Page 28 of False Start
The whistle blows again, and we all know it’s time for footwork drills. All qualified skaters move to the side, where ladders are taped on the ground and cones are arranged for toe-stop walking—everyone aside from the skaters who haven’t passed their twenty-seven in fives.
They stay on the track, where Scott clutches his stopwatch in his hand, ready to test them. I switch my focus back to the task in front of me, tuning out every thought of Lonnie, D, and Nia as I let my feet do the work.
I count to soothe.
One two three. One two three. My feet crisscross through the ladders. One two three. One two three. I’m back in line, ignoring the sounds of everyone around me. I don’t turn to my side to see how the speed test is going. It’s my turn again.
One two three. One two three.
I can hear the clamoring around me, the cheers of our so-called family morphing into a roar of encouragement for the skaters on the track. I’m the only one doing ladders now. There’s no line, no one else in my way.
One two three. One two three.
And then they erupt, as if something that was physically holding them back had come crashing down. My teammates rush over to the circle of the track, fanning and cheering as well as consoling and commiserating.
Turning my head slowly, still too afraid to know for certain, I brace for the impact.
It isn’t D who is crying, though she’s clearly not made it. It’s StarScreamer, sobbing at her feet and allowing her friend to console her. It makes me feel better to know I’m not the only one feeling this way.
Rae-Gunn is shrugging, like she had expected not to make it this second time either and assuring everyone that it will be okay. She still has one more chance to test, according to Scott, and it doesn’t look like this has been enough of an ego-kill to keep her from trying one more time.
Bae-Ruthless is hugging the living shit out of Electric-Heel, her skates lifted off the air as she spins her in circles, congratulating her friend in her accomplishment. It’s a relief to not be losing any more of us like this.
Scott blows the whistle again, not going through any formality of congratulating Electric, moving on to the next thing like it means nothing. “Let’s scrimmage, Devils.”
12
HARVEY
Iwas seventeen the first time I watched Nia-Death skate. She was three years older, and I spent most of my teen years at a private Catholic school, being forced to pray my sins away by my mom and stepdad. Driving to Devil Town from the city wasn’t what most teenagers were doing on a Saturday night, yet there I was, obsessively watching the Devil’s Dames and cheering them on, counting down the days until I turned eighteen and could try out.
But then my eighteenth birthday came, and reality hit. I found myself homeless, jobless, and with no way to afford higher education. I bounced from one couch to another, saving what little I could from working at a fast-food joint until I got my own car. After that, I was able to remove the burden of my existence from my friends’ lives. That kind of pressure long term isn’t good for friendships.
I lived in my car for the next year. With no previous rental history and no credit score to back me, it was damn near impossible to lease an apartment. That’s when I decided to move to Devil Town.
Nia-Death Experience had disappeared by then,leaving behind a visible scar through what I remembered of the Devil’s Dames league. The team I looked up to had become a shell of what I had romanticized. Lonnie still welcomed me with open arms, tossing a pair of skates my way and showering me with all of the confidence that only they were capable of bestowing. They hooked me up with a job at Freddy’s bar, convincing him to hire me despite the fact that I wasn’t old enough to serve at the time.
Lonnie nearly lost their shit when they found out I had been sleeping in my car for so long, co-signing my first apartment lease without me asking. I barely felt like an adult, so in need of their parenting. Now, I’m twenty-four, Lonnie’s dead, and Nia is here.
In the place I’ve made my home.
And what a mind trip all of it is.
Seven weeks ago, I would have killed to see her walk through those doors, but she showed up a little too late. All I want now is for her to walk right back out.
There’s only about ten minutes left of scrimmage when Mo grabs me by the wrist and pulls me from the track. Probably for the best. I’ve already laid Nia out at least ten times, and she’s going to be black and blue tomorrow for our first official WFTDA bout in five years.
I’m too busy hating myself to bother with feeling anything toward anyone else. My helmet is sweatier than usual, and my wrist guards are begging for a wash but I’m probably better off just buying a new pair at this point.
“We’re gonna hang out at my place tonight.” I hear D’s voice from a distance. “Like a retirement party.” She grins, hesitation in her voice, like she’s not sure if I’m ready to pretend like any of this is a good thing.
I’m not. Because it isn’t.
“I’m working Tween Night,” I explain, glad I have the excuse so I don’t have to lie.
“Scott’s keeping the rink closed tonight because of the fresh paint,” she counters. “Can’t keep those ten year olds from stamping their grubby paws all over the walls.” While it makes sense, there’s a part of me that’s angry for not having been consulted about it.
The rink isn’t his.
