by Jen Malone
Dedication
To Laura, who lives on
Epigraph
Our deepest fear is not that we’re inadequate.
Our deepest fear is that we’re powerful beyond measure.
It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.
We ask ourselves,
“Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous.”
Actually, who are you not to be?
—MARIANNE WILLIAMSON, ACTIVIST
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Before
Chapter 1
During
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
After
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Jen Malone
Back Ad
Copyright
About the Publisher
Before
1
“CAREFUL, GIRLS—WE DON’T CALL OUR JAMMER INVINCIBLE for nothing.” My best friend, Sibby, gestures at me, smirking as she catches my eye above the pack of women skating into place for the starting whistle. “She’s so badass, she gets her cavities filled without novocaine.”
I flutter my eyelashes and nudge my soft plastic mouthguard out just enough to point playfully at rows of molars boasting metal, before sucking it back into place. No one has to know three-quarters of those “fillings” are actually tooth wax from a zombie costume kit, painted silver and applied in the locker room less than an hour ago.
Sibby’s Australian accent is pronounced when she continues, “You’d be wise to steer clear.”
Roller derby can be as much about showmanship as it is sport, even on the track, and Sibby and I are all about dramatic flair, both here and whenever we’re rallying behind any of our causes. We have a whole routine rehearsed for our pre-jam lineups. Unfortunately, the opposing team isn’t showing any signs of being rattled by our trash talk; no one responds beyond an eye roll.
I give Sibby a tiny, one-shouldered shrug and grin. There’s more than one way to skin a cat. Then I turn my smile on the crowd in the bleachers and sweep both hands into the air repeatedly, urging their cheers. They respond in full force, their energy traveling across the modest arena and into my chest, giving me a familiar jump.
Snippets of our skate-out song—American Authors’ “I’m Born to Run”—blasts through the arena and I sing along in my head to the familiar refrain:
I wanna see Paris, I wanna see Tokyo
I wanna be careless, even if I break my bones
Maybe not so much on the broken bones, but a definite yes to the rest.
A short whistle blows, and all ten of us jump into action as the music cuts off abruptly.
As jammer, my job is to zoom through the pack of blockers, using whatever methods and force ethically and legally necessary (and some that ride the dizzy edge between the two), because once clear of them, I can skate free and rack up points.
Sibby and my other teammates are on defense, both preventing the other team’s jammer from getting out in front of them and simultaneously clearing a path for me to do it instead.
It’s no sport for the meek, but luckily, I’m far from that. I live for these bouts. All glamour to the jammer, as Coach says.
I tuck my head low, relying on the colored tape we have wrapped around the toes of our skates to let me know which belong to those with friendly hands that will push me ahead, versus those who might lock on to my wrists to halt my progress. My breathing is even, despite the excitement pumping through me.
As I straighten, there’s a weird twinge in my gut that disappears before I can fully process it. I stumble for a half second, but then right myself and let the game suck me back in.
Sibby’s war cry sounds just beside me as she knocks the opposing team’s jammer out of bounds. Cheers erupt in the stands and a deep voice announces over the loudspeaker, “The Wizard of Aussie executes a smooth move on Rainbow Migraine, who can now rejoin play only if she enters the track behind the same skater who sent her off course.”
Sibby drops back, slowing her roll—literally—to achieve the derby version of a cockblock, and I grin around my mouthpiece as I surge forward.
My focus snaps to the last two skaters I need to clear. The crowd chants my derby name: “Rolldemort! Rolldemort!”
This.
This right here is where I feel most alive. It’s not the fans cheering for me or the potential for glory. It’s the instant where all of that external stuff goes fuzzy and what’s straight in front of me sharpens like a camera in portrait mode. I see the elusive path through the blockers as clearly as if it’s a lighted airport landing strip and my breathing deepens, low in my diaphragm. Endorphins fire, and I hit the roller derby equivalent of a runner’s high as I pop up on my toe stops and jump left to evade my first opponent, before pivoting and tucking low to fake out the next.
And then I’m through, staring ahead at a wide-open track laid out like a red carpet for me alone. I increase speed and cross one skate over the other as I lean into a graceful turn, then another. In less than fifteen seconds, I’ve rounded the last curve and hit the straightaway, where the pack has re-formed tightly to block my approach.
In the mess of helmets ahead, I spot Sibby’s and I shift to reenter the pack by her side. I’ve only been skating with this team since I moved up from junior derby after turning eighteen last fall, but I already adore all my teammates. Still, there’s no one I trust with my life more than my best friend. She’ll block out of straight love as much as out of competitive spirit, and she’s got both in alarming quantities.
Sure enough, she grabs on to my wrist with one hand and propels me forward, past the blocker on her left, while her right arm is straight out to stop another opponent. (My girl is a beast.)
I wish I could find a way to bottle this feeling. Eyes forward, I weave and duck around women, clipping one’s elbow hard in the process. I offer no apologies. Lacing up your skates and stepping onto the track is permission granted, for all of us.
