Demon Derby

by Carrie Harris

  “Thanks,” I said, taking a deep breath. He was just a guy; I needed to chill. “And thanks for calling me back.”

  “Welcome.” His eyes flicked down to the chain at my neck. He opened his mouth and shut it three or four times before he finally said, “Be careful going home. It would suck if you got mugged right before callbacks. Lots of crazies out there.”

  I snorted again. “You have no idea how right you are.”

  “You’d be surprised. I have both brains and beauty.”

  “And modesty.”

  He grinned, edging closer. “You noticed, huh?” He seemed about to say more, but Ruthanasia called him from across the room, and he frowned at me instead. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Yeah.” I backed away, trying not to feel disappointed. Not that I was obsessing, but this was my first real flirtation since getting out of the hospital, and I didn’t want it to end. It felt so normal.

  Then again, it didn’t have to stop here. I’d see him at callbacks. I found myself smiling as I slung my skates over my shoulder, and I kept it up all the way home, despite the fact that my nose still hurt and my eyes were already ringed with black circles. Darcy jabbered incessantly in the car about how excited-slash-nervous she was and what she was going to wear tomorrow. I just kept nodding and smiling. I told myself I was grinning like an idiot because of the callbacks and not because of the cute guy.

  It was kinda true.

  The next day crawled. Dad examined my swollen and bruised face with resignation—he knew from experience that arguing caution was futile—and worked with me on my derivative homework. It was like the blind leading the blind; he knew even less about math than I did. But I rushed through the work in the hopes that it might make the day go just a little faster. Unfortunately, all that sitting made my sore muscles cramp up, so as soon as I’d finished the math pages, I got into the tub and had a nice hot soak. That and some painkillers left me feeling vaguely human again.

  As I was applying my post-bath moisturizer, my phone buzzed with a text from Kyle. LOLLIPOP CHAINSAW. YOU. ME. TONITE. He shouted even in his texts. And while I normally would have jumped at the chance to spend the evening wearing out the buttons on his PlayStation and eating popcorn, it just wasn’t going to happen tonight.

  I replied, SORRY, DUDE. CAN’T. CALLBACKS!

  GOOD LUCK. His reply wasn’t as excited as I’d hoped, but maybe that was just disappointment because we couldn’t hang. And if I made the team, the schedule problem was only going to get worse. I’d have to practice a lot to get my endurance up. I sighed and set the phone down. Maybe Kyle could be Michael’s assistant manager or something. It was the best way I could think of to have derby without totally ditching Kyle.

  I took a little extra time getting ready for callbacks. This had nothing to do with Michael and everything to do with making a good impression on the team. Really, it did. I needed to show them I was good derby girl material. Something told me I’d need all the supporters I could get to make up for the fact that Ruthanasia wanted me dead.

  So I dug through Rachel’s drawers and came up with a pair of gold lamé hot pants, the fishnets from my Halloween costume, and a T-shirt that said TALK DERBY TO ME. I’d stopped by the store, so I had my own pads and helmet instead of my sister’s ratty old ones. Now I looked about as authentic as Fresh Meat could, and I hoped it would score me some points.

  When Darcy and I walked into the Skate Lake and removed our jackets, Ragnarocker took one look at the shirt and guffawed loudly. One point for Casey.

  I grinned and walked over to her. “Awesome, isn’t it? My sister used to skate for the Hotsie Totsies. I raided her closet.”

  “Yeah?” Ragnarocker asked, chomping on about five sticks of gum. “Who’s your sister?”

  “Buffy Slayzer? She skated for only a year; she started at Smithton, and it’s too far to commute.”

  Ragnarocker nodded, rubbing her jaw. “Yeah, I remember her. She knocked me clear off my feet once during the junior-senior league bout. She’s tougher than she looks.”

  I grinned proudly. “That’s her.”

  “Awesome.” She looked over my shoulder and then quickly away. “I should put my skates on.” Before I could say anything, she was gone.

  I turned around expecting to see Ruthanasia, but Michael stood there instead. He was still wearing Abercrombie. I was beginning to wonder if they’d rented ad space on his chest. If so, it had been a wise move on their part. I couldn’t take my eyes off it.

