by Pamela Ribon
Muffin has busted out of the pack in front of me, and as Lead Jammer, she’s starting her lap to meet up with the pack again in order to score points. I have to get out of this pack and get in front of her. That’s my only job right now.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see an opposing Blocker lean to the right, curling like a panther about to pounce. She takes a second too long, giving me enough time to know she’s planning to hit me. I pull myself back, Matrix-style, in that same second. She misses and falls.
I haul ass.
I’m skating as fast as I can, all by myself, focused on Muffin. I’m allowed to hit her if I can get near her, and I think maybe I can get her to the ground.
My skates wobble because I’m going faster than I ever have on the track. My brain is battling with itself, telling me both to slow down and speed up. Slow down so I don’t get hurt. Speed up because I can beat her, I know it; I just have to get there.
Then: a miracle. Muffin takes herself out at one of the turns, tripping over herself during a crossover. I gain precious distance, so that by the time she’s skating again, I am beside her. More importantly, I am on the high side. I have more power from up here. I take a few steps and throw myself into the flesh of her right arm, slamming her to the infield. She falls.
But I fall, too. We are both on the ground, and everybody else is yelling at us. Whoever gets up first and gets past one of the opposing Blockers will score a point. Then she can call off the jam before the other one gets to the pack.
I think about a skate to my face, even though there isn’t one coming. I picture my nose exploded in blood and cartilage, and my body hurls itself back upright. I’m off, leaving Muffin in my dust.
I pass a Blocker, scoring one point.
I’m about to call off the jam, my hands ready to smack my hips, but then I hear Francesca scream, “Go high!”
There’s a hole. I see it. A space where the other Blockers aren’t covering, and if I can get there, I will pass two of them. That’s two more points, but I can see Muffin’s already back on her feet and getting closer. It’s Francesca’s style to go for the extra points. I’m nervous to risk losing the lead.
“Go high!” she screams again, and I know I’m running out of time, so I bolt up the track, sounding like thunder as I do. An opposing Blocker sees me, tries to get her shoulder into my arm, but I push myself forward three more steps, three baby steps that make all the difference as I push past her, scoring another point. But then, just as I’m about to call off the jam, I see it.
Another hole.
I can make it past the other two Blockers. I can score five points.
I start to glance back to see where Muffin is, but Francesca’s suddenly giving me a push from behind, hollering, “Go, go, go!”
I skate harder than I could have ever imagined was possible and I shoot past everyone else, finding my way to the front of the pack, free and clear.
I whack my hips with both hands, calling off the jam. The whistle blows.
Five points. A personal best.
My teammates cheer. Someone pats me on the ass. Francesca shouts, “Broke-Broke, you’re my hero!”
I know I’m in a warehouse in the middle of nowhere, playing a sport most people have never even heard of with a group of women whose real names I might never know. I know it’s just a practice jam in a practice scrimmage for the rookie skaters of a much bigger league. But this moment, right now, is pure victory. I feel invincible.
46.
I can’t wait for the bout,” Bruisey-Q tells me as we round the last turn back toward my apartment. My unemployed status allows me the kind of free time that lets me go for a run around four, and I found out Bruisey works freelance as a graphic designer, so she’s become my semiregular running buddy. She’s a little bit spacey, but her seemingly random thoughts keep our workout routine interesting.
“I can’t believe it’s almost here,” I say, as we slow down to a walk. I check my watch, pleased to find we shaved four minutes off our normal five-mile time.
We’ve been working hard, training six days a week. To my relief, I’m no longer the worst one on the track. Nowhere near the best, but not the worst. I can’t believe something I started on basically a dare has become so important to me that it’s a daily part of my life.
“I’ll be sad when it’s over,” Bruisey says.
“Me too. But my body will be happy to have some time to heal.” I lean over to stretch out my side.
