Going in Circles

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Going in Circles Page 17

by Pamela Ribon


  “I don’t? What do you think I’ve been doing all this time?”

  “Waiting! Waiting for someone else to make this decision for you.”

  I’m too tired for this argument. “Forget it,” I say. “I’m going home.”

  “Nice. I have to hear about Matthew every second of the day, literally nurse you back to the world of the living when your therapist puts you on medication that practically gives you a lobotomy—”

  “I had a bad reaction! I wasn’t trying to—”

  “And now you don’t have any time for me when it’s my turn to be sad? You kind of suck right now.”

  Trash skates in between us with the swiftness of a boxing referee. “Okay, you two bitches need to get to couples counseling,” she scolds. “No more fighting at my practices or it’s toilet detail for both of you. You can yell it out while you scrub the bowls clean. Understood?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Francesca says, her eyes still fixed on her cell phone.

  As Trash skates off I take a moment, trying to get us both to calm down. “You’re going to hear from him in the morning and then everything will be fine,” I say. “It always is. Why should we go through hours of anxiety for nothing?”

  “Because that’s what friends do, you asshole.” Then she skates past me, bumping my shoulder. She keeps going, skating out of the warehouse, into the parking lot.

  “She okay?”

  It’s Bang-Up asking. She’s sitting across from me, shoving gear into a rolling suitcase slapped with a sticker that reads, MY DERBY WIFE CAN BEAT UP YOUR DERBY WIFE.

  “She will be,” I say.

  “Take care of your head,” she says. “You probably shouldn’t have gotten back up there, but it’s pretty badass that you did. And get a new helmet. Your old one’s useless now.”

  Francesca’s car is gone when I get to the parking lot. But someone’s standing next to my car. It takes a few seconds for me to realize it’s Holden.

  “I know I’m not supposed to say it,” he says, “but I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hit you that hard.”

  “I just wasn’t expecting it, that’s all. I was looking the other way. I’m fine. But I am getting a mother of a headache.”

  “I would imagine.”

  It always takes me a second to relearn what someone looks like without a helmet or gear. Holden is all right angles, a thick forehead, angled chin, ears that seem pinned into the sides of his head like afterthoughts. He’s got dark, short hair that’s jagged and wild, sticky spiked from sweat. His black T-shirt is sagging across his chest, damp and worn. His arms are crossed in front of him, and I notice a bird tattoo on his biceps, near the crook of his elbow. He catches me staring and rubs at it. He lowers his head to catch my eyes, and I am suddenly aware of how close we’re standing. I take a step back.

  “So, I’m going to get in the bath,” I say. “And try not to slip into a coma tonight.”

  “Right. Listen, Broken, I don’t know if this is okay to ask, but are you—”

  “No.”

  He pauses, thinking. His eyebrows knit together in confusion. “No, it’s not okay to ask, or no to whatever I didn’t get a chance to ask?”

  I’m aware of how ridiculous I sound, as my mouth goes dry. “I don’t know,” I say quietly. “Both, I guess.”

  “Sorry,” he says. “For asking. And for not asking.”

  “Not your fault,” I say, trying to ease the tension. “I’m the one with the head injury.”

  “Right,” he says, pointing at me. “Or maybe you’re just smarter than I thought.”

  He puts out his hand and I shake it. He slides his hand across my palm and grips my fingers with his. I pull away like he’s hit me with a joke buzzer. I don’t want to bring on another panic attack, and I don’t know how to tell Holden it’s not his fault that I can’t seem to handle a man touching me.

  “Okay, then,” he says, and heads to his car. A red Honda, covered in bumper stickers, including one for Obama and another for the Hot Wheels. As he drives away, he ducks his head and raises his hand, one more apology for the road.

  There’s a breeze on the back of my neck as I toss my gear into my trunk. My head aches and I just want to go home and hide.

  I’m not waiting, I tell myself. Francesca’s wrong. I’m just not ready.

  But then I have to wonder: Ready for what?

