“Nope.”
“Fine.” I buckled my seatbelt and sighed, sinking deeper into the seat. “Yes, they’re really neat ladies, and I’d like the opportunity to get to know them better. And yes, the skating part was amazing. I think I could really love this sport. But that doesn’t mean they’re going to take me.”
“Roller derby is a funny thing.” Elsie started the engine, pulling away from the curb. “I don’t really understand the scoring, or how the game is supposed to be played, or why there’s so little casual nudity, but I do understand one thing: these women, all of them, they’re team players. They understand what it means to be a part of something bigger than themselves.”
“Okay…”
“Just let me finish, Annie, all right?” Elsie shook her head, eyes remaining on the road. “You don’t like people very much. We both know that. You put up with them, and some of them you care about, but for the most part, you’d be happy if you were that dude on The Twilight Zone who lived through the bomb being dropped and then had all the books in the world and no one to tell him to put them down.”
“He broke his glasses,” I said. “I’ll pass.”
Elsie ignored me as she doggedly continued, “That’s why you need a team. You need people who you have to give a crap about, or I’m scared you’re going to forget how caring about anyone outside your family works. That’s a really lonely way to live. I want something better for you. I want you to have people you can care about.”
I blinked. “Wow, Elsie. That’s…deep and maybe creepy.”
“Besides, the team captain for the Concussion Stand is hot. You should join the league so I can come to practice and watch.”
I laughed despite myself, swatting my cousin on the shoulder with one hand. Elsie grinned and swatted back before putting her hand back on the wheel, and we drove on, into the streets of Portland, leaving the warehouse behind.
*
A week later, I was standing on a log with a can of hairspray and a crème brûlée torch, trying to set fire to the giant flesh-eating dragonflies of unknown origin that had been strafing the reservoir for the past week. The dragonflies had been absolutely delighted to take several bites out of me while we were canvassing the area, but they were stubbornly refusing to hold still and catch fire. I was beginning to question “fire bad” as a mechanism for getting rid of monstrous insects. (And they were monstrous insects, with the intellect to match. Dad had tried flash cards, mathematical signaling, and a letter board before he declared them to be non-sapient. That, combined with their unashamedly hostile nature, was what made killing them okay.)
Dad was crouched in the bushes not too far away, using his sniper rifle to pluck the wings off the moving bugs while I distracted them with fire. Mom was somewhere on the other side of the reservoir with Grandma’s katana, a bunch of sample jars, and enough napalm to deforest the entire area if we weren’t careful. As long as the giant dragonflies didn’t start producing reinforcements, we were probably good.
My phone started ringing.
I managed—somehow—not to drop the lit torch into the tall grass, where it would have made my life way too interesting. Artie and Sarah were back at Artie’s place, trying to find any reference to the insects in the family field guides; it was entirely possible they’d actually managed to dig something up. I tucked the can of hairspray under my arm, waving the torch at the encroaching dragonflies, and pulled my phone out of my pocket. The number was blocked. That just made it more likely that it was Sarah, who thought that numbers were too important to share with just anybody.
“Talk to me,” I said, bringing the phone to my ear.
“Hi, this is Dani Tran, calling for Annie Thompson.”
For the second time in under a minute, I nearly dropped the torch. “Speaking! I mean, uh, speaking. I am speaking. This is Annie.” My heart felt like it was trying to take an all-expenses-paid vacation at the bottom of my stomach. Dragonflies were nowhere near as frightening as learning the outcome of my audition.
“Great! I’ll get right down to it: both the Block Busters and the Slasher Chicks have said they would be happy to have you skating for them. You’ll start as an alternate, and we’re going to work you as a blocker, with the potential to become a pivot if you show promise in the art of the jam. Practice is Wednesday afternoon at six o’clock sharp, if you’re still interested. You are still interested, right?”
“I am so interested.” A dragonfly got too close. I torched its left wing as I tried to rapidly sort through what I remembered about the teams in question. Fern, the girl who had skated in a way that broke the laws of physics, was a Slasher Chick. My decision was easy. “I’d like to skate for the Slasher Chicks.”
“Sounds great. You given any thought to a name?”
My family had been fighting monsters for generations. That fight was inevitably going to take me away from everything I loved; whatever I chose for myself was a limited time gig, because there are things you can’t get away from. Like giant, flesh-eating dragonflies that are now on fire. “Yeah,” I said, applying my torch to its head. It fell, burning, to the grass. “I’m the Final Girl.”
“Sounds good. And Thompson?”
“Yeah?”
“Welcome to roller derby.” The line went dead. I stared at my phone for a moment, wide eyed and unbelieving, before stomping out the flames spreading from the dragonfly and starting to grin uncontrollably. I wasn’t a cheerleader anymore—I might never be a cheerleader again—but that was okay. I had preserved the thing that really mattered.
I belonged to a team. As long as that was true, I could handle anything the world had to throw at me—whether or not it was on fire at the time. I was going to be okay.
Just wait and see.
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