25. As Much as a Man

“I have ploughed and planted, and gathered into barns, and no man could head me! And ain't I a woman? I could work as much and eat as much as a man—when I could get it—and bear the lash as well! And ain't I a woman?” —Sojourner Truth

Master Park’s Academy of Taekwondo. If she hadn’t seen the sign, she wouldn’t have believed she was in the right place.

It was exactly six fifteen when Jen pulled into the parking lot of a forgotten-looking strip mall. She double-checked the address she had found in the phone book, hoping she hadn’t messed up reading the map that she found in the car.

She drove the length of the mall, reading the names on the signs above each storefront—Davidson’s Vacuum Repair, Sew Mart, North Middleton Medical Supply and Wheelchair Outlet, none of which seemed to be open for business—before finding her destination at the far end of the parking lot: a retail space marked only with a small sign in the window. Behind the sign, the bottoms of the windows were blocked with bamboo and paper screens, obscuring the view. Still, she could see the vague silhouettes of bodies moving inside.

“So this is really it,” she said to herself, taking her choice of spaces in the vast, vacant expanse of the parking lot.

As she walked up to the storefront, she felt her stomach turn over. The thought popped into her head, unbidden: there’s still time to leave. “Don’t be silly,” she said aloud, looking behind her as soon as the words had left her mouth to make sure no one was there to witness her talking to herself.

She opened the door and was engulfed by the steamy smell of sweat and bleach. She walked into a single, long room, the length of a regular store. One side of the room was a solid wall of mirrors; other mirrors were placed around the room at sporadic intervals.

There was a small reception desk right next to the front door, but no one was sitting at it. Jen scanned the room but saw no sign of Master Park. She looked around for a door that might lead to a back room, but could only see a bamboo screen in the back of the room, similar to those that blocked the windows in the front. There was a set of cubbies by the desk, with shoes in them. Jen balanced on one foot and then the other to remove her own sandals.

Along the edges of the room near the mirrored walls, a handful of students in white taekwondo uniforms were doing stretches on the scuffed linoleum floor. One girl’s eyes widened as she stared longways at Jen from her side-stretch; she appeared to be about fifteen years old. Another girl sat up from her forward bend to look. One young man, perhaps in his early twenties, glanced at Jen quickly before returning his focus to an obviously painful attempt at the splits. The few other students, also male, continued stretching without seeming to notice her. Their exaggerated seriousness reminded her of her yoga classes, except with a reversed ratio of male to female students.

Jen was about to sit down on one of the folding chairs by the front desk when Master Park appeared, wearing his taekwondo uniform, from behind the screen in the back of the room, followed by two students. The first student appeared for a moment to be a prepubescent boy, yet he was almost as tall as Master Park. Jen squinted her eyes—her distance vision was not strong as it used to be, she noted—and realized that the student was actually a young woman with broad shoulders and very short, stylishly mussed brown hair.

The second student who emerged, although it took Jen a moment to recognize him in the white uniform rather than his usual dark t-shirt, was Rob. She had hoped not to see him here, in the beginners’ class; she realized with dismay that he might be teaching. As he crossed the floor towards the group of stretching students, he caught Jen’s eye, looked startled, and then gave her a kind of cursory smile that looked more like a grimace before turning to walk towards a group of male students.

Master Park approached the front of the room with an air of professional formality. Jen started to say hello to him, but he turned and walked behind the desk, only beginning to speak to her once he had seated himself.

“So, your first class,” said Master Park, in a friendly but detached tone, as thought he might or might not remember that he spend two hours with her just yesterday.

He handed her a clipboard and a pen. “Please fill out this student information sheet.”

She sat down on a folding chair and began filling in blanks. Most of the questions were fairly standard--her name, her age, her method of payment. Two questions at the bottom, however, could not be answered so straightforwardly.

“Have you studied martial arts in the past?” the first question read.

She paused to consider whether yoga counted. Then she decided to err on the side of greater simplicity and less disclosure.

“No,” she wrote.

The second question asked, “Do you have any medical conditions, such as epilepsy, heart condition, broken bones, or pregnancy, that would affect your ability to undertake a rigorous course of exercise?”

