Whip It (13 page)

We’re a few jams away from halftime, and I can feel Dinah’s desperation. She’s bringing all she has to even the score before halftime.

We line up to jam, when all of a sudden, men in bright yellow coats suddenly dot the crowd. They swiftly make their way from the back of the audience to the front. Within seconds, the mysterious gang of yellow-coat dudes surrounds the track.

I have no idea what the hell is going on, but I know it can’t be good when I hear Atom Bomb go from his usual crowd-baiting “folks, we got ourselves a battle royale tonight!” to an abrupt “oh, shit.”

I look to Emma, who’s already un-Velcro-ing her wrist guards. “Damn fire marshal,” she says.

A minute later I get a crash course in the world of fire-marshaldom. Apparently, there’s a whole arm of the law dedicated to overseeing crowd capacity. Turns out the reason the Dollhouse feels so packed tonight is because it is. We have three hundred more people than is legally allowed. It’s a derby bust.

So, just as our adrenaline is kicking into high gear, our bout is shut down. We go from being on the verge of beating the undefeated Holy Rollers to being hastily thrown out of the Dollhouse. Either that or face arrest. And they ain’t kiddin’.

I still have my skates on as I ride the wave of people out the door. Outside it’s mayhem, and there are cops everywhere.

A couple of angry guys yell at the cops as they leave: “Roller Derby is not a crime, man!” which would make me laugh if I weren’t already freaked by all the police-folk hovering around.

I don’t see Oliver or Pash anywhere. When I turn, I see Malice, Dinah, and all the other captains against the wall being questioned by police.

“Malice!” I shout out of concern.

“It’s cool, Ruthless. Just meet us at the party!” she shouts back.

I turn and suddenly find myself face-to-face with the barrel chest and burly biceps of a midnight-blue uniform and a shiny badge. I tilt my head up to see the scariest cop face on the planet glaring down at me. I nearly pee. Thankfully, I manage to keep it under control.

“I’m gonna need to see your ID,” Officer Power Trip says.

“What?” I say, having an internal freak-out.

“Young lady, you can either show me your ID or you can go to jail,” Officer PT says as he runs his fingers over the handcuffs tucked into his belt for dramatic effect. As if I needed that.

Trust me. I’m scared enough. Can you imagine the phone call to Brooke if I got arrested playing Roller Derby? Me either.

I’m praying as I dig into my bag and hand him the only thing I have, my high school ID. Officer PT looks it over, shines a flashlight in my eyes (thanks, dude), then asks, “Is this all you’ve got?”

“Yes,” I say, before adding, “sir. Yes, sir.”

“You’re only sixteen years old?” he says. Is that necessary, to say it out loud? Here is not the place to be broadcasting my age!

“Yes, sir,” I quickly answer, hoping we can move on to a less incendiary line of questioning.

“Well, Ms. Cavendar, don’t you think you’re a little young to be running with this crowd?” Again with the age.

I want to tell him to kiss my ass, he doesn’t know me, this is the best crowd I’ve ever had the pleasure of running with. But I don’t want to go to jail or cause a scene where all my derby sisters suddenly find out I’m not exactly eighteen. So . . .

“Yes, sir. That’s why I’m leaving right now, sir. So I can get home. Sir.” The
sir
s may be overkill, but I can tell Officer Power Trip loves it. Every time I say sir his badge shines a little bit brighter.

“All right,” he finally says. “I’ll let you go. But you do understand you are an accomplice if y’all violate the fire marshal code again.”

“Yes, sir.” I nod.

“You’re free to go,” he says, handing me back my school ID. As I reenter the fray of the thinning crowd, an arm slips around my waist.

“There you are!” Oliver says. “Man. That was the best bout ever! Too bad it got shut down.”

“Totally. Have you seen Pash?”

“Nah. We’ll catch up with her at the party. C’mon,” he says, pulling me toward his car. Normally I would stay and wait for Pash to rear her stylish little head, but when I look up and see news helicopters arriving on the scene, I know it’s time to flee. I already dodged one parental-notification bullet. I don’t want to risk any further outing of myself tonight.

