by Elicia Hyder
“I might starve by then, Lucy.”
I laughed.
“He’s going to want to see you when he gets back. Are you coming home?”
I hugged the throw pillow. “I think I used up all my fake smiles at the wedding. It’s going to be a while before I can force another one onto my face.”
He leaned his elbow on the armrest and cradled his head in his hand to look at me. “Is it just how soon it happened, or do you really hate her?”
I considered the question. “I don’t hate her. I don’t even know her. That’s the problem. She’s like the stranger in the white van who lured Dad away with casseroles.”
Ethan chuckled. “She’s nothing like Mom.”
No truer words had ever been spoken. Katherine was, in a word, domestic. Our mother had been anything but. Dad had plucked Mom right off the beach in Virginia, where he’d found her dancing in a bikini to The Beach Boys. “It was love at first sight,” he liked to tell us before she died. “I saw her and I just knew—someday she’d be mine.”
Someday turned out to be that day, and a few weeks later, Mom found out she was pregnant with me. They got married in a courthouse ceremony without even telling her parents. Dad had worn his Navy uniform. Mom hadn’t worn any shoes.
It was hard to believe she’d been gone almost a year. And harder to believe how much everything had changed.
“He still refuses to talk about her.” Ethan’s voice snapped me back to our conversation.
All Dad’s stories had stopped when Mom died, and since he’d married Katherine, Dad dared not even bring Mom up in conversation. At all. Ever.
Logically, I knew it was too painful for him, and probably by focusing on the future rather than the past, he could more easily put one foot in front of the other each day. But man, it was hard for me and, obviously, Ethan to just pretend she never existed when Dad was around. Thank God we had each other.
“You can’t put him off forever.”
I sighed. “I know. I am trying.”
He grimaced. “You kinda suck at it, Lucy.”
I sank into my corner. “I know. That’s why I’m staying away.”
“Well, hurry up and get over it, OK?” He reached over and nudged my shoulder. “I kinda miss you.”
“I miss you too, Butter.”
He made a vomiting noise. “I hate it when you call me that.”
I grabbed his sleeve and pulled him to me, cradling his head in my arms and kissing the top of his head over and over. “No, you don’t, Baby Butter. You love it. You do!”
Laughing, he pushed me off him. “You’re so weird.”
I stood and brushed my hair out of my face. “You share my DNA, you know.”
“Oh, I know.”
I jerked my thumb toward my room. “I’ll get your stuff.”
“Need help?” he asked.
“No.”
In my closet, on the bottom right of the nine-cube organizer shelf, was a fabric storage bin with Ethan’s name stitched on the front. I retrieved it, then grabbed an extra sheet, blanket, and pillow off the shelf above my shoe rack. I carried the stack back to the living room.
Ethan jumped up to help me with the load. I handed him the box. “There are pajamas in there and a toothbrush. You go change in my bathroom, and I’ll make up the couch for you.”
He looked in the box. “You bought me pajamas?”
“I’ve only lived here a few weeks, and this is the third time you’ve shown up unannounced to sleep on my couch. And don’t forget the toothbrush. I can’t handle your morning breath at breakfast.”
He tucked the box under his arm and kissed my cheek. “Best sister ever.”
When Ethan was settled on the sectional, I returned to my room to get ready for bed. I stopped first at my purse to find my phone and plug it into its charger. I checked the screen for any notifications. Perhaps a missed message from West.
There wasn’t one.
In the morning, Ethan showered in my bathroom while I made pancakes for breakfast. Olivia was still asleep. My phone buzzed on the counter, and I grabbed it immediately.
West: Did you make it home OK?
My stomach tingled. I tapped out a response. Safe and sound. You?
West: Nope. Texting you from “the other side.” Heaven’s 4G sucks.
I sat down at the table, smiling so wide I feared he might sense it through the phone. Heaven, huh? Now I know you’re lying.
West: LOL. Did you have fun last night?
Me: I had a great time. Thanks again for the drinks.
