The whistle blew. We took the track, and I was unsurprised to see Adrienne — Ivana Cutya now that we were in play — lined up next to me, crouched in the starting position. The whistle blew again, and the jam began.
Ivana took an early lead, forcing her way into our assembled blockers with a surprising ease — at least until she ran up against the unexpectedly solid obstacle that was Meggie Itwasthewind. Nobody moves a sylph who doesn’t want to be moved, and by the time Ivana broke free, I was through the pack and accelerating, well on the way to establishing my position as the lead jammer.
“Final Girl leads the jam!” crowed the announcer. I put my head down, shutting him out along with all other distractions, and focused on my dual goals for this jam: scoring points for my team, and catching Ivana before she could start draining anyone.
Being the lead jammer meant that only I could stop the jam, but it also meant that I was starting out ahead of Ivana, and it would be suspicious if I dropped back to catch up with her. I put my head down and skated like I’d never skated before, until my thighs and ankles were burning and the people in the stands were just blurs. The Poisoned Garden blockers tried to grab me, but I was fast, determined, and willing to do whatever it took to catch up to Ivana without drawing attention to myself.
An illegal hip–check sent me flying out of the bounds of the track. I silently thanked the gods of derby as the offending player was escorted to the penalty box and I skated back into position. Ivana had taken advantage of my temporary loss of momentum, and was almost level with my position. I sped up, but not as fast as I could have, and let her draw up even with me. It was easy to “stumble” as I brought my hands to my hips, ending the jam just as my bare skin collided with hers.
The look on her face was worth all the crap I was going to be taking from my teammates over my clumsiness. I smiled sweetly, spitting out my mouthguard.
“What’s the matter, Ivana?” I asked. “Don’t you like my perfume?”
“You little —”
The whistle cut her off as the referees called us into position for the next jam. I took a seat on the sidelines while Elmira Street took my place on the track. Ivana had also been rotated out, for a jammer I didn’t know. She glared at me from her seat. I kept on smiling.
That smile stayed on my face all the way through the first half of the match, even when a badly–timed block sent me sprawling into the guard rails. I’d have a bruise down my side for the next week. That didn’t matter. I just kept skating, taking every opportunity to brush my aconite–coated body against Ivana. It was almost like a game, but the cost of losing would be high. There was no telling what a pissed–off mara would do to me if I gave her the opportunity.
The whistle blew for halftime. Laughing and groaning, the players scattered, heading for their seats, for the restrooms — and, in the case of one white–haired mara, for the back door of the warehouse.
“Oh no you don’t,” I muttered, grabbing my bag off the chair where I’d left it. I waved to Elsie, making sure she saw me, and skated after Adrienne.
The warehouse backed up on a vacant lot. It was the sort of weedy, unkempt place that always seemed to show up in low–budget horror movies. The sun had set while we were skating, and the moonlight glittered off the broken glass scattered through the weeds.
Adrienne was waiting for me. I would have been disappointed if she hadn’t been.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.
“Playing roller derby,” I replied. “Fairly, without using preternatural powers to disable my opponents, I might add. That’s dirty pool.”
“What?” She blinked, and then she laughed. “The aconite wasn’t an accident, was it? You’re targeting me.”
“Only because you’re targeting roller girls,” I shot back.
Adrienne shrugged. “A girl’s got to eat. What do you care, anyway? I haven’t gone after you. You’re too sour to be worth eating.”
“You said I wasn’t a threat. Maybe I just wanted to prove you wrong.”
“You haven’t proven a damn thing.”
“Haven’t I?” I skated closer. She backed away. No matter how much bravado she was projecting, she didn’t want to risk more aconite touching her skin. “I know what you are, mara, and I want you to stop preying on derby girls. I know you have to eat. I know you serve a purpose. But draining people who are skating at stupid speeds around a closed track is just plain malicious. Someone’s going to get hurt.”
