I even keep my iPod tucked in my backpack and hold Helen’s ball of yarn as she knits and tells me all about her life. She complains about her “arthritic hands,” but, I’m telling ya, Helen works those needles like a rock star. And I know from experience. I made the fatal error of attempting to knit a scarf last Christmas. What started out as a hopeful ball of yarn came out looking like a disfigured pot holder that had been run over by a car a hundred times. And I don’t even have arthritis.
Along the way, I secretly wonder if my being super nice to Helen will earn me some Karma cred toward getting Pash back. Like, somewhere in the universe, the people who control these things are watching and thinking, “We can’t keep Bliss from her best friend for too long. She’s obviously a good person. Her footwork may be all wrong, but her heart’s in the right place.”
Maybe I’m grasping at straws. I just miss Pash, and it’s a little scary to know 101 apologies mean zip, nada, nothing.
Who Even Thought of Calendars, Anyway?
A
t derby practice, Razor and the team captains announce a change in the season schedule. Due to the fire marshal snafu, it has been decided that the unfinished game between the Hurl Scouts and the Holy Rollers will be replayed this Saturday. That means the remaining games are all pushed back a week, including our league championships, which will now take place on November 17, instead of November 10.
Now, I don’t really keep track of my life by calendars. I’m too busy goin’ with the flow to be ruled by a bunch of little organized boxes with numbers on a piece of paper. That’s Brooke Territory, and I try to stay far away from it. In hindsight, perhaps that’s not the wisest choice.
I get home from derby practice, starved for nourishment. I go to the kitchen, where my mom asks how my study group was. “Awesome,” I say, making a beeline for the fridge. I open it, and reach for the gallon of milk, which turns out to be nearly empty, a little gift from the heavens. It’s one of those rare moments when I can brazenly drink right out of the jug without incurring my mother’s wrath. I throw my head back, close my eyes, and enjoy every last drop.
Ahhhhhhhhh.
Then I open my eyes and find myself staring at the heavily detailed “Cavendar Calendar of Events” covering the refrigerator door. Shania’s name is all over that thing, with little pink, glittery tiara stickers noting her various pageant comings and goings. I barely get a mention, save for the token “Bliss: dentist” on November 2.
Then, I clue in a little closer. There is one tiara marked in my honor, the day of the Miss Bluebonnet pageant, which happens to be on . . . November 17. Wait—November 17?
The derby championship game and the Miss Bluebonnet pageant are on the
same night
? I have to tell you, that is the most wicked punch line I’ve ever heard in my life.
In my English class, when we were studying
Hamlet
and
Macbeth,
Mrs. Weaver would go on and on about how all the great Shakespearean characters have one “fatal flaw,” the stubborn human error that is the source of their dramatic undoing.
I never thought I had a fatal flaw. Until now. Clearly, my inability to remember dates has cost me my best friend and now this.
I am so fucked. I’m fucked with whipped cream, sprinkles, and a cherry on top.
Resistance Is Futile
A
fter much thinking, scheming, plotting, and planning, I decide the best way to deal with my impending doom is to just . . . ignore it. Short of faking my own suicide or getting abducted by aliens (which might be fun—if you know any aliens, let them know I’m up for a field trip), there’s no way out of the Miss Bluebonnet trap.
So I might as well enjoy all the derby action I can get in the meantime. No matter what happens at the championships, after Saturday, everyone will know the Hurl Scouts have the Holy Rollers’ number. Throughout the week, I push myself harder in practice, knowing that the rematch might be my last chance to really prove myself. And my team.
At school, I spend my lunch period huddled in the library, going over my Oliver e-mail, or rather,
not
going over my Oliver e-mail. I send him stuff, but I don’t hear back.
Not that I really expect him to pull over at any and all Internet cafés and send me hourly updates when he’s in the middle of touring with the Benedicts (um, hello). The real obstacle is me and my lack of cell phone. That puts our relationship at a serious texting handicap. Oliver might as well be dating an Amish girl. Still. It would be nice to check my in-box and see some love. All I get lately are ads from Urban Outfitters, which are only depressing because I’m so broke.
