Lights Out Lucy

by Elicia Hyder

  Olivia gripped my good elbow with eyes as wide as mine felt.

  “Well, this is interesting,” I whispered.

  She leaned close. “Interesting doesn’t cut it. I feel like we’ve wandered into a Tim Burton film.”

  When we finally reached the ticket window, a small girl with a jet-black bob, bright green eyes, and cherry-red lips looked up at us. She had a colorful butterfly tattoo covering her chest from her clavicle to her cleavage, and she had a ring through her nose like a bull. She was chomping on a piece of bubble gum. “How many?”

  I spoke through the hole in the glass. “Two, please.”

  “Twenty dollars.” She blew a pink bubble half the size of her face as she traded my crisp twenty for two tickets. “Enjoy the bout.”

  “The bout?” Olivia asked as we walked toward the entry doors.

  I just shrugged.

  A large man wearing a Music City Rollers T-shirt tore our tickets and handed us two program booklets as we walked into the outer hall around the arena. It was loud with the sounds of the crowd bouncing off the concrete block walls and windows. The busy room smelled like fresh paint and popcorn. Olivia pointed toward a concession stand. “They serve beer.”

  As we waited in line, I flipped through the program. In the middle was a two-page spread of headshots—or maybe mugshots—of the players. I nudged Olivia with my elbow. “Listen to some of these names. Lady Fury, Black-Eye Candy, Bad News Baroness, Princess Die, eL’s Bells, Medusa…”

  She peeked over my shoulder. “Look for a girl named Haley Jones.”

  “There is nothing close to a normal name on this list,” I said, shaking my head. “Never mind. There’s a girl named Susan.”

  Olivia ordered a beer. “Lucy, what do you want?”

  “Diet Coke,” I answered.

  A few minutes later, we carried our drinks and hot dogs (that I bought) inside the arena and slowly made our way up the grandstands, one painful step at a time. We found seats just a few rows up from the team benches. I looked around the large room. “Where’s the big bowl?”

  “The what?” Olivia asked.

  I made a circular motion in the air with my hot dog. “In the movies, they skate around a big bowl thing.”

  A man who reminded me a lot of my dad turned around in front of us. “Most teams don’t play on those anymore. See the big circles on the floor? This is flat track roller derby.”

  I scrunched up my nose. “Well, that’s a little disappointing.”

  He chuckled. “I thought so too when I came to my first bout. When I was your age, it was still the bowl.”

  “You come to these a lot?” Olivia asked with a mouthful of hot dog.

  He nodded. “My daughter is one of the blockers. She goes by Riveter Styx.” He held up his program. “There are rules inside to help you understand the game.”

  “Thanks for the tip,” I said.

  He turned back around. “Anytime.”

  After finishing my hot dog, I spread the program across my knees and flipped to the rules of the game. “All right, are you ready for some Roller Derby Fast Facts?” I asked Olivia.

  She took a deep swig of beer. “Educate me.”

  I began to read. “Roller derby is played on a flat, oval track with five players from each team, one jammer (denoted by a star on her helmet) and four blockers. Blockers play defense and offense. They try to stop the opposing jammer while trying to help their own jammer. Jammers score one point for each opposing player they pass. The team with the most points at the end of the bout wins.”

  “That doesn’t sound too complicated,” she said.

  I sipped my soda and shook my head. “No, but there are about a bazillion rules.”

  She looked at me and crumpled the paper from her hot dog. “Only a bazillion?”

  “No tripping, no elbows—”

  “Aww…they cut out all the fun stuff,” she whined.

  I surveyed the room. It was a big arena with probably ten thousand seats. Not that there were ten thousand people there. Almost all the upper seating was empty, except for a couple of teenagers making out on the top row. The lower bowl of seats was almost full. And in front of us, near the oval track, people were sitting on the floor. Even though I’d never seen the game, somehow that seemed like a bad idea.

  I didn’t see West anywhere.

  “Is that a penalty box?” Olivia asked, drawing my attention toward the direction of her finger.

