Going in Circles (26 page)

“But—”

“What are you, Old Yeller? Go away, stupid yellow dog!”

I gather my things and clump up the track to the steps, hoping someone will notice and demand I get to stay. It doesn't work, as they're all busy on the track. As I head toward the benches, Bang-Up shouts at me, “And tell your derby wife to get her ass back to practice!”

•   •   •

It has now been two weeks since Francesca has spoken to me. Between the work she missed and the work I missed, the practices and the phone calls avoided, I have no idea where
she is or what she's doing. She can't just quit her job to avoid me, but I wouldn't put it past her. And I'm afraid if we don't make up soon, she will really let me go. Forever.

The Buddhists talk about the danger of attachment, how nothing is permanent and the key to ending suffering is to learn how to let go, to focus on only now. Frankly, I find that to be terrifying. If you let everything go, if you decide there's truly nothing real to hold on to in this world, what keeps you from floating away past the atmosphere?

In my dreams, that's how I fly. I don't just take off and soar, like with wings. I start by walking, and then I skip. A few steps later I can jump, and as I continue jumping, I get higher. Soon I'm leaving the ground for gaps of time before I come back to the earth, only to jump again. Higher and higher, longer and longer, I'm leaping across the land, until inevitably I jump high enough that I break past something, something important that keeps us tethered to the planet. And at that point I have to reach out and grab onto a fixed object. It can be anything. Usually a lamppost or a tree branch. I'm like a helium-filled balloon, and if I don't find something to wrap around I will leave this planet and never come back.

It happens every time I try to fly in my dreams. At a certain point I've gone too far, and there's nothing holding me back. If I let go, I will be gone.

People have to stay attached to something. Those who are unattached are the ones who run out into the wilderness only to get eaten by bears, or alternately, they fill their homes with everything they've ever encountered, surrounding themselves with fixed objects that can't leave. Until one day they get buried under their things.

If we don't stay attached to someone in this world, how do we have any proof that we exist?

Even scarier than that, just like in my dreams, if we soar high enough in life, we could end up alone.

I call Andy.

“I know I'm supposed to be focused on you right now,” I say, “but do you think you could help me with something?”

“Of course,” he says. “Rome wasn't built in a day, and Charlotte Goodman won't become unselfish that easily, either.”

“Just get over here.”

It is not without a considerable amount of pain that I make my way to the hall closet. I'm not sure which box holds what I'm looking for, but I can't do what I want to do for Francesca without it.

The first box I open is filled with books. I pull a few out and stack them to the side, just to make sure there are only books in there. The next box, more books. I stack those aside, too, and break down both boxes.

I pull open a double-taped box and find my wedding pictures. Obviously I was trying to save this future version of me from this moment, but it doesn't hurt to see them as much as I'd feared. I can see how happy I looked, how handsome Matthew was. I'd forgotten about this great picture of Andy and me goofing around with my bouquet, pretending he was catching it, pretending to knock bridesmaid Petra to the ground with a punch.

I find boxes of papers, family photographs, linens and matchbooks from restaurants I'd gone to with Matthew. Little memories that I'd stuffed away, hidden from me to protect myself. There's the tiny owl figurine I won in the third grade. There's the necklace Dad gave me for my sweet sixteen. I
didn't realize just how haphazardly I'd thrown my things together when I left the house. As I sort through the chaos, something inside me finds order.

At the back of the closet, in a suitcase, I find what I'm looking for: Halloween costumes from a few years ago. Matthew and I went as Pepe Le Pew and a black kitten who'd had an unfortunate run-in with a freshly painted white bench. A picture of us from that night's party sits atop the clothes. I'm squirming in Matthew's grip as he's posing seductively for the camera.

Andy strolls right into my apartment, like we're still roommates. As he takes in the complete mess I've made, scanning the piles of books and papers and mountains of clothes, his smile is huge.

“Now
this,
” he says, “is what I call progress.”