I grab Oliver’s cell and text Pash:
LUZR! WHR R U? GON 2 PRTAY - SI U THR. PS - NO MOHOX 4 U 2NIT, DRNK GRL
!

I’m in a bit of a cell-phone drought at the moment (I lost four of them in three months, so my mother cut me off from the digital revolution), thus I depend on the kindness of cell-phone-lending strangers / boyfriends.

No Fire Marshals Here

I
n light of the fire marshal crackdown, the party vibe starts on a bummed-out note. However, when we see the derby bust covered on the evening news, everyone quickly shifts into full celebratory mode. It feels a little bit dangerous and criminal, like the glory of having a tattoo without suffering through the pain of a needle.

Plus, everyone’s so stoked about the near undoing of the Holy Rollers, the team captains are holding an impromptu meeting by the keg, discussing the possibilities of a rematch.

For the first hour, I check Oliver’s phone over and over to see if Pash texted me back. By the second hour, I give up. She must have just driven back to Bodeen. That nut. I can’t believe she’s missing all this fun.

Oliver and his older brother, Hank, a lush lad in his own right (proof that their family tree is ripe with hotties), get out their guitars and serenade us with an impromptu unplugged session on the back porch. Hank is the twenty-four-year-old lead singer and songwriter for the Stats (i.e., he gets all the girl action). Oliver’s happy to hang back, staring at his shoes and strumming his bass while his hair falls in his eyes. Hank may be the obvious choice, but I’d take Oliver any day, which kind of works in my favor, considering I already have him.

At some point after one, Oliver and I end up in Rocktavia’s bedroom, talking and taking turns playing DJ on her stereo. We’re sitting on the floor, lazily hitting each other with pillows as we talk about stuff, but mostly bands. Out of nowhere he goes, “Guess what?”

“What?” I ask.

“We’re going on tour,” he says, “with the Benedicts.” My eyes suddenly get bigger than dinner plates. The Benedicts are pretty much the coolest indie-rock band in Austin. Even if you haven’t heard of them, you would totally recognize their music. Trust me. They’re the bee’s knees.

“No way!” I squeal, not because I’m the squealy type, but because that’s how the unfiltered excitement comes out of me (I’m a dork). “That’s so freakin’ cool! Seriously, that’s the coolest thing that’s ever happened to anyone I know. You could not be any cooler if you—”

“Bliss,” Oliver interrupts.

“Yeah?”

“You have to stop saying
cool.
” I nod, and then think better of it.

“Cool, cool, cool, cool, cool, cool, cool,” I say, until Oliver puts his hand over my mouth to shut me up. I bite his hand, and he laughs.

“When are you going?” I ask. I suddenly have this fantasy of Oliver and his band hitting the road in a big tour bus in summer, with me coming to visit him in different cities. My mind hopscotches all over the country, picturing various clubs, with Oliver playing onstage and me watching from the back (wearing some killer vintage dress, of course). He’ll wave at me between songs, and I’ll roll my embarrassed eyes back at him, secretly loving it all. Hmm . . . yeah, I think I like this tour thing.

“We leave Monday,” Oliver says.

“Muh-what?” I choke. That’s waaaay too soon.

“We just found out today. Don’t worry, it’s only for three weeks,” he offers.

“Wow—no—that’s cool.” I struggle. “I mean, no, it’s not cool because I’m not supposed to say that, but, um . . . are you gonna miss me?”

“Are you going to miss me?” He smiles.

“Totally,” I say. “Do y’all get your own tour bus?”

“More like a crappy van.” Oliver laughs.

“You didn’t answer my question,” I say.

“Of course I’m going to miss you. That’s why I have to get an extra dose of you now,” he answers.

With Weezer’s
Pinkerton
on the stereo (the perfect make-out soundtrack), Oliver pulls me onto his lap, kissing me. His hands slide under my shirt, up to my shoulders and down to my lower back. He traces his fingers along the waist of my jeans, moving them beneath the elastic band of my underwear.

I move my hands under his threadbare T-shirt, feeling his tight shoulder blades. I drop my head, kissing that favorite freckle of mine on his shoulder.