Although she knew immediately what her answer would be, she felt bad writing it down, in one case because she was lying and in the other case because she was not.

“No,” she wrote again.

Just as Jen was putting the clipboard down on the desk, Master Park began to address the class in a voice that seemed both commanding and surprisingly quiet at the same time.

“If it’s your first week, please come to the front,” Master Park announced. Two of the boys stood up from their stretches and came to join Jen by the desk. Though Master Park hadn’t said anything to them, Rob and the boyish girl came over as well. Rob stood slightly behind the girl, so that Jen could not see his eyes. She looked at the girl instead; up close, Jen could see a patch of tattooed skin peeking out from under the girl’s collar. Jen looked down at their uniforms and noticed Rob had a black belt, while the girl’s belt was brown. She knew black was above brown, but didn’t know by how much. She hoped that it wasn’t very far above; hoped, in fact, that this girl could secretly kick Rob’s ass if she wanted to. She looked pretty strong and not so much smaller than him.

“This is Jennifer’s first day,” Master Park said to Rob and the girl, nodding his head towards her. Jen groaned inwardly at this confirmation that Rob was a teacher for the new students.

“I’ll work with her,” the girl said quickly. Jen let out an involuntary sigh of relief, which she tried to disguise by clearing her throat loudly.

“Great,” said Master Park. He turned towards Jen. “Brittany is a senior student here. She will be leading you through your first lesson.”

“You two can work with Rob,” he said to the boys. Rob turned and shrugged at Jen in a way that was almost apologetic before whisking the boys off to a far corner of the room.

Brittany led Jen into the workout area. “After class we’ll get you a gi,” Brittany said. She had a rough, gravely voice that made her sound older than her creaseless face would suggest. The voice projected confidence and something like wisdom that made Jen feel eager to impress her, even though they had only just met. Unfortunately, Jen couldn’t understand the meaning of the girl’s sentence.

“Um, what?” Jen asked, feeling like an awkward teenager in the sight of this girl who very likely was a teenager.

“A gi,” Brittany repeated a bit more loudly.

“I don’t know what that is,” Jen said.

“Oh, wow,” said Brittany. “Right. That’s the thing I’m wearing.” She crossed her arms, grabbed her own sleeves, and shook the fabric a bit. The uniform flapped stiffly over her muscular shoulders. “We might have one your size in the back.” She looked Jen up and down, skeptically. “Or maybe not. You’re pretty skinny.”

Jen looked down at her thin arms and ankles sticking out from her t-shirt and yoga pants, and felt, for the first time that she could remember, that she was in fact too skinny, despite the fact that she had gained back most of the weight she had lost during her fast.

“Don’t worry, you won’t need it for a while,” Brittany said, reassuringly. “Go warm up with the rest of the class, and then you’ll work with me when they split up.”

Jen walked to the middle of the room where more students had now accumulated; even more were streaming in through the door. The clock on the wall read six twenty-nine. Jen wondered if the warm-up Brittany had mentioned was just individual stretching, or if someone would lead the class in a formal warm-up. Just in case, she decided to follow the lead of the other students and do some stretching on her own. She did a quick forward bend to loosen up, then lowered herself into a deep forward split. Her hamstrings felt a bit tighter than they had when she was practicing yoga every day, but she could still get pretty low to the floor.

“Nice,” said the boy standing above her, the same boy who she had just seen struggling to get into the same position, in an approving voice.

“Thanks,” she said, surprised to be complimented on her stretching ability. In all her years of yoga classes, barely anyone had ever spoken to her, and certainly not to remark on her skill at yoga. Yoga was a non-judgmental practice, after all, so the assessing of others was something that had to be done covertly and in silence.

Suddenly Master Park appeared in front of one of the mirrored walls. All the students turned to face him. Jen pulled herself to her feet.

“Push-ups,” he said.

Immediately, the students around Jen lowered themselves back to the floor and into position. Jen quickly joined them. As Master Park began to count, Jen turned her head to the side and was relieved to see that at least one other woman was doing the push-ups from her knees rather than her feet.