  31.

  So, call me today, tonight, whenever. I’ll be up. Okay, bye.”

  It has been two days since we fought, and I can’t get Francesca on the phone. She even called in sick to work. I kind of have to admire her dedication to avoiding someone. I used her office while she was gone so that I didn’t have to be near Jonathan. It’s awkward between us right now, and I know he wants things to go back to the way they were, but he’ll just have to wait. He’s not my first priority.

  I open my laptop to check Matthew’s Facebook page, but stop myself. I actually don’t want to know any more. I just don’t care. It’s not a decision that requires any further thought. Right now there seem to be more important things than trying to figure out what Matthew is doing with his time without me. I have to figure out what to do with my time without him.

  Charlotte Goodman realizes she’s just repeated to herself something her friend Francesca has told her a million times. If Francesca were in charge of the narrator in Charlotte’s head, right now she’d be telling him to say: Suck on that, Charlotte Goodman. Now watch your tiny friend dance around your apartment with the freedom that comes from the satisfaction of being right.

  I delete my fake profile, which removes my access to Facebook. It feels like I’ve made an executive decision, one that should come with . . .

  A certificate.

  I text Francesca: I QUIT THE INTERNET. WILL THAT MAKE YOU FORGIVE ME?

  No reply.

  This leaves me with just the couch and the Fuck You Television. How easily I can just stay here again, like I used to, falling asleep to Jon Stewart, only to wake up disoriented and depressed. The couch is calling to me, asking me to curl up around a cushion and give up. Give in and stay there until everybody has forgotten about me, until I’ve forgotten about everything.

  But I can’t do that. I’ve come too far.

  I call Andy.

  Two hours later we are at a dark Chinese-themed bar, crammed into a wooden booth, mashed against a brick wall from elbow to shoulder. The truth is we are grateful for the structural support, as the drinks in this place are superstrong. We haven’t come here in years, and I had forgotten how much I love this place. Having to squint through the dark to see each other, the jukebox that plays every song so loudly you have to lean in to understand each other, the red bulbs everywhere making everyone look mysterious and foreign. I find it to be incredibly romantic, and just what I want as I sip my martini.

  That said, I don’t think I should have a second one.

  “Too late. I’ve already ordered it,” Andy says, as he pushes the drink in front of me.

  “I owe you one.”

  “You owe me nothing.” Andy steals my skewer of olives and pops one into his mouth before returning it to my drink. “Except maybe some of your time. I was going to pretend to be mad at you, but you look so pitiful I just don’t have the strength to go through with it.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Do you ever wonder how many times a day you apologize? Because you do it a lot.”

  He scratches at his wrist, a habit he’s had as long as I’ve known him, which means he is uncomfortable.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He fiddles with his glass of Scotch. “I don’t know, Charlotte. It feels like there’s too much to cover, really. You kind of dropped out of my life.”

  “So you weren’t going to pretend to be mad at me. You are mad at me.”

  “I’m not mad,” he says, still scratching at his wrist as he searches for the words. “I’m surprised how quickly I got dropped.”

  “I didn’t drop you. Derby’s been kind of hectic, and
—”

  “I lost my job.”

  This shuts me up.

  “I got another job, so it’s fine. But you never even knew that I was unemployed.”

  “I’m sor—”

  “At first I thought you ditched me because I reminded you of all the shit you’ve gone through, but then I figured that couldn’t be it, because I never even liked Matthew to begin with. No offense.”

  “Okay.”

  “But it sucks, Charlotte, because at a certain point you’re supposed to ask me how I’m doing. That’s what friends do. The problems go both ways.” Andy turns in his seat to lean his head against the brick wall. “I hate it when you make me talk like a girl.”

  “Well, I’m not sorry about that,” I say, trying to make him laugh. But he’s got his focus far away, his face bathed in the red light, softening his features. It makes his skin flawless, and he looks exactly like he did the day I met him. It makes me yearn for the past, our past, and wish I could go back and do some things differently, enjoy the times I was truly happy but didn’t stop to notice.