With his hand gripping the back of my neck, Oliver pulls me back up to make my face meet his. He lightly brushes his mouth against mine before firmly biting / sucking my lower lip. I don’t know what that move is called, but me-ow! My breathing immediately changes. And so does Oliver’s.

He quickly pulls off my shirt, which I take as my cue to relieve him of his. His hands, now on a mission, slide down my jeans, roam over my thighs, and work their way up the inside of my leg. It feels, like—I dunno—terrifying and amazing at the same time. I raise my hips toward him, aching for him to touch me. . . .

But as soon as his fingers make their move, I jump, suddenly scared and distracted and aware of the party carrying on just outside the flimsy bedroom door, and I don’t want Oliver to hate me and storm out of the room. I just want to tell him I love him (do I? I think I do). And I want him to tell me he loves me. Does he?

Is it lame to want that?

He gives me a confused look. I exhale slowly, take his hand, and place it back on my thigh, giving him the go-ahead. I want it. Again, Oliver’s fingers glide up my thigh and . . . again, I jump.

“Don’t tell me you forgot to shave one of your legs again,” Oliver whispers / smiles into my ear.

“No. I just . . .” I stammer.

“You’re funny.” He laughs.

“No, I’m not,” I protest.

“Yes, you are. It’s not like we’re in high school, like we’ve never done this before, right?”

Um, yeah. Speak for yourself, pal.

I sit up and sigh apologetically. “I’m sorry. Just not here, okay?”

After several minutes of awkward silence, filled in ironically by Weezer’s “Why Bother?” playing on the stereo—

Why bother

It’s gonna hurt me

It’s gonna kill when you desert me!

Oliver says, “Let’s go back to the party.” He stands, holds out his arm, and pulls me off the floor.

Sleepover (& Under)

A
t the end of the party (which is a relative term because for a handful of girls, there’s never an end to the party—they just keep going and going, the Energizer bunnies of good times), I follow Oliver out to his car.

He grabs me with his skinny, muscular, guitar-playing arms and says, “That’s it. I’m kidnapping you. You’re going home with me.”

Considering Pash bailed on me, I decide to give in to his criminal ways. Though I warn him, “Just don’t expect to get any good ransom money from my family.”

“I’m not in it for the money.” He smiles wickedly.

We drive to the house he shares with Hank, Eric, and Jesse (his two other bandmates). I’m not really sure what I was expecting, but let me tell you, when four dudes live together, it is not pretty. Their place is a sty.

Not that I’m little miss merry maid, but clearly the boys are living in the dark ages of cleanliness. In their domestic world, little things like feather dusters and vacuums have yet to be invented.

I’m not saying it’s not cool—it is. It’s just . . . I’m afraid to sit.

Oliver looks at me, a little embarrassed. “Uh, yeah, the living room is kinda no-man’s-land. I promise my room’s not so scary,” he says, tugging me by the hand toward the hallway.

“You’re just trying to have your way with me,” I say.

“Maybe,” he says. “Maybe not.”

We enter his bedroom, and I can confirm that, while it’s muuuuch cleaner, it’s still just messy enough for me to respect him. I plunk myself on the mattress that sits sans bed frame in the corner. (A look I tried to do in my own bedroom till Brooke put the kibosh on it. I told her it looked “cool and minimalist.” She said it looked “homeless.”)

“Sorry it’s so tiny,” Oliver says, “but I’m the youngest, so they gave me the smallest room. Bastards.”

I think his room is perfect and a little mysterious, filled with all sorts of Oliver-centric, boy stuff. It’s like a music lab with a bed. Lots of cables, guitar pedals, an amp with the screen torn off that he’s repairing, a million CDs, an old reel-to-reel tape recorder, and something he explains is a “four-track analog recorder because Pro Tools sounds too slick.”

He has a Stooges poster and a picture of Joan Jett in her Runaway years, a stick of Right Guard deodorant sitting on an overturned milk-crate bedside table, and all his clothes are on the floor in his closet. One thing is hanging up—a blue, super-preppy, Banana Republic button-down with the tags still on it.

“Yeah, my mom got me that for my birthday.” He laughs as he fishes through some records, then puts on Bob Dylan’s classic
Highway 61 Revisited.
I can’t argue with that.