Going in Circles (21 page)

Charlotte reaches her free hand to the wall switch to flood her path with light. A click, but no reward. Charlotte has forgotten again:

The hallway light has blown out.

It happened a couple of weeks ago, on one of those mornings when Charlotte was sure everything had conspired against her. She'd heard a crash from the other room, jumped up with deep conviction that the Big Earthquake had finally arrived, and run from her room like it was her job to frighten this natural disaster from her apartment as if it was an intruder.

In her half-asleep confusion she misjudged the distance from her bed to the invisible assailant, and ended up slamming her toe into the door frame. She then hopped to the hallway, howling and growing ever more sad for herself. Then she flipped the switch, heard the pop of a lightbulb losing its filament, and flailed herself to the ground in resignation.

It was there she learned the crash was from a fallen picture frame, one she hadn't hung very well in her haste to make it look like she'd truly moved into this temporary shelter. The frame, just like Charlotte, had given up its tentative cling to the ruse.

It isn't laziness that has prevented Charlotte from replacing the lightbulb, although there is some apathy. The real reason is that she knows she'd have to stand on something sturdy to be tall enough to change it. Charlotte knows that as a single woman living alone, if she stood on a chair all alone in this apartment, that is when the Big Earthquake really would happen, or the chair would slide on the newly varnished floors. There is
no way around the fact that Charlotte would fall, cracking her skull, leaving her to a lonely, isolated death in a pile of lightbulb shards.

So Charlotte will wait until there is someone else beside her as she changes that bulb, someone to watch her, to hold the chair steady. Charlotte is willing to wait until that companion is male, someone who will offer to stand on the chair for her to keep her even safer.

And then there's that part of Charlotte, that part with hope, that clings to the happy ending. It says,
“Leave this. Leave it for Matthew.”

She can imagine him coming over to her apartment one day, finally seeing where she lives, and acknowledging how strong she must have been to create this place for herself. She can picture her husband looking around her space, saying,
“I can't believe you did all of this by yourself.”

This is when Charlotte would say,
“There's still one thing left.”

She'd show him the useless light switch. Matthew would laugh, grab a chair from the kitchen, and replace the bulb in the overhead fixture.

“Don't want you to get lost in the dark,” he'd say.

After he climbed down from the chair, Charlotte would hug him. A thank-you.

But then Matthew would refuse to let go. She'd cling tighter. He'd move his face close to hers, and then they'd kiss—slowly at first, with all the hesitation that was appropriate, until they broke apart to watch each other's reactions.

Then, without another word, both would start the process of packing up Charlotte's apartment, so that she could return home.

Every night Charlotte forgets that this has not happened, and that she hasn't replaced the lightbulb. So at some point every
night she flips that switch to find herself still standing in the dark.

Every night Charlotte stands there wondering,
“Where is he?”

This is the last thought Charlotte Goodman has before she takes her first Lexapro.

•   •   •

Three days later, Charlotte Goodman does not feel like Charlotte Goodman. It is hard to think, to have thoughts that have thinking in them. To make the person in her head who's supposed to sound kind of like Roseanne's husband . . . what's his name . . . what's his . . . Mister Goodman . . .

She's looking for Mister Goodman. But not her dad. The other one. But her dad's a good man.

Lexapro is wow.

Things are slow. Things don't move like they did, and when Charlotte sits she hears Philip Glass songs and watches people walk but she doesn't want to walk with them.

Charlotte remembers things, like being called the Sleep Zombie by the girl with the dark bangs who has two names. Frannie Frannie Bo-Banny. She seems confused by this Lexapro, but hey-ho, it's better to just be sleepy and numb numb numb, that's what this has done done done.

People are so far away, it's funny. Even Charlotte is far away. Hi, Charlotte! Way over there, sitting on your tuffet, that little pain ball, that little wad of hate.

Day three. Day four. Day five. Day six.

Six, six, hooray!