I rack up three easy points, but the last one looks like it will be much harder. The other team’s pivot, the one blocker who is eligible to become a jammer during play, is skating backward fast and has her attention fully locked on me. Except she trips over someone’s skate—I can’t tell if it’s one of my team’s or not—and goes down!
I zoom by!
The audience screams their heads off, gearing up for my next lap, where I can add even more points to the board. I’m mentally mapping the distance to the next turn when the pain in my stomach returns. This time it’s so sharp I can barely keep from doubling over. What the hell?
Before I can think through my decision, I pat my hands on my hips twice to signal the ref that I’m calling the jam off, which is my right as jammer, but not someth
ing I’d ordinarily ever do when there are easy points to be scored. Four rapid whistle blows from her alert the rest of the players.
The crowd quiets and I sense their confusion. I’m feeling it too—though mine is tied to the cramp and whether or not I could have imagined it, because it’s completely gone now. How is that possible?
Arms drop to sides, skaters snowplow and tomahawk to stops, music pumps again, and the announcer updates the score for the audience: “Beantown Ballers pick up four points, which increases their lead over How Ya Like Them Apples to an impressive fifty-seven to forty-four. And we’re just getting started, folks!”
I’m the last to reach the circle my teammates have formed on the track, and I catch the silent questions they’re asking each other with their eyebrows and baffled shrugs. But there’ll be time for explanations once we get to the sidelines. For now, we bunch up and put our hands in the center of our circle, ending the period the way we always do, with the jammer—meaning me—yelling, “What’s the boss of us?”
“Courage!” my teammates scream in reply, waggling fingers.
“What’s never the boss of us?” I shout.
“Fear!” they answer.
We wave our hands above our heads before settling into triumphant power poses the crowd adores. They reward us with catcalls, and we preen and bow, then break apart and move toward the sidelines to await the start of the next period.
I keep my hands on my hips and glide slowly, savoring the rush of being on the track.
Sibby appears at my side. “How ya going? Not keen to add too many points to our lead that jam?” she teases, but with a hint of concern underneath her words.
I sigh. “It was super weird. I had this intense cramp, but it’s completely gone now, like it never happened.” I massage my abdomen absently and shake off a tiny prickle of fear. “Anyway, bizarre.”
Sibby’s mouth pinches down. “Are you sure you’re okay? Should you sit out the next jam?”
Coach jerks her chin our way, summoning me.
“I’m fine now,” I tell Sibby, pulling the cloth cover from my helmet and acknowledging Coach with a nod. One of the girls from the opposing team is right on our heels, close enough to have eavesdropped.
She taps my shoulder, and in a perfect Regina George mock-sweet voice says, “Not to worry, Rookie, it takes a few years to get used to menstrual cramps. Once you pass puberty, you’ll be fine. Don’t be too bothered about letting your team down in the meantime.”
You’ve got to be joking. Sure, derby is full of trash talk in the name of fun, but it’s also all about girl power to the millionth degree, which is one of the reasons I love it so hard. This chick is hitting low.
“Speaking of our nether regions,” Sibby shoots back, “why don’t you channel your energy into trying to grow a pair. I saw your rubbish attempt at a block.”
“Whatever,” the girl tosses over her shoulder as she turns to skate toward her own team. “Go throw another shrimp on the bahhhhbie.”
I kick into gear, passing her easily, then executing a T-stop in front of her. Smiling serenely, I pop one hand on my hip and slap the other over my mouth in exaggerated surprise before saying, “Wow. Just . . . wow! That’s so, so clever! I’ve never heard anyone say that to an Australian before! Where did you come up with it?”
The girl is sandwiched between us now, though we aren’t crowding her, and my eyes twinkle as I catch Sibby’s. I skate toward her but stop just beyond the other girl’s shoulder and call back cheerfully, “Maybe once you manage to pass infancy, you’ll pick your head up, look outside your bubble at the big world around you, and realize how ignorant you sound. Wanna know the fallacy in your oh-so-witty cliché? They don’t even have ‘shrimp’ in Australia. They call them prawns. So, yeah.”
Sibby licks her finger and puts it in the air, making a sizzle noise and touching it to mine. “Solid burn, babe,” she says, in her best American Teen accent, which always makes me laugh.
We watch the girl skate away in clear disgust and Sibby cocks her head. “Wow, she was a bit aggro.” She taps her thumb on her lip, pretending to contemplate, then adds, “Reckon I should ask her out?”
“This is why I love you so much, you know that, right?” I ask, bumping her toe stop with mine.
“Because I’m adorable? Because I use Aussie words like ‘reckon’? Because I’m clearly descended from the witches they couldn’t burn?” she responds, tapping back playfully.
“Let’s go with D: all of the above.”
“Ta, dah-ling. Or maybe it’s because I encouraged you to apply for the mural grant and you have me to thank for winning it?” We resume our path toward Coach, in no rush now that she’s deep in conversation with Hannah, our team captain.