Bruisey takes a few breaths as she kicks out her legs, side to side. “I’m so jealous. You’re like, this perfect free butterfly, getting to do whatever you want. Your whole life is ahead of you, and you get to decide what you want. I wish I could do that, sometimes. Be that free.”
She trails off as we walk the remaining feet to the front of my apartment. It’s hard to imagine anyone would be jealous of what I have, when I think about this past year. There were times when I felt like I’d never be able to get out of bed, much less run five miles. Bruisey’s admiration of what I have makes me realize I haven’t spent enough time appreciating what I’ve been able to do, both on my own and with the help of some really phenomenal people.
Bruisey sighs, tucking a pink strand of hair behind her ear. “See? Even your cute apartment. I’m jealous again.” She points at the scooter illegally parked next to the trash bins. “Past’er’s already here waiting for you, probably with a glass of wine. This never happens to me.”
“Bruisey, it’s happening to you right now.”
“Only because I’m with Broke-Broke Superstar. That’s the name you should put on your next gallery showing.”
“I don’t have a gallery showing.”
“Sounds like you will soon!”
I had called Book’s gallery out of curiosity, and learned a new Book owns the place. She goes by the very normal, humanlike name of Marcy. She remembered me from when I used to hang out there all the time. “I wondered where you went to,” she said. “It was like you dropped off the face of the earth!” We set a meeting for next week.
My front door opens. Francesca is standing there, not with a glass of wine in her hand but rather a flute of champagne. But what seems to be of more importance is the envelope she’s clutching to her chest.
“Yo,” she says, handing me the glass. “You got served.”
• • •
Twenty minutes later, we’re sitting around my coffee table, going through the stack of paperwork that requires me to list all of my assets.
I laugh. “It shouldn’t take all this paper just to write the word None.”
Francesca holds her glass of champagne up toward the window, rotating it by the stem in the light, like she’s counting the bubbles. “I always wanted to say ‘You got served,’ ” she says. “It just wasn’t nearly as much fun as I thought it would be. Why can’t we serve Matthew?”
“Because he filed.”
Bruisey’s eyes widen as she rifles through the pages. “Look at this,” she says, pointing, her normally brusque voice elevated in shock. “There are five different things you can check to claim what’s happening to your house. There’s one if you’re selling the house and splitting it, one if you’re keeping the house—”
“He’s staying there for now.”
“Right. That’s what I’m saying. There isn’t an option for that. It says, ‘The wife will remain in the property until point of sale.’ Nowhere does it say the husband keeps the property and the wife moves out.”
I close my eyes and nod sagely. “Well, I am a progressive woman.”
“What a mess,” Bruisey says, shaking her head.
“Still jealous?”
She smiles. “It’s still kind of exciting. Paperwork. Court.”
Francesca snorts. “Wow, lady. You are weird.”
“One chapter closing so another can begin. Maybe now Charlotte gets to find her soul mate.”
Francesca makes a face. “Don’t. Charlotte gets testy when it comes to boys. Holden Wood has h
ad a crush on her for months, but she won’t do anything about it.”
“Hi, I’m still holding my divorce papers. Just got served.”
“Congratulations again,” Francesca says, clinking my glass.
Bruisey’s eyes are round with shock. “Holden is cute.”
“I don’t know his real name. Doesn’t this seem doomed?”
Bruisey’s tone gets very serious, like she’s suddenly found her purpose. “But how do you feel about him?”
“I’ve given it exactly zero minutes of thought.”
She dances in her seat. “Then here’s what you have to do. The next time you know he’s walking near you, hide behind something and watch him.”
“You mean stalk him?”
Bruisey shakes her head, brushing me off. “I had a friend who was on the fence about this guy she was seeing. She asked him to meet her at the library, and then she hid behind a bush when he walked up so she could find out what it felt like when she first saw him.”
Francesca refills my glass as she says, “That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
“He won’t see you, and it gives you a moment alone to just see how you feel. Try it.”
“I think I will not.”