West: Don’t mention it. Let me know what you hear about your car this week.
Me: I will.
Ethan walked out of my room, rubbing his head with a towel in one hand and reading a piece of paper he was holding in the other. I got up to flip the pancakes on the griddle pan.
My phone buzzed again as I crossed the kitchen. How about we run into each other on purpose sometime soon? Have lunch, maybe?
A quiet squeal slipped out before I could stop it. I bit my lower lip and leaned against the counter.
Ethan sat down behind me. “You OK?”
“I’m fine,” I said, suppressing the urge to stamp my feet with joy.
I re-read West’s message a few times before working up the nerve to reply. “Be cool, Lucy.”
Me: Lunch would be great. Let me know when.
West: I’m working downtown a few days this week. Once I know what my schedule will be, I’ll text you.
Me: Awesome. Can’t wait.
I groaned, wishing I hadn’t typed “Awesome.”
“Sis?”
When I looked up from my phone, I smelled the smoke rising off the griddle before I saw it. “Crap!” I grabbed the spatula and flipped the pancakes. They were charred. With a heavy sigh, I turned the pan over above the trashcan, letting our blackened breakfast slide into the garbage.
I turned to look at my brother. “Sorry.”
He smiled and draped the towel around his neck. “Distracted this morning?”
“A little.” I noticed the roller derby flyer on the table in front of him. “Ethan! What were you doing in my purse?”
He squished his mouth over to one side. “Looking for gas money.”
I snatched the flyer off the table.
“I didn’t take anything,” he said, holding his hands up in defense.
“Because there wasn’t any money in there to take,” I said.
“Are you seriously thinking about playing roller derby?” he asked, pointing to the flyer in my hand.
I looked down at it. “I don’t know. Maybe.” I put it on the counter and retrieved the box of pancake mix from the pantry.
“You’re the most accident-prone person I know.” He got up and pulled a banana off the bunch from the fruit basket on the counter. “Now you want to play a full-contact sport on roller skates?”
I put my hands on my hips. “I’m not accident prone.”
He peeled his banana. “You knocked out your two front teeth playing musical chairs in the first grade.”
I frowned as I measured out another cup of the dry mix and dumped it in the glass bowl. “That game is dangerous. Erin Tucker dove headfirst into me. Not my fault.” I mixed in three-quarters of a cup of water and stirred.
“In high school, you dislocated your arm trying to tighten your bra strap.”
Fighting a smile, I poured four evenly spaced puddles of batter onto the hot griddle. “That was a long time ago.”
“Last Christmas Eve at Uncle Matt’s house, you broke two ribs coughing.”
“I was choking!”
He pointed at me. “On your own spit!”
We both burst out laughing.
He picked up the flyer again and dangled it in front of my face. “This may be the dumbest idea you’ve ever had.”
I flipped the pancakes over. They were golden brown. “I didn’t say it was a sure thing. I’m just thinking about it.”
“Well, don’t think a
bout it too seriously. I kinda need you around,” he said, taking another huge bite of his banana.
I glared at him. “You kinda need my money and my couch.”
He grinned. “You love me.”
I scooped up the four perfect pancakes and dropped them on a plate for him. “You’d better be glad.”
Ethan drove back home to Riverbend, but not before I filled up his gas tank at the station down the street, bought him lunch from McDonald’s to eat on the drive, and gave him a wad of cash to have his phone reconnected. Little brothers: do they ever stop being exhausting?
Olivia was in the kitchen pouring a to-go cup of coffee when I walked back in. There were dark circles under her half-mast eyes and the bun on her head was a smidge lopsided.
I grimaced. “I’m afraid it’s going to be a long day.”
She yawned as she screwed the plastic lid on her mug. “I’ll perk up when I get there. We’re trying out a new appetizer today.”
“Oh god. What’s it called?”
“It’s a cheddar fondue.” She grinned behind her cup. “It’s called That’s What Cheese Said.”
I burst out laughing. “That’s terrible.”
