by Jen Malone
14
I REFUSE TO GIVE MY BROTHER THE BENEFIT OF MY LAUGH, EVEN if he’s not here to hear me, so I stifle it and close my phone.
“Do you think you could drop me back at my mural, Mom?” I ask, adjusting my seat belt.
Turning my attention to it after doctor’s appointments is becoming something of a trend, but unlike last week I won’t be using my art to help get me out of a funk—exactly the opposite, actually.
“I could, but I have something else in mind to help us celebrate and I think you might like it even more,” she says, glancing over with a smile.
Bring it. Today may have started out like crap, with the almost panic attack in English Lit, but it went everywhere good from there.
First, there was ditching school with Sibby for the afternoon. Obvious highlight. Then there was finally starting on my mural. I got half of the background painted in just a couple hours. I know it will slow down once I reach the actual design, but it’s amazing to have it underway at all, after waiting out all the crappy weather this spring has started with. And then came the best part yet: my MELD score went down. Only by a point, to twenty-three, but after it’d jumped so quickly last time, I’m flying high to see it move in the opposite direction.
“What’d you have in mind?” I ask Mom, who’s clearly elated too.
“Mmm . . . maybe a quick skate?”
“Skate?” Now I’m confused.
Her grin is mischievous. “Okay, I have a confession. I didn’t really have to run back into Dr. Wah’s office because I’d forgotten to get my parking ticket validated. I wanted to get her opinion about letting you attend derby practices—I know how much you’ve been missing them. Dr. Wah thought it would be perfectly fine, as long as you continue to feel physically up for them.”
“Mom,” I breathe, stunned.
The familiar landmarks along the route to Themyscira (our nickname for the warehouse in Medford where we practice) begin to whizz by out my window, but I still can’t bring myself to believe her. “This isn’t an April Fools’ joke, is it?”
“April Fools’ Day isn’t until Monday, babe. And just how cruel do you think I am?”
I shake my head in disbelief, then freeze. “I don’t have my skates! Or my pads or my helmet!”
“Check the floor behind you.” The grin on her face makes it obvious she’s loving this. “I put them in there this morning, thinking this would be a way to cheer you up, but I’ll take celebrating instead!”
“You sneak! You said I couldn’t adjust my seat because you had bags of clothes for one of your clients on the floor back there.”
“Which is the truth, just not the whole truth. You seem to have forgotten, I’m a lawyer. I can spin anything.”
I contort myself to reach my skate bag, which is indeed hidden under a bunch of other stuff. I drag it into my lap and slide one of my Riedells out, cradling it lovingly. I flick the wheels with my fingers. “Yeah, well I’m a skater. I can spin too.”
“That’s what I’m counting on, sweetie.”
Themyscira smells the same as ever—a mixture of damp cinder block, sweat, and the upholstery foam that, along with old blankets, forms the padding around the support columns. I inhale deeply. Just before pushing open the door I’d had a brief moment of worry that being back in the same atmosphere would trigger some kind of PTSD anxiety, but instead everything feels friendly and safe.
The three-hour practice is well underway, so I expect to find the makeshift track, created by duct tape and rope, crammed with skaters. My nerves give a sudden jump because I haven’t seen anyone from my team—other than Sibby, of course—since that day at the arena, and I know I’m going to have to endure some uncomfortable fawning before I can get back to the business of skating. But if that’s what it takes, I’m prepared for it.
Except the track is empty, as are the handful of camp chairs scattered around the perimeter. Instead, everyone is clustered into a bunch facing the back corner of the warehouse and there’s the distinct sound of giggling, followed by shushing noises.
Immediately, my stomach drops. Mom must have told them I was coming and they’ve got some big “welcome back” thing planned, which is really sweet, but not what I need. I just want to get out there on the track with them; that’s all the welcome back I care about. One glance at my mother, though, lets me know she’s not in on any surprise.