After two sets each of twenty pushups and twenty sit-ups, Master Park said, “Line up for forms practice.” Jen stood up and stumbled back a bit, feeling tired already just from the warm-up.

She felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to see Brittany standing just behind her. “Let’s go over there,” she said, jerking her thumb towards some open space in the far corner of the room, near the screen from behind which she, Rob, and Master Park had just emerged.

“So, the first thing you’ll learn is the beginning of the first form,” Brittany said. Jen remembered Rob using that term to describe part of the class they had watched at the Snail Plant, but couldn’t remember what it meant. Brittany showed her a few movements: a stomp, a block, a step, and a punch. It seemed pretty simple. “Practice that,” Brittany said, as she walked towards the bamboo screen and disappeared behind it.

Jen craned her neck and tried to see what was behind the screen. If she walked over to it, she could look behind it, but she didn’t want to draw attention to herself. Still, she was getting curious. I’ll look later, she told herself, drawing her focus back as best as she could to the four moves she was supposed to be practicing. Stomp, block, step, punch. Stomp, block, step, punch. It was boring, but her yoga classes had taught her to look especially engaged when doing the most menial task. That would show the teacher you were serious.

I saw Karate Kid, Jen said to herself. I know a test when I see one.

Stomp, block, step, punch. It’s probably just the bathroom, she thought, looking over at the screen again. She didn’t see one anywhere else in the room. Except why would Master Park, Rob, and Brittany all have walked out of the bathroom together at the beginning of class? Maybe it was a hallway with offices and a bathroom.

As she stood staring at the screen, Brittany suddenly appeared from behind it. Jen quickly returned to her four moves, although it was obvious she had been busted not practicing.

Jen was relieved when Brittany graciously overlooked her transgression. “Okay, champ, let’s see it,” Brittany said, walking over to her.

Jen dutifully performed her moves, while Brittany watched, stony-faced, then said, “Good,” and gave Jen a few small corrections: bend your knees more, twist your body on the block, throw the punch straight out from your side.

“Okay, that’s enough forms for today,” Brittany said, finally. “I’ll show you more next time. Now we’re going to work on your stance, and I’ll show you one kick.”

Jen wondered if a “stance” was what it sounded like: a way of standing. It hadn’t occurred to Jen that such a thing would need to be taught.

“So, the taekwondo stance is like this.” Brittany stood in front of Jen with her feet wide apart, knees bent and bouncy, her hips thrust forward, and her hands up in front of her face. Jen’s mind immediately traveled back to the boys fighting in the school yard; they had stood in just the same way before they began kicking each other. Really, just the same, Jen marveled; it was uncanny that such different-looking people could look so similar.

“Like this?” Jen asked, trying to mirror her body. Her legs felt awkward in the bent position.

“Don’t stick your butt out,” Brittany said. Embarrassed, Jen pulled her buttocks as far forward as she could.

Brittany shot her an assessing scowl. “Now you’re curling your hips up weird. Just try to stand straight.”

Jen shifted her body around, trying to figure out how to stand straight while keeping her knees bent.

“You should feel like you can keep your balance really well in this position,” Brittany said, coming over to Jen and shaking her around by her shoulders. Jen was startled by the power in this small gesture; Brittany was hardly moving, but Jen felt like she was about to fall over.

“See, you’re not balanced. You should feel really comfortable, really balanced.” Brittany repositioned Jen’s body, pushing her hips in a bit, pressing on her shoulders to make her bend her knees more. Still, it seemed the more times Brittany said the word “balance,” the more Jen felt like her legs were about to collapse out from under her.

“There, that’s not too bad,” Brittany said finally, surveying Jen’s rigid, awkward posture with the approving eye of a sculptor. She pressed her palms to the front of Jen’s shoulders and pushed. Again, Jen felt like she was about to fall.

“Feel balanced?” Brittany asked. “Comfortable?”

“Yes,” Jen lied, feeling fairly certain that she would never feel comfortable or balanced in any position with her knees bent and her arms up in the air. If that’s what Brittany was waiting for, this would be a long lesson.

“Okay, good,” said Brittany. “The first kick we’ll do is a roundhouse kick.”

