Going in Circles (30 page)

Her fragmented life has reassembled.

Francesca notices Charlotte's gone inward again, her gaze unfocused, soft. “You okay?” she asks, never seeming to tire of checking on her friend.

Charlotte gives the smallest nod before she quietly asks, “What did you do with my wedding gown?”

Her friends take a moment to share glances, deciding who will answer. Then Andy says, “We're never going to tell you.”

Charlotte picks at a piece of rubbery pepperoni as she whispers, “Thank you.”

•   •   •

It's strange when a voice in your head starts becoming more and more a part of your daily life, when you rely on it to get you through the bad times, the boring times, the times you're supposed to be turning to someone with the perfect joke but you find you are alone. But it's an even more surreal experience to know that the voice in your head is packing up to leave.

Charlotte Goodman is just starting to get the hang of letting things go, and she knows her narrator is a terrible enabler. It lets her hang back and observe instead of being out there in the life she's worked so hard to create. It's not that she doesn't want the companionship, it's that she no longer needs it.

So Charlotte is going to let John Goodman take a step back. Things will be okay if he can't speak for Charlotte anymore. She will miss him, and she'll be forever grateful for his warm cloak of protection.

Charlotte Goodman takes a moment to change the pronouns in her head.

I know it's been a while, but I'm ready to be the only one living my life.

First person, present tense.

I
'm on the Jammer line, putting the panty with the little stars on each side over my helmet. I can feel my heart pounding against my chest, as if it wants to take off and start long before the whistle.

I see the pack in front of me. There are eight girls. The four on my team are crowded together, making plans. Francesca's one of them, playing jam assist. It's her job to help me through the pack, to make room for me, and keep me out of harm's way. Some of the other team's Blockers look back to size me up, just as my Blockers are doing to the other Jammer. It's Muffin Top, head titty twister. She's standing beside me on the Jammer line, rolling her shoulders as she bends into a squat. She nods at me and says, “Here goes nothing.”

The whistle blows, and the Blockers take off, already slamming into one another, trying to create space for me and Muffin to get through.

The second whistle blows, and it's our turn. I run on my skates at first, turning my feet out so I've got some traction. I sound like a refrigerator falling down a flight of stairs, but I end up a few feet ahead of Muffin, and that's all that matters.

I spot Francesca on the high side, near the rail. She's lean
ing onto an opposing Blocker, her arm outstretched behind her, an invitation to whip me past this pack. I pick up my pace, but another Blocker hits me from the left, and for a second I slam into the rail. My momentum is gone, and I see Muffin skate past me, taking the lead on one of my Blockers. She quickly gets so far ahead of me I can no longer see her starred helmet. In fact, I can't see anything but the back of this other Blocker in my face. Some girl named
HELL'S KITTEN
, a name I don't have time to think about right now.

I use the angle of the track to pick up speed as I skate down toward the infield. It works and somehow I get past the kitten from Hell, and back toward my own pack. Two of my Blockers are on the ground, but Francesca is still skating. She sees me again and puts her arm out. I grab it with both hands, and she pulls me, whipping me forward.

Muffin has busted out of the pack in front of me, and as Lead Jammer, she's starting her lap to meet up with the pack again in order to score points. I have to get out of this pack and get in front of her. That's my only job right now.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see an opposing Blocker lean to the right, curling like a panther about to pounce. She takes a second too long, giving me enough time to know she's planning to hit me. I pull myself back, Matrix-style, in that same second. She misses and falls.

I haul ass.

I'm skating as fast as I can, all by myself, focused on Muffin. I'm allowed to hit her if I can get near her, and I think maybe I can get her to the ground.

My skates wobble because I'm going faster than I ever have on the track. My brain is battling with itself, telling me both to slow down and speed up. Slow down so I don't get hurt.
Speed up because
I can beat her, I know it; I just have to get there
.

Then: a miracle. Muffin takes herself out at one of the turns, tripping over herself during a crossover. I gain precious distance, so that by the time she's skating again, I am beside her. More importantly, I am on the high side. I have more power from up here. I take a few steps and throw myself into the flesh of her right arm, slamming her to the infield. She falls.

But I fall, too. We are both on the ground, and everybody else is yelling at us. Whoever gets up first and gets past one of the opposing Blockers will score a point. Then she can call off the jam before the other one gets to the pack.

I think about a skate to my face, even though there isn't one coming. I picture my nose exploded in blood and cartilage, and my body hurls itself back upright. I'm off, leaving Muffin in my dust.

I pass a Blocker, scoring one point.

I'm about to call off the jam, my hands ready to smack my hips, but then I hear Francesca scream, “Go high!”

There's a hole. I see it. A space where the other Blockers aren't covering, and if I can get there, I will pass two of them. That's two more points, but I can see Muffin's already back on her feet and getting closer. It's Francesca's style to go for the extra points. I'm nervous to risk losing the lead.

“Go high!” she screams again, and I know I'm running out of time, so I bolt up the track, sounding like thunder as I do. An opposing Blocker sees me, tries to get her shoulder into my arm, but I push myself forward three more steps, three baby steps that make all the difference as I push past her, scoring another point. But then, just as I'm about to call off the jam, I see it.

Another hole.

I can make it past the other two Blockers. I can score five points.

I start to glance back to see where Muffin is, but Francesca's suddenly giving me a push from behind, hollering, “Go, go, go!”

I skate harder than I could have ever imagined was possible and I shoot past everyone else, finding my way to the front of the pack, free and clear.

I whack my hips with both hands, calling off the jam. The whistle blows.

Five points. A personal best.

My teammates cheer. Someone pats me on the ass. Francesca shouts, “Broke-Broke, you're my hero!”

