keep track of when and which way we were turning.

“No. Seemed like the kind of man who pumps away for a minute and then falls asleep.”

“Nice,” I said. “That’s what I’m looking for in a guy: someone who has never gone down on a woman in his life.” She laughed, in spite of herself. Maybe she wouldn’t leave me in an abandoned warehouse after all.

After a few more minutes, we paused, and I sensed her looking up and down the street. I couldn’t tell if we’d gone four or five blocks, or just around in circles. Then, a buzzing noise sounded. She swung open a heavy door and pushed me inside. The noises of the outside world stopped as soon as the door swung closed again—no car horns, no conversation. Just a low hum, a faint buzzing in my ears, like when you’re congested, and then elevator gears creaking, a soft ding, and doors sliding open.

We rode up without saying anything. The doors opened again. And suddenly, the silent world exploded into chatter and warmth. “Ooh, a trial,” someone said as my guide undid the blindfold, and I saw the inside of the Nevertheless clubhouse for the first time.

Imagine if a West Elm showroom and Anthropologie made a baby at the Women’s March. That was the room before me: a little kitschy, very color-coordinated, in shades of pale blues and peach, with girl-power slogans everywhere. A bunch of lights spelling out nasty women adorned one wall. i’m ovar(y) the patriarchy, read another large sign, in cursive wire letters. God, if they had brought down Nicole Woo-Martin, I hated them all with a fiery passion. These beautiful, dangerous hypocrites, putting up signs with one hand while desperately clutching their money with the other. Maybe they’d all plotted Nicole’s downfall in this very clubhouse, talking about how she’d gotten a little too progressive in the glow from the nasty women novelty lights.

I swallowed my anger and kept scanning the room. Anywhere there wasn’t a slogan, there was a plant—succulents, ferns, vases of fresh flowers scattered all around—and yet despite this profusion of greenery and girl power, the whole space maintained a clean, clutter-free feeling. A door off to the right was marked with a sign reading powder room. There were two other unmarked doors off to the left.

The room could hold maybe one hundred women comfortably. On this particular night, about forty of them, mostly white, floated around, sipping champagne or fizzy water in a trendy pink can that I’d never seen before. Some of them were dressed in their business casual from a day in the office—their feet in high heels, their pencil skirts perfectly tailored. Others wore artsier, cooler fare: oversize shirts and high-waisted shorts, flowing flower-print dresses. Some paid me no mind, engrossed as they were in their networking or gossiping. But others turned and smiled at me warmly. I stared at this wonderland of women. And then Margot pushed her way through the crowd.

“Thank you, Yael,” she said to the woman who had brought me in. Then she threw an arm around my shoulder and turned to the crowd. “This is Jillian, everyone! She’s a budding literary star.” She hugged me and said, thrillingly close to my ear, “Glad you could make it.”

“I’m excited to be here.” I gave a thumbs-up, then regretted it.

“You’re just in time,” she said. “We’re doing a special workshop.”

All the women began assembling on couches or poufs, facing an open space by the windows where two wingback chairs had been set up. “Hey, witches!” one woman in a blazer said, waving to her friends. “Over here.”

A couple of other women passed me and Margot. “No, the best psychic I’ve gone to is out in Astoria. I’m telling you, she actually makes it worthwhile to go to Queens. I’ll get you her card,” one of them was saying.

“That would be amazing,” said her companion. “It’s like I can literally feel my aura getting cloudier and cloudier. I swear my boyfriend’s ex put a curse on me.”

“Wow,” I said to Margot, “people are really into your coven of witches joke, huh?” It had gotten popular for women to call themselves witches, to harness the danger and excitement of the term in order to assert some power. I didn’t quite get it, but apparently it had struck a chord and gone commercial: I’d seen the books at Barnes & Noble, called things like A Witch’s Guide to Smashing the Patriarchy or Spells for the Badass Witch. But in this gleaming clubhouse, the attempt to conjure some kind of magic seemed hopelessly awkward.

Margot pursed her lips. “I make one joke, one time,” she said. “And suddenly we’re overrun with cosplayers.” Her annoyance surprised me. Proclaiming oneself a witch didn’t seem all that different from getting into astrology. Both were ways for women to distract themselves with some illusion of control. I would’ve expected Margot to smile benevolently upon talk of hexes and spells, but it seemed that was a bridge too far, even for her.

She caught me looking at her and shook her head. “I don’t mind it that much, but it bothers Caroline. It’s ‘unserious.’ And I’d rather not bother Caroline right now.”

Interesting. Some tension between them, perhaps? “Well, then,” I said. “Good thing I left my cauldron at home.”

She smiled. “Anyway, think of yourself as our guest for the night and grab a seat. Yael will