Jen watched Brittany’s powerful physique as she kicked the air, her leg lifting up and then snapping around in a perfect pirouette. It was incredibly beautiful, Jen thought, so graceful, more like a ballet dancer than a fighter, despite Brittany’s rugged physique.

I will never be able to do that, she thought to herself.

“Okay, you try,” Brittany said.

Brittany coached Jen through a few feeble attempts at the kick before leaving her to practice it on her own. Jen moved over a few paces so that she could watch herself in the mirror. She saw her reflection step out tentatively with one foot and then awkwardly lift the other leg into the air, where it snapped out in a crooked line and then fell straight down to the floor.

That looks horrible, Jen thought, shuddering. She considered moving back to her original spot away from the mirror, but then realized that it might be worse not to know how ridiculous she appeared. Instead, she forced herself to watch the offending kick over and over. I’m sure this builds character or something, she told herself, trying to assume an air of detached amusement at her own incompetence.

By the time Brittany returned a few minutes later, Jen’s leg was exhausted and her side was cramping up. She hoped Brittany would tell her that this part of the lesson was over, but instead she offered more corrections.

“Try to pivot on the ball of your foot,” Brittany said.

Jen stepped and kicked with her right leg, but her left foot stayed planted firmly on the floor.

“You didn’t pivot,” Brittany said. “Try it again.”

Jen threw the kick again, this time willing her foot to move. Pivot, she said forcefully to her foot as her opposite leg swung around. Still, nothing happened.

“Sorry,” Jen said, feeling worried that Brittany would think she was willfully disregarding her instructions.

“Don’t say ‘sorry,’” Brittany told her in a rote tone of voice that suggested she had said these same words many, many times. “Just do it right.”

Jen tried again, three more times, but her foot still didn’t move.

“I’m terrible at this,” she said.

“Don’t complain,” Brittany shot back, before the words were fully out of Jen’s mouth. “No one gets everything right on the first day. It’s stuck up to think you’ll get everything perfect right away.”

Brittany pointed at one of the students who were taking instruction from Master Park in the middle of the room, concealing her gesture behind her other hand. “Look at that guy. He’s been here three months, and his feet aren’t pivoting either.”

Jen felt comforted as she watched the boy throw a series of awkward kicks (though not as awkward as hers, she knew) at a target that looked like a ping-pong paddle, which a fellow student was holding up for him. Looking at his foot, she saw that Brittany was correct; it did not move a centimeter as he kicked.

“So everybody is this bad at first?” Jen asked.

Brittany appeared to consider the question seriously for a moment. “No, you’re worse than average,” she decided.

“But don’t worry,” she added encouragingly. “You’ll get it. It just takes time.”

Jen practiced her roundhouse kick until the end of class, when Master Park reconvened the students for one more set of push-ups and sit-ups, followed by a few stretches. Jen sank gratefully into a forward bend, happy to finally be doing something that didn’t make her muscles exhausted.

“So, what did you think?” Brittany asked Jen, meeting her as she walked to the cubby to put on her shoes.

“Fun,” Jen said, feeling too tired to elaborate.

“Do you think you’ll be back next time?” Brittany asked.

“Sure,” Jen said, realizing that she had no idea when next time would be. “Is there a…” She paused to search her exhausted brain for the applicable word: “…schedule?”

“Oh, sorry,” Brittany said, picking up a folded pamphlet from the desk and opening it to show a small calendar to Jen. It was marked with colored squares indicating the classes offered at different times. Brittany ran her finger along a stripe of blue boxes. “Beginner’s class is every weekday at six thirty and Saturdays at ten.”

She pointed at the last day of the week, which was marked with one tall, red box, indicating a single, long class. “Sunday is all sparring,” she said. “You won’t start doing it yet, but it might be good to come and watch.” She handed Jen the pamphlet.

“Okay,” said. Jen. “I’ll be there. I’ll come every day.” After all, I have nothing else to do, she added to herself.

She thought this ambitious plan might surprise Brittany, but she didn’t have any noticeable reaction. “Good,” she said, quickly. “Oh, and I checked, and we don’t have any small gis in the back, but I’ll order you one. It should take about a week. Any other questions?”