“I like roller derby,” she said. “I like winning. So what if I make it a little easier on myself every once in a while? There’s no law against draining the energy of your opponents. I’ve read the whole derby handbook, and that is nowhere in there.”
“Then maybe it’s time for an amendment,” said a familiar voice. I glanced back. Elmira was behind me next to Elsie and half a dozen cryptid skaters were lined up behind them. Some of them I knew personally; others I knew in passing, from my casual “okay, yeah, that girl there’s a…” record–keeping. None of them looked amused.
Elmira’s presence was a surprise that I could deal with later. I looked back to Adrienne. “Looks like you’re in the minority here.”
“You did this?” The speaker skated forward to stand beside me. It was Trisk, the captain of the Rose Petals. She looked profoundly disappointed, like a little girl who’d just learned that there was no Santa Claus. “Ivana, how could you?”
“Like you’re one to talk,” Adrienne snapped back. “You eat luck.”
“I eat bad luck,” said Trisk. “And I never eat anything while we’re skating. That’s dangerous. What you’ve been doing is dangerous.”
“It has to stop,” I said. “You can either stop it on your own, or —”
“Or what?” sneered Adrienne. “You’ll kill me?”
“I can’t kill you. You haven’t killed anyone, and you haven’t received a warning.” My family’s code for killing sapient cryptids is strict, and it makes no exceptions. If your life isn’t in danger, you don’t kill unless the individual in question has already knowingly killed members of a sapient race, and even then, you have to give a warning first. Anything to show that we’re not trying to play judge, jury, and executioner to the entire cryptid community.
“So basically, you can’t do anything,” said Adrienne.
“Yes, we can,” said Trisk. “You’re off the team, Ivana, and when I turn in my reasons for booting you, I’m going to make it clear that you have exhibited behaviors unbefitting a derby girl.”
“I’ll back her up,” said Elmira. A murmur went around the other girls as each of them agreed to turn in their own complaints.
I shrugged. “Looks like you’re going to wind up banned from flat track derby. You’ll need to find another hunting ground. And I’ll be watching you.”
“You’ll be watching me?” snarled Adrienne. “Oh, you stupid little bitch, you have no idea what you’ve just done.” She lunged for me, hands hooked into claws —
— only to hit the ground hard as Fern barreled into her. From the impact, I guessed that the fast–moving sylph had increased her own density as far as it would go just before she slammed into the mara. I winced.
“That had to hurt.”
Adrienne made a choking noise, clutching her stomach. “Who do you think you are?” she wheezed.
“Oh, that’s easy.” I pulled the perfume bottle out of my bag, dumping the last of the aconite and unicorn water mixture directly onto Adrienne’s chest. She sneezed and glared. I smiled. “I’m the Final Girl.”
With that I turned and skated back inside. Everyone else followed, except for Adrienne. That was fine with me. She wasn’t my concern anymore.
§
We won, by the way. But that was never really the point, now was it?
A Hollow Play
Amal El–Mohtar
DEAR PAIGE,
I’m heading out of the flat tonight, for once, since Anna invited me out to a cabaret thing. Funn
y how it happened — for weeks she’s been casually asking what I’m doing after work, but never following up after I say some variation on “derby practice” or “watching cartoons.” I guess it’s taken her until now to decide I’m someone she’d actually choose to hang out with in her free time. That should make me feel good, right? But I’m actually terrified. Because it’s been so long since — I don’t know, since I’ve had a friend? That sounds horrible. And it’s probably not true, if I sit and think about it properly. What I mean is, since I’ve had a friend the way I had friends in Canada. When it was easy, you know? When I could click with someone and just feel this trust, this knowledge that we both liked each other equally and in the same way, when I could take for granted that I could say things and have them be understood. Like with you. It feels like forever since I’ve had that. A year, at least.
