fluffy taupe bath sheets and an array of expensive-looking lotions on the counter. She took the aspirin as docilely as a child and promptly passed out on the bed. Propping two pillows under her head and turning her head sideways so she wouldn’t choke if she threw up, I left her keys and purse on the granite counter by the coffeepot—sure to be her first stop when she awoke with a massive hangover—and left, turning the lock in the knob as I closed the door.
Back in the car, I checked the time: four thirty. Damn. I could still work in a swim before Kyra’s bout, if I kept it short, but the pool would be crowded now with after-work exercisers. I liked to swim more or less alone, still uncomfortable with the gawping that my leg injuries received. In desperate need of exercise, I headed reluctantly to the YMCA just two miles from my patio home. In the locker room, redolent of wet metal and antiperspirant—someone must have sprayed herself lavishly—I stripped quickly, keeping my back to the room, and pulled on my orange swimsuit with the racer back. Wrapping my hibiscus-print beach towel around my waist so it draped to my ankles, I headed for the showers and the pool entrance, wondering for the thousandth time why they needed so many mirrors. From the waist up, I looked okay, maybe better than okay, with glossy chestnut hair and long-lashed eyes, a bustline that was a happy medium between Keira Knightley and Dolly Parton, and strong arms and shoulders from the swimming. Below the waist . . . I hustled past all the mirrors, rinsed off, and headed to the pool.
Several lap swimmers were crawling and breast-stroking in the lanes, and a rowdy group of eight-year-olds had assembled for a lesson at the far end. Sitting on the pool’s edge, I quickly unwrapped the towel and slid into the water in one smooth movement, turning to place the towel on the deck. A surreptitious look around discovered no stares or pointing; no one had noticed. Adjusting my goggles, I struck out for the far end of the Olympic-sized pool, letting the exertion and the water strip away the stress that had built up in my body. I didn’t know how nonexercisers made it through the day without killing someone.
Hair still damp, I arrived at the city auditorium just as the roller derby bout was getting underway. On a Monday night there wasn’t much of a crowd, and I got a seat on the bleachers near the front without any trouble. The oval track was laid out at a slight angle to the long axis of the hardwood floor with rope under the tape to give the skaters a tactile indicator when they were going out of bounds. A computer-driven projector showed the score and the time remaining on a screen over the stage at the south end. Big speakers on the stage shrieked a guitar riff from a song I didn’t know, undoubtedly by a band I’d never heard of. The league had padded the hard edges of risky wall corners and stationed volunteers—grinning young men—at two side entryways as “girl catchers” to stop errant skaters from sliding out of sight and into possible harm.
I spotted Kyra right away—not hard to do since she’s a six-foot-tall black woman and was wearing the purple uniform and helmet of the Vernonville Vengeance, the roller derby team she’d skated with for over two years. Her long hair frizzed from beneath the helmet to midback, much longer than when we’d first met, when I was eleven and she was twelve. My folks had brought us to Vernonville to visit with Gran and Grandpa Atherton in the big Colonial home they’d lived in before Gran died. Kyra had skated by the house one morning when I was sitting on the porch, sulking about how boring it was going to be with no one but my brother Clint to play with. We’d hit it off immediately, and I cried when it was time to go back to California. Kyra and I called each other weekly during the school year, and I had looked forward to returning to Gran and Grandpa’s each summer after that. Kyra had even
Back in the car, I checked the time: four thirty. Damn. I could still work in a swim before Kyra’s bout, if I kept it short, but the pool would be crowded now with after-work exercisers. I liked to swim more or less alone, still uncomfortable with the gawping that my leg injuries received. In desperate need of exercise, I headed reluctantly to the YMCA just two miles from my patio home. In the locker room, redolent of wet metal and antiperspirant—someone must have sprayed herself lavishly—I stripped quickly, keeping my back to the room, and pulled on my orange swimsuit with the racer back. Wrapping my hibiscus-print beach towel around my waist so it draped to my ankles, I headed for the showers and the pool entrance, wondering for the thousandth time why they needed so many mirrors. From the waist up, I looked okay, maybe better than okay, with glossy chestnut hair and long-lashed eyes, a bustline that was a happy medium between Keira Knightley and Dolly Parton, and strong arms and shoulders from the swimming. Below the waist . . . I hustled past all the mirrors, rinsed off, and headed to the pool.
Several lap swimmers were crawling and breast-stroking in the lanes, and a rowdy group of eight-year-olds had assembled for a lesson at the far end. Sitting on the pool’s edge, I quickly unwrapped the towel and slid into the water in one smooth movement, turning to place the towel on the deck. A surreptitious look around discovered no stares or pointing; no one had noticed. Adjusting my goggles, I struck out for the far end of the Olympic-sized pool, letting the exertion and the water strip away the stress that had built up in my body. I didn’t know how nonexercisers made it through the day without killing someone.
Hair still damp, I arrived at the city auditorium just as the roller derby bout was getting underway. On a Monday night there wasn’t much of a crowd, and I got a seat on the bleachers near the front without any trouble. The oval track was laid out at a slight angle to the long axis of the hardwood floor with rope under the tape to give the skaters a tactile indicator when they were going out of bounds. A computer-driven projector showed the score and the time remaining on a screen over the stage at the south end. Big speakers on the stage shrieked a guitar riff from a song I didn’t know, undoubtedly by a band I’d never heard of. The league had padded the hard edges of risky wall corners and stationed volunteers—grinning young men—at two side entryways as “girl catchers” to stop errant skaters from sliding out of sight and into possible harm.
I spotted Kyra right away—not hard to do since she’s a six-foot-tall black woman and was wearing the purple uniform and helmet of the Vernonville Vengeance, the roller derby team she’d skated with for over two years. Her long hair frizzed from beneath the helmet to midback, much longer than when we’d first met, when I was eleven and she was twelve. My folks had brought us to Vernonville to visit with Gran and Grandpa Atherton in the big Colonial home they’d lived in before Gran died. Kyra had skated by the house one morning when I was sitting on the porch, sulking about how boring it was going to be with no one but my brother Clint to play with. We’d hit it off immediately, and I cried when it was time to go back to California. Kyra and I called each other weekly during the school year, and I had looked forward to returning to Gran and Grandpa’s each summer after that. Kyra had even
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