Bookish Hellfire

Chapter 1

"RROOARRRRRRRRRRRRR." Fifteen women in silver hot pants emblazoned with pictures of hatchets are skating toward me at 60 miles an hour.

Your first reaction might be, "Run."

My first reaction? "Hell, yeah." I'm a player on the Bookish Hellfires. We burn the competition.

Roller Derby is about honoring fear by barreling straight the hell through it, ideally while looking hot. The sport doesn't get it's due, but hey, neither does women's ice hockey. Roller Derby is played by girls, chicks, ladies, women. Like so many things, we women fight on the rink, because women have fight for everything. We're just used to it. Well, and we enjoy elbowing people while moving at high speed.

Today, we're playing the Detroit Hardware. The period has just started. Everyone is unbruised and unexhausted. Waiting for the good stuff. The muscle burn, the bruises, the scrapes, and all the ass-kicking those things signify. Roller derby is gladiatorial blood sport on skates, and we are all in this to kill it.

The first moments of any period stretch like nobody's business, anticipation worse than watched pots and late periods. My hardest part is keeping my head in the game early on. Once the adrenaline is pumping, I am a mean-ass dervish. But, before, I am a spinning space cadet. A split second, and you're toast. I try to live a low carb life. So, I focus my eyes on the Detroit uniforms.

Momentarily, I wonder why their logo isn't a tool instead of a hatchet when the horn sounds. Some players keep their forward momentum assuming the horn a mistake. Others move down to the flat middle of the rink. Eventually, players are all still. Waiting. The volume of murmurs rises over the sound of exhausted pants.

The secretary to the owner of the Hellfire's, Peggy, comes running out to the rink. Peggy is the type of woman you can't imagine in jeans. You know the kind, in a pantsuit at the grocery store, socks pressed, hair blown out. Right now, her short red hair looks like she's been sticking at least six of her fingers in electric sockets.

She comes to the middle of the rink. In her somber gray suit, even with electro-hair, she looks out of place. Thirty ripped women, each wearing the equivalent of a couple shiny dish towels, watch her perplexed. Peggy closes her eyes. She takes a deep breath. She opens her eyes. Her gaze sweeps the players. She closes her eyes. I wait for someone to crack and yell, "what the hell?" Instead, it feels like the whole arena takes her lead, joining her in a deep breath. Then I notice she has a mic in her hand.

"It is with deep regret I announce this match has been postponed due to unseen, and upsetting, circumstances."

The calm of a moment ago evaporates. Audience members start yelling. This sport might be played and appreciated by females, but it doesn't mean we always act like ladies. The audience taunts are pretty funny if crude. They offer numerous creative and painful options for things Peggy can stuff up her ass. If points were given for imagination, these people would be high scorers. While their visions are impressive, the force of their words is frightening. We'll be embroiled in a full-blown riot in a blink or two. The members of the Hatchets start fidgeting, rocking back and forth on their skates. The Hellfires remain calm. Of course, we are unflappable. Our team is comprised of librarians, people who are chill enough to give our most precious items out every day. We got this.

Peggy gives a small nod. She takes a tentative step as if unsure the floor was solid. A second step. Finally, perhaps convinced of the existence of the floor, her pace increases to a slow walk. She crosses to the center space to stand beside our captain, Emily. Captain, derby alias Farmgirl Furor, is a hulking blond woman with creamy skin and petal yellow hair. She looks like a milkmaid, but we all know she has the heart of a fearless Valkyrie. Emily folds herself down so Peggy's lips can reach her ear.

The audience has quieted, transfixed by the happenings in the center of the arena. I can't decide if we are in the middle of the big top or at the eye of the storm. The audience probably can't either. Suddenly, Emily startles, throwing an open hand to cover her gaping mouth. Emily is from subtle Minnesota stock, generations of people who can eat lutefisk without a visible wince. This reaction is basically apoplectic for her. Somehow the audience senses the anomaly of the reaction. A pall falls over the arena.

Every eye goes to Peggy. She turns. Step. Step. Step. We scrutinize her every movement. With so little input to make sense of what is happening, every person must be doing what I am, mentally parsing wild conclusions and outrageous deductions. Reason has its place, but not here. This is the time when people tally all the worst things ever, and then up the stakes. Tension is spooling and expanding, an invisible static force holding everyone's attention.

When at the center of the arena, Peggy lifts the mic to her mouth. Her lips are pursed, her eyes focused down. She takes a deep breath, the action resonating through the sound system. The electronic crinkle sounds can't break the tension.

I look around. Strong women, sweat dripping from every bodily surface, are watching Peggy, bodies tense, as if waiting for her to announce, "go." But, in their eyes, I notice something I never see in Hellfire Arena. Fear.

Peggy's eyes pop open. Everyone's attention to Peggy is so attuned the whole arena seems to lean forward. Peggy again looks at all the players. Once her eyes have surveyed the playing field, she raises her eyes toward the bleachers. She opens her mouth. No sound escapes. She closes her mouth again. She lowers her eyes. She drops the mic.

In the relative quiet of the arena, I can hear her whispered utterance, "Mr. Hostetler is dead."

Like the cheesiest cartoon, my eyes reflexively widen while my mouth drops open. Drool would be pooling if my mouth hadn't gone dry. I am an arm's length behind Peggy. Looking at the anticipatory expressions around me, I realize most people hadn't heard her.

Peggy notices she hadn't spoken into the mic. She closes her eyes, with the mic still poised at her lips. "Mr. Hostetler, the Hellfires owner, is dead."

Like one organism, the whole arena gasps. My high school choirmaster would be impressed by our coordination. Mr. Hostetler is a little old bookseller, owner of the oldest bookshop in Chicago. His grey hair and tweed apparel feel contrived, but within one conversation, you know this guy is the real deal. He started the team with his granddaughter, a librarian named Elise, whose roller derby name is Elle X. They recruited through all the library systems in the Chicagoland area and trained interested players. With Elise's leadership, we were bibliophilic badasses. We have been undefeated two years in a row.

Numbness or disbelief kept everyone in place, like robots without a run program. The appearance of the police got the machines running. A thin African-American woman in a black dress, on the hot edge of business attire, came up beside Peggy. "Players, I am Detective Johnson. I believe you have heard of the recent murder. The body was found on the premises. We will need to get everyone's statements." She surveyed the players. "Mmm, you are all on roller skates?"

A couple players with more manners than snark nods, a few give her incredulous snarls, most just stare blankly at her. Peggy says, "They were in the first thirty seconds of this championship game." When the detective doesn't seem to register the relationship between game and skates, Peggy adds, "It's roller derby, like rugby on skates played by babes."

The detective assesses us. When her eyes land on mine, I can't help but offer a flirty half-smile. What? She's got looks, and it might make a great story when our parents meet the first time. Score. I get a half smile and slight lowering of eyelids in return.

She tips her head toward the bleachers. "Alright, skates optional. We have a few officers who can take statements."

Grumbles, murmurs, and many other forms of non-verbal communication break out when the detective turns away from us. She walks away, shoulder back, head proudly held high. Before she reaches the doorway, she looked back, eyes landing on mine. Never one to avoid opportunity when it comes lookin', I wink. Jolted, she hustles out of the arena.