Whip It (7 page)

Once the casual warm-up is done, Coach Brian, aka Blade, puts us to work. A word about Blade. He’s maybe twenty-three years old, sort of cute in a tacky, metalhead geek, gold-chain-wearing kind of way (which means in any other circumstance, we would have nothing to say to each other). But it just so happens that Blade loves roller skating and is amazing at it, which makes him a dork to most of society but a god to us.

Even when Blade is kicking our asses with skating drills, the girls are on a nonstop quest to get him to blush with their raunchy jokes, which keeps things so fun you almost (almost) forget how hard you’re sweating. It’s the kind of hilarious vibe that you would never see in the coach-as-screaming-dictator world of high school sports. Roller Derby is so anti-that.

Most of my teammates are college students (a few are even over twenty-one—hint, hint). No one questions my underage status, though I do tell them a little fib about living in Bodeen, working at the Oink Joint to save for college, which they assume means I’ve already graduated (and I, for one, have no intention of correcting them).

Life is already getting better. I’m like the adopted little sister they are all looking out for, which I love.

And for the record, the Roller Derby sisterhood is the real thing, not tainted by that fake you-go-girl, Oprah vibe you get from Noxzema commercials (which I’m deeply allergic to). And this is how I really know. No one actually says “you go, girl.” It’s more like “you kick ass” or “you rock the house with that shit,” but not that stupid “you go, girl” crap.

My assignment for next practice, other than mastering the skills of skating, is to come up with a derby name, as everyone agrees Bliss is not gonna cut it. (I’ve been telling Brooke that for years.)

Metamorphosis

T
he next three weeks fly by as my life becomes all derby, all the time. I order my own pair of skates using my would-be John Fluevog shoe money. Naturally I have them shipped to Pash’s house so as not to arouse suspicion from Brooke. We tell her parents the box is a telescope, and they approve.

At practice, the humiliation factor decreases as my skating improves. Even though I’m covered in bruises, aka “derby kisses,” I feel surprisingly proud of what I’m learning to do. (It’s so weird; I’m kind of like a jock.) I even sneak out late at night to covertly practice my T-stops and power slides in the driveway, determined to catch up to the other girls.

I love the way the wind whips through my hair at practice as I fly through the turns, sitting low, leaning into the track for maximum speed. My life feels like it has been so slow for so long, it’s fun to finally be going fast.

Now if I could just master the blocking thing. You know, the part of the sport that makes it Roller
Derby
and not just roller
skating
. So far, every time Emma Geddon or Crystal Deth or Malice lean into me for a little contact, I immediately fall to the ground.

After one of these signature episodes, Blade skates up to me and says, “It’s a contact sport, Bliss. That means that eventually
you will have to make contact
.”

Okay, he has a point. But I still feel like shit for being called on it.

Meanwhile, I bug Pash day in, day out, constantly consulting her (she would say harassing) about the perfect Roller Derby name. We can be having a perfectly random convo about why Principal Starsiak is a total hag and then I’ll say “What about Punky Bruiser? Or Maggie Mayhem? Or Raggedy Annarchy?”

When I try to bring it up again, Pash finally just rolls her eyes. “If you start the name thing, I’m not coming to your game.”

“That’s cool,” I say, “because Malice and I already have it covered.”

“You actually picked a name? Spit it out,” Pash says.

“Nope. You have to wait for the game,” I say, leaving her in the hall as I disappear into my English class.

In the Derby Closet

T
he surprising thing about my double derby life is that I know I have to be in perfect-child mode to avoid Brooke. And listening to the old people bicker on the bingo bus, my survival tactic is to keep my headphones cranked high and my nose in my books. As long as I have one hand holding Helen’s ball of knitting yarn, I can do no wrong.

So, in the height of rebelling and lying to my parents, I manage to bring home the kind of grades I haven’t seen since second grade. Straight As. Vintage Bliss.

It’s amazing—you can get away with anything as long as your report card is bragworthy. Why did I not work this strategy earlier?

