Free The Sweetheart by Angelina Mirabella

around in your head: You don’t have to learn anything. You could just stay stupid. Eventually, Mimi turns in your direction and meets your gaze. You search her eyes for remorse, but there is none. Months from now, when you are at the height of your fame, you will be asked by a reporter to recall your initial impressions of Screaming Mimi Hollander. There will be many things you cannot say, but this question will provide one of the rare moments when you won’t have to choose between the truth and the script. When you respond, you will describe this moment and conclude by saying, “It was clear to me that I was looking at the meanest bitch that ever walked the face of the earth.”

FOUR
    T he sun is up but the moon is still faint in the sky the next morning as you drag your aching body across the grounds to the gym. Being awake at this time usually gives you the feeling that you have a jump start on the rest of the world, but not today. Here at the Pospisil School for Lady Grappling, there have already been plenty of comings and goings—mostly goings. It was still dark when an unfamiliar car rolled up to Mimi’s door, pausing only long enough to collect her and her suitcase before rolling back out. And at the first sign of light, Bonnie and Brenda, who had packed her bags along with her sister’s, drove off the premises. Even the girls who are still here are a few steps ahead of you: Peggy, the only other rookie left, and a few of the vets are already pushing against the exterior walls—right legs bent in front, left legs extended straight behind. You hurry toward them and follow suit.
    â€œWhat are we doing?” you whisper to Peggy.
    â€œStretching,” she says. “Today we do roadwork.”
    â€œToday they do roadwork,” booms Joe, who strides toward you, a limp tangle of fabric dangling from his clutch. His presence is jarring enough, but seeing him dressed in the same gym attire as the rest of you—T-shirt and shorts—seems unreal. If it weren’t for the mosquitoes, you might wonder if you weren’t still in bed, dreaming all of this. “You and I are getting in the ring. You can join them next time.”
    â€œI thought—”
    â€œDon’t think. Bad habit.” He turns to the line of girls. “ Well ?” he shouts, visibly startling them. “Go on! Get out of here!” And with that, the four young women shuffle toward the shell road that leads to the highway. Peggy turns her head just enough to shoot you a sad smile and a wave, and then she is gone with the rest of them, leaving you and Joe alone.
    â€œHere,” says Joe. It is the bathing suit you handed over yesterday, the straps now reinforced with surgical tubing and the legs with strings of elastic, necessary measures, Joe explains, to ensure that all the kicking and clawing won’t result in any riding up or falling out. The industry is walking a fine line between titillation and obscenity, one that shifts depending on the state. Some have gone so far as to ban women from the ring. To the degree he can, Joe intends on keeping his girls on the right side of that line. “What are you waiting for?” he asks. “Get dressed and meet me in the ring.”
    It is quiet in the gym, not like yesterday. And while the dressing room is sufficiently private this morning, there is something uncomfortable about undressing with Joe just meters away. You shimmy into your suit as quickly as you can, pull the top up and the seat down, and, once you are as covered as possible, pad out in your bare feet, your arms crossed in front. There is a mirror before you reach the door, but you shy away from it. If you see how exposed you are, you won’t be able to leave the dressing room.
    â€œCome on, come on,” Joe calls from the ring. “I don’t have all day.” Dutifully, you hurry across the gym, hop on the apron, and thread yourself through the ropes. After