Demon Derby (8 page)

“It wouldn’t be so bad if she just tried out, right, Ruthanasia?”
Darcy bleated nervously. “If she’s no good, she won’t get in. She’ll sign the release form. Won’t you, Casey?”

“Sure.”

“Look, it has nothing to do with your head,” Ruthanasia said haughtily. “Although I like the swirls. But you missed training camp. No camp, no spot on the team.”

I took a deep breath. Obviously, I’d pissed her off; maybe she hadn’t liked my seeing her so vulnerable in the parking lot, so she was trying to reestablish dominance. Antagonizing her further was only going to make matters worse, so I swallowed the angry retort I wanted to say and went for logic instead. But even though I did my best, it might have come out a little snippier than I’d intended. “The point of training is to teach me the skills. I respect that. But I’ve gone through skills camp before. With the Hotsies.”

“Whatever,” she said. “When we break you, don’t come crying to me.”

All my self-control went out the window. I could handle the witchy attitude, but calling me a baby? Writing me off as a wimp? Maybe I should have let her get pummeled after all. “Thanks. But you can drop the attitude. We can tell you’re a badass from the way you’re dressed.”

“Really?” Ruthanasia glared at me. “Then maybe you shouldn’t piss me off.”

“I don’t think it’ll be a problem.” I leaned against the registration table in a blatant display of casual disregard. “I’m a badass too. I just don’t feel the need to shove it down people’s throats two seconds after they walk through the door.”

“We’ll just go fill out that paperwork now,” Darcy interjected, looking fearfully between the two of us. “Sorry to bother you.”

“Whatever.” Ruthanasia shot me an intense frown. I felt this urge to push things a little further just to see what would happen, but I shut my mouth instead. I needed to make this team, and taking the bait wasn’t going to make it happen; I shouldn’t have let her get to me in the first place. I knew I couldn’t put all the blame for that argument on her, but recognizing that there was a chip on my shoulder didn’t make it go away.

The rink was brightly lit, with a small snack bar off in one corner, newish tile, and about ten disco balls hung at what seemed like random spots around the ceiling. I found an empty bench near the locker room and tried to distract myself with all the paperwork. About ten minutes’ and five pages’ worth of monotony later, Darcy and I were lacing up our skates and strapping on pads. I tried to get all the water out of my socks, but it still felt like my feet were encased in moldy sponges. I’d just have to ignore it.

Darcy led the way across the worn carpet to the rink entrance. A few other girls were already out there, whizzing around in circles with long, graceful strides. There were only a couple of wall huggers; it looked like the competition would be pretty fierce. Good.

The smooth hardwood glided under my feet, and I instinctively sank slightly to maintain my balance and build up
speed. My legs wobbled a bit and then locked in underneath me, and I rocketed past a gaggle of girls, who stared at my marker-scribbled head and whispered among themselves. I strapped on my helmet and pretended not to have noticed.

It felt good to spin around the track under the glare of the fluorescent overheads. The movement warmed up my frozen limbs and made the highly air-conditioned air almost comfortable as it whipped over my skin. Skating made me feel less paralyzed than I had in a long time. It made me not hate myself for almost dying. Or for living. I just felt like me, and that was really nice for a change. The only complaint I had was that my helmet kept slipping without any hair to help hold it in place. I took it off and began fiddling with the straps, making my way toward the benches.

Then I saw a guy standing at the railing. He had a surprisingly pale face under tousled surfer-boy hair. He was gorgeous, with the kind of angular features and broad shoulders that belonged in an ad for Abercrombie & Fitch, or maybe I just thought that because I was drooling over how his chest muscles filled out his Abercrombie tee. I knew I hadn’t seen him before, because who could forget a face like his, but he couldn’t have been too much older than me. I pegged him as a senior, or maybe a college freshman at the oldest. Frankly, I didn’t care how old he was; he was made of hotness.

I rounded the track, drifting closer to get a better look. His white skin stretched over sleek cheekbones; his inhuman perfection reminded me of a mannequin.

Something wasn’t right.

He noticed me looking at him, and his eyes widened. “You’re bald.”

I would have been offended if I hadn’t been so busy trying to control the urge to shriek and run for it. It was the kind of voice that could defrock a nun. I’d felt something like this before, and it hadn’t ended well. His voice and face weren’t exactly the same as those of the man from the alleyway, but they were close enough to give me a serious case of the heebie-jeebies.

Any minute now, this guy was going to start crying lava, and I didn’t want to be on the receiving end.

More than just about anything else, even the word “moist,” I hated being scared. Fear had always hit me really hard. That was why I’d started taking ninjutsu. After our town house had gotten broken into, I’d been frozen with terror. Finally, after about a week of my not leaving my room, my dad had enrolled me in martial arts classes. That was in eighth grade. After that, I got into all kinds of extreme sports. I’d started freerunning, bungee jumping, and skydiving, and I wouldn’t have stopped if my faulty bone marrow hadn’t made me.

So the fact that I was running from this guy made me hate myself, but I couldn’t help it.

The guy was standing next to the only rink exit, watching me. I pretended not to stare as I rolled up, but I couldn’t help
noticing the way his skin stretched to ripping point over the delicate bones of his face. He was still gorgeous up close, but it looked like someone had airbrushed his skin on.

I stepped onto the carpet, my hands nervously fluttering up to my newly repaired necklace. His eyes followed the movement, widening as he looked at the katana. I clenched the charm tight for reassurance. He started to say something, but then Ruthanasia interrupted him, leaning inappropriately close to whisper something in his ear.

While his attention was elsewhere, I fled. The best way to win a fight is to avoid it. I made my way across the matted carpeting as quickly as possible without falling over and didn’t look back until I’d reached the ladies’ room.

