Demon Derby (24 page)

Okay, now, this was cool. It didn’t look like giant blocks to me anymore. It looked like one big freerunning course. We started leaping over blocks and tumbling down the other side. I ran up walls and did corkscrews and backflips and tic-tacs. I taught her some freerunning techniques on the biggest wall, a six-footer. Darcy did a few gymnastic passes across the floor, and then we started trying to outdo each other with the craziest flip combos we could come up with.

We gathered a small crowd of onlookers, and a few of them got out their phones and shot some video. The saleslady at the jewelry store next to us wasn’t too happy about our impromptu show until one of our admirers went into her store and started trying stuff on. It bought us some time, but eventually the security guys showed up on their stupid Segways and told us we had to leave.

“That was the most fun ever,” I said, wiping sweat from my forehead. “But I’m dying of thirst. Food court?”

“Definitely.” She linked her arm with mine. It felt a little lame, but I didn’t have the heart to pull away.

We got orange smoothies and sat down on the edge of one of the fountains in the middle of the food court, our legs dangling but not quite reaching the floor.

“So, what’s up with you and Michael?” she asked.

I shrugged. “We’re dating, I guess. He’s pretty cool.”

“Doesn’t he seem … I dunno. Weird?”

I shrugged again. “All guys seem weird to me. I think it’s in their DNA.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

“What about you?” I looked her over. On the surface, she was still the same old Darcy. Gap-toothed, pigtailed, slightly dorky. “You’ve gone all quiet lately. You used to be …” I couldn’t think of a way to say it that didn’t sound like a putdown.

“A total spaz?” She smiled. “I think derby’s settling me down. I feel very centered when I skate.”

“And you’re okay? Nothing you need to talk about?”

She cleared her throat and shook her head. “Nope. Nothing at all. Although, I wonder if that video of us is going to get YouTubed tonight.”

“Oh my God, we totally have to check after practice.”

We did. It was. And I have to say that we looked pretty darned awesome too.

I showed up at the convention center for our next bout assuming I’d be warming the bench. Of course I wanted to skate, but I kept reminding myself that it would come with time. With every practice, it felt like the team accepted me a little more. Regardless of whether I skated this time, I felt like I’d proved that I belonged, both to them and to myself.

I’d just sat down on a folding chair to watch the rest of the team begin their warm-ups, when Barbageddon hobbled up in an Aircast.

“What happened?” I leapt to my feet like a demon might pop out at any minute and try to take out her other foot too.

She shifted her crutches and patted me soothingly on the shoulder. “Calm down. It’s just a bad sprain. My sister and I crashed our neighbor’s trampoline. And I do mean
crashed
.”

“Oh.” I sat back down, feeling foolish. “Well, that sucks.”

“Are you kidding?” She flashed me a grin. “Once I stopped swearing, I realized this wasn’t such a bad thing after all, because it gives me an opportunity to watch you skate.”

I blinked. “Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.”

“What are you waiting for?” she asked. “Get your gear on, idiot!”

I stuck my tongue out at her first, but my heart wasn’t really in it. It was too busy alternately racing with nervousness and leaping with excitement. I tried to play it cool as I joined the rest of the girls on the track, but Darcy squealed when I skated out to join them, and I couldn’t resist echoing her. Besides, I was entitled to a little excitement after everything I’d been through.

After warm-ups, we reported back to the bench for our pre-bout strategy meeting. I tried not to take it too personally when Michael designated Ruthanasia as our first jammer. She smirked at me as she stretched the starred helmet panties over her head. I never understood why they called them “helmet panties,” since they were really just stretchy fabric that you put on your helmet to designate what position you were playing at the time. I think someone just liked the word “panties.”

“Okay, so Ruthanasia is jamming.… Ragnarocker, you take pivot,” Michael said without even looking up from his clipboard. I opened my mouth to protest—after all the hard work I’d put in to get here, he wasn’t going to let me skate? “We’re going to keep Casey as our secret weapon for a little while. We’ll tire ’em out, and then you’ll skate their pants off. Okay, Case?”

“Call me Casaclysm,” I said. I liked my new derby name. It cracked me up.

It felt good to be a secret weapon. But it still hurt to sit down on the row of folding chairs that served as our bench and watch as Ruthanasia, Ragnarocker, and a bunch of our other skaters took their places on the rink alongside the Tilt-a-Girls. My hands fiddled nervously with my official yellow and white Apocalypsies jersey. The longer I sat, the more nervous I got.

“Oh my God. I can’t believe how many people are here,” Darcy said, plopping down next to me.

I scanned the crowd. If I’d known I’d be skating, I would have invited my parents, but it was probably too late now. Not that I would have been able to locate them if they’d been there, because the place was nice and busy. About half of the five thousand seats were already full, and this was only the junior bout. People would keep trickling in for the main event. I saw signs and derby tees and lots of people with Day-Glo hair. The crowd hummed, a steady stream of sound that made it necessary to speak up if you wanted to be heard. I’d have to remember that out on the track.

“I think it’s pretty average attendance.” I tried to sound calm, but it was an uphill battle. My nerves would settle down as soon as I got out there, but I wasn’t built for waiting.

“Yeah, but it’s totally different when you’re out here and all those people are staring at you.”

“No kidding.” I held out my fist to her. “Good luck, Dee Stroyer.”

“You too, Casaclysm.”

She bumped my knuckles with hers and gave me one of her gap-toothed grins. I was glad to see her in a good mood.