“Me too. Help me carry this stuff into the kitchen.”

I hand him a roll of butcher paper and my art supplies, snag a bottle of wine I'd been saving for the perfect moment, and get to work.

I
'm not leaving until you open up,” I say into my cell phone. “So unless you want your neighbors to think you've got a heartbroken lesbian lover camped out in your creepy hallway on the dirty green carpeting, I suggest you let me in. Also, I know you can hear me in there. I'm talking to voice mail, not an answering machine, so I'm just going to take up all the free time on your phone. And all of my minutes, so if you think about it, I'm making the sacrifice here.”

The door opens. Francesca's in a pair of green Paul Frank monkey pajamas, holding a cup of coffee. “What do you want?” she asks.

“I'm sorry.”

“Yeah, I know. You said that a million times on my voice mail. And all the little Post-It notes on my office door. And the carrier pigeon you sent over.”

“But no email! See? Still staying away from Internet.”

“If you're here for a certificate, you can fuck right off.”

“No certificate,” I say. “I'm here to kidnap you a little.”

“I don't think that's physically possible. Kidnapping just a little.”

I check the time on my phone. “Just get in my car. I'll explain later. Please.”

She sighs as she starts shuffling back into her apartment. “Let me put on some clothes.”

“No!” I say, leaning forward to grab her arm. “No time. You can change later!” She snatches her keys as I grab her, coffee cup, bare feet, and all.

•   •   •

As we enter my place, I tell Francesca I can't believe she kept her eyes closed the entire time.

“Unlike you, I believe in promises,” she says. “Plus, if you're taking me somewhere to kill me, I don't want to see it coming.”

I push her into my bathroom, hand her the black dress from my hostage kitten costume, and tell her to change. I start the kitchen timer I have sitting on the sink. “When that bell rings, open your eyes and come out here,” I say.

I run over to the kitchen, turn on the Christmas lights I have strung from end to end across my ceiling, straighten the backdrop I have covering the windows that I've painted to look like the interior of a Parisian café, and start the
Amélie
soundtrack on my iPod player. I run over to the table, open the laptop, press a few keys, and pour a glass of wine while I wait.

A few seconds later, Jacob's face appears in the chat window. “Is she there?” he says, his excited face filling the screen. He's dressed in a red-and-white striped shirt, a beret on his head. He's painted a silly skinny mustache over his upper lip.

I quickly shush him and hold up two fingers. “Soon,” I mouth. I point at him and shake my head, letting him know he looks ridiculous.

He shrugs, chuckling, and I can see how excited he is. He gives me a thumbs-up. “Thank you,” he mouths. Then he whispers, “It looks awesome.
Très magnifique!
”

I check the time. I've got sixty seconds to get out of that apartment.

“
Au revoir!
” I whisper into the microphone. I quickly put the plate of cheese and bread next to the glass of wine, grab my keys, and run out through the apartment.

I hear the kitchen timer go off just as I shut the door.

•   •   •

An hour later, Francesca finds me at the coffee shop, where I'd told Jacob to send her when they were done with their date.

“What you did is about 60 percent stalker and 100 percent awesome.”

I put my book aside. “I didn't know how else to get your attention.”

“So you got me a date. With my boyfriend. In fake Paris. In your kitchen.”

“I couldn't afford to do the real thing.”

She wrinkles up her nose, and for the first time I notice she has a sprinkling of freckles. “Did you see what he was wearing?” she asks. “He looked like a candy cane.”

“Don't let him wear that if he ever takes you to the real Paris.”

“I can't believe you orchestrated all of that. He told me you found his number in your cell phone.”

“You borrowed mine once when yours died.”

“I remember. While I was busy hating you, I kept remembering other nice things you've done for me. Like when I was sick that night you made me soup. Or when you broke up my
shin hematoma with your thumbs when I was too grossed out to do it.”

“About that,” I say. “I've got one on my thigh I might need you to do for me.”

