“Am I dead? Am I a ghost? Is my sweaty corpse out there on the track?”
A tall, skinny, pale girl named Madelyn, who looks like she’s spent most of her life in an art studio, is beside me. She’s got her hands on her knees as she pants.
I can’t manage to suck in enough breath to answer her.
Because roller derby? Yeah, turns out it’shard. Good hard. Powerful hard. I-want-to-kick-someone’s-butt hard.
But it’shard.
A whistle slices through the thick air of the old community center where the Bloomington Brawlers practice on a slick, shiny basketball court. Violet is standing in the center of the track in full gear while the rest of us, half collapsed on the floor, the rest doubled over and panting, are waiting on the jammer line. We are almost at the end of our very first fresh meat practice, and we’ve just finished our first attempt at one of the minimum skills required to play the sport: twenty-seven laps in under five minutes.
Only two girls accomplished it the first time, and one of them is a transfer from another league in Michigan—she’s been playingfor two years already. The other twelve of us in the fresh meat group fell short.
I got twenty-two.
Turns out watching some game tape and having all the right gear doesn’t make you an athlete. For the last three hours, we’ve done skating drills, worked on posture and stride, practiced crossovers and weaving through cones. We started learning stops, which for most of us meant either a slow coast to a wobbly halt or a quick splat on the floor. We balanced on one foot and made some attempts at turns. I was okay at most of it but by no means good. And there were a few times when a voice I recognized came creeping into my brain. It sounded an awful lot like my middle school gym teacher, telling me tostop draggin’ ass, Webber. Back then, I fully believed that moving my body was awful, that I wasn’t good at it, that I shouldn’t even try.
But for the last three hours, no one has said anything to me other thangood joborgreat startorI can’t wait to see that ass in the back of the pack.
So even though I might be a ghost and my corpse might be in a heap somewhere on the track, I’m still smiling.
A little.
I think I might love this?
“Okay, folks, we’ve got one final task for you,” Violet calls, her voice bouncing around the gym. “It’s the last minimum skill you’ll be working toward over the course of fresh meat training. Each of you will begin at the jammer line and take off for one lap from a dead start. You need to complete that lap in under thirteen seconds in order to be game-eligible. Remember, this is just a first attempt. Some of you are still new on skates. That’s okay! That’s what freshie training is for. If you stick with it, you’ll get there. This is just to establish your baseline.”
I glance around to see if anyone else thinks that thirteen seconds seems like an impossibly short amount of time. A couple of people look confident (namely the transfer, a skater named Maude Forbid who I’m pretty sure managed damn near thirtylaps in five minutes), but most everyone is staring at Violet with eyes the size of dinner plates. One girl looks a little bit green.
“Let’s go, skaters! Last hurdle—you can do it.” Violet claps her hands, her wrist guards making a little clacking sound. Beside her, KO holds a clipboard and looks bored. “Line up!”
Slowly, we all make our way to the line on wobbly legs. I can tell everyone is trying hard to be very cool and also not be first. We sort of bully Maude Forbid to the front, and when Violet blows the whistle, she takes off with three quick steps on her toe stops before digging her wheels into the floor. She hits the turn with her left hand tucked behind her back, leaning deep into her crossovers like an Olympic speed skater.
It looks incredible.
Suddenly I’m not struggling to breathe. Suddenly I’m not breathing at all as I watch her whiz around the track, crossing the jammer line again in a blur. And even though my legs are jelly and my entire body is soaked in sweat, even though I know my face is red as a tomato and there’s no way in a frozen hell that I’m going to make this lap in under thirteen seconds on my first attempt, I can’t fuckingwaitto try it.
And try it again.
And again.
And again and again and again until I can take those turns with as much speed and grace as Maude.
When it’s my turn on the line, Violet gives me a quick wink before blowing the whistle. I try to do that little run on my toe stops that Maude did, but the movement is new to me, and I pitch forward, stumbling a few steps. But I manage to get my wheels under me and push hard into the floor, finding a grip on the short straightaway. When I hit the turn, I lean and cross my right skate over my left, my arms swinging like they can propel me faster. I don’t even try to tuck my arm behind me like Maude did, because I know I need both of these babies for balance.
I feel my left foot start to slip as I come out of the turn, but I hang on, my heart in my throat. The straightaway looks endless,and I sprint with everything I have, hitting turn three at a speed I didn’t think was possible. As a result, I take the turn a little too wide, but I bend my knees like Violet taught us and push through to turn four.
I cross the jammer line more than a little out of control and have to drop to my knees, sliding like a rock star across the floor in order to stop.
“Twelve point nine seconds!” Violet yells, following it up with a whoop.
Behind me, my fellow freshies erupt into cheers.
Holy shit.I did it.
And on my first attempt. Wobbly and awkward and ending in a heap on the floor, but I did it.
Violet skates over and grins down at me, her purple hair spilling out from beneath her black helmet.