  “Hey,” he said quietly. “Can I talk to you?”

  My smile died. I felt it go, but there wasn’t anything I could do to stop it. He’d decided he didn’t want a former cancer patient on his team after all. He wanted to let me down easy; I just knew it. So when he pulled me into the tiny locker room and gestured for me to sit down on the warped wooden bench, I didn’t waste a moment before going on the offensive. I’d been scared of him before, and I was determined not to let fear get the best of me now.

  “You can’t just let me go without giving me a chance.” I stepped defiantly away from the bench and glared at him. “That’s not fair.”

  He blinked. “What?”

  “You’re going to cut me, right? After going to all that trouble to invite me to callbacks in the first place. And it sucks!”

  He held up his hands. “You need to chill. I’m not going to cut you. Who said I was? Ruthanasia?”

  “No, I …” Felt a little like an idiot, now that I stopped to think about it. Maybe the problem wasn’t everyone else seeing me like a poor little cancer girl. Maybe the problem was my constant quest to prove that I wasn’t. Maybe the problem was me.

  For some strange reason, that thought made me feel a little better; I might be stupid, but at least that was fixable. I forced my fingers to unclench and actually looked at him. His hair was even wilder than it had been yesterday, like he’d been running his hands through it. As I watched, he fidgeted with the hem of his shirt.

  Holy crap. Was he going to ask me out? And if so, what was I going to say? He was the team manager. Was it a good idea for me to go out with him? I watched as the tip of his tongue flicked out to moisten his lips, and I decided that it would be a very good idea indeed.

  Then he said, “Listen, I wanted to talk to you about—”

  “Yes!” I interjected.

  “About that katana necklace,” he finished. Then he tilted his head. “Yes, what?”

  Now I felt stupid. And disappointed, which was ridiculous. I barely knew the guy. And most of what I knew was that he was gorgeous. Not exactly the stuff relationships are made of.

  So I took that feeling of frustration and choked it to death.

  “My lucky necklace?” I asked, taking a deep breath and trying to ignore the heat in my cheeks. “What about it?”

  He reached out to touch the chain, and the contact was like an electric shock. It spread in a tingling circle at my throat and then shot up through the top of my skull. My vision went white; it felt like the world was spinning around me. The sensation didn’t hurt, exactly, but it seemed like it might choose to explode into pain at any moment. I straightened almost convulsively, pulling away and going straight into ichimonji—one leg forward, one behind, to maximize my balance. My left hand guarded my face, while my right was extended and ready to block. The defensive stance made me feel instantly safer, ready for whatever happened next.

  “How did you do that?” I demanded.

  But he looked just as shocked as I felt.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. His hands hovered an inch over my skin, like he wanted to help but was too afraid to risk a repeat performance.

  “What did you do to me?” I asked, not relaxing my defensive posture.

  Now I was pissed. I knew better than to ignore my instincts, and my first impulse had been to stay as far from Michael as possible. Yes, he was hot, but that meant nothing. The guy from the alleyway had been pretty hot too, and he’d flicked lit cigarettes at me. It just we
nt to show that you couldn’t trust appearances.

  Michael started pelting me with questions: “Are you dizzy? Do you feel faint? Do you need to sit down?”

  “Quit patronizing me!”

  He flinched, and I lowered my arms, partly because he didn’t seem dangerous now, but mostly because I felt even stupider than when I’d assumed he was asking me out. He opened his mouth, and I think he was about to apologize, when Ruthanasia charged into the locker room.

  “What’s going on here, kids? You’re making a scene,” she said. Her voice was perky and playful and full of utter crap. “You’re not going to faint, are you, Casey?”

  “She’s fine,” Michael said.

  He shifted to stand shoulder to shoulder with me, or head to armpit, I guess. He was a lot taller than me. I appreciated the gesture of solidarity and really appreciated the fact that he made it a point not to touch me. I wasn’t about to risk a repeat of the shock wave until I knew what the heck was going on.