I’m about to alert them to my presence when Sibby skates out from the bathroom, rubbing her hands on her bicycle shorts. She’s facing away from me, toward the group, and she calls, “Hey, what’s going—”
“Congratulations!” my teammates all scream at once.
“You guys!” Sibby exclaims.
What is going on?
“T-U-F-T-S, T-U-F-T-S, hurrah! Hurrah! For dear old Brown and Blue!” they chant.
Sibby got into Tufts?
“You learned the Tufts fight song for me? I don’t even know what to say.” Sibby has her hands on her hips and is skating slowly toward everyone.
“You’d better too, if you plan to represent your college well,” Hannah teases.
Everyone piles onto my best friend with hugs as my skates nearly slip from my fingers.
Sibby got into Tufts? But . . . I only left her a few hours ago.
Why didn’t she text me right away? Why would they know before her best friend in the world?
“Rolldemort?” One of my teammates, Hazel, catches sight of me over Sibby’s shoulder. “Holy crap, Rolldemort! You’re back!”
Everyone’s attention immediately turns to me and they squeal and start in my direction. I leave Mom’s side and step onto the track, plastering on a smile to cover my swirling thoughts.
“Couldn’t stay away,” I tell them, when they reach me a second later.
Sibby is right on Hazel’s heels. “I can’t believe you’re here!”
She looks guilty, though. Busted. Her eyes skitter past my face instead of sticking to my gaze.
“I’m glad I was just in time for the big celebration,” I say, trying to keep any accusation from my voice or eyes, well aware that we have a crowd of onlookers.
How long has she known? We spent the entire afternoon together—why wouldn’t she have told me this enormous news, which we’ve both been waiting on forever? I texted her video of me opening my email from Amherst about two seconds after I recorded it. I told her before I told my family.
On the way here, I’d been looking forward to practice as the perfect way to extend my good mood, but now I need it so the burn in my muscles can replace the burn my best friend just delivered.
“How are you? Are you sure you’re okay to skate?” Hannah, our team captain, oozes sympathy as she rests a hand on my arm. “Sibby’s been keeping us up to speed, but, god, the last time we saw you, you were . . .” She trails off and shudders. “That was intense.”
I need to shut her Mother Hen act down before everyone takes their cues from her, so I pop a hand on a hip and wink. “Why don’t we run a few three-on-ones and I’ll show you how good I’m feeling?”
“Damn but we’ve missed you, lady,” Desiree says, grinning. A few others nod enthusiastically.
“Your girl over there’s made sure every last one of us is registered as an organ donor,” says Hannah. “And she handed out brochures to the opposing team at the last bout; she’s on a mission for you!”
I watch my best friend, now off to the side chatting with my mother, and plant yet another cheerful smile on my lips. “She sure is.”
Hazel starts to butt in, but Coach interrupts her. “Hey! Chat all you want when we finish practice. Let the girl lace up!”
This earns Coach a grin I don’t have to force, and Hannah says, “Okay then. Whaddya waiting for, newbie?”
“All right ladies, let’s start with some lateral work,” Coach tells us.
I grab my skate bag and head to the bathroom to change. Gearing up is a routine as familiar to me as getting ready for school in the mornings or prepping a chal
kboard surface for lettering: I tug on padded shorts, sports bra, T-shirt, and knee socks that I cover with ankle guards; tighten my skates and check my toecaps; slip on knee, wrist, and elbow pads; snap my helmet into place; and, lastly, pop in my mouthguard.
Everyone else has already logged time on skates tonight, so it doesn’t take them long to get back up to speed—literally—but I purposefully seek out the end spot as I join in a drill where we form a long line to skate in one direction around the track, leaning to the left through the turns, then transition to reverse direction so we’re leaning right into them. It’s a basic drill, but even though I’ve run it hundreds of times, it feels good to be back out here. If this stuff with Sibby hadn’t happened, I’d probably be approaching pure bliss right about now.
