Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Like the stargazer. God bless this trick. It’s all core and legs and strength, and I’ve got that as I hold onto the pole with my legs and one hand while reaching the other hand behind me toward the wall as I stretch back, eyes toward the ceiling.
“Nice work,” the instructor, Kyla, says as she stops next to me. “Loved your jasmine, too, earlier.”
She already told me that when I nailed that intermediate trick—it takes the back of the knee contact, hands and core. But I love praise so as I move out of the stargazer pose, I say, “Thanks. I’ve been working on the jasmine for a while.”
“I know, and you did it, Everly,” she says, proud, like she usually is for all her students.
Still, I have this foolish worry that she’ll ask why I dress like this eighteen months in. Does she wonder why I wear a fitted tee that doesn’t move when I move, when the rest of the class wears sports bras?
Like Josie.
Like Maeve, who takes it too with us.
Like Fable, who joins us from time to time.
But I still wear a shirt, because of my scars.
Kyla’s also never asked. She lets me be. She lets me take the tricks at my own pace, like she does with all the students, of all body types. But as Kyla moves to spot another student, a woman with blue hair and strong shoulders who’s upside down in a butterfly, a pang of longing digs into my chest. I bet I could do that if I let go. I want to do that.
Maybe I should just get my own pole for my home. I could do it there. The only issue would be if I needed a spotter.
Best not to think about that for now. There are plenty of laybacks and spins to keep this girl busy for a while.
I hope.
Class ends, and I hustle to my gym bag and pull on sweats, leaving on the workout tee. No heels tonight, so I just pop on sneakers, thank Kyla and head out with my friends.
They know why I dress like this. I’ve told them about the car accident, and the scars that travel down the left side of my body, covering a large swath of my back, my hip, my upper arm, and my shoulder.
I don’t hate them. I just don’t want people to see them and stare. To see them and feel sorry for me. I’d rather not have their pity. I had enough of it from my own parents after it happened. “I feel terrible this happened to you. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost my best friend, and some of my skin,” my mom had said.
Thanks, Mom.
Besides, I work in a world where image matters. I don’t want people to construct their own image of me as someone to feel sorry for.
And then, there’s simple self-protection. The more people who see them, the more I have to tell the story of why. The more I have to go back in time and relive the worst night of my life and feel that pain all over again.
Sometimes—no, most of the time—it’s easier to cover them up and move on.
We head out into the October night to a nearby diner, the one we usually go to after class.
“I seriously can’t believe you got me addicted to pole,” Maeve remarks as she pulls open the door.
“Really? You can’t believe it?” Josie asks Maeve. “Pole was made for you.”
“Why’s that?” I ask.
“Because our dear friend Maeve is not, as you might say, shy,” Josie says.
“Facts,” I say, then tell the hostess we need a table for four. As we slide in, I’m feeling a little emotional, like I often am after class with them, since I’m so damn grateful to have friends to do this with, so I add, “And I’m glad none of you are shy either. I’m really glad you all said yes to taking this class with me.”
“Of course we would,” Josie says, heartfelt.
“Are you kidding? Like I’d miss the chance to make a fool of myself physically,” Fable says.
“Please. You’re doing great. You’re making such strides,” I say to my redheaded friend.
“If by strides you mean I can walk around a pole in heels without tripping, then yes, sure I have.”
“Do not underestimate not tripping,” I say.
“Truer words,” Maeve adds, then we flip open our menus and order when the server arrives.
Once she’s gone, Josie taps the table, her eyes excited. “So, update time. How’s the makeover project going with the man who’s, ahem, admittedly handsome?”
Maeve scoffs, waving a hand. “I want to know how the dick project’s going.”
I furrow my brow. Does she mean because Max is a dick? Or something else? “Am I doing a dick project?”
She stares at me like I should know. “You were supposed to check out the guy’s dick. Your physical therapist.”