Bruisey downs the last of her glass, whistling in her seat. She’s still in her sweaty running clothes, and her cheeks are flushed from the champagne. “I don’t know,” she sing-songs. “I think you will.”
“I know you were making a joke with the champagne,” I say to Francesca, “but it’s still pretty good.”
“It wasn’t meant to be ironic,” she says, sliding the papers to the side, topic adjourned. “I originally came with good news. Then I checked your mail and once again Matthew ruined everything.”
“What good news?” Bruisey asks, immediately perking up. “I bet it’s exciting.”
Francesca stares at her for a second. “You really are trippy.”
“I am drunk.”
“Go ahead, Past’er,” I say, taking away Bruisey’s glass.
She smiles, lowering her chin to her chest demurely. “Jacob’s moving to Los Angeles. Permanently. He got a transfer.”
I sling an arm around my friend and congratulate her. “That’s so great. How lucky for you guys.”
“Lucky? No. I gave him just shy of an ultimatum. I asked him to make a decision about me, and then make a decision with me. He did both.”
“You should give him a certificate.”
“Charlotte,” she says, dropping her head to my shoulder, “you know I did.”
47.
Okay, I’m going to throw up.”
“You can’t throw up,” Francesca says. “I’m going to throw up and I need you to hold my hair while I throw up. Plus if you throw up I’ll totally throw up because I have that thing where watching someone throw up makes me throw up.”
The bout starts in twenty minutes. Francesca and I are decked out in our team uniforms, or “boutfits.” The theme for the bout is “Cops versus Robbers.” We’re both dressed like hot lady cops, in dark blue miniskirts and collared button-up shirts that have patches that look like badges on the pocket. We’re sporting dark fishnets and black thigh highs. Jonathan is going to have a field day when he finds out teams wear “boutfits,” but I don’t care. We look fantastic.
Francesca is pacing, the carpeting making her skates useless. She has to lift her knees high and prance like a pony, barely covering any ground. Francesca lurches forward, and her skirt flies up, exposing her hot pants with the words SEE YA! written across her ass.
“We need a goal,” Francesca says. “You and me. Let’s do something really badass together.”
Partnering is key in roller derby. If you try to play by yourself, you pretty much end up useless. It’s something I’ve grown to really appreciate about the sport. You always need someone, and someone always needs you. Even the Jammer, who looks like she’s on her own, actually has an entire pack of girls who have her back. We are all in this together.
I quickly come up with our goal. “Let’s promise we’ll take out the other Jammer together, at least once. Let’s surround her and take her to the rail.”
“Deal. I’ll get in front of her to slow her down, and then you hit her.”
“Hammer and nail,” I say, calling out the name of the play, as I tape my final certificate from Francesca on the wall over my space on the locker room bench. It reads: CHARLOTTE “HARD BROKEN” GOODMAN IS OFFICIALLY FIXED.
“Let’s go kick some ass,” says my best friend and superbadass Hot Wheels Derby Devil Blowin’ Past’er, number 69.
“Hey,” I say, taking her hand.
“What’s up, Broke-Broke?”
I get down on one knee pad and look up to meet her confused gaze. “Now that I’m divorced, will you be my derby wife?”
She tackles me in celebration with such enthusiasm I worry I’m injured before the game even starts.
• • •
I’ve practically sprint-skated back to the dressing room because I decided I wanted an extra water bottle in the infield during the bout, and that’s when I see Holden Wood adjusting his skates outside the referee dressing room. I quickly stop as quietly as I can and roll backward, tucking myself behind the entryway. I can’t believe I’m about to follow Bruisey-Q’s whack-ass advice, but I stay hidden and watch him. He’s holding his skate laces in two fists, awkward around his own gear.
The feeling I get is like how when sometimes you’re doing two unrelated things at once—like reading a book while listening to music—the two things can magically unite. You hear a word in the lyrics sung the exact time you read that exact word in your book. It’s impossible, but it seems like you made that happen.