Yes, thought Jen. What’s behind that bamboo screen? She didn’t know what was making her so curious, but she couldn’t stop thinking about it.

“Is there a bathroom?” she asked, hoping to be directed toward a door behind the screen.

Instead, Brittany pointed at a large hook on the wall behind the front desk. It had a key hanging off of it, attached to one of the kicking paddles that was acting as a keychain.

“It’s out the front door, turn right, past the sewing store,” Brittany said.

This was disappointing information for a number of reasons: first, because she would not get to check out what was behind the screen, second, because now she would have to walk halfway across the strip mall every time she wanted to use the bathroom, and third, because she didn’t actually have to use the bathroom now, but she would need to walk down there anyway or risk seeming like she had lied.

As she walked, she thought about the class, marveling that, aside from a few double-takes early on, no one seemed to make any fuss about her presence there. It was nice to feel like just any other student, Jen realized. That was one thing she had always loved about yoga, that once class began, she could lose herself in being not a celebrity, but just a person doing yoga. She hadn’t even really noticed Rob that much, she realized. She had been so busy trying to do that roundhouse kick that she had forgotten all about him.

By the time she returned from her excursion to the bathroom, which unfortunately didn’t exceed her expectations for cleanliness or pleasant smells, the other students had all left and the room appeared abandoned. Jen ducked in, hoping to drop the key off and sneak out again, unnoticed, but once she was inside, she realized that Brittany was sitting on the chair behind the desk. Jen stepped behind her and hung the key back on its oversized hook.

“Bye,” she said to Brittany.

“You know, it’s funny,” said Brittany.

“What?” Jen asked.

“I knew you’d come in here,” Brittany said. “I just knew it.”

“Huh,” said Jen, not sure how to respond to this. She and Brittany stood looking at each other for a moment. Jen was struck again by how boyish Brittany looked—like a very athletic, pretty boy, with muscular shoulders and cute hair, the kind of boy that made fourteen year old girls swoon with desire. Brittany didn’t say anything further, just sat, steadily returning Jen’s gaze, until Jen could feel her own face turn red.

“Okay, goodnight,” Jen finally said. She turned abruptly and stumbled over her own shoes on the way out the door.

Chapter 26

24. Arrows, Rifles, Spears and Swords

“Every day when one’s mind and body are at peace, one should meditate upon being ripped apart by arrows, rifles, spears and swords, being carried away by surging waves, being thrown into the midst of a great fire, being struck by lightning, being shaken to death by a great earthquake, falling from thousand-foot cliffs, dying of disease or committing seppuku at the death of one’s master.” —Yamamoto Tsunetomo

Jen sat in bed for a long time after finishing the first chapter of Zen for Times of Crisis. She didn’t feel like reading any further just yet. Thomas Fo’s story of abandoning his acting career read like an episode from her own life. It motivated her to focus on her task here, despite her discouraging encounter with Rob last night.

She had gone to bed feeling like she had failed at her new life before it had even begun. After reading Fo’s chapter, she reminded herself of everything that she was supposed to be doing in Michigan, none of which included finding a boyfriend. Quite the contrary. She had come to focus on herself, to shed her old life, to find some space and some peace so she could focus and think.

And for one other reason, she thought, with a grimace, wrapping her arms around her stomach. She hadn’t wanted to think about it. With Becky and Paula to distract her, she had almost succeeded in forgetting all about it.

She remembered Fo’s words. “Even as I write, the tapes stand facing me…a reminder of the life I once lived, and of why I must never return to it.”

Today is the day, she resolved. Today I will think about all the things I haven’t wanted to think about. There was one thought in particular that she had been evading for weeks and weeks; now was the time to confront it.

“I think I’m pregnant,” she said aloud. She started a bit, surprised at hearing the words that she hadn’t even shaped in her head until now. She had been nauseous every day for weeks, and her period still had not returned. And here she was in Michigan, thousands of miles from home, in a place where a baby could grow inside of her without, she had hoped, any attention or notice; that was truly why she was here, she told herself, relieved to finally admit the truth. But admitting it didn’t make her future any more known. She decided that this uncertainty would not haunt her any longer; today she would discover her future.

