by A. C. Wise
Another woman runs onto the sand. “Maria!”
“Go!” Bunny yells at both of them, grabbing her harpoon from the sand and whirling to where the tentacle is rising again. It is joined by a second and a third.
The woman called Maria runs, sheltering her son. The other woman hesitates just a moment, and it is a moment too long. One tentacle lashes downward. Bunny drives up with her harpoon, sinking the point deep into the creature’s flesh. Black blood like ink gushes from the wound, salty as the sea water across her red lips, stinging her eyes and covering her in gore.
As the woman begins to run farther up the beach, a second tentacle whips around her ankle, dragging her back toward the waves.
“Oh, no you don’t!” Bunny wrenches the harpoon, twisting it and pulling it free. Blisters rise on her sweat-slick and blood-wet palms where they rub against the harpoon’s smooth, wooden handle. One day, they will be calluses. If she lives that long. The sea monster writhes. It shrieks. It pounds the sand. But it doesn’t let go. Bunny stabs at the tentacle wrapped around the woman’s leg as the woman claws frantically at the sand. Bunny hacks, fierce, fueled with rage, seeing the dead man with his missing face and the dog ripped in two again and again.
It all comes out of her like a primal scream, but not as a sound. It comes out as the harpoon’s point, stabbing until the sea monster finally lets go. Bunny staggers back, blinks, stiletto heels sinking deep in the sand. Her pulse trips, adrenaline making her tremble. Is it over? It can’t be over. She blinks again, forcing herself to move.
“Come on. Let’s get you out of here.” Bunny reaches to help the woman up. Her voice quavers too; the aching muscles in her arms might never stop shaking.
They are both splattered with blood, drenched with sea water. The hand gripping Bunny’s wrist is slicked in ichor. She hauls the woman up, but the woman doesn’t let go right away. She stares at Bunny, wide-eyed, mascara running to mingle with the gore on her skin, dark hair plastered to her shoulders, her sun dress—dark blue covered in a riot of bright pink and yellow flowers—clinging to her.
“Go on,” Bunny says, trying to push the woman toward the shore.
The woman blinks. “What about you?”
“Just go!” Bunny says. It’s not over. Of course it isn’t over. She can feel the thing beneath the ocean gathering to strike again, bunched tight like a swimmer’s muscles the moment before he launches his body into the waves. It’s wounded, but not dead. It’s angry. As angry as she is, and it too can be fueled by rage.
“But what…” The woman never finishes her sentence.
Water sweeps around them, knocking them both off their feet. The dripping, bleeding bulk of the sea monster looms over them, a paler green-grey now that it’s lost so much blood. It screams, a high-pitched, terrible sound, showing rings of teeth receding back into its throat. One eye, yellow, slitted like a cat’s, glares at them.
“Get out of here!” Bunny yells at the woman.
Somehow, she’s managed to keep hold of her harpoon. She struggles to stand, slipping in the waves, the sand treacherous beneath her. She raises her weapon, but her balance is off, and the monster is quicker, angrier. A tentacle whips out and snaps her harpoon in two. Bunny drops to her knees.
She scrambles after the broken harpoon pieces but the tide snatches them away, sucking them hungrily beyond her reach. The sea monster screams again and it takes all of Bunny’s will not to clap her hands over her ears.
She squeezes her eyes shut for just a moment. She takes a deep breath. Forces herself to stand. Then she looks the monster in the eye.
If sea monsters can laugh, she swears this one does, and it’s laughing at her. Something inside Bunny clenches tight, making it hard to breathe. The monster is trying to make her feel small again, powerless, afraid. For a moment, she lets it. She shrinks inside her armor, heart beating too hard. She feels her war paint running. What was she thinking? She’s no hero.
The monster feints, snaps a tentacle in the air next to Bunny’s head, close but not touching. Bunny reels back. Her heels catch in the sand, tripping her. She lands hard, twists, and tries to scramble away from her traitor shoes. A tentacle thuds down, blocking her, a cat toying with a mouse.
The woman, who did not run away when Bunny told her to, darts in, dodging coils of tentacle. She snatches Bunny’s fallen shoe and pushes it into Bunny’s hand. Bunny stares for a moment, gaping incomprehension before understanding dawns.
