Whip It (12 page)

You see, I’m not the most experienced girl in the world. I’m bound to make a mistake or two (or fifty). Like today. Oliver and I start a no-holds-barred kiss-a-thon (very good), when I suddenly realize I forgot to shave my right leg this morning (very bad). Now, I’m sure you’re asking yourself “what kind of half-wit retard forgets to shave one leg?” And, trust me, if I had the answer for that one, I’d be sittin’ pretty with two silky-smooth gams, mugging down with this luscious lad without a care in the world.

But, alas, my flawed genetic makeup has a way of thwarting my attempt at a good time. Sometimes I get so busy daydreaming, I forget the little chores I should be tending to, like remembering to shave
both legs
when I’m taking a shower.

As embarrassing luck would have it, Oliver’s hand keeps trying to touch my right leg. And I keep moving it away—I don’t want to gross him out with my cactus thigh—but his hand is like a man on a mission. The more I move my leg away, the more his hand pursues me. It goes on and on until I’m slouched so low in my seat, I might as well be sitting on the floor.

“What is your deal?” he finally whispers, kind of annoyed.

“Nothing,” I say.

“Nothing? You’re practically on the floor, you little freak,” Oliver says, looking down at me as my ass hovers three inches above the candy-sticky floor. I search and search for some excuse that might make sense, but all I come up with is—

“I just, um, I don’t . . . want my leg touched right now. Okay?”

“Oh,” Oliver says, and then after a long, uncomfortable pause, “Look. If you don’t want be here, I don’t want to force it. You don’t have to get all weird and sit on the floor.”

Oliver sits up and removes his arm from around my shoulder. The minute he takes it away, I feel like I’ve been thrown into a snowstorm without a coat. It’s freezing. It’s amazing how fast you can get used to someone’s arm embracing you.

I was just trying to spare him the grossness of my unshaved leg, and now he thinks I hate him. My heart sinks and races in the silence until I finally blurt out, “I totally like you. It’s justthatI didn’tshavemyrightlegandI didn’t want to gross you out, okay?”

Oliver stops and gives me a look.

“What?” he says.

“You heard me,” I say. “I forgot to shave. I’m a total Sasquatch leg.”

“Wait, you forgot to shave one of your legs?” Oliver laughs. “Man. You are a piece of work.”

“Sorry. I know it’s gross,” I say as he runs his hand over it.

“Ooh. Prickly. That’s cool. If my hand itches, I’ll just rub on your leg to scratch it for me.” He smiles. We’re in the dark, but I can already hear what his words sound like when he smiles. I love that.

I like that he makes fun of me—in a good way. I decide that’s a very important trait to have in a boy you make out with and secretly hope will officially become your boyfriend.

I had no idea a guy could be this cool about a chick with hairy legs. I expected him to retch and run for the exits. Is that just an Oliver thing, or are all guys that laid-back about this kind of thing? It’s weird—nobody tells you that stuff.

Oh, and on the movie front, just so you don’t think I’m totally lame, I highly recommend seeing
Breathless,
as it is probably the coolest black-and-white French movie ever made. I can’t tell you what the plot is (I was sort of distracted), but it was shot in Paris, and the clothes are to-die-for mod. Trust me. If you have the chance, you should see it for the fashion-gasm alone.

This Is Not My Beautiful Life

O
n the Roller Derby front, I’m happy to report that after our loss against the Sirens, the Hurl Scouts have been on an undefeated tear. We’ve taken down the Cherry Bombs, the Black Widows, the Fight Crew, and tonight we get a second chance against the Sirens.

Between Malice’s and Emma Geddon’s fierce blocking, and Crystal Death’s and Babe Ruthless’s killer jamming (hello, that would be me), those bad cops didn’t know what hit them.

Even Blade can’t keep his jackass dance moves in check when I take a hot whip off Emma’s mile-long leg to score four points.

“Save it for the after-party, you freak!” Juana Beat’n shouts from the infield as several embarrassed skaters pelt him with empty water bottles. Not that it stops him from cabbage-patching. The dude’s got happy feet. Personally, I love Blade’s spontaneous bad choreography. Can you imagine any coach in any other sport doing the worm on the infield? Only in Roller Derby, my friends.