With new drive, she rose from the bed, quickly dressed herself in sweatpants and a t-shirt, and found the keys to Paula’s mother’s SUV. It was her first time driving in Michigan; Paula and Becky had done all the driving until they left, and yesterday Jen had walked into town and gotten a ride home from Rob. Maneuvering such a large vehicle felt strange to her at first, but soon she got used to it and was able to appreciate how it smoothed out the bumps of the uneven road into town.

She parked in front of the drug store, scanning the sidewalk for paparazzi, but she didn’t see any; apparently the food co-op was their main point of attack.

Safely inside, she walked straight to the back of the store, to the aisle marked “contraceptives,” which, she remembered from her earlier visit to this store, seemed to be shorthand for any paraphernalia necessary for dealing with sex or its consequences. Alongside the condoms and spermicides, there were plastic bottles of neon-colored lubricant, a few containers of flavored “body paint,” ointments for reducing the discomfort of genital herpes, and, next to those, the pregnancy tests.

Jen spotted the box labeled “Know For Sure,” her favorite name of all the brands, and grabbed it quickly from the shelf.

Carrying it low in her hand with the label facing in towards her thigh, she began to search the store for the other embarrassing item she needed: magazines. She remembered seeing them in passing as Paula whisked her around the store, but couldn’t recall where exactly.

She passed through the long row of greeting cards, and then, next to those, found the rack of magazines. She was pleased to see that they had a decent selection covering topics from music to golf to knitting. Right in the center of the top shelf she found the section she was looking for, a large spread of celebrity magazines with more titles than she had known existed. Only one of them mentioned her on its cover. She perused the tables of contents in the other magazines—rolling her eyes at how inevitably difficult it was to find the contents page amongst the pages and pages of advertisements—and discovered three other magazines containing short articles about her.

The real tabloids, the ones with the pixilated photographs on cheap newsprint, were on a shelf at the bottom, near Jen’s feet. She knelt down to sort through them and found two that featured her on the cover, though neither as the main story. Flipping through the other tabloids, she found three more stories about herself.

She walked to the counter, where a single cashier, a blond, pimply-faced boy who was most likely a MNCMU student, awaited her. Blushing, she placed her assortment of purchases on the counter: a neat pile of four celebrity magazines, five trashy tabloids, and topping the stack like a cherry on a sundae, the pregnancy test. She had thought about adding some other purchases to dilute these embarrassing items, but she could not imagine how many bottles of shampoo and multivitamins it would take to distract the cashier from such a preponderance of humiliation.

Jen’s inclination was to bow her head as the cashier scanned the magazines and placed them into a plastic bag, but instead, she attempted to make eye contact with him. After all, he was only a kid, and he probably wouldn’t even notice what she was buying. But his shy smile and refusal to return her gaze convinced her that he did indeed notice, and that he couldn’t wait to report this exciting news to his friends.

It doesn’t matter, she told herself, as she walked out the door with her shameful bag wrapped around her wrist. The whole point is to confront the things that embarrass me. But she could feel her face glowing hot and red and she returned to the SUV, and she was certain that everyone on the sidewalk was staring at her.

Back at the lake house, she placed the magazines and the pregnancy test on the coffee table. Then she made some tea, taking a long time tidying up the kitchen and washing a few dishes that were in the sink. Finally, when she could find no further diversions, she carried her cup of tea into the living room and sat down cross-legged on the floor next to the coffee table. She would start with the magazines, she decided, and then the tabloids. Then, when she could stand no more of her public persona—the thing she had been trying to avoid for years, that she had moved to Michigan to escape—she would move on to the pregnancy test, and then finish the rest of the magazines, after which her project of self-knowledge would be complete for the day.

The top magazine on the pile had a two-page spread near the middle devoted to Jen’s yoga injury. There was a large photograph of her being rushed out of the health club lobby, clutching an ice pack to her side. “Addicted to Asanas,” the headline read, and below that, “The ‘health’ routine that’s tearing Jen’s body apart.” A smaller inset picture on the opposite page showed a picture of Jen with her long hair, taken at the height of her fast she was fairly certain, looking emaciated and haggard as she wrapped her arms around herself on a Los Angeles sidewalk.