“Um, excuse me, I don’t remember any arm twisting involved!”
I’m always in a good mood on derby days, but today’s is especially great because of the email I got on the drive up here, letting me know my design had been chosen to decorate the entire exterior wall of a new restaurant opening near Harvard Square. It’s a pretty big deal. I’ve been doing chalkboard art since I was eleven and my hand lettering skills are seriously legit (I don’t believe in humblebrags—if you got it, own it), but so far I’ve mostly only done chalk menus for the store-owning friends of my parents. I’ve never attempted anything on this scale. Or anything this permanent; I’ll be switching mediums to work in paint.
“Hey, the mural’s not stressing you out, is it?” Sibby asks. “You have a bit to get used to the idea before you start, yeah?”
“Are you kidding?” I answer. “I can’t wait for it to warm up enough for me to get out there with my cans of paint! The rest of this winter is gonna be endless.”
Part of me wishes we could zoom past the next month and just have it be spring already. The other part of me knows I’m supposed to savor the remaining days of high school before everyone scatters into our different futures. Plus, there’s plenty to keep me busy in the meantime, between the lead-up to derby playoffs and the road trip to DC Sibby and I are planning so we can take part in a march for gun control legislation.
Coach is still in conference with Hannah, and she puts up a finger as we approach, so we pivot and rejoin our team on the sidelines.
“You okay, Rolldemort?” a couple girls ask, while others offer congratulations on the points I scored. Desiree, aka Char-Broiled, points at my knee. “Hey, stellar bruise, Rookie. Wall of Fame–worthy.”
Bruises are badges of honor in roller derby. I spin to show off another impressive one on the back of my shin. “You should only see the two I found last night on my torso. Must have happened at practice.”
Only we would get this excited over painful injuries. But I definitely don’t tell them I’m a little alarmed at how serious those two on my sides look, especially given that I can’t remember any impact that would have caused them.
“Imagine the ones we’ll get once we’re on the all-stars!” Sibby whispers for my ears only. I nod hard, tucking away my nagging concerns.
Come fall, Sibby and I will be on different teams. I’ve already been accepted early admission to Amherst, in western Massachusetts, so I’ll transfer onto the regional team there. I have every faith Sibby will get off the wait list at her top choice, Tufts, which would keep her on our current team and make us occasional opponents. Not cool. So we hatched a plan—if we can both get onto the all-stars, a separate unit composed of the best players in our league, we’ll be reunited again for those bouts. The trick is edging out all these older players who’ve been at it way longer, but I’ll put my money on the unstoppable force of Lia + Sibby any day.
“Ah, the eternal, unwavering optimism of youth,” Desiree teases. Clearly, Sibby needs to work on her whisper volume. Desiree makes her voice shaky to mimic an elderly woman. “I remember having that once upon a time . . . vaguely.”
Desiree is the ripe old age of twenty-four, so neither of us takes her remotely seriously. She drops the put-on voice and gest
ures to the stands. “Speaking of all-stars, did you catch your cheering section?” She waggles her eyebrows meaningfully as she takes a swig from her water bottle, then skates off while we survey the bleachers.
I suck in a breath when I spot at least half the all-star team. They’re scheduled to play here tonight, but I hadn’t considered they might arrive so early. This means they were on hand to witness us in action!
A few are looking our way, so I exaggerate air kisses before spinning my backside to them and cheekily (pun intended) flapping up the top of my miniskirt to reveal tight bicycle shorts below.
Sibby gasps. “What are you doing?”
I glance back at the stands; one girl has two fingers in her mouth, whistling at me. See? All good. “One: Outlandish behavior is synonymous with roller derby,” I remind Sib. “Two: Since when are you a shrinking violet? Do I really need to pull up pics of the outfit you wore to the pride parade last year?”
Her smirk tells me my point hits home, and confirmation comes when she glances up again at the all-stars across the arena and drops them a deep curtsy. Catcalls follow from their section, and I can’t contain the smile that stretches across my face.
I’m about to gloat to Sibby some more, but instead my breath is stolen when the pain returns, full force.
I grab my side and cough, choking on something liquid and metallic-tasting that rockets up my throat without warning. Sibby’s eyes widen in alarm and mine must match. I reach for her arm to steady myself but instead sway into her as my lips fall open and I projectile vomit blood all over her uniform and the track.
Oh god!
Oh god, oh god, oh god! What’s happening?
It’s candy-apple red, nothing like the deeper purplish blood from a cut. Someone screams—I think it might be Sibby, though I can’t lift my head to check because I’m doubled over now, clutching my abdomen as blood continues to shoot from my mouth. It’s like someone turned on a spigot somewhere inside me.
Where is it coming from?
My hands grasp my knees, fighting to grip them with clammy palms. Sweat drips from my forehead too, and stings my eyes. The arena is full so there should be all kinds of noises, but other than the scream, I can’t hear any of them.
