Demon Derby (32 page)

“Hunter,” said the middle one, and either they were cold too or I scared them, because his voice shook, and he took out a knife and held it up in front of him like he needed the reassurance of steel in his hand.

I rolled my eyes. “Spare me the ridiculous posturing and let’s get on with it already. I know why you’re here.”

The metal door behind me slammed against the brick with
a hollow boom. It didn’t feel like a threat, but I’d been wrong before, so I risked a glance. My teammates poured out—Ragnarocker, Barbageddon, Angel Pop, all of them.

“What’s going on out here?” demanded Barbageddon, quickly assessing the situation. She was off the crutches now and ready for some action.

“Hey, Knifey Boy. You’re not messing with my girl here, are you?” Ragnarocker asked, popping her knuckles and moving to flank me.

“Because that would totally suck,” added Barbageddon.

The girls arrayed themselves around me, sweaty-faced, runny-mascaraed, bruised and dinged and totally fierce. Maybe they didn’t know a demon from a doorknob, but if Ruthanasia was any indication, they had enough heart to stand against a horde of demons. The Sentinels seemed to know a lot of things about demons, but I knew hunting. And these girls had the heart to take a stand if only someone would show them how. I could be that someone.

The demons began exchanging nervous glances, backing uncertainly toward the dim mouth of the alleyway.

“I tell you what,” I said. “I’m feeling nice today. We’ll give you a two-second head start.”

I felt the girls shift around me, tensing on their toe stops, muscles preparing to launch into motion. We must have been quite a sight, because one of the demons turned tail and ran.

“This,” I declared, “is for Ruthanasia. And for Darcy.”

“Yeah,” Barbageddon echoed.

“Get them!” I shouted, and we charged forward as one,
the blockers leading the way like a battering ram, the jammers clustered on the inside, waiting for the right time to make a surprise strike. But we never got the chance. The remaining two demons took one look at the oncoming Apocalypsies and sprinted for safety. We stopped at the mouth of the alley, hurling taunts after them. It probably wasn’t smart, but it felt so good to laugh in the face of danger again that I joined in.

“Wusses!” I yelled. “Go back to where you came from!”

“You fight like toddlers!” Barbageddon shouted.

I burst into giggles. Sure, I was still afraid. If I hadn’t been a target before, I was one now. But I didn’t have to face the forces of darkness alone. And I’d proven that I wasn’t a poor little cancer girl anymore and never would be again.

Now I was a demon-fighting derby girl, and I wasn’t going to back down. Because I had a life to live, and no demon was going to take it from me.

I’m one heck of a lucky woman. I’m lucky to work with amazing people like Kate Schafer Testerman and Wendy Loggia, who have helped make me a better writer than I ever thought I could be. I’m especially lucky that they laugh at my jokes. And I’m lucky to be a part of terrific writers’ groups like the Baconators (Stasia Kehoe, Jessi Kirby, Elana Johnson, and Gretchen McNeil) and the Screwtop Bottles (Sara Beitia, Josie Bloss, Julia Karr, and Rebecca Petruck). They laugh at my jokes too, which is a pretty terrific part of them.

I owe a special debt of gratitude to Aimée Carter, who urged me to put on my big-girl panties and tell this story even if it scared the bleep out of me. The best friends aren’t afraid to kick you in the butt when you need it, and I love her for it.
And Kiki Hamilton and Keri Mikulski, who read the earliest version of this manuscript, are saints, plain and simple.

My kids, Connor, Lily, and Renee, are the awesomest of awesome people who make me awesome by association. Which is, quite frankly,
awesome
.

And then there’s my husband, who can’t be thanked enough. Back when we were just friends, Andy was diagnosed with leukemia. When we started dating, his hair was just starting to come back. He wasn’t supposed to survive, but he did. We couldn’t have a family, but we did. And then he topped off those miracles by becoming a pediatric oncologist. He works side by side with the doctors who saved his life. More than anyone else, he understands what his patients are going through. This book is my love letter to him, because he’s proof that you can do more than survive after cancer. You can
thrive
. And then go on to save your future wife from killer bees—but that’s another story entirely.

See what I mean? Lucky. Minus the bees, anyway.

Tell us the story behind the story. What made you want to write a book about cancer and evil bobbleheads? No offense, but that’s a crazy combo
.