  “Good.” Ruthanasia took his wrist and tugged gently. Her hand didn’t spark or shimmer or anything vaguely weird, which sucked. She could have used a good shock. “We need to talk about the plan for tonight.”

  Michael pulled his arm away. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  “We can’t start without you; you know that,” Ruthanasia said, pouting.

  “In a minute,” he growled.

  But she didn’t leave. She folded her arms and waited with ill-concealed impatience, practically tapping her skate on the floor. This more than anything else made me answer Michael’s next question in the affirmative.

  “So, Casey? Would you like to go out with me tomorrow night?” he asked. “It’s freshman night at the University Quad. I was thinking of checking it out after practice.”

  “Sure,” I said, trying not to crow. Not only was he hot and a college guy, but it was going to piss off Ruthanasia. I couldn’t keep from smirking when her mouth fell open. “Do you have my number? Just in case?”

  He nodded. “It’s on your derby paperwork, right?”

  “Yeah.” I made a big show of pulling out my phone and checking the time. I didn’t want Ruthanasia to think she’d scared me off. “I should go put my skates on. Talk to you later.” I didn’t need to look back to know that her laser eyes were burning a hole between my shoulder blades.

  Darcy managed to contain herself until I sat down, but only barely. I got my skates out of my bag, and less than a millisecond passed before she started squealing.

  “Ohmigod! What just happened? Because I was going to store my stuff in the locker room, and I couldn’t help overhearing! Are you really going on a date with Michael?”

  “I guess.” I looked over my shoulder to see Ruthanasia and Michael bent over a clipboard and talking quietly. As I watched, she sidled closer. If this went on much longer, she’d be in his lap. I almost felt bad for her.

  Darcy was still talking. “Gosh, you’re quick. I mean, not that I think you’re a slut or anything, but you just met him, and he’s like the team manager and stuff.…” She trailed off in embarrassed uncertainty.

  “Frankly, I only said yes because I knew it would piss Ruthanasia off.”

  “Oh.” Darcy considered this for a long time, longer than necessary. It wasn’t that complicated. “Well, it’s still awesome. And we’re gonna be rollergirls too.”

  “Yeah, I hope so.”

  I tried to keep my nerves in check as I glanced at my competition. They looked good. Limber and toned and not hobbling around like they’d been in a train wreck. Only two of the six of us were going to make the team; I’d have to be on top of my game to avoid being cut.

  Ruthanasia rolled up and looked us over. Actually, that’s not entirely true, because she made a point of completely ignoring my existence, which was fine with me. “All right, ladies. We’re going to start with suicides and burpees and then move into some jamming and pack drills before the scrimmage.”

  Practice was brutal. About halfway through the two-minute suicide drill, full of nonstop full-speed skating from cone to cone punctuated by double knee slides, I looked up to see Ruthanasia staring me down from her spot on the sidelines as if she was waiting for me to fall. I wouldn’t have put it past her to pick endurance drills just to prove that I didn’t belong there, so I pushed aside the burning in my lungs and the aching of leg muscles still unused to all the work, and skated harder. I brought up the rear, but I finished. By the time we were done, I had a killer stitch in my side and streams of sweat running into my eyes. I’d have to remember a headband next time. You’d think I would have remembered what it’s like to lack the sweat-mopping protection of hair, but I’d already forgotten.

  Everyone looked wiped, but I was the only one who couldn’t stand upright. Ruthanasia had this triumphant expression like she’d managed to score a point. I straightened, lacing my hands behind my head to ease the pain, and breathed slow and easy. This was my lack of conditioning at work. This was not weakness. This was not cancer, part deux. And I was going to shove my skate up her butt if she didn’t stop looking at me like that.

  Michael took the stopwatch from her, and she gave him a flirty look from beneath lowered lashes that he missed or ignored. I was hoping for the latter, but I’d take either. And then he said, “My turn. Burpees. I want the whole team, not just the applicants. We’re going to do them until you drop. Last one standing wins.”

  Michael and Ruthanasia turned to look at me in unison, and I knew what this was. It was a challenge, and I wasn’t about to back down. Ruthanasia took a spot next to me; Michael blew the whistle.