  On the left side of the track were two high-back white benches with the words BAD GIRLS painted across the back. I laughed and looked down at my program. “Yes. Players who have received a major penalty will be sent to the penalty box for thirty seconds.”

  A loud ruckus caught our attention near the doorway we’d come in. A very, uh, spirited group of individuals were running into the room with pom-poms, megaphones, wigs, and face paint. A few were wearing bright teal tutus. One of them was the guy who’d been behind us in the lobby.

  Olivia and I exchanged amused glances. “What the hell is going on?” she asked.

  The crowd went wild. People jumped up and cheered, clapping and waving Music City banners. The lights flickered a few times, and then the music blared as the tutu group ran around the bottom of the stands whooping and yelling, riling up the crowd.

  A man in a full tuxedo and bright purple top hat walked out to the center of the track. He put the microphone to his mouth and held up his free arm. “Give it up, Nashville, for your Music City Jeerleaders!”

  We put our drinks down and stood, clapping along with the rest of the fans. I looked over at Olivia. “Jeerleaders.” I laughed. “That’s pretty funny.”

  Across the room, the Jeerleaders formed two lines out from a wide gap in the center of the bleachers.

  The announcer raised the microphone again. “My name is Daddy Ho’maker, and allow me to welcome you to beautiful downtown Nashville, Tennessee! Everyone put your hands together for your favorite roller derby dolls, the Music City Rollers!”

  The room actually rumbled around us from the commotion. The bleachers vibrated under my feet as the team skated out of the tunnel, making a wide loop around the room and slapping hands with the surrounding fans.

  They were women of all shapes and sizes, all wearing the same uniform: fitted black-and-teal tank top jerseys with black booty shorts. They wore helmets, knee and elbow pads, and wrist guards, and they all had numbers scrawled in black on their upper arms. In a synchronized pattern, all the skaters huddled together in a slow-moving pack drifting around the track like a swarm of black-and-teal bumblebees.

  Daddy Ho’maker pointed toward the pack. “Introducing lucky number seven, Shamrocker!”

  A thin skater with a short lime-green pixie cut and the number seven written on her bicep pumped her fist in the air as she broke away from the front of the group. She circled the track, passing her teammates, and the audience cheered until she caught up with the back of the group.

  A heavyset brunette followed after Shamrocker. “Number 9MM, Full Metal Jackie!”

  When Full Metal Jackie rejoined at the back of the group, Daddy Ho’maker pointed toward the girl in the front. “Number 1111, Riveter Styx!”

  I nudged the shoulder of the man in front of us, and he flashed a proud smile back at me. Riveter Styx appeared to have short hair hidden under her helmet, and her tiny shorts showed off a huge skull tattoo on the outside of her left thigh.

  We clapped and cheered for each player as they skated around. Toward the end of the introductions, the crowd began a drumroll with their feet, making the floor shake like an earthquake. My eyes widened as I wondered what could be happening.

  “And now”—Daddy Ho’maker’s voice was deeper and more dramatic—“your All-Star team captain and 2014 National Championship MVP, number ten—Medusa!”

  Caught up in the excitement, Olivia cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled next to me when Medusa skated into the center of the track, gliding effortlessly around the loop like a gazell
e on wheels.

  Slowly, the fans around us stopped stomping, and the tremors underneath me ceased as Medusa skated past her team, leading them off the track and into a crisp line of which she formed the head. She was a few inches taller than almost everyone else, and even from our distance, I could see the cut of the taut thigh muscles exposed by her tiny shorts. From underneath her helmet, her dark hair fell in two loose ponytails over her shoulders, an ombre dye job that ended with the tips in flaming fuchsia.

  All eyes in the arena were still glued to her. And rightfully so. She owned the room.

  “Finally, Nashville,” Daddy Ho’maker said, “your matriarch of the league and fearless head coach—The Duchess!”

  A stout woman in a gray business suit walked out from the tunnel. She had ashy brown-and-gray hair cut straight across her shoulders. She waved to the crowd as she crossed the room. The members of her team were clapping over their heads.