“Thank you.” She gives the woman a shaky smile, grabs her other shoe, and pushes herself upright, whirling to face the monster. Wielding a shoe in each hand, heels pointed outward like blades, she remembers: She is Bunny. She is a warrior. She is strong.
The sea monster lunges towards her, a falling mass of stinking flesh, determined to crush her and make her into a meal.
“Oh no.” Bunny grits her teeth. “Not today, you big, ugly fucker.”
The sea monster screams, and Bunny screams right back. As the monster falls toward her, maw wide, Bunny leaps up, colliding, driving both points of her high heels deep into the monster’s eye.
Aqueous humor spurts from the wound, slicking Bunny’s arms. The monster’s scream turns to a sound of pain. It thrashes and heaves beneath her and Bunny jumps back, landing in the sand and somehow keeping her feet under her. Tentacles whip the air, the monster tearing at its eye, trying to rid itself of the shoes. The sound it makes is piteous now, mewling, almost a sob. For a moment, Bunny almost feels bad.
“You shouldn’t have eaten the dog,” she murmurs.
The monster sinks into the ocean, limbs still thrashing, but weakly now. Water surges around Bunny, up to her waist, and then retreats, rushing to fill the spot where the monster disappeared. The silver dress clings to Bunny’s thighs. Her frosted-white hair is askew. She can’t even begin to imagine what her make-up must look like. But she’s alive.
“Is it dead?” someone calls from the shore.
The woman beside Bunny is the one to answer. “I think so.”
The woman touches Bunny’s arm, and Bunny starts. “Are you okay?” The woman’s dark eyes are full of concern, but wonder too. Admiration for what Bunny has done.
“I think so,” Bunny says. “But look at me,” she adds after a long moment. “And look at you.”
“We could both use a shower.” The woman grins, nerves and relief. Bunny sees now that she’s shaking, too.
“And after that, I’m going to sleep for a week,” Bunny says.
They lapse into silence, and the woman’s expression grows serious again. “That was incredible, what you did. Saving my nephew. Saving me. Thank you.”
“I did what anyone would do,” Bunny says, shrugging, uncomfortable now and looking away. Deep down, she knows her words aren’t true.
The woman’s hand tightens on her arm. “No. Not anyone. I could never do something like that…”
Bunny hears the longing in the woman’s voice. It goes all the way through her, kicks at her heart, and makes her breath catch. What has she lost? What makes her afraid? She turns and looks at the woman, really sees her—gore-covered, soaking wet, skin goose-pimpled. But there’s a hero there somewhere inside her, too.
“Well, no, not in those clothes at least.” Bunny allows herself a slow smile. It feels good.
“You mean…?”
“Uh huh.” Bunny’s smile widens, becomes a grin. “Saving the world is hard work. You had my back, just now, with the shoes. It would be nice to have a hand now and then, you know, on a semi-permanent basis.”
The woman shakes her head. “I could never do what you do.”
Bunny feels the woman’s pulse, jumping in her fingertips.
“You already proved you can. And the right wardrobe will do wonders for you, I promise. I’m Bunny. What’s your name?”
The woman opens her mouth, closes it again; Bunny sees when she starts to say one thing and changes her mind. The woman straightens, her eyes, dark brown with just the faintest hint of green, glin
t with mischief, and the beginning of a smile lifts the edge of her mouth.
“You can call me Esmeralda.”
“Esmeralda.” Bunny takes Esmeralda’s hand and shakes it firmly. “Welcome to the team.”
Put the white chocolate and the cream in a small bowl and microwave on low power until the chocolate melts; stir until smooth. Place chocolate mixture, vodka, Grand Marnier, and orange juice in a shaker with plenty of ice and shake well; strain the mixture into a martini glass, dusted with dark chocolate, and garnish with orange zest.
This drink is a natural fit for Bunny—one of my easiest creations ever! It’s smooth and sweet, but there’s a bite in the orange, the vodka, and in the dark chocolate rim, underlying the sweetness. This drink —like its namesake—looks beautiful, but it will sneak up on you and kick your ass before you even have a chance to compliment its dazzling smile.