No one followed me. No one even seemed to notice I was gone.

But then the guy started twisting his head, scanning the room over Ruthanasia’s shoulder while she continued to whisper sweet nothings at him.

Maybe he was looking for someone else—there was no reason to believe I’d captured his attention in a room full of wannabe derby girls in wild outfits—but my pulse thumped nonetheless. I pushed open the door and rolled into the bathroom before he could pin me with his eyes.

The longer I stood at the sinks, the angrier I got. I’d never run from a fight, so why was I so scared now? When had I turned into such a wuss? All because I thought this guy looked like a fire-crying crackhead? That was stupid, and it ticked me off. My fingers tingled with anger. My teeth ground together.
I’d felt like this once before, after the Anointing of the Sick, when Rachel had said goodbye to me. She’d always been the one who’d said I’d make it. And then it had gotten so bad that even she hadn’t been able to deny it—I was going to die.

Just like that, it felt like everyone had written me off. I couldn’t be angry at them, though; they’d kept on hoping long after the treatments had stopped working. That night, I stayed awake through a haze of morphine, wringing the sheets into tortured balls. I
wanted
the Angel of Death to come. I wanted to beat the crap out of him. I even came up with a fairly reasonable plan to thump him over the head with his own scythe, but he never showed. And then, over the next couple of weeks, I got better. Dr. Rutherford couldn’t explain why. Everyone said it was a miracle, but I didn’t buy it. I think maybe Death showed up, took one look at me, and decided he had better things to do.

Now I was scared again. It felt like everything frightened me these days, and that ticked me off. I was stronger than this, damn it. What was wrong with me, that I could face down death but not some random guy at a roller rink? It was either go back out there or resign myself to being a total loser for the rest of my life, and that was an easy choice. I thrust the door open just as Ruthanasia coasted up, wearing a pinched and disapproving expression.

“There you are,” she snapped. “We’re about to start, if you’d like to grace us with your presence.”

I hit her with a glare and said, “Excuse me. Please.” But it was less a request than an order.

She let me past, hostility practically sparking the air between us. I didn’t particularly care what she thought.

The rest of the applicants were lining up in groups to do five-lap speed drills. I felt jittery and on edge; I wanted to blast through the girls in campy outfits and skate until my brain stopped snarling. But before I could move, Darcy pulled me into line in the second rank, edging out a chick in a purple pleather bustier.

“Are you okay?” she hissed.

“Yeah.” I took a deep breath and let it out, determined to put all the stupid emotional crap behind me. It was time to quit looking back and start moving forward. No more guilt. No more wussing out. “I just had to go to the bathroom.”

The guy was watching me again. I stared back, my jaw clenched so tight my teeth started to hurt. But he didn’t react at all, just returned my gaze with an implacable expression until Ruthanasia sashayed over and gave him a clipboard. He rolled his eyes when her back was turned. Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe I could go back to lusting over him. That would be nice.

But I needed to focus if I wanted to make the team, because I knew I wasn’t at my best yet, physically speaking. What I lacked in power and endurance, I’d have to make up for in technique and strategy. I watched as the first group of girls took their places on the track, jostling for the best positions on the inside.

“First wave,” called a girl on the starting line, dreadlocks
springing like a fountain from her ponytail. “Five-lap speed drills, starting now!”

She blew a whistle. The sound came out loud and sharp, and a few girls jumped, losing precious seconds. The pack moved around the first corner, quickly separating into three groups: agonizingly slow, fast, and really freaking fast. I watched the quickest skaters, the way the muscles in their thighs bunched as they squatted low around the curves, the thrust of their torsos as they drove ahead on the straightaways. I could do that. I could do better.

They whipped across the finish line one by one and rolled to the corner, where they stooped over with their hands on their knees, breathless and sweaty. The dreadlocked girl called for the second wave of skaters, and I rolled up to the line with Darcy at my elbow.

“Good luck!” she said, reaching over and squeezing my hand. I barely felt it; I was too focused on the expanse of lanes in front of us, the smooth grain of the floor, the flash of the lights overhead.

“On your mark, get set, go!” the dreadlocked girl said.

I surged forward, legs pistoning out in long, sure strokes, carrying me out into the empty air in front of the group. The first curve came, and I leaned into it, inertia tugging at my feet. The tips of my fingers grazed the floor. I felt like a million lava-teared freaks couldn’t catch me if they tried.

When I whizzed past, the hot guy caught my eye for a fraction of a second, but this time I didn’t feel afraid. I felt fearless and free and as fast as the wind.

At the beginning of lap four, I started to falter. By this time, I was way ahead; I’d even lapped a spindly girl skating with her elbows stuck way out to the sides for either balance or protection. Darcy was in second place, almost a quarter of a lap behind. But my speed started to decrease rapidly; my legs quivered as the burst of energy and adrenaline faded. I’d trained so hard, but apparently it hadn’t been hard enough.

My skates felt like bricks, but I couldn’t give up. I picked up one skate and then the other, over and over again until finally the end was in sight. The dreadlocked girl stood next to the finish line, a long red stripe that I focused on to the exclusion of everything else. I forced one final burst of speed. A flash of pink to the right drew my attention; I glanced over to see Darcy’s sleeve … her shirt … her gritted teeth as she surged past me and over the finish line, in the lead by a second or two.

I coasted across the line behind her, rolled to the railing, and held on to it just in case my legs gave out. Second place wasn’t bad, or so I tried to tell myself. But some of the girls in the first heat had been really fast, and there was still one group left to skate. If I didn’t win the next event, I might not score high enough to make callbacks.

That wasn’t an option.

“You okay?” Darcy skated over and put a hand on the small of my back.