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

the same procedure unfolded—the confiscation of my cell phone, the dizziness and disorientation, the silent elevator ride—until my blindfold was yanked off and the clubhouse appeared before me again.

The vibe was different than it had been the last time, with many fewer women around. No sign of Libby or Caroline, only a few of the business-casual crowd networking and talking at the tables. A Beyoncé song played softly from a speaker system. Someone was burning incense that smelled like eucalyptus. The lights were lower, like at a restaurant when it switches from the family diners to the date-night crowd. No billionaires would be giving a talk on this particular evening. This was a typical night at the club.

Margot sat on a velvet couch next to Vy, a pack of cards spread out between them. Candles flickered on a nearby coffee table. At first I thought they were playing a game, and laughed to myself: The true secret of Nevertheless was that its members sat around and played go fish! They went through all that hoopla and secrecy just so they could play card games without being interrupted by any men! (Or any poor people.) But Vy’s and Margot’s bodies were too charged with energy, too engaged with each other, to be playing a casual game. Margot was barefoot again and wearing a camel-colored shirtdress, hugging one leg close to her chest, the other one dangling off the couch. Vy curled toward her, her upper body a parenthesis, her short hair mussed and spiked as if she’d kept running a hand absentmindedly through it. High-stakes gambling? No. I looked closer. They weren’t using a regular deck of cards.

I cleared my throat and Margot registered me, then smiled as if she hadn’t known I was coming tonight. (Bullshit. Through my limited time at Nevertheless, I had gotten the sense that she was consulted on everything. She held a place of prominence in the group, was probably one of the founding members.) “Jillian! We’re reading tarot. Come join us?”

Ah, tarot cards. Not a surprise that Margot was into them. Like astrology, they seemed a method by which one could read far too much into random information, could pick out a droplet of truth from a bucket and then profess that the whole thing was pure. I’d never had mine read before. The closest I’d gotten was going to a storefront psychic with a friend during college spring break. The woman had stared at my friend’s palm and pronounced that she was going to live until age ninety-three and have a healthy marriage and successful career, that she had the kind of truly amazing energy that didn’t come around very often. Then the psychic had taken my hand and told me that I was dangerously blocked, and that I needed to buy a special candle to cleanse my aura. She’d waved the candle in my face. It smelled like blue cheese, looked like a lumpy penis, and cost $250.

I didn’t buy the candle. I’d known she was making it all up. But still, I’d been unsettled. She’d seen something in me that made her think I was vulnerable, an easy mark for her racket. Some energy that I was giving off—some expression on my face, some tightening in my shoulders—had made her think, This one. This one is weak. I’d had no desire to ever do anything like it again.

But for tonight, I could pretend to get a kick out of it. “Oh, fun,” I said to Margot, determined to participate in this bonding ritual like we were all girls huddling around a Ouija board.

Vy harrumphed in my direction, then stared down at the cards, turning over a final one to reveal an image of a woman draped in cloth, wearing a sort of floppy crown, her gaze intense.

“The High Priestess,” she said in a low voice. She and Margot met each other’s eyes, something coded passing between the two of them.

Then Margot shook it off, whatever it was. “Jillian, you want me to read yours?” she asked, and although I worried that maybe they’d also try to sell me a $250 candle, I saw that if I said No thank you, I’d be closing a very important door. Libby had mentioned passing their tests, and this was one of them. How I reacted to the cards I drew, what I revealed about myself, even just in my body language: this was part of how they’d decide if I was worthy. Turning down this reading would be like refusing to do the math section of the SATs and expecting Harvard admission anyway.

I plastered on a smile. “Sure.”

Vy grabbed a mug of tea off the coffee table and moved to the side, making room for me between her and Margot. “I think a simple past, present, future,” Margot murmured to Vy, and Vy nodded.

Margot turned her gaze to me. Some people can make you believe that, in a crowded room, you’re the only person who matters. Margot had that gift. Her attention gave you the feeling that, at any moment, she might lean forward and kiss you.

Now, getting hit with the full force of Margot’s powers sent a buzz through me. “All right, Jillian,” she said, stretching out her arms, rolling her wrists in circles like an athlete warming up, even as she kept her dark brown eyes locked on mine. “First, we need to pick your archetype. The card that will represent you in this reading.” She shuffled a stack quickly. The backs of the cards were navy blue, with thin gold lines weaving across them. Margot paused, then drew out a picture of a man in a dark cloak thrusting one hand up to the sky, the golden background behind him faded. the magician, a label at the bottom of the card read.

“Hmm,” Margot said as she placed the card down in the center of the couch. “Resourceful. Skilled.”

“Cunning,” said Vy, and even as I kept my expression neutral, my stomach churned. Vy’s