As I watch Holden untie and retie his skates, I yearn for a memory I don’t have yet. I realize I’ve been missing something for a very long time, and it’s up to me if I want it again.
I want to step out of a bath clutching a helping hand, one attached to a man holding a towel. I want that warm, steamy, loving embrace that happens where he wraps me up in terrycloth and inhales me. I’m ready to find someone who wants to be there at that moment, to kiss my damp eyebrows and say, “You smell good.”
It’s a moment that illustrates how private love can be. You, standing there like a child: clean and new, in nothing but your skin, still wet at the ankles, hair dripping soap-scented water. And someone takes care of you. It doesn’t happen that often in life. And I really miss it.
Maybe it won’t be with Holden. But it can’t be with anyone if I don’t stop being too scared to look.
I round the corner to let him see me. He breaks into a smile. “Kick ass out there, Broke-Broke.”
I try my best to stop right before I reach him, but I stumble on the tiled floor. He reaches out his hands, quickly steadying me.
“Sorry,” he says, even though I’m the one who should apologize. “I had to touch you just now, but it was completely legal. You were going to fall.”
“Maybe I fell on purpose.”
He puts his hands on his hips. “I think you want me to think that, but I know you just klutzed out in front of me.”
“I’m ready for you to ask that question now.”
My heart is racing and I can feel the blood in my face rushing to my cheeks. I hope he can’t tell how nervous I am. It’s been a long time since I hoped someone asked me out.
He smiles. “Which question? Because you waited a while, and now I have so many.” He rubs his jaw against his shoulder. “Where should I start?”
“How about I just answer all of them with yes.”
“Wow.” He kicks at my skate with his own. “All of them?”
“Call me and find out.”
“Ooh, Broke-Broke. I like it when you’re flirty.”
• • •
Francesca and I are humbled by the size of our personal cheering section. I immediately spot Andy, Jonathan and Cassandra, my parents, and Francesca’s parents, who look way more normal th
an I ever would have imagined. Francesca’s mother is wearing a sweater set, for Pete’s sake. And her dad looks adorably nerdy. I can’t wait to meet them and tell them how awesome their daughter is.
Standing in front of all of them, holding an enormous sign that reads: “Faster, Past’er!” is Jacob, beaming with pride.
My mother has such a look of horror on her face, I’m afraid someone has just told her I’ve grown a penis. My father, on the other hand, looks so proud of me I want to burst into tears. He’s pointing at me while talking to the person who made the unfortunate decision to sit behind him. It makes me immediately wish I’d done more sports growing up, so Dad could have come to my games, beaming with this kind of pride. He looks so happy to be a dad. I watch him hook an arm through my mother’s elbow, bumping into her with a grin. She loosens up, but only a little. When this is over, I owe my mom one usually insufferable brunch with the ladies from her knitting group.
I turn around to take a good look at my team, at this group of women who have spent hours with me, training with me, learning who I am, both inside and out. These women not only know what I’m made of, they knew what I was capable of before I did. They literally beat it out of me.
The lights go out around the crowd, the track is flooded in brightness, and the sound of cheering rattles in my chest.
Francesca grabs my hand. “Here we go!” she shouts.
“Ladies and Gentlemen! Welcome to the Rookieeeeee Rummmmble!”
• • •
There was a lot of falling. Especially at first. We’re thirty incredibly nervous newbie skaters slamming into each other in front of a crowd of screaming people. But eventually we get used to the lights and the noise, and remember the game we’ve trained to play. We remember to look at each other, to partner up and focus on our goals.
Francesca and I are called to a lineup with Francesca jamming, and I’m the Pivot. Bruisey-Q, Stick-N-Stoned, and a refrigerator of a girl named Gigantasaur round out my pack. I quickly make a plan. Gigantasaur takes the back, knocking the crap out of anyone stupid enough to come near her, preferably the other team’s Jammer. Bruisey, Stoned, and I will take the front, holding back the other girls.