Even Earl pulls me aside and sweetly places a hundred-dollar bill in my palm. “I’m real proud of ya, kiddo,” he says. The whole exchange nearly makes me erupt in tears because normally Earl’s not one for involvement. Plus, even though I’m over most everything these days, I’m not over my dad calling me kiddo. I hope I never am.

A Smashing Debut

T
his is it, this is the night—my debut as the one, the only Babe Ruthless before a crowd of adoring fans. Even better, Sadie, Juana, and their roommate Octavia (who we call Rocktavia because she does) have planned an insane after-party at their house.

Finally (finally), my real life is about to begin, and I’m taking Pash with me. Actually, when I mentioned the after-party, Pash responded, “You are so dead if I’m not invited.” As if she even had to ask.

I wouldn’t dare go to an after-party without my Pash Amini.

We pulled the ol’ “I’m spending the night at Pash’s house, and she’s spending the night at my house” parental switcheroo. Normally this scheme would arouse major suspicion with Brooke, but a fortuitous turn of events helped our cause. Brooke had to accompany Sweet Pea to a Little Miss Whatever pageant in Dallas, leaving me in the care of my not-so-tuned-in-to-the-rules father.

Do I feel bad finking out on Earl when lately he’s been so nice? Put it this way: Bliss feels guilty, but Babe Ruthless knows the derby show must go on.

Pash and I have been handed a golden opportunity to stay out all night. We intend to take full advantage of it.

Tonight the league of Derby Girls is represented by the Sirens, a team of crooked she-cops, and the Hurl Scouts, a gang of Girl Scouts gone bad.

We can hear the crowd filling the warehouse as we get costumed up. Crystal Deth hooks me up with some fab eye makeup that would make any
Rocky Horror
devotee melt with envy. And when I finally don my adorable green Girl Scout dress with my shredded acid-green-and-black fishnet tights, I nearly cry. I look hot and scary all at once—my kind of fabulous.

When they announce Babe Ruthless, I take my lap around the track, emptying a box of Thin Mints on the crowd. It’s hard to tell who is having more fun: me or them. Me, I think.

Malice picks me out to be the first jammer (point scorer) for our team. The whistle blows and something erupts in me. I take off as if I were shot out of a cannon, weaving and sidestepping the opposing blockers who try to take me down. They miss.

I even manage to take a beautiful “whip” off Emma Gedden coming into a turn. She throws her arm out behind her, I grab on, and her force slings me out of the turn, sending me ahead of all the Sirens. It’s a crowd-pleasing move, that’s for damn sure.

When time runs out, I have managed to rack up an impressive six points for the Hurl Scouts. (Which I know is not the point, but c’mon, it’s my first time!)

My adrenaline is through the roof, and I have to sit out the jam just to catch my breath and manage a killer case of cottonmouth. I guzzle a bottle of water, scanning the crowd for boys.

Of course I’m keeping an eye out for a glimpse of Señor Smolder, the delicious rocker boy who has haunted my every waking daydream since I first laid eyes on him nearly six weeks ago. Cute boys everywhere, but alas, no SS.

Just as well—he was probably a mirage. Or even worse, not actually that hot (his hotness being a figment of my imagination). If I saw him now I would probably be disappointed to the point of being creeped out. And I’m having too much fun for such romantic letdowns. I’m playing Roller Derby!

Before halftime, Crystal hurts her knee and has to sit out a few jams. During a time-out, Malice calls me to block. I give her a you-must-be-crazy look. It’s well established that blocking’s not my strong suit.

Malice pulls me aside and says, “You know what I do when I have to block? I think of my ex-boyfriend, Dax, and what an asshole he was—a word of advice, Ruthless, never date a boy in a band, or a Leo—they’re totally toxic. Anyway, when I block, I picture kicking Dax’s ass with his precious guitar. It totally helps. Think of things that piss you off, and you’ll throw some great blocks.”

So, I’m up there blocking, and Robin Graves is jamming, poised to pass me and score. Normally, I’d let Robin go, but not this time. This time I follow Malice’s advice. I think of Brooke, and Corbi, and all the cranky customers who never tip—all of it—and just as Robin goes low to pass, I throw my hip and shoulder and—
bingo
—I make contact. Robin slams to the track as I skate away.