When we finish, the others begin weaving around cones set up in an S shape, but I edge to the wall on my own to run through some stretches. Just the one drill has my out-of-practice body beginning to protest, and the last thing I need is to miss more derby over something as small as a pulled muscle. I’m carefully balanced in a figure four—one ankle on top of the opposite thigh and squatted down like I’m about to sit on a chair—when Sibby appears at my side.
“Are you upset?” she asks. “You are, I can tell.”
I wobble in my pose and grab the wall for support. “When did you find out?”
She ducks her head. “I got the email this morning before homeroom.”
Homeroom. She’s known all day and didn’t tell me?
Reading my face, Sibby rushes on. “I tried to find you right away, but then the bell rang and perv-o Dormer was roaming the hallways, and then he interfered again by keeping a couple of us after History to talk about this awful group project, so I was two steps behind Mrs. Aguilar coming into English, remember? I didn’t want to tell you once class started, because we wouldn’t be able to properly freak out together, and then you know what happened next, so—”
“What happened next is we spent the entire afternoon together!”
She ducks her head. “Yeah, I know, but you were so freaked out about your doctor’s appointment and I didn’t want to be the arse jumping up and down insisting on a parade when you were dealing with that.”
I drop my pose and stare at her. “Sibby.”
“Lia.”
We blink at each other, and though I’m glad to have an explanation . . . it still hurts. It hurts that my BA got in the way of my being there for her when she wanted to share her excitement with me, but it hurts even more that she didn’t think I could put my own stuff aside long enough to celebrate her good news. She knows I’m her person. Of course I would have done that. Truthfully, I would have been thrilled to focus on someone besides me. To enjoy good news for a change, and life-changing good news, not just temporary good news like my MELD score dropping by a single point.
But mostly just to be there for her.
I hate that we’ve both started keeping things from each other. I hate that there are fraying edges to a friendship I thought was rock solid.
“I just wish you hadn’t felt like you needed to protect me,” I tell her.
“But I’m your blocker, luv, that’s what I do,” she jokes.
I muster a small smile and she sobers. “I know. I wanted to tell you, like, at least a thousand different times.” She grabs my arm. “Hey, but you know about it now and holy hell, you’re at derby practice and that is frickin’ amazing!”
I try to let her enthusiasm rope me back into the pure excitement I’d felt heading in here. The feelings I’ve cycled through since arriving are hard to shove aside, but I don’t want to ruin tonight when Sibby’s right—she got into Tufts and I’m on skates again. I always believed she’d get off the wait list, but I didn’t think the second thing would happen so soon, and I should be savoring every minute. With my best friend.
Coach’s whistle blows. “Line up. You know you love it. You know you’ve missed it. It’s the 27-in-5!”
Loud groans greet her. The 27-in-5 is a lap test the Women’s Flat Track Derby Association uses as an endurance benchmark for skaters. You have to be able to complete at least twenty-seven laps in five minutes as one of the minimum skills required for clearance to play in sanctioned bouts. We’ve all jumped that hurdle already, obviously, but Coach likes to keep it in the training rotation.
It’s a ballbuster.
It’s also my favorite because I’m fast. Like, really fast. And the 27-in-5 lets me revel in it. My personal best is thirty-six laps, but our pivot has done 41-in-5 and I’m determined to match her. I don’t care that she used to be a competitive speed skater with Olympic aspirations.
It won’t happen today, of course. I’m well aware that I’ve been off the track for a month and haven’t kept up with any training regimen, so I’m not seeking to break any records here. But finishing twenty-seven under the whistle should be no big deal.
I shove in alongside my teammates and surge forward with them the second Coach blows her whistle.
A mere ten laps in, I know something’s wrong. I’m winded. Like, really winded. Winded like I’d expect to be at the very end.
Get it together, girl!
Sibby peeks over her shoulder at me as I reluctantly dial back a bit on my speed. I flash her a small thumbs-up and she smiles and turns around again. I match my pace to one of our workhorses, Vivi. She’s powerful, and an amazing blocker; she’s just not known for her quickness.
Even Vivi is lapping me by the time Coach blows the whistle to indicate five minutes have elapsed. I’m on lap seventeen.