It’s funny, since she used to be a bartender, I figured Bunny would have some of her own recipes to share. I’ve tried to get her to talk shop, trade secrets, but she’s always got some excuse or another. When it isn’t excuses, it’s flattery. But you’re so good at it, Sapphire. I couldn’t possibly compete with you. She’s a master at deflection. You know what I think? I think Bunny wants to forget she ever had a life before this one. Believe me, I understand, it just surprises me. Out of all of us, I figured she would know that the name you’re born with has nothing to do with who you are. Of course, just because someone always seems to have it all together doesn’t mean they do. Bunny is only human after all. Fearless leaders should be allowed to be afraid every now and then and know their team has their back. I hope Bunny does, because we do.
STARLIGHT HAS ALWAYS BEEN A ROLLER GIRL. EVEN WHEN SHE WAS little, when her mama still called her Walter, she knew what she would grow up to be.
When Cindy Williams passed out glittery pink invitations in the shape of cupcakes, inviting the whole class to her birthday party at the roller rink, Walter dragged his mother to the mall, pointed at the prettiest, sparkliest, pinkest tutu that ever was and said, “Mama, I want to wear that.”
Walter’s mama glanced at the price tag, pressed her lips into a line, then said, “Okay, baby, but just know, the other kids are gonna make fun of you.”
Then Walter’s mama knelt down, put her hands on her son’s shoulders, and looked deep into his eyes. She didn’t quite sigh, but he saw a little flicker of pain and larger flicker of determination in her gaze. She squeezed Walter’s shoulders just a touch harder.
“And just know it doesn’t matter one bit,” she said. “Deep down in their hearts, they’re gonna be jealous of you wearing something so pretty. But don’t you pay them any mind. Ever. You’re gonna be the belle of the ball.”
The moment they got home from the mall, Walter pulled the tutu out of the bag and slipped it on. Looking at himself in the mirror, he smiled and whispered the name he’d secretly been hugging tight to his chest for weeks, mouthing it silently in the dark as he fell asleep, holding it like a perfect, round marble on his tongue.
“Starlight.”
He hadn’t told anyone about his real name yet, not even his mama. He’d gotten it from a princess in a cartoon. She rode a unicorn and wore a bright, shiny tiara, and Walter always imagined she smelled like strawberries. He hadn’t dared say the name aloud yet. But now, it finally felt right.
And so Starlight went to Cindy Williams’ party wearing the pinkest tutu that ever was, and when everyone gathered to play whip-crack, Starlight got to be the end of the chain. And when everyone skated in line, so fast that whoever was on the end of the chain had no control, Starlight understood in the moment before Brent Davies let go of her hand just what her mama had been talking about.
Her pink tutu survived. But Starlight’s nose was broken that day. She skinned her knee, too; the barrier surrounding the Moonlight Madness Roller Disco rink was notoriously unforgiving.
To her credit, Starlight didn’t cry. She picked herself up, but didn’t skate back to the line of seven year olds laughing at the boy in his tutu. She lifted her chin, took her skates off, and handed them to the bored-looking attendant half-slumbering at his desk. Whether Cindy Williams’ mother never noticed there was one less child at the party by the end or whether she was simply relieved to be rid of Walter-in-a-tutu, Starlight never knew.
With a quarter tucked into one of her shoes, Starlight called her mother from a pay phone outside the Moonlight Madness Roller Rink. She didn’t mention the bloody nose or the skinned knee. She pretended her stomach hurt from too much cake and ice cream and asked if Mama could please come and take her home.
Mama didn’t say anything about the busted nose or the skinned knee as Starlight climbed into their beat-up Chevrolet—more rust than powder-blue paint by now. Instead, Mama handed over a tissue and drove back home.
Starlight’s daddy wasn’t the understanding kind, and though she never said it, Starlight suspected Mama was just as glad he’d left before he’d ever had a chance to disown his son. There were bruises Starlight wasn’t supposed to know about, proving just what daddy thought of women and men and their places in the world. And he’d have been mighty sore at Mama for being so proud of her son.
ON HER EIGHTEENTH BIRTHDAY, STARLIGHT’S MAMA GAVE HER A brand new pair of roller skates.