  Styx’s father looked back at me. “The Duchess has been skating since they still skated on banked tracks.”

  I nodded, impressed as The Duchess stood near the bench closest to us.

  The Richmond Vixens, dressed in bright magenta-and-green jerseys, were introduced next and welcomed with half-hearted applause from the home-team crowd. The referees skated in behind them, followed by nonskating officials wearing pastel-pink shirts. The Charity of the Night, The Hope Haven of Nashville, was announced last. After the singing of “The Star-Spangled Banner” and then a series of warm-up exercises for both teams, the bout looked ready to begin.

  Eight girls, the four blockers from each team, huddled together on the track. About five feet behind them, Medusa and Richmond’s jammer, both of whom had stars on their helmets, were toeing the line, ready to charge. I scooted forward on the edge of my seat.

  “Our jammers to start,” Daddy Ho’maker said. “No surprise here, wearing the star for the Music City Makers, number ten Medusa! She is opposed by number 6VI6, Demoness.”

  Demoness looked mean. A solid black band was painted all the way across her eyes.

  A whistle blasted and the two jammers took off. Like a hot knife cutting through butter, Medusa sliced her way through the pack. A referee inside the track pointed at her as she skated around the oval. But her opponent wasn’t far behind. Medusa cut through the pack a second time, then made wild gestures with her arms, hitting her hands against her hips. The whistle blew again and everyone slowed to a stop.

  I looked at Olivia. “What happened?” she asked.

  Picking up the brochure, I flipped through the pages back to the rules.

  The man in front of us turned around again. “Medusa was the lead jammer because she made it through the pack first, so she can call off the jam any time by flapping her arms around like that.”

  Olivia was obviously no less confused.

  Daddy Ho’maker came over the loudspeaker. “That is the first four points of the bout, ladies and gentlemen. Music City four, Richmond zero!”

  “But she passed them all twice,” I pointed out.

  The man shook his head. “She doesn’t start collecting points till her second pass through. The first pass through the pack of blockers just decides who is the lead jammer.” He held up four fingers. “So the score is right.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  He nodded.

  A new group of girls skated onto the track. The jammer for Music City this time was much smaller than Medusa.

  Daddy Ho’maker’s voice boomed. “That is Shamrocker, lucky number seven out there with star panty for the Rollers, opposite number 007, the Grim Creeper for Richmond!”

  The whistle blasted and they took off. Shamrocker ducked under the linked arms of two Richmond blockers, then busted through the middle of two more behind them, taking the position of lead jammer. But the Grim Creeper was right on her wheels as they raced around the oval, and just before they reentered the back of the pack, Shamrocker called off the jam.

  Olivia threw up a hand. “What happened.”

  “Defense,” I said. “Now the other girl can’t score.”

  Riveter Styx’s dad turned and flashed me an impressed smile.

  Medusa lined up again with Demoness for the third jam. Immediately after the whistle, #6VI6 blasted through the Music City blockers with Medusa right behind her. As they rounded the turn, approaching the pack again, Medusa took the inside and cut to the right, slamming her shoulder into her opponent’s torso. Demoness went sailing through the air, landing hard on her back. Even from our distance, we could hear her helmet smack the concrete.

  My mouth dropped open.

  There were collective “Ooos” and “Ohhs” from the crowd.

  Medusa made her way through the pack before the slain Vixen had enough wits to end the jam.

  Olivia straightened. “Whoa.”

  My mouth was still gaping as the team formed up again. “I’m beginning to see why she was the MVP.”

  Olivia smirked. “You think?”

  The whistled sounded, whipping our attention back to the track.

  Medusa quickly won lead jammer again, this time effortlessly slipping through the pack, knocking skaters out of her way as she went. She made one pass through. Then another!

  “That’s a grand slam for Medusa!” Daddy Ho’maker shouted.

  The crowd was on their feet again.

  I held the program up, so I could still see the action on the track in the backfield of my vision. “A Grand Slam is when a jammer passes all four blockers and the jammer from the opposing team!” I shouted over the noise of the crowd. “She collects five points, the maximum points for a single pass!”

