Whip It (16 page)

My dad looks at me. I know he wants to say yes, but Brooke throws him an “Earl Cavendar, don’t you even think about it” look, so he says, “You lied, kiddo. That dog ain’t gonna hunt.”

So I play the one card I have left. I turn, run to my room, and slam the door. Actually, I slam it twice just to really drive home the message:
I hate you both!

Runaways–Joan Jett’s First Band and Me

S
o, I’m sitting here in my made-over bedroom, picturing it catching on fire, which is a comforting thought, but only for a few minutes. I start to feel like I’m gonna jump out of my skin all over again.

This grounded-until-further-notice thing is total bullshit. My clock reads 5:13. Malice will be swinging into the OJ parking lot in seventeen minutes, and you know what? I’m going to be there to meet her. Skates or no skates, my ass will be in that seat and headed for Austin.

I grab my Emily-the-Strange satchel and stuff as many clothes as I possibly can in it, until the stitches are screaming and begging for mercy. Then I climb out the window and make a run for it.

I break into a dead sprint to meet Malice, which sounds dramatic, but trust me, it’s hard not to feel like a loser running through the streets of Bodeen, Texas, with an overstuffed Emily-the-Strange satchel slapping at your thigh and sliding off your shoulder every other step. But then again, I guess there’s no cool way to spontaneously run away from home.

Thank God Malice is on time. She skids into the parking lot like a getaway car in a heist movie, complete with a fierce soundtrack blaring through her speakers: Thank you, New York Dolls. I throw open the passenger door and briefly look through the OJ window, where Pash and Bird-man are both working doubles (that’s overachievers for ya). Bird-man mouths “good luck,” while Pash scowls and turns away.

Backatcha, babe,
I think as I slam myself into the safety and comfort of Malice’s ride.

“Where’s your gear, Ruthless?” Malice asks.

“Stolen,” I answer, which is not entirely untrue.

“Shit. Well, don’t worry. We’ll get one of the girls to hook you up,” she declares. She’s a good egg, that Malice. Nothing’s ever a problem. There’s always a solution.

“Thanks,” I say.

“Ready to kick some Holy Roller ass?”

“Malice, I’ve never been so ready in my entire life.”

She gives a hell-yeah nod and holds up her hand. I slap it, thinking,
Bring it on, Dinah. I ain’t afraid of you!

I’ve got a lot of anger I need to work out tonight.

Age Discrimination

U
pon our arrival, Malice heaves open the door to the Dollhouse.

“All right, bitches! One of you better lend Ruthless your size nines!” She shouts, to drown out the pregame activity—hammers getting busy on last-minute track repairs, girls discussing which eye shadow makes them look more badass—you know, the usual.

Only this time we are met by silence, and not a good silence. The kind of silence that slaps you in the face.

We see Razor huddling with the other team captains, and they all turn their heads as we walk in the door.

“What the fuck, y’all? Who died?” Malice asks, trying to shake them out of whatever it is they are so collectively tweaked about.

“Malice, we need to talk,” Blade says. “Bliss, don’t go anywhere.”

Dinah gives me a smug look, and I still don’t register the gravity of the situation. Sometimes I’m slow, but a few minutes later I am up to speed. Brace yourself—this isn’t good.

Apparently it has come to the league’s attention that I may not actually be eighteen, that I am, in fact, sixteen years old. Which, if you ask me, should be no big deal at this point. I can skate just as well as—or better than, some would say (not me, because I’m not conceited that way)—all the other girls. And Lord knows I can hold my own on the party front; no maturity gaps there. But there’s just no pleasing some people.

In light of the fire marshal scandal the team captains are afraid of any issue that might jeopardize the league in any way, or, as Malice explains, “Ruthless, if you got hurt, your parents could sue us and shut us down entirely.”

She sort of has a point. As annoying as my mother is, I could totally see her threatening a lawsuit. It would not be the first time. But I’m not about to admit that. I’m still hung up on why they are suddenly suspicious. I’m suspicious of their suspicions.