There's lots of sleep. Nothing much else. No need. No need.

There's that girl with the dark hair, and she is holding the pills of shh. Charlotte likes her quiet pills; why is that girl holding them?

The dark-haired girl holds Charlotte's face and says,
“No more pills. I am calling your doctor after I throw these away.”

She gives Charlotte juice. Juice and her lap. Charlotte remembers watching the Fuck You Television where Muppets are singing. She hears Francesca fighting with Jacob on her phone and the last thing she can recall from this time of fog is learning what it feels like to have her eyes crying at the same time her body feels nothing.

N
ow that I've detoxed from the medication, I don't care what anyone thinks, what anyone says. I just want to skate. I need to skate. On the track I'm good. I'm great, actually. I'm Hard Broken, and nobody gives a shit about what's going on in my life, including—and most importantly—me.

Right now we're learning a strategy called Passing the Star.

This isn't easy. It's a bait-and-switch strategy that works by confusing the other team. In every jam, the Jammer wears something called a “panty.” This is a stretchy fabric cover for her helmet that sets her apart from the rest of the pack so that everybody knows she's the Jammer. The panty has a star printed on both sides. Both Jammers wear star panties in their team colors. The only other players who wear panties over their helmets are the girls playing Pivots. The Pivot is like the team leader of the pack. It's her job to devise the strategy, to call out plays during the jam, and to make sure every girl is doing exactly what she should be doing. She's like the mother hen.

I am a lousy Pivot. I get up there and even if in my head I know what we're supposed to be doing, the words don't come
out of my mouth. I can yell and bark orders just fine if I'm not in charge. I call out to my Jammer or a fellow Blocker all the time, but if that Pivot panty is on my head, I fall silent. It's frustrating.

In Passing the Star, the Jammer pulls the star panty off her head during the jam, passing it to the Pivot. The Pivot then pulls the panty over her helmet and takes off, making her the Jammer.

If the panty falls to the ground during this transaction, both skaters have to go all the way around the track to pick it up, effectively taking the Jammer out of play for the rest of the jam. But if it's passed the right way the Blocker has become the Jammer, and before the other team knows what's happening, that Jammer is halfway around the track, about to score some points.

We're practicing this strategy right now. Francesca is the Jammer, and she's supposed to pass me the helmet panty. Bruisey-Q is assisting her, helping her get through the pack by knocking the formidable ass of ThunderSmack out of the way.

She's getting closer, so I put my left hand out, low but visible enough that she can find me, but not obvious enough that the other team will know we're about to Pass the Star.

But Francesca blows right past me. Just like her derby name. She tap-dances through the pack, right to the front, and takes off. I'm trying to figure out why she avoided the play when I get slammed from the right and go flying into the infield, right on my face. I get back up and jump into the pack, but I forget I am still the Pivot, and now I'm way at the back of the pack, too far away to do any good. The other team's Jammer whips past me—I've just become a point for the other team. I watch her breeze past my Blockers, who all
seem to have become scattered lost lambs along the track. The whistle blows, and the jam is over. Five points for the other team, nothing for us.

Francesca skates up behind me.

“Dude, that sucked,” she groans, pulling the star panty from her helmet. She bends over, hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath.

I yank my mouth guard out and smack her helmet. “What the hell? You were supposed to pass it.”

“Yeah, that didn't happen.”

“Why not? It was the plan. We had a plan.”

Francesca looks up at me, her face scrunched with incredulity. “Jesus, Broke-Broke. Sometimes you ditch the plan, you know?”

“No, I don't know. Why make a plan if you aren't going to keep it?”

“I was busy getting my ass handed to me by Volvic Nightmare, so I didn't have time to pass you the stupid panty,” she shouts. Other girls are starting to stare.

“No way, you had a clear path right for me. I was open. You just wanted to make some points and be the rock star. Admit it!”

“Ladies!” Trash shouts from the infield. “Is there a problem?”

