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Dedication

If you can agree that strength is in the soft parts, this book is for you.

If you can’t agree, I understand. This book is still for you.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

If you’re new to roller derby and want a little background context about this amazing sport before or after reading this book, head to page 321 to find out more. Enjoy!

Prologue

The seat belt had left a perfect diagonal stripe across my chest. Blistering red and purple from shoulder to hip like a grim pageant ribbon lifting from my skin.

When my aunt and uncle finally arrived to tell me that both my parents were gone, my aunt hugged me close and I let her, too exhausted to resist. A sharp ache seared me from the outside in and somehow, the pain felt right. Deserved. I let it settle deep inside my chest, hoping it would remain there for as long as possible. That no one else would be able to get at it but me.

Chapter One

Endless stippling spread across my bedroom ceiling, tiny bumps of white pushing back at me like thousands of stubby, pointing fingers.

Fuck you, stubby bumps.

Lying faceup on my bed, I glared hard at the ceiling for a few moments before extending my left arm above me and bringing my hand down—hard—against my headboard. The ritual, started a year and a half ago, sent a familiar sting through my palm, a kind of shield against the day ahead. I’d feel the bruising every time I held a mug or grabbed my backpack strap, whenever I pushed open a door, clutched an apple. The pain was something to focus on—like a messed-up stress ball to squeeze whenever I needed it.

I wasn’t proud of this thing I’d come to depend on—far from it—but the need to do it was so overwhelming sometimes that knowing I’d feel shitty about it afterward wasn’t enough to stop me from doing it. It was protection against other people discovering all the rot in my gut. It was punishment. It was proof I could handle everything on my own.

I forced myself out from the covers and placed my feet on the carpet. Fall air slipped through my open window, crisp and biting.

For a moment, I let the chill lift my skin into goose bumps and stared at my bare thighs spreading across the edge of the mattress. Two quarter-size bruises decorated the middle of my left thigh, and a larger one curved around the outside of my right. I lifted my feet into the air and admired a shin bruise from a week ago. The bruise was barely visible now, its darkness lightening and almost hidden against my brown skin. But I knew it was still there from the painful tenderness when I pressed my fingers into it, which I did now, closing my eyes to let the pain sink in.

“Daya Doo Wop! It’s almost eight and you can’t be late again! It’s still September and you’ve been in detention once already… remember?”

Jesus.

My uncle’s singsongy voice surged through both my bedroom door and my quiet moment, each sentence rising into a high note. He knew better than to come in, but he still thought these cheerful reminders would help get me going faster.

“I’m up!” I called back, swallowing back the other words constantly threatening to escape from my mouth: Leave. Me. Alone.

Handling my uncle and aunt demanded a balancing act: Keep our interactions light and consistent so they didn’t worry about me, but discourage excessive interaction in case they mistook it for intimacy. Keep my head above water at school, but not so far above that they got excited about my prospects. Date boys like a “normal teenage girl,” but not for too long and not the type my aunt and uncle would approve of. Go to counseling, but only to make them feel better. Get involved, but not too involved.

I listened as Uncle Priam’s footsteps receded down the hallway, practically skipping across the hardwood. He and Aunt Vicki were now my official guardians. The paperwork had been finalized recently, after a painful, slow process following my parents’ deaths. Priam was my dad’s brother, but I’m sure when my parents named him and my aunt my godparents, Priam and Vicki never thought they’d actually have to take me into their home and look after me.

That’s just what they’ve been doing these past many months, though. And they must have learned their version of parenting in theater school, where they met, because I felt like I was in an epic musical most of the time.

P.S. I hate musicals.

If my uncle and aunt weren’t singing duets at the dinner table, they were playing dress-up. They were forever trying to get me to watch all these old-timey musicals on TV with them, and a while ago they’d tried to give me singing lessons for my birthday. I pretended to go for six weeks, but in reality I was at the skateboard park.

It was clear we didn’t get each other. So my balancing act was as much for them as it was for me—aim for coexistence and not much more. Don’t waste their time or mine.

I stood up and stretched, my body aching from an extra-long skateboarding session the day before. Skateboarding kept me muscular, and having more muscle meant experiencing more soreness, which was perfect for me. I lived for that ache. And I liked seeing my body stay thick and strong too. My muscles made me feel like I could defend myself—but also invite pain when I needed to. I pulled on my jeans and hoodie, both protecting and preparing myself for the day ahead.

Chapter Two

“Butterfly, you must understand!” Vicki implored.

“But honey, it’s Pinter.” Priam was sitting beside me at the kitchen table, hands out in a plea, face in an impressive sulk.

If it were up to me, mealtimes would look like me eating on the way to somewhere else. But good old Priam and Vicki insisted we eat as many meals together as possible. As part of my balancing act, I relented. But I paid for it.

At breakfast, I usually had to sit through a truncated version of some kind of drama. Sometimes it was real-life drama, sometimes it was an elaborate, fictional kind. Today I was treated to the real-life sort, although it was still hard to believe. Priam had, apparently, booked tickets to see a play that, apparently, was on the same night as Vicki’s Glee Girls’ Night—a monthly excuse for her and her friends to sit around singing show tunes while drinking wine and cognac.

