The Sweetheart by Angelina Mirabella Page A

look up, Joe stares back. “You have a healthy appetite,” he says. No kidding. You had no idea you could devour so much so quickly. You slow down and chew your food at what you hope is a reasonable pace. “I meant that as a compliment,” he says, laughing a little.
    A bell on the front door signals another arrival, and when Joe looks up and waves over whoever has arrived, you can’t help but turn to see for yourself. The woman entering is stocky, with a dark complexion and a heavy, textured mane of hair she has attempted (and failed) to confine to a ladylike bob. Perhaps you do not immediately recognize her—in her publicity shot, taken years prior, she is crouched and snarling—but from the way the other girls labor at continuing to talk without making eye contact, you understand that she is someone to be reckoned with. She walks toward you with a forced stride, its power restricted by her high heels and pencil skirt. She seems a wild animal restrained, a trained bear balancing on a ball.
    There is no single person who will feature more prominently in your life as a wrestler than this woman. She will be in the opposite corner for your first bout, a modestly attended card (just weeks away!) at the local armory, and the last one, just a year later, when the two of you will make history in the Memphis arena under the watchful gaze of over nine thousand marks.
    â€œJoe,” she says, “can I talk to you for a moment?”
    â€œCan you at least say hello to my newest protégé? I’d like you to meet—”
    â€œYeah, yeah. The gymnast. You told me.” This mockery is the only acknowledgment you get. It seems you are not worthy of either end of an introduction. She doesn’t care to hear your name, nor does she bother to share hers. “It’s important, Joe,” says the woman.
    â€œFine, fine,” he says, sliding out of the booth. Before he leaves, he turns to you and says, “It’s on the house tonight, so get some pie or coffee or whatever you want. Tomorrow, come by my office around ten so we can talk before you head to the gym. Bring your suits. All of them.”
    All of them? You are lucky to have one.
    Once the bell rings them out, you relax and return to your plate, anxious to finish and head to your room for some much needed rest. But before you can shovel in the last bite, you find yourself encircled by the women from the other booth, who, judging by their Capri pants and wide eyes, are closer to you in age and experience than the woman who spirited Joe away. With these girls, you feel less need to put up your guard.
    â€œHi,” says the blonde. “You’re the new wrestler, right?”
    You nod, even though it still seems strange to think of yourself in these terms. “Leonie,” you say.
    The girls slide themselves into your booth uninvited, introduce themselves quickly—the blonde is Peggy; the brunettes, Bonnie and Brenda, are sisters—and begin bubbling with questions for you and anecdotes from their own lives and recent adventures. All of this girlfriendliness makes you nervous. Previous experience has taught you that groups of women don’t easily welcome new members into the fold. To be sure, the sisters do seem to be sizing you up, but Peggy has a smile that would be suspicious only to the thoroughly jaded. She slurps her vanilla Coke and tells you that tomorrow night will be Bonnie’s first match.
    â€œI have to fight that cow you just met,” Bonnie whispers. “That’s how it works around here. Your first match is always against Mimi, and she always wins.”
    At last, you have a name. “ That was Screaming Mimi Hollander?”
    â€œIn the flesh,” says Bonnie. “I should know. She plays a starring role in most of my nightmares.”
    â€œYou worry too much,” Peggy says to Bonnie. “You’ll be great.” She slaps her on the thigh before turning to