Jen winced in embarrassment as her hand reached down reflexively to slap the magazine closed. But she pulled it back to her tea cup, took in a long, calming breath through her nose, and vowed to fulfill her plan of reading the article, and all the articles about her, all the way through.

“On the big screen, Jen appears to be the model of physical fitness, with that lean physique that many women try to emulate through their own diet and exercise regimens. However, as so often happens in Hollywood, Jen’s slender figure comes at a price—and now those close to Jen worry that her extreme lifestyle might be destroying her health.

“Hollywood insiders have noted that Jen’s appearance has gone from skinny to scary as her weight has plummeted in recent months.

“Physician Camilla Jones confirmed that Jen broke her rib after fainting during a yoga class. ‘The fracture was a direct result of Jennifer being dangerously underweight,’ said Jones, who treated Jen at the scene of the accident.

“Students in the yoga class found themselves unwitting witnesses to the shocking mishap. ‘She just turned white and fell over,’ said a woman who was doing yoga next to Jen at the time of the injury. ‘It was really freaky.’ The woman described Jen’s disheveled appearance during the class, noting that her hair and clothing were messy and that her face looked tired.

“The yoga teacher supervising the class, who is also a personal friend of Jen’s, cited concerns about Jen’s health, agreeing that ‘Jen has been engaging in some rather extreme dietary restrictions.' A dietitian who has not worked with Jen personally speculated that she may have been practicing one of several ‘cleanses’ that have become popular with celebrities eager to lose weight.

“One well-known actor who is a frequent visitor to Jen’s house discussed possible reasons behind Jen’s weight loss. ‘She’s been having a rough time,’ said the actor, who did not want to be named. ‘There has been some tension between Jen and her best friend, and it’s causing her a lot of stress.’

“Other friends speculate that Jen may be distraught over the ending of her brief relationship with Skipper Engels, the San Francisco based pornographer who has been rumored to have involved Jen in an illicit party scene of drugs and prostitution, although those close to Jen claim that these rumors have been exaggerated. ‘Jen’s not into that kind of thing,’ said a friend who has known Jen since childhood.

“Whatever the reason, one thing is clear: Jen’s weight is dangerously low, setting a bad example for girls and young women who idolize her. ‘Jen’s unfortunate experience breaking her rib should send a message to her fans, and all women who seek to maintain an unreasonably low weight,’ said the dietitian we consulted. ‘We all want to be thin, but when we go to extremes to get there, we are hurting our bodies more than helping them.’"

Jen had been eager to get to the end of the article so she could close the magazine, but now that it was over she just sat and stared at the words on the page. She felt angry and embarrassed that this was how she would appear to the public, as a neurotic anorexic who was a bad role model for women.

That’s not fair, she said to herself, grasping for the explanation of why not, exactly. I wasn’t on a diet, she said to herself; it was a fast.

Still, she had to concede that to most of the public, this distinction would be meaningless. In fact, nothing in the article was untrue; the information was simply presented through a filter. Still, it was a filter that Jen highly disliked.

How could that doctor say those things to the press, she asked herself? Jen remembered the imposing woman at the health club, lecturing her about her bone density as she sat clutching ice to her broken rib. Despite the doctor’s rather cold, clinical manner, Jen had trusted her, felt instinctively that this outsider, the only African American and the only woman over forty in the class full of gym princesses, had her best interests in mind.

And Paula, who was supposed to be her friend, and Chase—and even Becky seemed to have given a statement. Jen fumed for a moment, vowing to confront her friends as soon as she got a chance to call them up in LA.

But truthfully, she knew how the reporters had gotten their quotes, through bombarding their so-called informants and startling them into speech. She thought of the reporter at the co-op: “What do you think about Bradley’s baby?” If Rob hadn’t intervened, who knows what she would have said. She could just imagine one of them barging into Paula’s yoga class, asking “Don’t you think Jen has been engaging in extreme dietary restrictions?” with Paula’s affirmative nod interpreted as “agreement.”

