Free Tales from the Yoga Studio by Rain Mitchell Page A

eat this stuff.”
    â€œI know. Smart, right? And feel how chilly it is in here? Same thing. Like someplace you’d do surgery. And I hope you don’t mind me saying, but X. C.I.A. went way downhill after you left.”
    â€œMind? I’m surprised she didn’t pay you to say it!”
    Imani spins around, and Becky Antrim is standing there, beaming. Imani gives her a big hug, and they walk out to the sidewalk, arm in arm. “Damn, you look good,” Imani says. “What’s your secret?”
    â€œI don’t buy cupcakes,” Becky says and flips her world-famous hair off her shoulder. “Which doesn’t mean I don’t eat them. I just walk back and forth in front of this place until I spot someone I know buying them. Give me one of those little fuckers.”
    Becky has been holding the title of America’s Sweetheart for longer than Imani can remember. She skyrocketed to fame on Roommates , one of those iconic TV hits that actually deserved its reputation. Imani met her when Becky was dating one of the guys on X.C.I.A. and used to come by the set. Two things surprised Imani: Becky’s way more gorgeous in person than she is on screen and, despite being trashed by the tabloids for fifteen years now, despite having more money than God and Oprah, despite having had her heart broken in the most public way possible by the most handsome (white) man on the planet, she’s still one of the sweetest people Imani’s ever met.
    They go to a Starbucks around the corner and sit at a sidewalk table, open up the box, look at each other, and start laughing.
    â€œStraight to hell,” Becky says. “Let’s go, mon amie !”
    By the time they’ve polished off the third cupcake, Becky has brought her up to date on the latest love disaster in her life, not in a self-pitying way, but with the ironic, “what else is new” stoicism she uses to deal with everything. No interest in another TV series, she explains, but lots of interest in continuing to do quirky little indie films. “They keep me relevant,” she says. “Whatever that means. And they’re fun and I’ve learned more about acting from doing them than I learned all those years on Roommates .”
    â€œBut don’t they hurt your career?”
    â€œThere are two ways for someone like me to get respect in this town,” Becky says. “One is to get paid a fortune for a blockbuster and the other is to get paid nothing for a smart little indie that hits big at Sundance. I alternate between the two.”
    She licks off the last of the frosting from her fingertips and rests her cheek against her fist. “What about you, sweetie? Are you doing okay?”
    Becky’s tone, soft and gentle, leaves no doubt that she’s asking about the miscarriage and subsequent meltdown. What else would she be asking about?
    â€œI’m doing a lot better,” Imani says. She’s not sure the “lot” is accurate, but it might help to say so. And eight months after all that , she’s started to realize that people expect her to be better, so she’s doing her best to fake it until she makes it.
    â€œYou know what?” Imani says. “I finally started doing yoga.”
    Becky pops up out of her chair and gives a little cheer. Becky is a famous yoga fanatic. Someone on the street snaps a picture with a cell phone, and Becky turns and gives them a goofy grin and then the finger. She’s definitely made peace with the gawkers, something Imani needs a little help with.
    â€œAre you loving it? Where are you practicing? Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting for you to start practicing?”
    In truth, Imani only went the one time. And even though she liked it, the idea of getting it all together to go again has kept her from a return visit. Figuring out when to eat and shower and which level class to take and then loading the mat and towels and all