“Not until you say you're my derby wife.” She passes a fresh cup of coffee across the table. “Anyway, all those thoughts pissed me off, because it made it so much harder to stay mad at you. I missed you.”

“I missed you, too. Things with Jacob are better?”

She nods. “I told him that things had to end if he couldn't find a way to fit me into his life. I said—and don't take this the wrong way—that I didn't want to be like you, always in limbo.”

I understand, but I don't know what to say to that. So I nod.

She goes into her purse. “This came for you.”

She unfolds a new certificate. It says:
CHARLOTTE GOODMAN HAS SUCCESSFULLY COMPLETED: FIX SOMETHING YOU DID WHEN YOU WERE BEING A TOTAL DOUCHE BAG. HAS ACHIEVED LEVEL: LIEUTENANT BADASS.

“I particularly like the drawing of the douche bag.”

“I'm pretty proud of that myself.”

“I didn't know this was one of the rules.”

“I had to make it up after you turned into such a douche bag. But I obviously forgave you when I let you kidnap me.” She leans forward, resting her chin on her fists. “So,” she says, her tongue darting briefly to her front teeth as she poses. “What's new?” she coos.

“I signed up for the Rookie Rumble.”

“I know. Bruisey-Q told me.”

“She did? When?”

“When I signed up.” She kicks me under the table, not lightly.

“Ow.”

“Would you rather I kicked your ass?”

I shift uncomfortably, reminded of the pain that I've oddly become accustomed to over the past couple of weeks. “You'll be doing it soon enough, once we're on the track.”

Her face turns to worry. “Oh, no! What if we don't end up on the same team?”

“Either way, we're going to die.”

“I know.” She reaches over and takes my hand. “But it'll be fun getting killed with you.”

F
inally, I'm cleared for light practice. While I'm itching to get back on my skates so that I don't end up being the worst one on my team, a slight problem has developed. I'm scared to get back on the track.

This is why Francesca and I have come to the Wheelhouse an hour before practice to skate alone for a little while, until I don't feel like throwing up at the thought of skating next to someone. She's also brought me a present: crash pads.

They're shorts that are padded around the hips, with extra protection around the tailbone.

“These things always existed?” I ask, incredulous. “Why don't they make you skate with these all the time?”

“I don't like wearing them. They feel like diapers to me. But for you, they will be your Confidence Pants.”

“How do I look?” I twirl on my skates, feeling three feet wider around my ass.

“Like a dinosaur. Charlottosaurus. A C. rex.”

“Okay,” I say, as I skate to the track. “Now what?”

She runs at full speed, slamming into me. I fall immediately, right on my ass. “Hey! It didn't hurt!”

“I know! Confidence pants!”

I chase after her. “
Grr!
C. rex angry!”

After we're warmed up, Francesca suggests working on hitting. “You're probably going to be a Blocker since you're good at slowing people down, so you should get used to knocking people over.”

I tell her something I haven't told anyone before. “Sometimes I feel bad when I knock into a girl.”

“But that's the game.”

“Do you know Sandy has four kids?”

“Who's Sandy?” Francesca asks, scrunching her face.

“Oh, um. Bloodfist. I saw her driver's license when she was paying dues at the front, and now I can only think of her as Sandy.”

“Bloodfist has four kids?”

“
Sandy
has four kids. Four! One of whom is a newborn. What if I hit her and she falls on her arm and then can't breast-feed? I can't hit a baby mama.”

“You hit me. I'm smaller than you are.”

“Right, and I don't want to hurt you, either.”

“Why not?”

I sigh. “Because you're my
friend,
Francesca.”

“No. I'm Blowin' Past'er. Why do you think we all have these other names? That's why on the track Sandy-with-the-four-kids is known as Bloodfist. And you're supposed to knock Bloodfist down before she does exactly that to you. Her baby-popping vagina's not the only thing that's mighty. That girl can hip-check you right onto your face.”

Francesca bumps into me. “Hit me as hard as you can,” she says.

“I don't know.”