“I know. It’s gonna be great.” She slurped some coffee. “What are you going to do today?”
Probably sit at home and stare at my phone while I wait to hear from West Adler. I didn’t say that out loud, of course. No need to draw attention to the depths of my patheticness and incite the taunts of my roommate. “Probably just stay home and watch TV. You know, Netflix and Chill.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You know that means to go to someone’s house for a booty call, right?”
“What?”
She laughed and rolled her eyes. “Oh, Lucy.”
“I’ve said that to my dad.” I gasped and covered my mouth with my hand. “I’ve posted that on Facebook.”
She doubled over, nearly spilling her coffee. “Shit, that’s funny.”
I slumped against the counter, burying my red face in my hands.
She nudged my arm as she walked past. “As much as I’d love to stay here and give you hell about this, I’ve got to go to work. I’ll see you tonight.”
Still whimpering, I waved. “Bye.”
“Don’t wait up!” she called, walking out our front door.
When she was gone, and I’d somewhat recovered from my humiliation, I retired to the living room with my laptop and spent a ridiculous portion of the rest of the day researching roller derby online…and, yes, checking and rechecking my phone for lunch plans from West.
Roller derby was, surprisingly, a worldwide sport with thousands of teams in more than fifty countries. Some sites estimated that over a hundred thousand female skaters played across the globe, as well as a growing number of men in men’s roller derby.
I wonder if West owns roller skates.
I checked my phone again.
Nothing.
I tossed it across the couch.
Apparently, junior roller derby was also a thing, allowing kids as young as six to lace up and play. It made me feel better about the prospect of surviving should I attempt to give it a whirl. Because if a six-year-old could do it, surely I could too. Right?
I typed the words “roller derby injuries” into the search bar of my internet browser, then clicked on “See All Images.”
Oh. My. God.
The first image in the grid was of a woman’s black-and-purple foot bent right at a forty-five-degree angle with her ankle bone protruding like a second misplaced heel.
Another image looked normal at first glance; then I realized the woman’s skate was twisted around backward like a demon-possessed limb.
Farther down the page, a woman’s collarbone was jutting through her blood-soaked shirt. Through her shirt!
With a shudder, I slammed my laptop screen closed.
Thankfully, my phone chirped just in time with a text message, and my stomach flip-flopped from nauseous to nervous with the beep. I moved the laptop to the floor and dove across the couch to snatch the phone off the far cushion.
It was Ethan.
Back n Riverbend. Stopped @ store 2 pay my bill. Phones back on. IOU $62. Thx.
Four
By Monday morning, I still hadn’t heard back from West about lunch, so I packed a turkey and cheese on honey wheat into my insulated lunch bag and went to work early, as usual. Thankfully, there was no yelling in the conference room that day, and I was able to slip quietly into my office and get right to work.
I started by printing the weekly online-activity report I’d created for our accounts. It displayed all the week prior’s email and social-media statistics, showcasing what elements were working and which ones needed improvement. I also highlighted two different photos I’d taken screenshots of on the Music City Rollers’ fan page over the weekend. Both were of Medusa. One was a professional picture from a photoshoot; the other was a selfie of a black puppy licking her face.
The professional picture with appropriate lighting and airbrushing had 113 likes.
The selfie with all her tattoos and puppy slobber? 1,872.
I printed both on the same page and wrote in the margin. “Casual is better. Can we get a line item in the budget for puppies?” I decorated the question with a sloppy doodle of a paw print.
Then I opened my inbox to find an email from Peter Jansen, Audrey’s assistant.
Lucy,
Audrey received the file with the photos for Jake’s new ad campaigns. She doesn’t understand why we’re paying a graphic designer to recreate the same photo four different ways. If you’re asking for her to choose one, she says—and I quote: “Tell her to use the photo with the blue truck and move on to more pressing projects.”
Please advise.
P.B.J.