So anyway, I feel like I might have that with Anna — but we’re always at work, and all the conversations we have are sandwiched between people ordering flat whites and the occasional biscuit. When it gets quiet, though, sometimes we really talk, about serious things, heart things. I’ve told her a bit about you. She told me she’s trans — which isn’t a secret, it’s okay that I’m telling you — and we talked about how basically we’re both always coming out, we can never be wholly done coming out.
I guess I’m terrified of messing this up somehow. Being boring. Not being into the show that she’s really excited about. Being — yeah, okay, being an obnoxious North American in the company of British people, even though Glasgow’s about a million times better than London for not making me feel that way.
Right, it’s time to go. I’ll write more later.
Love,
Emily
§
Emily stood in the doorway to the Rio Cafe and looked around, half–convinced she had the wrong place. The word “cabaret” had conjured up visions of illicit underground doings populated by white–faced pianists in dark, shabby suits, coaxing notes of tragic joy from their instruments. But this was just a really nice pub, full of comfortable, brightly coloured wooden booths perpendicular to a long bar. There were some smaller tables and chairs to the right and back of it, blackboards with specials written on them, and nothing that looked like it could be turned into a stage.
Make sure you get there early, Anna had said, it fills up fast. Emily shrugged, manoeuvred her way to one of the small tables towards the back, pulled a pen and a leather–bound journal from her bag, and resumed writing.
§
Dear Paige,
So, I’m here, but Anna’s not , and I awesomely left Memoirs of a Space Woman at home in spite of knowing I’d have two hours to kill, so I figure I’ll just keep writing to you.
Cabaret! I have no idea what to expect. Have you ever been to a cabaret show? I wasn’t sure how to dress for it either — when I asked Anna she just laughed and told me to use my imagination — so I’m wearing the red top you gave me, the button–down one with the sleeves that flare out and curl from the elbows. I can’t believe I still have it — it’s been, what, ten years, three moves? It’s not fitting so great now — since I started taking derby more seriously, (I’m EMILY THE SLAYER now! Strong like Buffy!) my arms have gotten huge, and you should see the butt on me — but it’s still pretty and I love it, and it still matches my favourite earrings best.
I should probably tell you more about Anna, since obviously there’s more to her than being trans and my co–worker. She’s really great, and really cute — she just cut her hair short last week and dyed it bright orange–red, so she looks kind of like Leeloo from The Fifth Element. She’s vegan(sometimes I swear she likes the fact that I’m not, because it gives her an excuse to play “Meat is Murder” on loop in the cafe for the duration of my lunch break, which no one notices, because it sounds like every other Smiths song except the good ones, which she refuses to accept no matter how many times I explain it), an amazing cosplayer, and getting into burlesque. She hasn’t performed in public yet, just for friends in her living room, but she’s been developing this number that involves a chef’s hat, mixed greens, and oversized serving implements.
We’re not dating or anything. I’ve only known her for about a month, though it feels like way longer — and I refuse to entertain a crush, because she’s been in a closed poly triad for a while and they’re kind of going through a rough patch that she hasn’t told me much about. So I’ll tell you more about this cabaret thing instead.
It’s called SPANGLED CABARET (“spangled” is apparently one of about a million words that also means “wildly drunk” in the west of Scotland) and it happens once a month in this cafe, and Anna’s been coming to it forever, basically. She really wants to perform here sometime once she feels confident enough.
It’s also where she met her partners, Lynette and Kel. Kel’s genderqueer and prefers “they” as a pronoun, so I’ll try to keep this from getting confusing: they work nights at the airport, but Lynette’s a performer, whose stage name is Lynette Byrd; her thing is apparently to dress up like a bird and sing?
Oh, she’s just coming in. I’ll write more later.
Love,
Emily
§
“Ooh, well done,” said Anna, grinning, hooking her jacket over a chair. “These are the best seats in the house. Can I get you a drink?”
“The finest wines available to humanity,” Emily declared, capping her pen and shutting the journal. She smiled up at her. “Something red?”