  My phone in my pocket buzzed. I gripped the program between my teeth and pulled it out. It was a text message.

  Fancy meeting you here, Lucille.

  My eyes searched the arena like it was the world’s largest game of Where’s Waldo—if Waldo was a life-sized, wealthy Ken doll hidden on the set of Beetlejuice.

  I texted him back—and lied, lied, lied. What are you talking about? You’ll never believe where I am right now.

  Because this was the way the dating game was played, right?

  Just then, commotion on the track caught everyone’s attention. The Vixen’s jammer, 6VI6, spun and clotheslined Medusa. There was a series of sharp whistle blasts from the referees accompanied by condemning boos from the crowd.

  The pack parted, and Medusa lay at their skates visibly heaving in pain. Medical personnel standing just off the track jogged over, but before they reached her, she pushed herself up.

  Everyone cheered.

  Then Medusa sprinted on her skates across the track toward the offending Vixen. It took four other skaters to hold her back.

  Even in my seat, all the way across the room, I drew back in alarm.

  So did Olivia.

  And everyone else in the arena.

  But the tension quickly settled when the crowd began to clap again. Medusa skated around the oval, stretching her arms and her neck, and successfully ignored 6VI6 as she skated to the penalty box.

  “That was insane!” Olivia said in awe. “Look at her shake it off like nothing happened. I’d kill a bitch for less.”

  I laughed. “I’m sure you would.”

  There was less violence for the rest of the first half. The bout was so intense, I almost forgot the whole reason we were there. But five minutes into the second half, I saw an arm waving in the stands across the arena.

  An arm that belonged to West Adler.

  I looked at Olivia. “It’s him.”

  Her mouth gaped. “Huh?”

  “West Adler,” I said, pointing.

  She followed my finger and strained her eyes. “The guy waving, I assume?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you going to go talk to him?”

  I pressed my lips together and shook my head.

  “No?”

  “No. He can come here. I’m a lady.”

  She laughed and almost spit out her
beer. “We’re only here because you’re an online creeper. You lost your lady card yesterday.”

  When I looked again, West was gone. My eyes scanned the crowd till I saw him walking down the stairs to the floor of the arena. He slapped hands with a few people as he walked the perimeter of the room.

  I dug my nails into Olivia’s arm. “Oh gosh, I think he’s on his way over here.”

  “You need Xanax,” she said, draining the last of her beer.

  “What do I do?” My voice jumped up an octave.

  She laughed. “I would say ‘be cool’ but that ain’t happening.”

  West walked up to the team bench in front of our bleachers and shook hands with a few of the players. He paused to say something to The Duchess before patting the woman on the back and turning toward the bleacher steps. Our steps. I worried I might lose my hot dog.

  He took the steps two at a time until he stopped at the row behind ours and sidestepped his way across the spectators to the empty seats directly behind us. “What are the odds, Lucy?” he asked, sitting down.

  “Better than you think,” Olivia mumbled beside me.

  I elbowed her in the ribs as I turned toward him. “Hey there, West. What are you doing here?”

  He motioned to the track. “I come to all the bouts. I love this sport.”

  “Me too!” I said with a little too much enthusiasm.

  He blinked with surprise. “Really?”

  “Sure! Well, it’s my first time, but so far, I love it.”

  “How’d you hear about it?” he asked.

  My mouth was open, but no words came out. Olivia caught my eye and glared as she turned in her seat, stretching her hand toward West. “It was my idea. I’m Lucy’s roommate, Olivia.”

  He shook her hand. “Nice to meet you, Olivia. West Adler.”

  “I’ve heard a lot about you,” she said, causing me to die a little inside. “Thanks for taking care of her yesterday.”

  “It was my pleasure.” He looked at me. “How are you feeling?”

  “So sore,” I said, grimacing.

  The corners of his eyes crinkled with sympathy. “I was worried about that. The next day is usually the worst. What did they say about your car?”