I know I'm in a warehouse in the middle of nowhere, playing a sport most people have never even heard of with a group of women whose real names I might never know. I know it's just a practice jam in a practice scrimmage for the rookie skaters of a much bigger league. But this moment, right now, is pure victory. I feel invincible.

I
can't wait for the bout,” Bruisey-Q tells me as we round the last turn back toward my apartment. My unemployed status allows me the kind of free time that lets me go for a run around four, and I found out Bruisey works freelance as a graphic designer, so she's become my semiregular running buddy. She's a little bit spacey, but her seemingly random thoughts keep our workout routine interesting.

“I can't believe it's almost here,” I say, as we slow down to a walk. I check my watch, pleased to find we shaved four minutes off our normal five-mile time.

We've been working hard, training six days a week. To my relief, I'm no longer the worst one on the track. Nowhere near the best, but not the worst. I can't believe something I started on basically a dare has become so important to me that it's a daily part of my life.

“I'll be sad when it's over,” Bruisey says.

“Me too. But my body will be happy to have some time to heal.” I lean over to stretch out my side.

Bruisey takes a few breaths as she kicks out her legs, side to side. “I'm so jealous. You're like, this perfect free butterfly,
getting to do whatever you want. Your whole life is ahead of you, and you get to decide what you want. I wish I could do that, sometimes. Be that free.”

She trails off as we walk the remaining feet to the front of my apartment. It's hard to imagine anyone would be jealous of what I have, when I think about this past year. There were times when I felt like I'd never be able to get out of bed, much less run five miles. Bruisey's admiration of what I have makes me realize I haven't spent enough time appreciating what I've been able to do, both on my own and with the help of some really phenomenal people.

Bruisey sighs, tucking a pink strand of hair behind her ear. “See? Even your cute apartment. I'm jealous again.” She points at the scooter illegally parked next to the trash bins. “Past'er's already here waiting for you, probably with a glass of wine. This never happens to me.”

“Bruisey, it's happening to you right now.”

“Only because I'm with Broke-Broke Superstar. That's the name you should put on your next gallery showing.”

“I don't have a gallery showing.”

“Sounds like you will soon!”

I had called Book's gallery out of curiosity, and learned a new Book owns the place. She goes by the very normal, humanlike name of Marcy. She remembered me from when I used to hang out there all the time. “I wondered where you went to,” she said. “It was like you dropped off the face of the earth!” We set a meeting for next week.

My front door opens. Francesca is standing there, not with a glass of wine in her hand but rather a flute of champagne. But what seems to be of more importance is the envelope she's clutching to her chest.

“Yo,” she says, handing me the glass. “You got served.”

•   •   •

Twenty minutes later, we're sitting around my coffee table, going through the stack of paperwork that requires me to list all of my assets.

I laugh. “It shouldn't take all this paper just to write the word
None.
”

Francesca holds her glass of champagne up toward the window, rotating it by the stem in the light, like she's counting the bubbles. “I always wanted to say ‘
You got served,
' ” she says. “It just wasn't nearly as much fun as I thought it would be. Why can't we serve Matthew?”

“Because he filed.”

Bruisey's eyes widen as she rifles through the pages. “Look at this,” she says, pointing, her normally brusque voice elevated in shock. “There are five different things you can check to claim what's happening to your house. There's one if you're selling the house and splitting it, one if you're keeping the house—”

“He's staying there for now.”

“Right. That's what I'm saying. There isn't an option for that. It says,
‘The wife will remain in the property until point of sale.'
Nowhere does it say the husband keeps the property and the wife moves out.”

I close my eyes and nod sagely. “Well, I am a progressive woman.”

“What a mess,” Bruisey says, shaking her head.

“Still jealous?”

She smiles. “It's still kind of exciting. Paperwork. Court.”

Francesca snorts. “Wow, lady. You are weird.”

“One chapter closing so another can begin. Maybe now Charlotte gets to find her soul mate.”

Francesca makes a face. “Don't. Charlotte gets testy when it comes to boys. Holden Wood has had a crush on her for months, but she won't do anything about it.”

“Hi, I'm still holding my divorce papers. Just got served.”

“Congratulations again,” Francesca says, clinking my glass.

Bruisey's eyes are round with shock. “Holden is cute.”

“I don't know his real name. Doesn't this seem doomed?”

Bruisey's tone gets very serious, like she's suddenly found her purpose. “But how do you feel about him?”

“I've given it exactly zero minutes of thought.”

She dances in her seat. “Then here's what you have to do. The next time you know he's walking near you, hide behind something and watch him.”

“You mean stalk him?”

Bruisey shakes her head, brushing me off. “I had a friend who was on the fence about this guy she was seeing. She asked him to meet her at the library, and then she hid behind a bush when he walked up so she could find out what it felt like when she first saw him.”

Francesca refills my glass as she says, “That is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard.”

“He won't see you, and it gives you a moment alone to just see how you feel. Try it.”

“I think I will not.”

Bruisey downs the last of her glass, whistling in her seat. She's still in her sweaty running clothes, and her cheeks are flushed from the champagne. “I don't know,” she sing-songs. “I think you will.”

“I know you were making a joke with the champagne,” I say to Francesca, “but it's still pretty good.”

“It wasn't meant to be ironic,” she says, sliding the papers to the side, topic adjourned. “I originally came with good
news. Then I checked your mail and once again Matthew ruined everything.”

“What good news?” Bruisey asks, immediately perking up. “I bet it's exciting.”

Francesca stares at her for a second. “You really are trippy.”

“I am drunk.”

“Go ahead, Past'er,” I say, taking away Bruisey's glass.

She smiles, lowering her chin to her chest demurely. “Jacob's moving to Los Angeles. Permanently. He got a transfer.”