  “I know things have been difficult for you, but you make them worse,” he says, now turning his gaze toward me. “You go into this bubble of pain and act like nobody can understand. Guess what, Charlotte? Everybody understands. We aren’t idiots. We’ve all been through pain. And you have been missing out on things because you seem incapable of moving on.”

  The martini is making my brain fuzzy, and I’m worried I will talk uncensored. “Everybody wants to make sure I know how much I suck lately.”

  “It was tough watching you spin yourself into depression, but I was there. And then when you spun yourself hard enough, you just forgot about everything and everyone. Including me. You don’t call. You don’t ask how I’m doing. And when I do get a call from you it’s to play Matthew at your mother’s birthday party. It’s all you, all the time. It’s exhausting.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He smacks the table. “No! Don’t be sorry. Fix it.”

  “Okay! How do I fix it?”

  Andy reaches over and pulls down my lower lip with his thumb as he talks. “ ‘Hi, Andy. It’s me, Charlotte. Your shitty friend. You got a new job? What’s that like?’ ”

  I pull back. “Get your finger out of my mouth.” I wipe my lips with my wrist. “What’s your new job?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Andy!”

  “I’m working post-production at a reality show about babies, okay? The job is fine, but I spend almost my entire day hearing whiny women talk about their problems. And it’s made me really fat, which is why I’m lonely and miserable, and I’m taking it out on you. I’m volatile when I’m fat.”

  This makes me smile. “Are you done?”

  “No. Then you called and brought me here to this black hole of Chinese sadness to scream all your problems at me over the jukebox, which reminded me that no matter how bad I might think my life is, you believe yours is worse, and therefore you’re still a more miserable human being than I could ever be.”

  It takes a certain kind of lifelong friend to have not only the courage but the right to talk that way. Andy is such a friend.

  “I’m sorry, Andy.”

  “That’s all you have to say?”

  “What do you want me to say? I’m really sorry. I’ll be a better friend. I’ll stop talking about my problems all the time. I’ll ask you about your life. No more being selfish. Okay?”

  Andy drains his drink. “Do you really think that’s what I wanted to hear from you?”

  Then it hits me. “You’re not fat.”

  His grin is a relief. “Thank you.”

  32.

  I’m bent over my skates, untying and retying them, hoping to make it look like I’m experiencing an equipment malfunction when really I’m just trying to catch my breath long enough to stop being nauseated. I’m guessing my little trick is no longer working, because Bang-Up skates right up to me.

  “Broke-Broke, are you going to sign up for the Rookie Rumble?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not? You should.” She isn’t wearing a helmet today, and her long brown hair is flowing over her shoulders, making her look like a roller-skating pinup from the seventies. I heard that Bang-Up is a kindergarten teacher by day. Every time I see her, I think of her making kids get ready for nap time, breaking up fights, and snuggling weepy children. I hope she doesn’t make her little ones do push-ups when they spill their juice.

  I was supposed to have signed up by now, but I don’t want to without Francesca. She’s skipped the last two practices. She still won’t return my calls. If Andy was sick of how I was treating him, I can only imagine how furious Francesca is with me. It’s kind of ironic how she’s ignoring me the way Jacob’s been ignoring her. Or maybe she learned it from him, how to ice someone out until they’re going crazy. Either way, it’s working. I thought for sure I’d see her here tonight at the track. She’s never missed a practice for as long as I’ve been coming here, and now she’s on her third.

  “I’ll think about it, Bang-Up,” I say.

  “Don’t think.” She points at a clipboard on the nearby bench. “Go sign up. The rumble’s in three months. I want to cheer for you.”

  Trash calls me from the track. “Broke-Broke! Come up here and do this drill.”

  I shrug at Bang-Up. “Gotta go!” I say, skating away.