Peter, literally, signed all of his communications with “P.B.J.” and I still didn’t know him well enough to know whether or not he realized it was funny. Passing in the halls and across the table at staff meetings, Peter didn’t seem to have much of a sense of humor, but who could, working directly with Audrey every day? Poor peanut-butter-and-jelly guy.
I typed out an explanation, not that I should’ve had to. It was my specialty, after all. One of the main reasons she hired me.
Peter,
Please tell Audrey I will be using all four graphics for the new social-media campaigns. I realize they are all very similar. It’s called “split testing.” Each image will be tested against the others to see which one delivers the best results: i.e. the most ticket sales. Promoting Jake’s new tour still is the most pressing project, correct?
Please advise.
L.L.C.
Yes, my initials are ridiculous as well, therefore throwing stones was allowed.
Peter’s one-line response came quickly.
Will deliver the explanation. My money is on #3, the Atomic Turquoise truck, for the win. - P.B.J.
I smiled. Perhaps P.B.J. had a hidden sense of humor after all. I wrote back.
Glad you like them, but ‘Atomic Turquoise’ is not a color. #3 is RGB (0, 170, 204) - L.L.C.
A moment later, I clicked open another email from him.
Manic Panic says it’s a color. I dyed my hair Atomic Turquoise once in high school. - P.B.J.
In the stillness of my office, I burst out laughing. It was hard to picture Peter with blue hair—or any hair, for that matter. He was bald and shiny up top now, a style forced upon him, as evidenced by the shadowy stubble that encircled the crown of his head on casual Fridays.
Another email popped into my inbox.
Our doors are open. I can hear you laughing. - P.B.J.
I hit reply, and my fingers flew across the keyboard.
I’m sorry. I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing WITH you. Unless you’re not laughing. In such case, I’m watching funny cat videos online. - Lucy
If you’re watching funny cat videos, I’m telling Audrey. Just kidding. Gotta get back to work before heads—namely, mine—st
art rolling - P.B.J.
I laughed again, quieter this time. Apparently, Audrey hadn’t sucked all the life out of the office after all.
The four new ads were completed by lunchtime, and I ate my sad little sandwich all alone in my office. Not completely deterred by the injuries I’d seen the day before, while I ate, I read an article I’d bookmarked called “22 Things Every Roller Derby Fresh Meat Newbie Should Know.” Number seven on the list was “Don’t Date Your Teammates.” I was wondering if the advice would apply to sponsors as well when my cell phone rang. The call was from an unknown number.
Surely, it had to be West calling from his office or something to make those lunch plans he’d mentioned over the weekend.
“Hello?” I answered, my voice a little too bright and cheerful.
“May I speak with Lucy Cooper?” the man—who was definitely not West Adler—asked.
“This is Lucy Cooper.”
“Hi, Miss Cooper. My name is Ward Taylor. I’m your auto-damage adjuster from Fieldsouth Insurance.”
I slumped in my chair. “Oh, hi.”
“I just finished estimating the damage on your 2009 GKS Sport.”
Putting down my sandwich, I leaned forward with my elbows on the desk, cradling my forehead in my hand as I braced for the news. “How bad is it?”
“It’s a total loss, I’m afraid,” he said.
My heart sank.
“I do have a check for you in the amount of $6,013. You can either meet me here at the shop, or I can mail it to you.”
I looked at the clock. It was just after noon. “How long will you be at the shop?”
“I’ll be around this area until about two today,” he said.
“Can we meet there in about half an hour?”
“That’s perfect. I’ll see you soon.”
After hanging up the phone, I rested my head against the back of my chair. It had been so nice not having a car payment, for the two months that I didn’t, anyway. I sighed, not looking forward to buying a new car by myself. Dad had always gone with me before, and now he was jaunting around Costa Rica with Katherine. Ugh. Waiting till he got back wasn’t an option, either.
No longer hungry, I dropped the rest of my sandwich in the trash can under my desk. I set my office phone to “Gone to Lunch” and hit the sleep button on my computer monitor. On my way down the hall, I paused at Audrey’s door to drop off the weekly online report.