“Will do.”
Emily watched her head to the bar. Anna, as usual, looked amazing, in a turquoise chiffon dress with ruffles at the neckline waving their way asymmetrically down the front, cinched at the waist with an orange belt that matched her hair.
She was also alone. When Anna returned with their drinks, Emily asked, “So, where’s Lynette?”
“Oh, she can only hang out after her act. Something about ‘diluting the effect’ —” Anna made air quotes and rolled her eyes, “—if she mingles with people beforehand. I hope that’s okay — I thought we could have a little more time to talk before launching you into poly drama.”
Emily chuckled. “That’s fine. It’s really cool to see you outside of work. You look awesome.”
Anna grinned and tossed her short hair back dramatically. “Why thank you. So do you. That’s a great blouse.”
Emily blushed, looking down at her shirt. “Thanks, it was a gift —”
“It’s very Romantic! Poet sleeves, fountain pen, leather–bound journal — excellent ensemble, though of course leather’s murder too.” Anna’s smile was teasing. “It’s beautiful, though. Where’d you find it?”
“Oh,” she said, blushing hotter. “It was also a gift. From the same person. My best friend. The one I mentioned, Paige.” She paused, uncertain how much more to say. “I write to her in it.”
Anna blinked. “What?”
“You know, instead of letters. We each have one, and we write to each other in them whenever the mood takes us, and when they get full, or half full, we post them to each other. We’ve been doing it for years — ever since she moved out west.” She dropped it into her bag again, zipped it shut.
“That’s so cool.” Anna grinned. “You’ve actually found a way to make snail mail slower.”
“Shut up! Not all of us want to have our phones embedded in our palms.”
“Lies and trickery. You, too, lust for the Singularity in your heart of hearts.”
“Those aren’t even the same thing!”
The wine was good, the conversation easy. Emily felt herself relaxing, becoming aware of how little effort she was making, how unnecessary it felt to play at being wry and unaffected and vaguely disdainful of anything she passionately loved. By the time the lights dimmed and a tall man in red spats and cerulean trousers announced the beginning of the show, she was feeling excited.
The first act was a startling realisation of Emily’s earlier expectations, as a short bearded man unfolded a keyboard, flick
ed his coat–tails behind him, and sat down to play something melancholically sinister while a young woman in layers of fringed and shimmering fabric, loops of large white beads, and a flapper’s red head scarf expertly drew a violin bow along the edge of a saw. The result was equal parts mournful and uncanny.
“That,” shouted Emily over the subsequent applause, “was amazing. Is it all like this?”
Anna smiled. “Not quite.”
The next act saw Emily covering her face while an attractive young man hammered nails up his nose.
“Come on,” chuckled Anna, “it’s not that bad! It’s mostly tricks, anyway.”
“Anna he’s bleeding! He stuck a needle up his arm and drew blood.”
“He’s a professional!”
“His hands are shaking! This can’t be right!”
“It’s just part of the whole blockhead routine, honest. I’ve watched him do it loads of times.”
“Really?” She dared a peek between her fingers, winced, and covered her eyes again.
“Really. Well. Not the needle, I think that’s new, but the nails are standard. Oh, come on, you can’t miss this, he’s going to swallow those razors and knot them together in his throat —”
“Hey, I need the loo and we should have more drinks. Same again?”
“Sure, sure. Coward.”
Emily stuck her tongue out and beat a hasty retreat.
It was equal parts the half–light, the show, and the wine, but the Rio had clearly slipped somewhere just slant of real. Navigating the distance between table and toilets felt like lucid dreaming. She passed men with moon–white faces in bowler hats; she washed her hands next to a woman in scarlet lingerie with mouse ears and a cheese–grater crotch. It felt like a secret carnival, like a place a runaway could call home.
She sat down again just as the blockhead was taking a bow, thankfully none the worse for wear. Anna looked positively fond as Emily pushed a new glass of wine toward her.
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