“Someone heard a cop say you were sixteen at the fire marshal bust,” Juana says.

“Anonymous tip,” Dinah adds, with so much pride she might as well have
I RATTED YOU OUT
tattooed on her forehead. I knew she was low; I just didn’t know she was this low.

If I weren’t such a lady and a model citizen, I’d kick her in the face with my skate. If I had my skate. She’s lucky I don’t—let’s just leave it at that.

Malice looks like she might cry when she says, “I’m sorry, Ruthless, but if you can’t prove that you’re eighteen, we can’t let you play the game.” Note to self: It’s always good to have a fake ID. Just in case.

By this point, my entire team has gathered around us. I expect them to be pissed, to swarm me like a vicious girl gang on a point-proving mission and beat me to a pulp. Instead, they’re all really kind and really . . . disappointed.

Finally, Emma says, “What if we get permission from your parents? If they agree to let you skate, we won’t be liable.” All the other girls pipe in with “yeah,” “why not?” and “you should try that.”

Really. They’re sweet girls, but they have no idea what they’re up against. I haven’t even mentioned the fact that I ran away from home two hours ago.

They all turn and look at me, their hopes and dreams of this game sitting perilously on my skinny shoulders. And yet, their belief in me is seductive. I start to believe it too. And that kind of power can make you think things, do things—crazy things.

. . . In a Blaze of Glory

R
iiing . . . riiing . . .

On a cell phone borrowed from Malice, I wait for my dad to pick up on the other end.

“Hello?”

“Um, Dad—”

“Bliss! Where on God’s green earth did you disappear to? Your mama’s beside herself. Are you safe?”

“Of course I’m safe.”

“You sure?”

“No, Dad, I got kidnapped by a band of swarthy oilmen, and I’m on my way to Dubai to be wife number eight in a white-slavery harem.”

“Is that your idea of humor?”

“Sort of. I’m fine, okay? I just have a quick question to ask you. Between you and me, Dad.”

“When are you coming home?”

“Dad, I know you think my playing Roller Derby is kind of cool. You would never say so, but you’re just as sick of the pageant dictatorship as me.”

Silence.

“So, Dad, will you please give your word that you will not sue the Derby Girls if I skate? Mom doesn’t have to know.”

“Bliss.”

“Please?”

An eternity of silence.

“Bliss, I’m gonna tell you somethin’.”

“What?”

“I got two more years with you in my house. But I got a whole lifetime with your mama. You follow?”

“Yeah, I follow. You’re never gonna stand up to her, are you?”

I don’t know what I was thinking even calling him in the first place. I close Malice’s cell and turn back to face my teammates’ expectant faces.

“Sorry, y’all,” I say, shaking my head.

“You tried,” Crystal Deth says, adjusting her fishnets.

“You okay?” Malice asks.

“Yeah.” I sigh. “But I kinda, sorta need to move in with you.”

“Sure.” She nods as she puts her arm around me.

And the Point of Even Playing Is . . . ?

I
would love to infuse this part of the story with some kind of noble, “we did the best we could, we’re still winners even though we lost—
boo-ya!
” spirit, but the simple truth is the Hurl Scouts got slaughtered by the Holy Rollers.

And of course Dinah is gloating all over the place like she’s God’s gift to derby, and I still want to kick her in the face with the skate I don’t have, but I’m kind of busy at the moment. I’m on the phone.

As Malice’s new official roommate, I now have access to a cell phone! So, I immediately dial Oliver, hoping to catch him before they go on in—where was it again?—Cleveland or Cincinnati? Not that it matters. What matters is that I need to hear his voice in the worst way. Seriously. If Oliver can’t be here to wrap his arms around me, then I’ll happily wrap myself in the sound of his voice.

But all I get is voice mail. “Hey, it’s Oliver. Leave me some love.”
Beeeeep.

