“And you said you sell this, too?” Dinah asked, cocking her head and pursing her full lips.
Vince nodded. “It’s a great part-time job—you can do it from home. If you guys are interested, I can give you the sales literature.”
The business model reminded Hanna of the time in ninth grade when Chassey Bledsoe’s mom had started selling Ginsu knife knockoffs from door to door, bragging about how she was working from home and was making so much money. She even convinced Chassey to bring samples with her to Rosewood Day to give demonstrations during lunch. As soon as the administration had found out Chassey had a suitcase full of knives on school property, they’d stopped it immediately.
But Vince looked so earnest about AminoSpa, like he actually believed it was making everyone healthier and happier. Hanna caught the bottle he threw at her, unscrewed the cap, and took a long swig. She fought the urge to spit it out. It tasted like watered-down margarita mix.
Vince clapped his hands. “Okay. Let’s start sweating, shall we? The next couple weeks are going to be really intense—you’re going to be pushed to your limits. A lot of our exercises are going to involve sparring, competing, and partner stretches, so I’m going to pair you guys up. The person I pair you with will be your partner for the rest of the class; you guys will be spending lots of time together. They’ll be your check-in for your nutritional goals—and hopefully a lifelong friend.”
At this, Vince shot Hanna a coy, fleeting look, and Hanna’s insides swirled. It was definitely a signal: He was going to pair her with him. She could already picture it: the two of them shadowboxing, Vince rallying her on. The two of them running on the Marwyn trail, the other slowpokes far back in the distance. After each session, they’d drink lattes—or AminoSpas—together, blissfully spent. Then when Lucas got back, she would show him just how fine she was while he was gone.
“Tara, I want you with Josie.” Vince pointed at two middle-aged women in the back. They smiled at each other pleasantly. “Ralph, you’ll be partners with Jerome.” Two barrel-chested, bandy-legged guys nodded. Vince continued around the room, matching one red-shirted member to another. His gaze kept sweeping past Hanna, skipping over her. Because he was leaving her for himself, of course.
Finally, Vince pointed to Hanna and grinned. “Hanna. You’ll be with . . .”
Hanna expected him to thump his chest and triumphantly say me, so when he pointed at someone across the room, she didn’t understand. She’d thought she was the only unpaired person left standing, but one other retreater remained. The girl’s hands were on her full hips. She shifted in her checkerboard Vans. Her heavily outlined eyes were narrowed and her red lips were curled in a sneer.
It was Dinah.
Chapter 9
Fake Boyfriends Are So Much Fun
On Saturday afternoon, Hanna speed-walked into Momma’s Sweet Shoppe, the brand-new-but-made-to-look-old ice cream fountain in the Devon Crest Mall. The floor was a black-and-white checkerboard pattern, there were old-fashioned chrome and leather stools at the counter, and a chalkboard listing types of floats, malts, and the various ice cream flavors of the day hung above the milk-shake machines. The waitstaff wore crisp white shirts, red-and-white-striped vests, and white paper hats, and fifties doo-wop blared over the stereo.
Her father, Isabel, and Kate followed, making brr noises at the bracing wind and subzero temperatures they’d had to endure in the parking lot. “Tell me again why we’re getting ice cream right now?” Hanna said, her teeth still chattering.
Mr. Marin unwound his heavy red scarf from his neck. “Because this is what Kate and her mom did after every Nutcracker performance Kate danced in. Right, ladies?”
“Right,” Isabel said proudly, patting Kate’s shoulder. “It was always a double scoop of mint chip for my little Clara.”
Hanna suppressed a groan. It was the same saccharine phrase Isabel had been saying all day, from the trek into Philly to see a matinee of The Nutcracker at the Academy of Music to the curtain call at the end of the ballet to the long hunt for a parking space at the mall. Kate was her little Clara, the child lead in The Nutcracker, the role Kate had danced for four years with their local ballet troupe in Annapolis, and it had been Kate’s favorite ballet ever since. Honestly, Hanna didn’t get the ballet’s allure—a rich girl’s house is infested with mice; candy canes, snowflakes, and strange Russian men don’t let her sleep; and then she and a Mouse King in a really ugly vest disappear into some giant beehive. It seemed like one long acid trip.
“I bet you’re still an amazing ballerina.” Isabel pushed a piece of hair out of Kate’s eyes. “You should see her dance, Tom. She’s just so graceful.”
“Maybe you should take some classes again,” Mr. Marin suggested. “You’d probably fall right back into it.”
“You’re too nice.” Kate spun her silver David Yurman bracelet around her wrist. “But I’m way out of practice.”
You just don’t want to because you’d no longer be the best in the class, Hanna thought bitterly, remembering her one and only experience with ballet. She and Ali had taken a class at the YMCA, and when all of them did grand jetés across the room, Ali had collapsed into giggles, saying Hanna looked exactly like a hippo in a tutu.
Now, Hanna sighed. After her new family had thrown Hanna a Hanukkah bone a few nights ago, everything had gone back to normal shortly afterward. The Twelve Days of Christmas nonsense had resumed, though Hanna had been able to get out of a lot of it because of boot camp. She had to keep lying about where she was going, but so far her dad hadn’t given her a hard time about it—probably because he didn’t really want her there anyway. She’d tried to make a joke to her dad about Bubbe Marin and Morty the lewd African gray parrot during intermission today, but Kate had talked over her, telling Hanna’s father about how Tchaikovsky had based The Nutcracker on an old children’s tale. Her dad had nodded at Kate like it was the most interesting story in the world. Meanwhile, though Hanna had taken to obsessively checking Lucas’s Facebook page, he hadn’t uttered a peep. She was half-tempted to call his resort and ream him out for ignoring her.