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“Twenty-two thousand.” I hold the mic to my mouth so the cynics can hear I actually have a viable business.
“I am deeply impressed,” Mr. Power says.
If there’s sarcasm in his answer, I choose to ignore it.
“And what is your financial goal?”
“Fifty thousand,” I say with more confidence. This is where the humiliation will be worth it, since he’ll impart some golden nugget that will help me level up. This is why Will Power brings in a quarter million dollars every time he steps onto a stage. Why, of the thousand people in the room today, one hundred or more will pay another $20,000 to join his executive coaching program, which isn’t even led by him; it’s led by a team of his staff.
Power tents his fingers in front of his face, looking me up and down, examining me like he’s truly considering a strategy for me. But then he shakes his head, inhales deeply, and takes off his black suit jacket.
“Remove your belt,” he demands.
I think I mishear him. “My belt?”
What is he planning to do? Screw some sense into me? I mean, that would be something I could imagine he’d say, but actually do? On stage? In front of a thousand people?
I don’t move.
“Belt. Off. Now.” He hangs his jacket on two fingers and reaches toward me.
I’m paralyzed.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, work with me, Virginia Beach.” He grabs the buckle and gives it a twist, and it comes free in his hand. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
I want to melt into the stage. I try to step away, but for a second time, he holds me in place.
“You paid almost ten percent of your gross income to attend today. You came up here wanting to make the most of that investment. I applaud your courage. Now, stand still and listen. Put on this jacket.”
Will Power, the world’s most bombastic billionaire motivational speaker, turns me around and helps me into a suit jacket that probably cost more than my rent for an entire year.
It’s huge on me. I disappear in it.
“Do up the buttons. Cover that ridiculous dress. And buckle your belt over top.”
I do as he commands. He steps back, looks me up and down again. “Right arm.” He takes it before I can move and rolls up the sleeve so my hand is visible. Then he does the left.
He waves to the darkness offstage. “Savannah, get out here. I need your hair elastic.”
His stage assistant walks toward us, pulling her glossy black hair out of its bun. It falls in a sophisticated tumble around her shoulders, but she smiles and hands her boss the elastic.
“That Bozo the Clown look is not helping your business. Do you know how to use one of these things?”
I glare at his chest, too embarrassed to make eye contact, and gather my shoulder-length hair into a ponytail. With a couple of twists, I wrangle the wild curls into a messy bun.
“Better. Now, face the audience.”
I turn, certain my cheeks are as red as my curls.
“If you want to double your income, you need to dress like an entrepreneur, not a circus performer to the sick and leafy. The plants do not hire you. People with healthy cash flows do. I am certain there’s a healthy market in this city that has the income to spend on non-necessities. But this,”—he lifts the hem of his jacket to show my skirt—“is why you’re not earning your full potential. Dress to impress thepeoplewho put checks in your hand. I guarantee your business will grow.” He nods to Savannah.
She rejoins us onstage, as she does after each coaching session. Her hair is sleek and perfect again. Savannah takes the mic and my elbow and whisks me out of the spotlight.
“Let her keep the jacket,” Power calls as I walk away. “A reminder of the day Will Power changed. Her. Life.”
The crowd goes wild.
Savannah leads me down a hallway to a door that opens into the lobby.