  It was on.

  We began running in place, lifting our knees high, the wheels of our skates clomping on the floor in an increasing rhythm. Michael blew the whistle, and down we went, dropping onto both knees and then getting back up to run. Another whistle, and we dropped again. And again. And again.

  The first applicant dropped out, chest heaving. Two more followed, so quickly that I knew they’d been holding on just so they wouldn’t have to be the first to go. The other derby girls began to quit, slowly and steadily—they didn’t have anything to lose, so I think they quit as soon as it started to get tough. Darcy began coughing hard, gasping for air, and fell to her butt on the floor. I couldn’t even manage to ask if she was okay; I needed every ounce of oxygen to fuel my muscles. Pain flared in places that I’d forgotten could hurt. My knees ached despite the pads, and my feet felt like lead. Barbageddon dropped out. It was just me and Ruthanasia.

  Her teeth were bared as she crashed to the floor again, but I was right there with her. Maybe she was stronger than me. Maybe I’d lost ground physically speaking, and maybe I never would have been able to rival her even if I hadn’t. She was pretty cut. But I had one thing she didn’t—I knew pain. I knew it like the back of my hand; I knew it like my oldest friend. I knew its shape and scope. I knew how to endure it. In the Olympics of pain, I was a gold medalist.

  So I held on. I breathed through the agony, the firing of neurons that were decidedly unhappy with my stubborn refusal to quit already. I kept going as the world narrowed to the patch of floor beneath me and the sound of the whistle and the need to endure just one more drop to the floor over and over again. I would not stop. I would not give in.

  But while my spirit was willing, my body wasn’t. Michael blew the whistle again, and I dropped to my knees. The smooth wood of the floor went wavy; my vision wouldn’t focus. Everything felt far away, like I was looking at my own hands through a telescope. I pushed weakly against the floor once, then twice, and then I collapsed.

  I woke up sprawled on my living room sofa with the thick braided edge of a cushion embedded in my cheek. The bright midmorning sun streamed through a familiar picture window; pots and pans clattered in the kitchen. My mother was quite possibly the loudest cook in the history of the known universe, but I was used to it. I flipped onto my belly, wriggling into the depths of the couch, searching for sleep again.

  When my nose p
ressed against the pillow, pain lanced my face. I pushed myself up to see Michael sitting on the floor next to the sofa. It all rushed back: the callbacks, the suicide drills, the whole hot-guy-with-a-shocking-touch thing.

  “Holy crap!” I flailed in surprise, sending half of the cushions to the floor. “What’re you doing here?”

  “I just came by to check on you. Your mom said I could hang for a while and see if you might wake up. And here we are,” he said. His voice practically made me purr, but I wasn’t about to let that show on my face.

  “Wait.” I settled back into the remaining cushions, glancing at the windows. “What day is it?”

  “It’s Sunday. Almost ten a.m.”

  My stomach clenched. I’d been out for about fifteen hours. I’d slept that long before, especially after a dose of painkillers, but this was different. Over the past few months, I’d gotten used to flipping out over every cough or sniffle. I knew it was just paranoia, and I could force myself to put the panic out of my head if I worked hard enough. But this time I wasn’t overreacting; frankly, it seemed like everyone else was underreacting. Why wasn’t I in the hospital? I should have been hooked up to about a billion monitors right now; my mom should have been studying my blood counts and helping me put on my lucky hospital pajamas, not dorking around in the kitchen.

  “Casey?” Michael looked concerned.

  “Oh. Uh … it’s okay. But I’m assuming I didn’t make the team?” I said. “That’s probably a good thing. You can go now.”

  “You … you think?” He sounded uncertain. “I wanted to talk about possibly making you an alternate. I think I might be able to petition the league—”

  “You’re not listening to me.” I stood up slowly, taking careful stock of my body. No dizziness, which was a bonus. I ached all over, but I couldn’t honestly say whether that was from derby or something else. “I can’t be on the team. Healthy people don’t randomly lose consciousness. I’ve got to get to the hospital so they can see if I’ve relapsed. Maybe we can talk later. If you want,” I added hastily.