Even though all I get is recorded-voice Oliver, it’s comforting to hear actual evidence of his existence. I even skip leaving a message so I can redial and listen to his voice again . . . and maybe get him to answer. No dice. It goes to voice mail.

I take a deep breath and launch into a rambling message that, to the best of my memory, goes something like this: “Hey, rock star, it’s me. How’s tricks? I’m okay, I guess. . . . Well, not really. I’m kind of at war with the world today, and the world is winning. Anyway, I sort of left home—long story—but you can call me back on Malice’s phone. When you have time. . . . I miss your voice, and um . . . everything else.”

Even though I’m pretty crestfallen at the moment (and believe me, whatever my crest is, it has fallen), I’m grateful to still have Oliver’s hoodie. It’s my new security blanket.

As I crash on Malice’s futon (in Malice’s perfect little apartment full of thrift-store fabulousness), I hear echoes of her playing the Velvet Underground in her room.

All I can think about is Oliver and how missing him has suddenly gone from an annoyance to an ache. It physically hurts, from my stomach to the rest of my body.

I can’t wait for him to call me back tomorrow so we can at least have a few minutes to talk.

My Illegal Guardian

M
alice takes my moving in pretty seriously. She refuses to let me ditch school and insists on hauling her ass out of bed at “this fucking ungodly hour” to drive me back to Bodeen so that I won’t miss my first class. She even makes me a sack lunch, which consists of a frozen burrito microwaved until hot, then stuffed in some foil to keep warm until lunchtime rolls around. And a past-its-prime banana to wash it all down. I guess it’s the thought that counts.

Dropping me off at school, Malice sports a ’60s psychedelic robe that is fashion’s answer to coffee. One look at that Day-Glo garment and you are awake: Caffeine is no longer necessary. The robe elicits many a disapproving stare from my peers, but Malice gives just as good as she gets.

“Hey, shorty,” she shouts out the window as Matt Holtzman passes and grimaces, “I wouldn’t be caught dead in those pleated chinos, so suck it.”

She turns to me and smiles. “Y’know, Bliss, if I had to endure this cultural wasteland on a daily basis, I would have run away and started playing Roller Derby too.”

Finally.
Finally, someone who understands where I’m coming from.

“Malice, will you adopt me?” I ask.

“No way. I can barely afford my own college tuition,” she answers. And then she starts to get serious, like, school-counselor serious (only without the bad bumblebee jewelry).

“Ruthless,” she says, picking through a bag of questionably fresh Cheetos she just retrieved from under her car seat, “I love you to bits, we all do, but at some point, you’re gonna have to go home and work things out with the ’rents.”

“There’s no way. They don’t understand me.”

“You have to give them the chance. My parents still think I’m a total freakshow, but I know they love me,” Malice says. Her parents may have a point: She’s wearing a flower-power robe, snacking on a bag of stale Cheetos, and sipping cold coffee from a “World’s Greatest Grandpa” mug. Not every family would understand the Tao of the Malice.

“I’m all for raisin’ hell,” she adds, “but sometimes you gotta know when to make peace.”

It’s too early for me to digest this impromptu lecture, so I get out of the car and smile. “Thanks, Mom.”

“’Bye, darling,” she calls after me in her best 1950s June Cleaver voice. “Have a swell day at school!”

Without looking back, I flip her off and keep walking toward the door. I hear her honk in appreciation.

How could I ever go home to my fam now that I have Malice?

The Gift That Keeps on Giving

F
or losers like me, the only refuge is the school library. I’d love to say I’ve been devouring great literary works and constantly expanding my mind, but lately I’ve spent much of my time camped out on one of twenty-three computers, the central hub of Bodeen wi-fi.

Technically, we’re only supposed to use the school computers for “work” (as several taped-up signs constantly remind us), but who are we kidding? It’s a MySpace world, and I’m just living in it.

The best signs, though, are the neon yellow ones that gravely warn about venturing onto any “adult Web sites,” aka downloading porn. Any student caught engaging in such inappropriate use of school property will be immediately expelled.