“Frankly,” she said, stuffing the crumpled remains of my work into her designer tote bag, “I’m not sure your class is a good fit here.”
That condescending little smirk was the final straw.
Management wouldn’t help, telling me my rival brought in too much money to be disciplined over a few pieces of paper. A weaker person would have walked away.
But she had no idea that her petty vandalism was about to get a major upgrade, one that involved a locked glass case, a hidden camera, and a high-resolution public shaming that would become her permanent legacy at the center.
The Ghost of the Corkboard: The First Batch
The stack of flyers felt heavy with hope, each sheet a crisp promise. I ran my thumb over the clean lines of the logo I’d designed myself: a simple, elegant tree with roots forming the base of a kettlebell. Foundational Strength with Jo. It sounded solid. It sounded like something I, at forty-eight, would want to take. Something for bodies that had lived a little, that didn’t need to be punished with burpees to feel strong.
My son, Leo, had helped with the layout. “Less is more, Mom,” he’d advised over FaceTime from his dorm room, expertly guiding me through Canva. “Clean font. Good photo. Let the vibe speak for itself.” The vibe was supposed to be welcoming, a stark contrast to the aggressive, “SHRED-BURN-DESTROY” ethos that dominated most of the fitness world.
The Pinewood Community Center was the perfect place to launch. It smelled of chlorine, floor wax, and the faint, sweet scent of the senior center’s bake sale. It was real. I chose my spot on the main corkboard in the lobby, a sprawling battlefield of notices for pottery classes, lost cats, and pleas for a reliable babysitter. I carefully thumb-tacked my first flyer, making sure the corners were perfectly square. Then another, and another, creating a neat little block of five. My little corner of possibility.
As I stepped back to admire my work, a woman with a platinum blonde ponytail pulled so tight it seemed to stretch her face stopped beside me. Her workout gear was immaculate, a coordinated set of electric blue that screamed expense. She scanned my flyer, her lips pursed into a thin, unimpressed line.
“Low-impact,” she read aloud, the words tasting like something foul in her mouth. She glanced at me, her eyes doing a quick, dismissive up-and-down. “For beginners, I assume?”
“For everyone who wants to build strength without jarring their joints,” I said, keeping my tone bright. “I’m Jo, by the way.”
“Carol,” she said, not offering a hand. She gestured with a sharp chin toward her own flyers, a chaotic collage of neon green and black featuring a photo of her holding a massive tire over her head. “I teach Core Shred. We focus on results.” She gave my flyer one last look of pity before striding away, her sneakers squeaking with purpose on the linoleum. I watched her go, a weird little knot tightening in my stomach.
Vanishing Act
The next morning, I came in early, buzzing with a nervous energy. I’d brought my own yoga mat, a brand-new water bottle, and a carefully curated playlist of 80s rock anthems. My first class wasn’t for another week, but I wanted to get the feel of the studio, to own the space.
On my way in, I glanced at the bulletin board. And stopped.
My neat little block of five flyers was gone. Not one, not two. All of them. The space was completely bare, a tan cork desert punctuated by the holes my thumbtacks had left behind. My heart did a funny little dip-and-lurch. It was probably nothing. The night janitor, maybe, being overzealous. The board was cluttered. Maybe there was a new policy about how long things could stay up.
I tried to shake it off, but the empty space stared back at me, a silent accusation. My little corner of possibility, erased.
I went home after my workout, the wind knocked out of my sails. “They were just gone,” I told my husband, Mark, as he loaded the dishwasher. “Every single one.”
“Probably just cleared the board, Jo. Don’t overthink it,” he said, his voice muffled as he reached for a stray fork. “Just print more. Print a hundred. Paper the whole damn place.”
He was right. It was silly to get worked up over a few pieces of paper. So I did just that. I went back to the print shop, the smell of toner and fresh paper doing little to soothe my nerves this time. I bought heavier cardstock, thinking it would feel more permanent, more substantial. I even bought a box of heavy-duty, brightly colored tacks. The kind that dig in deep.
That afternoon, I returned to the center and staked my claim again. I placed ten flyers this time, pressing each tack in with a firm, decisive push of my thumb. They looked professional. Unignorable. There, I thought. Let them try to clear that.
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