I just wish Pash was here to witness the hilarious genius of it all. She’s quarantined herself in Bodeen to finish some major science fair project, something too brilliant for my plebian mind to wrap itself around. I guess if she’s off finding the cure for cancer, I can’t hate on her too much.

Besides, when the Derby Girls take over the Star Seeds Diner after the bout, the best moments are in-jokes and derby references. I’m not sure if Pash would really get it. These girls have definitely become my fam.

Well, all of them except Dinah Might, who has resisted charter membership into the Babe Ruthless Fan Club. She resents me more than ever. To make matters worse, the Hurl Scouts are playing her undefeated Holy Rollers next. All anyone can talk about is how she and I are the “matchup of the season.” Great. As if I needed the pressure.

The more I try to be nice to Dinah, the more I can see her internally plotting my death. And I swear it’s not just in my head. Last week, we lined up to jam in a scrimmage. I gave Dinah a respectful nod and a friendly smile. She gave me stink-eye and hissed, “Suck my skate, newbie,” as the whistle blew. That’s her new tactic. Dinah pretends that no matter what I do, no matter how hard I skate, no matter how many times Atom Bomb mentions me in the play-by-play game announcements—to her, I am invisible. Like she can’t even be bothered to remember my name.

It’s sort of transparent and immature in a kind of Corbi way (same attitude, different blood sport), but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t bother me. Corbi’s just some cheerleader pageant-skank I couldn’t care less about in the long run, but Dinah’s an amazing skater, the star of the league, the reason I wanted to play Roller Derby in the first place. It would be nice if she actually acknowledged me. Not that I could complain to anyone about Dinah. She’s sacred. Everybody loves her.

I’m not a total slouch, though. Tonight, we’re all scattered between five booths in Star Seeds Diner, and Eva Destruction from the Fight Crew stands on a table, holding a rolled-up tube.

“Okay, Chatty Cathys, shut up your pieholes for two seconds! I have an announcement. As your official poster bitch, I present you with the latest and greatest for our next bout,” she says.

I watch as Eva unrolls the poster, once again sharing her graphic brilliance with us. As always, it’s cooler than cool, but something seems off. The girl in the poster—she has familiar legs, arms I recognize—and then,
Oh, shit! That’s not Dinah on the poster. That’s . . . me!

Everyone cheers, and Malice chucks an onion ring at me. “Hell, yeah, short stuff!” she shouts.

I wish I could say I feel an internal high-five, yay-me moment, but two thoughts immediately override the celebration.

One: Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dinah two booths back nearly choke on a fry when the poster is revealed. I have no doubt she will try to kill me next week.

And two: All I can think is,
My mother must never see this poster.
I don’t know why—it’s not like Brooke frequents the Austin tattoo shops, pizza dives, and coffeehouses that display Eva’s fine work—but a flock of butterflies fly from the bottom of my stomach to the back of my throat.

It isn’t until I’m alone in my bedroom the next day that I actually look at the copy Eva gave me. Okay, I confess, it’s pretty freakin’ awesome. I break out in a little personal happy dance.
Miss Bluebonnet can have her billboard. I’m a Roller Derby poster girl!

I hear my mom coming down the hall and quickly slip the poster under my mattress, where it shall remain undetected.

When BFFs Attack

S
o, Pash and I are creating sculpture—like we always do—with our rehydrated, school-lunch mashed potatoes, and I’m telling her how I don’t care what cancer cure she’s trying to invent, but she has to swear right now, on all things that are unholy, she will be at the next bout.

Not only do I want her rooting me on, I want a witness to tell my parents what went down in case I die at the hands of Dinah. And that I loved them, despite all the misunderstandings and bad music and fashion they tried to force on me.

You would think a best friend would be cool about these things, have your back. Not Pash. Not these days. It’s like she’s constantly pissed off at me for nothing. Which is so not Pash.

And, ohmygod, I never should have even said a word about being the poster girl. Her mood immediately darkened upon hearing that one. She didn’t say “Bliss, that’s so cool” or “awesome—I can’t wait to see it.” No. My great news was met with a storm cloud brewing above her head.

“Guess what I did yesterday?” Pash asks, confrontationally. It suddenly occurs to me that Pash’s eyeliner is different. Not the color, but the angle. Very cat-eye; it’s hot.

“You changed your eyeliner,” I say.

