The Cheerleader's Guide to Roller Derby

Chapter Eight: Ballerina Barbie

"Can I help you with something, Ms. Simmons?" Mr. Patterson, my crabby old Natural Science teacher said as I lingered near the bottles of formaldehyde-ed kittens and piglets.

"Just making sure I have the homework assignment written down right," I lied. (Again.) In truth, I was stalling long enough for Traci to grab another ride home. I had to change my clothes and get to Mankato for my first roller derby practice in just over an hour. Dropping off Traci would make that schedule too tight, and I couldn't speed her along by telling her where I was going.

I hurried to my locker as soon as the halls had cleared. I grabbed the bag that held my tights and leotard. I'd had to leave the tutus in the trunk and pray they did not take on the smell from hell. I slipped into the girls room and into my practice clothes. I threw my sweater, jeans, and coat on over them and raced from the school to the parking lot and onto the highway.

Thank God for GPS. If Siri's voice hadn't insisted I had arrived, I would have driven right past the rundown strip mall and its half empty row of shops. Even then I made a slow roll past the entrance doors to what appeared to be an abandoned supermarket. The bright orange flyer taped to one of the doors was the only clue to what was about to happen inside.

Ms. Hernandez could learn a thing or two about discretion from these roller derby people, I thought. It would be a lot easier to make it to my therapy sessions on time if I didn't have to park a block away then sneak to her office, with its practically neon sign proclaiming COUNSELING SERVICES out front.

I braced myself for the stench, popped the trunk, and pulled out my bag full of gear and the two trash bags of tutus I'd (so thoughtfully) collected. I'd made sure to bring them in all sizes and everything. Well, almost all sizes. I was pretty sure that even in my jiggliest days I didn't have one large enough to fit Coffee. Maybe she could sew a couple of them together?

I stood beside my open car door and pulled my favorite tutu, the stiff one in lilac and shimmery white, on over my jeans -- which I then wriggled out of. I stowed the pants in the backseat and dipped down to check my makeup in the side mirror. Ready? Okay! I told myself.

When I turned back toward the practice space entrance I found a short girl who looked about my age studying me. "You might want to ditch the tutu," she said.

Even though I'd flipped through tons of Pinterest pics of derby girls in ballet gear, I still had a tiny moment of doubt. I pulled at the costume's elastic waist. "Are you on the team?" I asked.

"Not yet."

I stared at the girl's over processed hair and let my eyes make their way down past her glitter eye shadow, the way too harsh shade of pink on her lips, the fake leather bomber jacket, and the skin tight jeans complete with tattered knees. I finished with a pretty conclusive nod to her cheap knock off stiletto boots. This girl was not someone I could trust in the wardrobe department. Still, I played nice. I said, "Thanks anyway," and shrugged.

"Suit yourself," she said, and disappeared through the doors.

I lugged my gear bag and the tutus inside and headed to a row of mismatched folding chairs. I'd barely dropped my stuff to the floor when I was mobbed by four squealing little girls. They were dressed in tutus too. "Hmmph," I thought as I fought away the girls and shrugged off my coat and scarf. "I guess Miss Stiletto doesn't know as much as she thinks she does."

"Check out the new girl," I heard someone say.

The little girls were jumping all around me; there were even more of them now. My eyes still hadn't adjusted from the bright snow glare outside either. Between that and the ever squealing pig-tailed brigade, I couldn't get a good look at my admirer. Unlike the girl I'd met outside, this one obviously had some sense of fashion. I smiled and gave a little wave in the voice's direction. If she was impressed by this outfit, just wait until she heard my ideas for new team uniforms. Who knew? This could be the start of a brand new Chantal Simmons fan club.

I threw the bags of tutus as far as I could. They landed, spilling their contents of bright netting and sequins. It had the desired effect. The squealing went up a notch but most of the little girls immediately transferred their interest from me to the dance costumes. I was free to blink away the darkness and get a better look at my surroundings and my new underlings, I mean, my new team.

It appeared that I'd been right; the building was an old grocery store. You could still see the discoloration of the tiles where the checkout stands and rows of shelves had once stood.
Someone had taken down the aisle signs but, all the way in the back, they'd left the large, pumpkin orange letters that spelled out FRESH MEAT.

There were several groups of girls in different ages and sizes scattered throughout the space but, in between them, I could see an oval shape taped to the floor, just like it had been in the middle school gym. I made another attempt to find the girl who'd spoken up when she'd seen me and my outfit. I scanned the clots of girls who stood in her general direction.

I was surprised to find so many of them with open mouthed stares and smirks on their faces. Someone snorted then. She stood between Q-Tip and Coffee. She was dressed all in black, in a tank top, short shorts and tights. Her hair was done up in a haphazard bun. Her eyes were rimmed in black as well. "Look ladies," she said, "It's ballerina Barbie!"

For a full three seconds (I counted them) no one breathed. Then a chorus of laughter broke out. For another three seconds, I searched around me, trying to convince myself that it was someone else they were all laughing at. When my eyes got to Stiletto Girl, who was seated a few chairs down, pulling off her boots, she said, "I tried to warn you," then looked away.

I thought I might pass out. Or pee myself. Or puke up the kale chips I'd eaten for lunch. Or maybe some other yet to be determined disgusting physical act AND I HAD TO GET OUT OF THERE BEFORE THAT HAPPENED. I grabbed my purse and reached behind me, feeling for the chair that held my coat and scarf, but my fingers had lost their sense of touch. I stumbled toward the door empty handed. Hypothermia had to be a better fate.

I'd almost made it outside when a firm hand gripped my arm and pulled me back. I tried to push her off but it was no use. She was too strong. I stomped on her foot then, but she still didn't turn me loose. "Stay," she said.

"I ... I can't," I wailed as tears threatened.

"You don't know what you can do yet. Stay. And find out."