The whistle blew to start the jam, and the pack moved off their line, setting a fairly brutal pace. The second whistle—Ruthanasia and Hoosya Mama, the Tilt-a-Girl jammer, flew off their line, jockeying for position. Ruthanasia came in way too hot, hitting the pack like a bowling ball full of dynamite, and instantly earned a major penalty for illegal contact to the back. The ref signaled her out; she slid into the penalty box with a scowl. We watched as Hoosya Mama racked up an easy triple grand slam. I could have punched Ruthanasia right then for making such a stupid mistake. Her douche baggery was going to cost us the bout if she kept it up.

Frankly, I couldn’t decide who to scowl at more. Ruthanasia for being her usual hotheaded self, or Michael for not seeing that I was the better choice to start, if only because I was a little better at keeping my temper under wraps these days. All the Relic training was starting to make me all Zen.

Darcy left with a squeal to skate in the second jam, and now I was one of the only players still warming the bench. I tried not to feel bad about that, with an emphasis on “tried.” It got particularly hard when Ruthanasia got pinned behind the Tilt-a-Girl powerhouse blockers, Honey Beater and Skirt Cobain, and couldn’t get anywhere. But Dee Stroyer, Ragnarocker, and Angel Pop kept Hoosya under wraps too, and the jam played out without much of anything happening.

Michael came up behind me. “It’s time. Show them how it’s done, Casaclysm.”

I didn’t wait to be told twice. I launched off the chair like one of those demon dogs was nipping at my heels. It was finally happening. When I hit the jammer line, I took a moment to look around at my pack. Ruthanasia at pivot, Dee Stroyer, Ragnarocker, and Dawn & Quartered blocking. Skirt Cobain was jamming for the Girls. I’d seen how she moved—quick and light on her skates despite her solid, muscular form. But I knew I was faster.

The ref sounded the first whistle for the pack to start moving, and my muscles tensed. I crouched low on my skates, balanced on my toe stops. He sounded the second whistle for the jammers. I flew off the line, my torso low, the hiss of skates hard and fast as Skirt and I fought for dominance. The pack was moving slowly, the blockers jostling for position too.

We reached the back of the pack; Dee Stroyer took my hand and whipped me forward, rocketing me past two of the Tilt-a-Girl blockers. I came up behind Ragnarocker, my fingertips light on her shoulder, using her as a shield while I looked for a hole in the defense. Stop Tart, another Girl blocker, came up alongside me, shifting her hips and trying to drive a wedge between Rock and me. We moved in automatic, well-practiced unison. Rock shifted right, hitting Stop Tart so hard that she fell over and skidded out of bounds. I shifted left, legs pistoning as I rocketed through the empty space that suddenly opened in front of me. I skated hard and fast, eyes and ears alert for additional defenders.

The announcer’s voice boomed over the loudspeaker. “And
now, ladies and gentlemen, referee Edward Sullen points the fickle Finger of Power at rookie jammer Casaclysm, designating her as the lead jammer for the first time in her skating career!”

Sure enough, there he was, one hand pointing straight at me and the other up to the heavens like I’d been chosen by a divine power. Which I guess in a strange way wasn’t so far from the truth. I couldn’t resist a little hotdogging; I pumped my fist in the air, and the crowd cheered.

Enough of that. My skates hit the floor in an increasing rhythm. The pack lay ahead, just around the next curve, and I was dying to score some points. I crouched low, rocketing past the Tilt-a-Girl pivot before she even saw me.

“Jammer on right!” she shouted, her words distorted by the mouth-guard.

I dodged left, ducking under the outstretched arms of D&Q and Honey Beater as they struggled to own the space. Another blocker swerved in front of me, and I didn’t even have time to see who it was. I spun, skimming past her by the barest of margins, and ended up out in front of the pack, rolling backward and not entirely sure how it had happened.

Before I could totally lose momentum, I spun back around and kept on skating, sparing an eye for the clock. Still almost a minute left in the jam, plenty of time to score another grand slam. Perhaps I was getting a little cocky, but maybe I deserved a little self-indulgence.

The next pass was even easier. It was like I felt the holes
before I even saw them. My body moved instinctively through the crush of the pack, and my blockers knew exactly where I needed them. They cleared the floor, and I charged through.

I would have scored another grand slam, or maybe even two, if Ruthanasia hadn’t tripped me.

It was like one minute I was sailing out into the empty rink in front of the pack, and then there was a leg in front of me, a leg wearing tights printed with daggers and skulls, and then I was flying. There was just enough time for me to appreciate how much it was going to hurt when I landed, and then I was down. The pads absorbed most of the shock, but I still managed to ding my hip pretty bad. Another ref by the unfortunate name of Bustin Jieber sent Ruthanasia out again. I scrambled to my feet just as Skirt charged forward and scored. I called off the jam a moment too late, giving away two points.

As I made my way back to the bench, all I could think of was how I was going to kill Ruthanasia. Slowly. And with great pain.

Halftime came all too soon. I had only twenty-five minutes to corner Ruthanasia, so I didn’t dork around. When she went into the ladies’ room, I followed. By some miracle, the other three stalls were empty, so I leaned against the grungy tile wall and waited for her to open the stall door.

“What is your problem?” I snarled the minute she stepped out. “I thought we’d agreed to keep this out of the rink.”

She took an involuntary step back, and I could see how much that ticked her off. So she got right up in my face, like aggression would make up for the weakness she’d just shown.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Kent. But I don’t like your attitude.”