Page 27 of False Start
Death is a starting point.
Death is a door. It opens and shuts, swallowing up the joy and the light inside us.
Death is a starting point.
It wasn’t for Lonnie.
Death isn’t for the dead.
I scream in frustration, slapping at the side of my head with both hands as the searing hot pain of grief stabs into me again. Maybe the scrawny little shit has the right idea. Maybe numbing all of this with drugs is easier than dealing with the constant reminder that my best friend is gone.
Once inside, I realize I’m the last one in. Everyone’s already geared up and stretching on the track, Lady Yaga leading with some fancy yoga poses that are supposed to help us skate faster. Nia is in a half lunge, the wheels of her skate nearly touching her butt, sandwiched between K-Otic and StarScreamer, and suddenly, I feel myself hesitating, unsure where my place is anymore.
I don’t linger, knowing that I’ll feel worse when given an opportunity for humiliation than if I simply pretend I’m unbothered. Dropping down next to DreadPool, I bring one arm over my chest and do a half-assed version of the stretches they’ve gone through without me.
“You look pissed,” they whisper, doing their best to not talk over Yaga.
Venice Witch snorts. “She’sbeenpissed ever since Antônia’s come back to town.”
I shoot her death stare from my left, and she scootsaway from me, realizing I’m not in the mood. My cried-out eyes are a sure giveaway.
DreadPool groans, causing a few skaters to glance our way. “You gotta get over this,” they say in a hushed tone.
“I’m trying.” I push the words through gritted teeth, like the lie alone is costing me.
“Yeah, okay.” Sarcasm drips off their tongue, and the look on their face says they see through all of my bullshit.
Dread is like that. X-ray vision, capable of seeing everyone’s truest intentions. They give me an earnest smile, like they're waiting for me to cave. The brown freckles over their nose are barely visible this time of the year, but in the summer, they’ll be out in full force. By then, their now-shoulder length brown hair will be chopped into a bob, just under their chin. The pattern repeats yearly, on schedule without fail.
“I don’t owe her anything!” I snap, the words coming out a little louder than I intend, and all heads turn our way again, including Nia’s.
“Tell me how youreallyfeel now,” Dread laughs, clipping their helmet buckle under their chin.
Then, every skater is standing, scrambling into the pack as they take their warm up laps. I’m left lagging behind, a common theme lately that is slowly prickling under my skin, an annoying sensation I can’t seem to block out.
Mo blows the whistle, and it feels like a direct call out, telling me to stand and join the rest of the team in laps. I don’t hesitate, catching up with D-Stroya, who seems to be skating with extra leisure.
“You nervous?” I ask her.
“Fuck yeah, I’m nervous.” She shakes her head. “But there’s also a sense of peace, you know? Like, life goes on ifI can’t do this.” She sighs out loud, and I realize she’s saving her energy for her speed test.
“Stop saying that,” I chastise her. “You can do this. So can the others.” I reminded her she isn’t the only skater who didn’t pass her speed test.
She comes to a hockey stop, forcing me to make a quick one-eighty and freeze on my toe stops in front of her. “Cat.” Her voice is cold and sharp. “This isn’t my first rodeo. It’s okay not to pass your speed test when you’re fresh meat. I’m not fresh meat. I’mnotgetting any faster, I can accept that.” She looks over to Nia, whose crossovers are smoother than ever. She skates with a smile on her face, not bothering to slow down so others can keep up with her or use this as a social time. “It’s time you do the same.”
Deandra kisses the pads of her pointer and middle finger and then touches the top of my helmet.
In a way, I feel as if I'm attending another funeral.
Another death, another goodbye.
Roller Derby means family. We live for each other, bear the brunt of each other’s sorrows, struggles, and joy. That bond doesn’t end when practice is over or when we take our skates off for the night.
But that bond does break when the skates come off for the last time, when they get hung in a closet by their laces like a trophy. Moving on is easier than staying stuck in the memory. Nostalgia becomes a scab that gets picked too soon, never quite healing. Every retired skater tries to stick around, attend the bouts and cheer their friends on, but life takes precedent and eventually, other priorities win out.
There’s no bitterness there. It’s simply the way of life. If you aren’t living, breathing Roller Derby, you aren’t one hundred percent in. You can’t give your all to a team with one foot out the door.
D already has both feet in the parking lot. She’s just hoping to use Scott to push her the rest of the way out.
