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

out the nondescript, eight-story building they led me to as the site of mysterious doings. And yet that was where Caroline stopped, keying in some numbers on a push-pad at eye level on the right side of the door. “Every woman receives her own personal code to get into the building during active hours,” she said briskly, but with a hint of pride in her thrown-back shoulders. “We’ll get you yours later tonight.”

“Are there businesses on the other floors?” I asked as Libby swung open the door to the entryway.

“No,” Caroline said. “We own the whole building.” Holy shit, they paid for an entire building in the freaking West Village, and just left floors and floors of it empty? The amount they’d make by renting the rest of it out for just one month could have paid off all my mother’s medical bills and saved our house, but it didn’t even matter to them. Every time I thought I’d adjusted to the elitism at play here, a new piece of information slapped me in the face.

A middle-aged woman with broad shoulders sat behind a desk in the dimly lit entryway, the glow of the iPad in her hand lighting up her face. She pressed pause on it as we entered, and sat up straight in her chair, her security guard’s uniform neatly pressed.

“Hi, Keisha!” Libby said.

“Hi, Libby. Beautiful evening, isn’t it?” Keisha replied.

“Sure is!”

“Jillian, this is Keisha, our head security guard,” Caroline said. “She is incredible. Just so strong. Like, look at those Serena Williams arms! Show her, Keisha!”

“Woo! Go, Keisha!” Libby said as Keisha shook her head slightly, then flexed her biceps.

“She used to compete in bodybuilding competitions professionally,” Caroline said to me, and then asked Keisha, “How many pounds can you bench-press?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Keisha said, a tight smile fixed on her face.

“Come on, you totally do!”

“Two hundred and fifty,” Keisha said.

“Oh my God, that’s so cool,” Libby said. “I can hardly even get through a Zumba class.”

“That man I mentioned, the one who came here looking to start trouble? Keisha took him down like that,” Caroline said, snapping her fingers. “Anyways, Keisha, this is our newest member, Jillian Beckley, so she’s free to come and go during opening hours as she pleases.”

“Hi, nice to meet you,” I said, reaching forward to shake Keisha’s hand.

“We need to get a picture of you for the computer system, for when the other guards are on shift,” Caroline said to me, gesturing toward the large computer monitor on Keisha’s desk. “So they can verify who you are if you ever want to come during the daytime to do work or to freshen up in between meetings.”

Keisha fiddled with a camera attached to the top of the monitor, aiming it in my direction. I gave a stilted smile as she clicked the computer mouse. Stupid, stupid, stupid, a voice in my head recited. You signed the contract and made a very stupid mistake.

“Ooh, gorgeous,” Keisha said. “Now, have a nice night, you all!” She waved good-bye heartily as we stepped onto the elevator. But I caught a glimpse, as the doors closed, of her face dropping, her performance of good cheer over.

“She’s so great,” Caroline said, leaning forward to press the button for the fourth floor.

“So great!” Libby echoed.

“Great,” I said.

Stupid, the voice in my head repeated, visions of Caroline sweetly asking What member? playing over and over in my mind. What had I expected, that these women who had quite possibly taken down a beloved mayor would just roll over in defeat if someone spilled their secrets? What would they do to me? Oh God, what would they do to Raf if they found out that he’d been helping me? I wanted to vomit.

As the elevator doors rolled open onto the clubhouse, they revealed Margot waiting, a bottle of champagne in her hand. When she saw me, she loosened the cork and let it fly.

“It’s initiation time,” Caroline called out, and the various women scattered around the room left their private conversations and gathered in a circle around me while Margot poured the champagne into flutes for whoever wanted some. My heart strained against my chest at all the attention as they eyed me, some of them familiar, like the woman with lungs of steel who had fogged up the bathroom mirror.

Vy was there too, waving away champagne to focus on what looked like homemade kombucha in a mason jar. A white, rubbery mass floated in the liquid, the yeast and bacteria that fermented regular tea into . . . whatever kombucha was. The shiny blob bumped against Vy’s lips as she sipped. She seemed unperturbed by it.

Margot pressed a glass of champagne into my hand, letting her fingers linger on my wrist, her eyes glowing as she smiled at me. Margot had the kind of eyes that could light up the dark.

Once everyone had assembled, Caroline cleared her throat, and the room grew quiet. “Jillian Beckley, raise your right hand.” She demonstrated, so I switched my glass over to my left hand and raised my right to mirror hers, like I was taking a pledge, being sworn into office on a glass of expensive champagne instead of a Bible. Earnestly, with a great sense of self-seriousness, she said, “Do you swear to kick ass and smash the patriarchy?”

“I . . . I do,” I said.

“And do you swear to support and take care of your fellow members, to lift them up in the workplace, on social media, and in life?” Caroline swept her arm out to indicate the crowd, and I glanced at them. Margot had a bemused expression, a slight smile tugging at her lips, as she watched Caroline lead the ritual. Vy’s face drooped so much with apathy that it looked like she’d been shot full of Novocain. She lifted the blob of yeast out of her kombucha jar and began to gnaw on it. (Was that thing even safe for human consumption?) But most of the women in the circle nodded along,