Really, I’m Fine –I Swear
O
n Saturday, Bird-man calls in a panic and talks me into working the Oink Joint lunch shift. Normally I would say no freakin’ way, but I figure the busywork will give my nervous energy an outlet before the game.
When I clock in at ten-thirty, I notice a familiar time card next to mine—Pash’s. This is the first time we have worked together in ages, although “together” is a relative term. We ignore each other the entire time. No funny Polaroid shenanigans, no sarcastic musical numbers, no synchronized eye rolls when customers annoy us. I’m telling you, best-friend Siberia is one cold place. If you ever get sent there, I highly suggest bringing a parka.
At one point, a couple of old ladies in full tourist regalia (fanny packs and comfort shoes) dare each other to order the Squealer sandwich, as if it’s the most outrageous idea ever. They giggle conspiratorially like the best of friends. Okay, I admit, they’re old, uncool, and burdened with that unfortunate wing flab grandma-types get under their arms (dear God, please let that never happen to me), but Maybelle and Jolene are
so freakin’ adorable.
When they tell me all about how they’ve been best friends since they were fifteen years old, riding the same bus to Beeville High, I nearly run to the kitchen and cry my eyes out by the deep fryer. But I can’t, because Pash is working, and I refuse to give her the satisfaction of seeing me weep at work.
Bird-man tries to ease the pain as I refill the napkin dispensers. “Don’t be fooled,” he says. “She really misses you too.” I nod.
Thanks for trying, Bird-man, but really—this problem is bigger than you and all your manager skills.
At least he lets me clock out fifteen minutes early. I have just enough time to get home, hose the stench of barbecue off my body, and get back to the Oink Joint, where Malice has so generously offered to pick me up.
I felt embarrassed asking for a ride, but Malice wouldn’t hear of it. “Oh, shut up,” she said. “Of course I’ll come and pick your stranded ass up. If we don’t have Babe Ruthless, we don’t have a team.” It’s nice to know one person who doesn’t hate me.
However, once I get home, I discover a little hitch in my evening plans.
I walk into my bedroom and make the most shocking discovery of my entire life. My room is clean. The bed is made.
And you can even see the floor!
Something is definitely up.
A little background on the whole room-cleaning agenda. Three years ago, when I was thirteen, my mom and I went to war over the state of cleanliness in my room before Earl was forced to negotiate a complicated cease-fire. We agreed that, as long as I didn’t leave clutter around the house or hoard any crumb-laden dinner plates under my bed, my room was my space. All mine.
This truce has kept things cordial, more or less, for nearly three years. I even let things slide when my mom entered my sacred space with the ugly pink suit last month. Clearly, my politeness in that situation only empowered her to encroach on my privacy even further, which is never a good thing. Ever.
And today, the skate hit the fan.
The Poster Coaster
S
o, I’m feeling like the star of my very own
Twilight Zone
, standing in this pristine bedroom I don’t recognize. This morning I left my messy nest only to return to find a
Better Homes and Gardens
fantasy. Not my fantasy, but my mom’s.
I look at my closed closet door and feel my face get hot. I run over, throw open the door, and there before me is a row of immaculately hung clothes.
I fall to my knees and dig to the waaaaay back of my closet, my secret hiding space for my derby gear—my skates, my helmet. I move my hand around, but all I feel is carpet.
“Where are my skates?” I ask myself out loud, thinking, hoping, praying, maybe, just maybe, I put them somewhere else.
And then I feel it—her presence. Like Bigfoot’s shadow descending over a helpless little bug in the forest. I turn and see my mother standing over me. And she does not look happy (that makes two of us).
“I have your skates,” she says.
Ohhhhhhh. Fuuuuuuuck. What did she just say?
For a moment, I stare at her blankly, trying to figure out just how much she knows, so I know how to respond. Like, am I 50 percent in trouble? Or the whole 100 percent? And then I notice the rolled-up derby poster in her hand.