“I was thinking you could maybe get a job at the new Moon Dust RollerRama off I-10,” she said.
She didn’t look Starlight in the eye. Starlight was prettier than her, had been for a while, and she was afraid her girl must be ashamed of having a mama so plain. She should have done better by her, brought her up right. She should have taken Starlight to the best salons for hair and nails, bought her the fanciest dresses, but what did she know with her bleached-up hair, turquoise eye shadow, and three-kitten grey t-shirt over worn-thin black stretch pants?
Starlight’s mama fidgeted. She looked at her cigarette. She turned her lighter over and over in her hands. Starlight, her beautiful daughter, startled her by planting a kiss on her cheek.
“Thank you, Mama. They’re perfect.”
Starlight took the skates to her room. She set them on her dresser, lined with Stop n’ Save cosmetics. She’d told her mama the truth: They were perfect. White leather, red wheels, laces aching for her fingers. But how much had they cost? Starlight chewed her lip.
She lifted one skate, spinning the bright red wheel. If she followed Mama’s advice and got a job, she could help with the bills. Starlight picked up the other skate. Something rattled. She dug in the boot. Buried in the toe was one last present—a compact of pink lip gloss the rosy color of fireworks bursting over the lake on the Fourth of July.
STARLIGHT GLIDES EFFORTLESSLY AROUND THE EDGE OF THE RINK, palm upturned, fingers splayed, balancing a tray of frosty milkshakes. Her uniform is regulation spotless; her hair and make-up are her own. Today her teased-up do is silver-threaded with old tinsel salvaged from Christmas decorations, and her lipstick is seashell pink, studded with the most kissable glitter imaginable.
She barely breaks stride handing out each drink, collecting payment with a smile and a perfect pirouette spin. She never gets an order wrong, and everyone at the Moon Dust loves her. She shows up early, not just on time, and she even had her own skates when she applied for the job. Tony, the RollerRama’s manager, hired her before she even opened her mouth to say her name.
The RollerRama isn’t just a job for Starlight; it’s freedom. Gliding round and round under the spin of colored lights feels like love. The music thumps in time with her blood. When she’s skating, everything is perfect for just a little while. Starlight doesn’t have to worry about most of her paycheck going to help Mama with the bills and how it’s barely enough. She doesn’t have to worry about Mama working her second job, or that nasty cough she can’t shake.
And while those are part of the reason Starlight took the RollerRama job, when she’s skating, they’re not what she thinks about. No, it’s all about the wheels. Her favorite times are the brie
f moments when the RollerRama is closing and all the customers have gone home. Alone except for Tony and the other employees, Starlight takes center stage, executing the most perfect twirl under the disco ball just before the lights go off for the night. Glints of silver fly around her like the universe holding her in its arms and dancing. For that one moment everything is perfect; she doesn’t have any worries at all.
When she doesn’t have orders to fill, Starlight glides around the edges of the rink, watching the customers: couples on first dates, holding hands as they twirl under the lights; children fighting to get their wobbly fawn legs under control; teenagers in their black leather jackets gathered on the fringes, too cool to skate, judging and watching, hunters on the prowl.
Starlight keeps an eye on the last ones, the popped-collar hyenas. She watches out for their prey, too, the sad boys and girls skating alone, reaching desperately after the freedom of the glide but so unhappy inside their skins. She is ever vigilant, ready to swoop in and intervene.
On this particular night, Starlight marks them, the predators. Dean, Eddie, and Vic. They remember Starlight back when she was called Walter. She remembers when they were Theodore and Victor, and Dean wore cloudy-lensed glasses with thick, black rims. They’ve forgotten this, and their names, but they remember the whip-crack kid crashing into the wall at Cindy Williams’ birthday party, laughing so hard they almost wet themselves. Starlight has grown up; they haven’t.
They’re watching a girl with frizzy red hair and glasses almost as thick as Dean’s used to be. She can’t be more than fifteen, wearing a bulky sweater to hide the fact her breasts haven’t come in yet. She also wears thick tights over knobby knees her coltish legs haven’t grown into, afraid to smile because her braces only came off last week. Her name is Debra; Starlight knows because she’s been paying attention.