  It’s a jamming drill where I’m the Jammer, and I’ve got to break across two Blockers. There are just the three of us on the track, so they have time to plan a formation before I get to them. I skate hard, but they surround me, taking me up to the rail, effectively getting me to a standstill. No matter how much I try to dance around them, one or both of them find a way to stay in front of me. I can’t get past this wall of ladies.

  Bruisey-Q is one of the girls I’m trying to pass. Her warm smile does not match the fact that she’s got a shoulder block so severe I’ve had a bruise on my upper arm for the past week. It’s gotten to where I’ve asked her to sign it, just so I can show it off properly.

  “Come on, Brokey,” she says. “You can get past us. Find the hole.”

  I slow down and let the two girls get some distance in front of me so I can figure this out. I just have to find a hole, a space they aren’t guarding. I decide to come at them like I’m going to go high, and then shoot down low, hoping I can pass them on “the pink,” the pink line at the very edge of the track, the last edge of fair space just before the infield.

  I try to bolt in that direction, running on my wheels, but I still feel clumpy in my skates. I’m as graceful as an elephant on a beach ball. With all the work I put into moving, you’d think I’d go much faster.

  The Blockers are slowing down, their heads cranked back to watch me, to anticipate what I’m going to do next.

  Now.

  I make it look like I’m going high, pumping my elbows, stomping my skates. It works, and the Blocker on the in-side takes a stride toward the rail. I turn and arch down to the infield, lifting one foot so I don’t step out of bounds as the other Blocker throws herself toward me, but she’s too late; I’ve already passed her. I saw the hole and I got through. I can hear the girls in the infield cheering, and I pump a fist in the air because everything went just as it was supposed to.

  Who’s a winner?

  I look back, fist still in the air, to see my adoring crowd.

  And that’s when I lose my balance. I’m falling forward, but I don’t want to land on my face again, so I yank my body back, arms flailing. I tuck my feet under me, but I don’t just land on my knees. I somehow fall even harder, slamming my butt right into the metal underside of my skates.

  When they say you can hurt yourself badly enough to see stars? You really do. Everything’s sparkly and white and dotted and your tongue swells and your throat tries to close up and kill you so that you don’t experience any more of the shooting pain that’s taking over your spine. My hands wiggle,
making me appear to be finishing an elaborate dance number.

  I know my fall looked absolutely hilarious. So I’m even more impressed when Bruisey-Q and Trash rush over to me with comforting words, and wonderful ice packs.

  “Shit, Broken. That must have hurt,” Bruisey-Q says.

  I’m not crying, but tears are streaming down my face. My body has completely abandoned my head and is operating on its own now. “I think I broke my tailbone,” I say.

  Trash nods, the corners of her mouth turned down. “I’m positive you did. Way to earn your name, Hard Broken.”

  Bruisey-Q is shoving an ice pack down the back of my tights. “I did the same thing when I first started. You bent your knees too far, so instead of your knee pads taking the impact, your ass did. Into your skate.”

  I couldn’t possibly care any less why I just broke my ass. I only want it to not have happened.

  “You might want to see a doctor,” Trash says as she unlaces my skates for me.

  It takes half an hour for me to get out of the rest of my gear and ease myself into my car. When I sit down, my body screams in pain. It hurts so much I can’t even see. I don’t care if I’m still technically at practice because I’m still in the parking lot. I lean my head against my steering wheel and break down in sobs. I don’t want to not be able to skate.

  There’s a knocking on my window. I see Bruisey-Q waving at me, her face flushed and sweaty, her black Hot Wheels hoodie wrapped around her shoulders like a cape. She’s biting her lower lip, concerned.

  Instead of lowering the window, I open the door. Bruisey-Q stands in the crook of it, leaning an elbow onto my roof as she observes me.

  “I know,” I say, wiping my face. “There’s no crying in roller derby.”

  “Dude, you broke your ass. You get to cry. And take lots of drugs. I mean it.”

  “Every time I think I’m doing well at this, I immediately hurt myself. Maybe I don’t belong here.”

 

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