By the final heat, I’m so goin’ with the flow, I feel invincible and, dare I say, ruthless. This time I’m blocking, not jamming. I can do whatever stunt I want. And somehow, with the crowd egging us on to a big finish, I go for the granddaddy stunt of them all: taking the rail.

Only three girls in the league can really pull this off, but somehow I decide I’m going to be the fourth. So, I take a hit from Juana Beat’n of the Sirens and head to the top of the track full speed. When I hit the edge, I reach for the rail and cartwheel myself right over.

The drop is about eight feet onto cold, hard concrete.

The crowd gasps. . . . I see nothing but a blur of lights as I fly through the air. . . .

And then—
SLAP!
—my skates hit the floor. The crowd roars, and I realize I’m still standing. I did it! I took the fucking rail!

And just like that, I’m a Derby Girls legend, in my own mind anyway. The minute I step off the track I can feel my social life taking a sharp turn for the better. I am swarmed by fans.

Pash runs over, swatting them all away, screaming, “Oh, my God, Bliss! You’re a freakin’ rock star!”

A charming but much-too-old dude steps up. “You rock, Babe Ruthless,” he says, starting to hand me a beer.

Malice steps in like a protective lioness. “She’s only eighteen, asshole,” she barks, shoving the old dude away.

“But I wanted that beer,” I whine.

“We’ll get you one at the party,” Malice says.

Make-out Island

B
y the time Pash and I arrive to make our grand party entrance, the surrounding streets are so packed with cars, we practically have to park in Bodeen. Not that I’m complaining. The epic walk is so worth it.

The place is amok with hotties. Margaritas and Lone Stars pass through the hands of partyers like punch at a five-year-old’s birthday. And Pash wastes no time helping herself to the alcohol and the boys.

I don’t know how, but I get sidelined by some icky skate-rat named Adam who’s maybe fourteen years old while my fellow Derby Girls seem to have no problem poaching the more desirable picks.

By twelve-thirty, Derby HQ becomes Make-out HQ. On the lawn, in the kitchen, in the hallway, in the bedrooms, in both bathrooms, and even in the backyard, couples are hooking up. Everyone but me, and I can’t seem to get rid of Icky, who follows me from room to room as I look for Pash, who has vanished.

On the verge of boredom-tears, I elect myself DJ and take over the stereo. (We’ve been listening to the same Beck CD for two hours, and that’s just wrong—even if you do like Beck.)

I sort through Rocktavia’s record collection, searching for sonic inspiration. A Velvet Underground and Nico album catches my eye. I think how I often see this band referenced in music articles but still haven’t actually heard them. Sometimes I just want to explain to the music snobs that I’m only sixteen, and I’ve only been listening to real music for two years.
Give me some time to catch up!

I throw the record on the turntable, curious to see for myself what the Velvet hubbub is all about. The needle hits the vinyl, the music starts, and . . .
ohmyfreakin’god.
I am beyond blown away.

They’re not at all what I was expecting, a loud punk hybrid. What’s coming out of the stereo is like a genre unto itself, a charming, fucked-up fairy tale that immediately breaks my heart in all the best ways.

I stretch out on the floor with my ear parked next to the speaker, in a trance. I place the album cover over my face to block out any interruption as “I’ll Be Your Mirror” seduces me. I immediately add the song to my mental list of top ten songs ever.

And as I’m bobbing my head with dreamy abandon, I hear a voice. “Nice choice, DJ,” it says.

I slowly slide the album cover down past my eyes and look up. My eyes spy his shoes first—
paint splattered brogues.
My heart stops when I look at his face. Pale skin, messy black hair, emerald eyes . . . Señor Smolder! He’s eighteen, maybe nineteen. And no, my imagination didn’t lie, he is just as devastating now as he was the first time I saw him. Only even more, because he just complimented my taste in music.

I quickly roll over and stand up. Just looking at him, I’m struck with a lightning bolt of swoon. The current rips through me, and I literally stumble forward—he has to hold out his arm to steady me.