Okay, my life is over.
“How long, Bliss?” she inquires, calmly. “How long have you been sneaking off behind my back and doing this . . . this Roller Derby thing?”
And immediately I get defensive. I mean, of course I know I’m going down, but not without a fight. And maybe fight’s the wrong word. Honestly, I want her to understand that Roller Derby is really important to me, not something I chose just to piss her off.
“Mom, I know it looks really bad,” I start, “but I can explain it.”
“Bliss, I can’t trust anything you say right now,” she declares, turning and walking off, as if she is so betrayed that the mere idea of having a full conversation is too much for her.
But I’m not done. I have a game to skate tonight, and my ride is picking me up in thirty minutes. I need my gear. I need my skates, and I need to get the hell out of here. So I follow her into the living room, determined to negotiate the return of what is rightfully mine.
“Mom, we don’t have to talk about this right now. Just give me my skates,” I say in my most mature, let’s-be-adults-about-this voice.
“That’s not happening, Bliss,” she counters, coldly.
“Give. Me. My. Skates,” I say slowly, my last attempt at peaceful persuasion.
Brooke turns, looks me square in the eye, and says, “No.” And that’s when I start to crack.
“I paid for them! They’re mine!” I spit out, to which she replies, “You’re grounded until further notice,” before shutting her bedroom door, which totally sends me over the edge.
I’m suddenly thinking how, year after year, I sucked it up and submitted myself to her parade of pageant humiliation, and she can’t even
try
to understand how I might need a little part of my life for myself. It’s not a topic of discussion because Brooke doesn’t care, and if Brooke doesn’t care, then it doesn’t exist. I don’t exist.
Well, too late, lady, you made me. I’m here, and I EXIST. So, deal!
Forget keeping the peace, forget staying out of trouble, forget trying to delicately sway her into giving me my skates back. I walk up to her bedroom door, throw it open, and practically scream, “You don’t even know me!”
And, I swear to God, it takes every last ounce of self-control to keep me from following that sentence with “you fat bitch.” But I keep that part internal, as I do not want to die immediately. Or regret being so harsh.
She looks at me and laughs—
she laughs!
—“Bliss, you’re only sixteen. You don’t even know who you are.”
“I know I’m not Miss Bluebonnet,” I say, throwing it back at her. “I know that much.” I’m shaking. I feel like I’m on the verge of either crying my eyes out or kicking someone’s ass—I just don’t know which. But I know, even in my rage, punching my mom is not really an option.
My dad, hearing the commotion, comes running in from doing yard work outside. The minute poor Earl sees my mom and me dug deep in our mother / daughter World War III trenches, I can tell he’d rather be mowing the grass. Whatever is going on here, Earl wants nothing to do with it.
But it’s too late. Mom is determined to get an ally and some extra muscle on her side. She waves the poster at him, like a betrayed woman in a Spanish soap opera. “This! This is what our daughter’s been doing!”
Earl, probably still a little unsure what exactly it is my mom is having a meltdown about, takes a moment to digest the contents of the poster. And this is what happens. A grin actually spreads across his face, a little flicker of joy I will never forget till the day I die, and he says, “Roller Derby’s back? Well, hell, we used to watch that on late-night TV. We’d get a case of Lone Star, go to Freddy Jasper’s house, and have a—”
“Earl!” Brooke shouts, rocketing off the bed. “She’s been doing it in secret behind our backs!”
Earl’s smile immediately drops as he steps in line behind the Brooke regime. It makes me so sad that the tears I’ve been bravely fighting off start to sting my eyes and blur my vision.
“Please,” I plead, like a prisoner begging to see the sun. “Just listen, okay? For the first time, I don’t feel like a total freak or like something’s wrong with me.”
“You are not running around with those girls and their tattoos. It’s not ladylike.”
“Well, I guess we have different ideas about what it means to be a lady.” I sigh. “I know I lied, and I’m really sorry. You can ground me later. But just let me go now. Please. Dad?”