“Yeah, like, two weeks ago,” she deadpans, and I feel like a speck of mud. “And yesterday, I went to Wal-Mart and . . . picked up a few things,” she says.

“What? You five-fingered without me? Pash! That’s an us thing, not a solo thing,” I practically shout.

“Well,” she says, “when there’s no us around, I guess I have to go solo.”

“I’m sorry, okay? I owe you some good hang-out time. Just promise me you’re coming to the bout this weekend. There’s gonna be a really great party. We’re gonna have an epic time.” Parties are Pash’s weak spot. She can’t say no.

“Fine, but you can’t make out with Oliver in some dark corner the whole time.”

“Okay,” I agree.

Between you and me, I’m getting the jealousy vibe with a capital
J.
And it’s not like I want to call her on it. I don’t want Pash to feel bad that we don’t hang out as much anymore. But, for the record, I did try to get her to join Roller Derby with me. I begged, and she said no. She can’t blame me for having fun without her.

However. If I were stuck in Hickville 24/7 and my best friend got a boyfriend (BFGBF), I’d be hatin’ life too. And I sure as hell would not want the best friend in question accusing me of being jealous. So, for now, I’ll let it lie.

This weekend’s gonna rock. Provided I survive the bout.

Hurl Scouts vs. Holy Rollers

S
aturday night. An hour before the highly anticipated showdown between the Hurl Scouts and the Holy Rollers, Malice skates backstage.

“Holy shit. It’s crazy packed out there!” she says.

“You ready, poster girl?” Emma says, turning to me.

“Yep,” I lie, lacing up my Reidells. I haven’t put one skate on the track, but already I feel the beads of sweat taking shape on my upper lip.

Atom Bomb announces our team’s roster, then finishes with “And last but not least, the rookie upstart, number forty-eight . . . Baaaaaaabe Ruuuuuuthlesss!”

The crowd roars so loud, the noise nearly knocks me off my skates. Technically, derby girls should look fierce and badass at all times, but I can’t help smiling like a dope hearing all those people cheer.

Of course, when the Holy Rollers hit the track for their skate out, Dinah gets the same reception. Maybe more, but so what? I’m not scared off. Not tonight. I catch a glimpse of Oliver and Pash in the audience and think,
I can rock this. Dinah who?

The place falls to an electric hush as Dinah and I line up for our first jam. She gives me a cold sneer. I just smile. The first whistle blows, and the pack of blockers takes off. The second whistle rattles in its little metal cage, and Dinah and I shoot out like synchronized bottle rockets.

Going into the first turn, I’m half a step ahead, cutting, ducking, and dodging through the pack. I have the lead. I skate hard, leaning into the track and crossing over to get full speed. I suddenly hear the crowd roar as Dinah sneaks past me from behind.

Dinah gets into the pack first, passing three of my blockers for three points. Even though I’m half a step behind, I pass three of her blockers—we’re tied at three points each.

Dinah gets the first points, but she also gets called for an elbowing penalty against Malice, so she has to spend the next jam in the penalty box. With Dinah out, I’m jamming against the Holy Rollers’ Ella Mental. Ella’s a sweet girl, but jamming against her is like taking candy from a baby.

Poor Ella doesn’t know what hit her when, a minute later, I lap the pack twice, racking up six points. The crowd goes wild.

For the briefest moment, I’m bummed that my parents aren’t here. Of course Roller Derby is not and never will be Brooke’s thing, but it would be cool for her to witness one thing I’m not a total loser at.

I mean, there’s a cheering crowd. Couldn’t she at least respect that? Sort of?

When Dinah gets out of the penalty box, she’s like a just-released convict looking to settle the score. The Holy Rollers may have God on their side, but the Hurl Scouts aren’t about to crumble. We hold them off. And not just me—my entire team.

During a time-out huddle on the infield, Malice offers five little words of wisdom: “We can beat those bitches!”

To which we reply, “Hell, ya!” And we believe it.

The more we believe it, the better we skate. The better we skate, the more the Holy Rollers get nervous. The more they get nervous, the more they fall apart. I’m sure that adds up to some sophisticated Mr. Smiley economic theory, but as I look at the score blinking “Holy Rollers, 9, Hurl Scouts, 16,” I think it’s pretty simple. It’s a plain-ol’ Texas ass whuppin’. Yee freakin’ haw.