“No, ma'am!” I shout back. As I pull the Pivot panty from my helmet I tell Francesca, “I was open.”

“Whatever,” Francesca says, and skates away.

I let it go during the next drill. We're skating in a pack, and on the whistle a Jammer tries to break through. We are to put ourselves in front of her, surround her, push her up toward the rail, or slam her down toward the infield. Whatever happens, we are not to let her pass us by.

We've been skating for almost two hours now, and my legs are feeling like wiggly pieces of string. The pain in my lower back has me bent forward, and I'm starting to swim through the air with my arms. I don't want to grab any other players, as it's against the rules. But sometimes it's tempting to reach out and jungle-climb across the skaters, flipping through them like I'm frantically searching for something in my wardrobe closet.

I shove my hands between my thighs as I skate. Bang-Up told me to do this to keep them to myself. Someone needs to tell this tip to Muffin before she rips off another nipple.

Boys are practicing with us today. They are referees, which is the only role a man can play in the sport, and sometimes they skate with the Training Wheels to get better acquainted with the rules, to build up their own stamina, and probably—just a hunch—skate with a bunch of scantily clad badass ladies.

One in particular, known as Maker Moan, currently has his hand angled back toward me, his head turned over his shoulder to catch my eye. He's offering me a whip. I'm supposed to take his arm with both of my hands and let him swing me past him. He may be right in front of me, but he might as well be a million miles away. I can't reach him, no matter how much I want to. And I really want to. I've never taken a whip before, and I could really use the help right now.

“Come on, Broke-Broke!” he shouts. “Take it. Take it!”

“I'm sorry,” I shout.

Beside me ThunderSmack growls in frustration. Not because I'm falling behind but because I've accidentally broken a rule I know damn well, even though it's not on the books. I know it because I break it all the time.

“Don't say ‘sorry!' ” she shouts as she steps right in front of me and skates away. I wobble from the near impact. I know not to apologize. I know not to get weak. I'm supposed to just keep going.

Hands find my rump, and I'm suddenly going much faster. I've been grabbed by Bang-Up, and I hear her behind me. “Just keep skating,” she coaches, keeping her hands on my hips as she steers me. “Keep moving your feet. Don't stop skating. You stop skating, and you're more likely to fall.” Then she gives me a forceful push as she lets go.

The push helps, and I'm back with the pack. But now I can't see anything because my helmet has fallen forward from all the sweat on my forehead.

Whap!

For a brief second, I am flying, actually tumbling, my feet back, arching higher than my head. My shoulders are locked and my brain seems to understand I'm about to feel impact seconds before my body takes an incredible jolt. My head slams against the track, just above my right temple.

I can't move, and I can't see. Everything is black, and for a second I'm convinced I've just become a paraplegic.

Sounds fade in, like someone's turning up the volume in my head. I hear people ask if I'm okay, but I don't know how to talk. I'm counting my limbs. Can I still feel them? Hands, two. Feet, two.

My head, oh, my head.

It's oddly quiet when I'm finally able to open my eyes. Bang-Up is standing in front of me, tall and beautiful, like a warrior come to my rescue. “Are you okay?” she asks.

“Yeah.” I hear myself say it, but I don't feel like I'm saying it. It's like I'm watching this from up above. That's it; I'm dead. I'm floating away, watching my own stupid roller derby
death. My parents will never recover. They will write in the obituary that I died of sudden, unnatural causes but will refuse to tell anyone what idiocy their daughter was engaged in when she severed her spine from her brain stem.

My helmet comes off. I see Bang-Up holding it, her eyes wide with concern. Someone hands her an ice pack. “Where do you need this?” she asks me.

“Everywhere.”

I ease myself to the infield, holding the ice pack to my neck, which is currently winning the battle for Worst Pain, as I try to get my bearings. This is when I see that everybody else is on one knee, watching me. The entire track has come to a halt, a rare moment when all eyes are focused on me and whether or not I'm okay.