Tired of looking at the skinny picture of herself, Jen finally closed the magazine and pulled one of the tabloids over. This one had a headline that promised to be more lighthearted: “Jen to Her Pimp Boyfriend—It’s over!” There was a photograph of Skipper at a party, wearing the same yellow cowboy shirt he had worn at the bar with her. She was startled to see his face, and realized that she had forgotten what he looked like, aside from a vague caricature of a scrawny rag doll in flamingo shorts. The article also featured several unflattering pictures of Jen appearing to be screaming or crying, although she was pretty sure the photographers had just caught her in a yawn or a sneeze.

“After discovering Skipper in the arms of yet another woman, Jen finally decided enough was enough and told the infamous pimp to leave her Los Angeles mansion, where he had been living for the past month during their brief, tumultuous affair.

“‘Things were pretty crazy over there,’ said a neighbor, describing the scandalous orgies that Skipper held at Jen’s house several times a week. ‘Limousines would be pulling up at all hours of the night. There was always loud music and all these naked girls running around outside everywhere.’

‘It’s no wonder Jen would get sick of that,’ the neighbor added.

“Other neighbors said that Jen had been seen fighting with Skipper outside the house, and that she had frequently stormed away in tears. ‘It was pretty obvious it wouldn’t last,’ said Jen’s housekeeper.”

Jen was almost done with her second article. This isn’t so bad, thought Jen, although her hands were shaking and the room seemed to be spinning slightly. In fact, reading such flagrant lies helped her gain perspective on the previous, more accurate article. Both articles are interpretations, she thought, and neither one is the truth. Heartened, she read the final lines in the tabloid.

“Although the two have split, Jen’s troubles may not be over yet. Jen’s friends fear that she is carrying Skipper’s baby. ‘That would be a true nightmare,’ said a mutual friend of the actress and the pimp. ‘Neither one of them is fit to be a parent.’”

Jen sucked in a sharp breath and looked up at the box lying on the coffee table. “Know early, and Know For Sure,” it said. Yes, she thought. It was time to know. She took the box into the bathroom, feeling every bit as humiliated as the only other time she had used one of these tests, when she was nineteen years old and terrified of having to have an abortion, though now she was a grown woman who had every intention of keeping the baby. Really, there’s no reason to be mortified by this process, she thought angrily; you’d have to find out somehow or other.

While she waited for her little plus or minus sign to appear, Jen passed the time by reading another tabloid article: “Jen Hires Assassin to Take out Bradley.” The photograph illustrating this story—one of Bradley looking nervously over his shoulder, the other of her whispering into the ear of an ominous man in a dark suit who happened to have been a lawyer from the divorce, though the article didn’t identify him—made Jen think of Bradley again and wonder if his girlfriend was really pregnant.

It would be so odd, she thought, if we had babies at the same time. She wondered whether the babies could be friends, once they were a little older, and whether she and Bradley could also become friends when they were both parents. She had heard that the birth of a child could negate all kinds of longstanding hostilities, could unite estranged families and heal wounded friendships. Maybe the adorable innocence of a tiny baby would purify the foul murk hanging between her and her ex-husband.

She still had three minutes left, according to the clock on the living room wall. She looked back down at the article. “Furious at rumors that he has impregnated his girlfriend, Jen vowed to take revenge on her movie-star ex, but friends never suspected that she would go to these extreme lengths. We spoke with a hit man who says that Jen paid him fifty-thousand dollars in cash to ‘do what you have to do,’ as she put it.”

When she went to the bathroom and picked up the little white stick, the mark was as clear and dark as fresh ink: minus. That meant no baby. “No baby,” she said aloud. She wondered whether she should make an appointment with a doctor to get a second opinion; but she also knew that two months into a hypothetical pregnancy, the results were pretty reliable.

She walked back into the living room and stood by the coffee table. She stared at the stack of magazines and tabloids, her project for the rest of the day. She looked down at the article still open on the table. “Jen would do anything—and I mean anything—to keep Bradley from having that baby,” it said. She bit her lip and sat down on the couch.

Well, she told herself, with a sigh, now I really have no excuse to skip taekwondo tonight.

Chapter 25