“How many’d you get?” Sibby asks, passing me en route to her water bottle. I shake my head because I’m too out of breath to speak, and she smirks and resumes skating. Her reaction lets me know she has no idea how badly I struggled out there and I hope no one else does either, though I’m sure some of my teammates noticed I was the one getting lapped, when it’s always the other way around. I had to wave off Coach’s concerned look several times, so I’m guessing she has a clue.
I coast to where Mom is tucked into one of the camping chairs, paging through a work file. The fatigue I’m experiencing is different from anything I’ve ever felt before. It’s like my bones are tired, that’s how deep it goes. I’m out of shape from my month off skates, but this isn’t just that.
It’s because you have a disease, jerk, my brain taunts.
Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP! I tell it.
There’s another hour of practice left, but I don’t even have the strength to pretend I’m capable of another drill. I lean close to my mother and whisper, “Do you think you could invent some kind of after-hours lawyer emergency?”
She peers up at me, surprised. “Are you ready to call it quits already?”
I bite my lip and nod.
She must see something in my posture because her only follow-up question is, “And you don’t want them to know it, because . . . ?”
I simply shake my head and fix her with a pleading look. Mom studies my face for a second, then grabs her purse from the ground beside her and stands. “I think I just remembered a very important, very urgent client call I need to make back at the office.”
15
I WAIT UNTIL THE NEXT DRILL IS UNDERWAY BEFORE TELLING Coach we need to leave and waving goodbye to everyone from the sidelines. Sibby’s eyes go wide and she holds a pretend cell up to her ear. “Call me later!” she mouths.
The car is completely silent for the first couple minutes of our drive home, and I stare out my window at the streets crammed with multifamily houses.
Eventually Mom says, “No one expects you to be able to keep up right now, you know. You could have been honest with them.”
I stay angled away from her. “I’m already one of the newbies on the team; I don’t want them to see me as weak.”
Although what will they think when I don’t show up at the next practice? Because I can’t imagine my fatigue is going to get any better from here—not until I have a new liver inside me.
I wish I’d never gone tonight. In English class this morning, I’d actually half hoped for symptoms so it wouldn’t feel like this disease was eating me up inside so mysteriously, but now I regret ever thinking that. Being oblivious makes everything easier to deny, makes it easier to cling to positivity.
“I can’t say I didn’t feel the same way about being seen as weak when I was starting out at the firm, so I get it. Although I think maybe under these circumstances—”
“Mom, can we please not talk about this right now?”
There’s nothing but her small sigh to indicate she heard me. I catch myself fiddling with my Rolldemort necklace, in the same absentminded way I do a lot, but this time the metal feels heavy in my fingers. I slip a hand underneath my hair and slide the clasp to the front of my neck, but I can’t work the catch free without two hands, which would attract Mom’s attention, so I tuck it out of sight under my sweatshirt instead. I’m not Rolldemort right now. I don’t know who I am.
I can’t believe this roller coaster crested again. I was riding so high mere hours ago and now I’m in a gully. I wish it didn’t have to be like this: all or nothing. I wish I didn’t have to chase highs to try to banish the lows. I wish normal could be good enough. But there’s no such thing as feeling regular these days—I’m either fighting off the darkness or exhilarated to find a few moments of sweet oblivion from it. Up, down. Up, down.
I’m running out of new options for the highs though, since everything I attempt backfires on me. The dress code protest. Sketching in my spot by the dryer. Hanging out with Will.
The mural is a tiny bright spot, but it will go by fast now that it’s finally underway.
Derby was my shining beacon of hope. For the last three years, the track has been the place I’ve felt most like me. It takes guts to endure the elbowing and it takes showmanship to keep the crowd engaged and cheering when we’re basically looping the same endless circle. But now, for the first time, it holds bad memories. Not just from my GI bleed but my feeling so physically incapable tonight and the slap in the face of Sibby not sharing her biggest news with me before she told anyone else.