It
is
a crazy combo, isn’t it? I think that’s part of what I like about it. Here’s how it went down: I decided to write a book about a cancer survivor in honor of my husband, Andy. He’s an awesome guy. One time, he cut a watermelon in half with a katana because I asked him to (and yes, I still giggle hysterically over that). I’ve also seen him catch a shuriken with his hands like an action movie hero, which is surprisingly attractive. In short:
awesome
. We’ve known each other for a long time—we played Ultimate Frisbee together back in my college days. But one day, he stopped showing up. He’d been diagnosed with acute myelogenous leukemia. He was nineteen years old.

The details aren’t mine to tell; all I’ll say about his experience is that the prognosis wasn’t good. He wasn’t expected to survive. It would have been easy to give up hope. He went through hell, but he survived through a combination of terrific medical care and sheer bullheaded will. More than one person called it a miracle.

We started dating just as his hair was growing back. I still have a lock of it from his first post-cancer haircut. There were a few setbacks and health scares. There was survivor’s guilt. And sure, I did what I could to help with those things, but I always wished I could do more to show him how much I admired him for being the kind of man who doesn’t give up regardless of the odds. In my mind, that kind of man won’t let you down. That kind of man is a keeper.

He changed his major from engineering to premed. And then came miracle number two—the treatment had supposedly destroyed his chances of having children, but our son was born in 2003. (And let me tell you, the conversation where you tell the in-laws that their presumed-sterile son is your baby daddy?
Awkward
.) Our twins followed in 2006. (And the conversation was much less awkward that time, in case you were wondering.) He’d beaten the odds once again.

Then, as if all that wasn’t astounding enough, he became a pediatric bone marrow transplant doctor. He works side by side with some of the physicians who saved his life. And more than anyone else, he knows what his patients are going through. Sometimes he’s the only one who can reach them because he understands on a level that few others can. And true to form, he won’t give up on them, no matter what.

With all this in mind, it’s probably no surprise that I have a very strong emotional reaction to YA books about cancer. There are some great ones out there, but I’ve always wished there were more books about survivorship. There is life after cancer, and those are stories that deserve to be told. Finally, I decided to quit whining about that and write one myself.

I really wanted to pay tribute to Andy’s experience. But even in the face of cancer, I can’t stop making wisecracks, because I think laughter is one of the best weapons we have against the darkness. So I decided to combine his favorite things with mine. Reading this book should give you a pretty good idea of what life is like in the Harris household—minus the demons, of course. I put in cancer survivorship and ninjas for Andy, and he was kind enough to allow me to exploit both his personal experiences and his professional knowledge, so hopefully I’ve got the details right. (If not, we all know to blame me, right?) We watch a lot of
Ninja Warrior
together, so I added a dash of freerunning. (Get it? A
dash
. Har har.) I put in things that really crack me up, like roller derby and bobbleheads and Halloween. It was both the easiest and hardest book I’ve ever written, but I’m really proud of it in the end. Ultimately, it’s a love letter to us and what we are together.

Roller derby is a big part of this book. Have you ever skated?

I’ve thought about it a lot; does that count? But seriously, I haven’t tried out for a team because right now my kids have to take priority over hobbies. But I’m a huge fan of the Detroit Derby Girls and make an idiotic fangirl out of myself over Racer McChaseHer, who is a jammer for our travel team. One of the things I really love about the derby is that teams are volunteer-run, and then on top of that? They adopt charities. This is not the kind of sport you do because you want to be rich. It’s one you pick because you love it and you want to make the world a little more awesome. I really love that, and it fit with what I wanted for Casey.

I hope to skate someday. I think I’m going to call myself Carrie Carrie Quite Contrary, like the nursery rhyme, only my garden will grow with kick-assery.

Casey’s story is inspirational. What can readers do to make a difference, short of joining their own derby team and fighting demons?

This is an excellent question! If this book—or any other, for that matter—makes you feel strongly, take that passion out into the world and use it to make a difference! Sadly, not every patient has a happy ending like Casey and my husband, and I think we could be doing a lot more to make that happen. Each year, 175,000 kids are diagnosed with cancer worldwide. Cancer is the number one disease killer of kids in the United States and Canada, but at the time I’m writing this, only about 2 percent of the National Cancer Institute’s research dollars are devoted to children’s cancers. That statistic gives me the angry eyebrows every time I read it.

But there are a lot of things you can do that make a difference. Big or small, they add up. Here are some ideas of how you can take action to help kids survive to fight the demons.