Currently, Vicki was flapping around the kitchen, banging cupboards, moving food around for no particular reason, sighing with the weight of a thousand grievances. “That is not the capital P Point, Priam! You know how deeply I feel about my Glee Girls. How full they fill my spirits. You know.”

“Of course I know, darling.” Priam collapsed against the back of his chair, arms falling to his sides. “But it was the only night with tickets still available. What was I to do?” he questioned, his voice gliding upward to its maximal plaintive whine.

Now Vicki swept to the chair beside him, yanking it out and sitting on its edge with a small bounce. She took his hand and held it in both of hers, peering into his face. “Sweetheart. You do what is right. What is needed. For you. For me. You buy one ticket. You go experience Pinter. You share him with me afterward That is what you do.” She punctuated these rousing words with a desperate kiss to Priam’s hand.

Leaning my cheek in my palm and working a piece of apple with my jaw, I stared blankly at the scene unfolding in front of me. I wish I could say this was an atypical morning at the Wijesinghe household, but… it wasn’t.

As the denouement of this particular episode came to a close, they kissed and made up—also typical (and gross)—and once again remembered I was sitting at the same table. I didn’t mind their episodes entirely—it limited the amount of time they were focused on me, at least.

Unfortunately, Vicki focused on me now and her face ballooned in excitement. My jaw halted mid-chew, my defensive shield rising. “Daya! Are you free? Next Thursday? You could have my ticket!” She turned back to Priam, his hand still in hers. “Wouldn’t that be a capital S Solution, darling?”

Priam didn’t look quite as certain. “Well… it’s Pinter, Vicki. He might be a little… highbrow for someone so young, don’t you think?”

Priam wasn’t really worried about my capacity to understand Pinter. He and Vicki loved forcing me to experience arts and culture. He was freaking out at the thought of being alone with me for three hours. And I got it. I didn’t really want to sit around watching some boring play with him for three hours either.

Both Vicki and Priam preferred dealing with me as a tag team. The few occasions I’d had to spend time alone with either of them, we’d filled it awkwardly—trying to find some common ground.

But we’d failed. Every. Time.

I took another bite of my apple and sputtered my reply through a mess of pulp, because I knew it drove them nuts. “I’m busy that night. Sorry.” A piece of apple flopped to the table.

Priam’s chest rose and fell in relief while Vicki stared at the fallen apple, a hint of repulsion skimming her mouth.

When I made to leave the table, taking the rest of my apple and a piece of toast to go, Vicki shook the mild disgust from her face and thrust out her hand in my direction without actually touching me (she knew better). “Daya, maybe we could spend some time together”—she glanced reassuringly at Priam—“the three of us, this weekend? I feel like we never see you!”

Precisely. “Uh, maybe. I have lots of homework and some other stuff, though, so I’ll have to see. Can I let you know later?”

They shared a quick look—always a tag team—and Priam said, “Of course, Daya. Of course. We’ll just be waiting in the wings for your grand entrance!” He let out a fluttering laugh at his own joke, and Vicki chimed in with her own tinkling chuckle.

I had to will the judgment off my face. “Cool,” I replied, and escaped stage left like a pro.

Even before I had to live with them, I’d grown weary of Priam and Vicki. My dad was weary of them, and I took that as a sign that I should be too.

Priam and Dad immigrated here with my mum from Sri Lanka before I was born, and Priam met Vicki shortly after, when he abandoned the path set out for him in engineering to pursue musical theater. Thatha was pissed about Priam’s choice, but because they were brothers, my mum had explained, Thatha had helped support Priam through theater school nonetheless. Thatha worked extra-long hours at his engineering job to make sure Priam could live out his dream.

Lucky you, Priam.

Before the accident, we mostly saw Priam and Vicki for Sunday night dinners, special occasions, and the odd performance one of them found themselves in. And when I say “odd,” I don’t mean “occasional.” I mean rolling-around-on-the-stage-in-spandex-between-inflatable-palm-trees odd. I remember my dad shifting in his seat during the first half of these performances, then dozing off during the second half. He and I would make fun of these ridiculous shows afterward in the car ride home, while Amma sat quietly in the front seat.

Amma had thought more highly of Priam and Vicki than we did, and I remember overhearing one conversation where she tried to convince my dad that Priam did the right thing by following his passion. It was rare for her to speak up like that, and I’d been surprised. Not that she’d convinced my dad or me, though.

I guess Priam and Vicki had seen how much Dad pushed me toward engineering and science, because they constantly sent Amma websites for fine arts classes and kept inviting us out to various performances. Thatha hated that. And I did too, even though part of me was intrigued by the blurbs Amma read out to me—photography workshops, pottery making, taiko drumming. But my contact with Priam and Vicki was limited because my dad made it so.

Once I asked Thatha if he’d be closer to Uncle Priam if Priam was an engineer too, like my dad was. Thatha had laughed. “Priam doesn’t have what it takes to be an engineer. Don’t talk nonsense.” So whenever my mum asked if I was interested in one of the activities Priam and Vicki had suggested for me, I responded with some version of, “Sounds like nonsense to me.”

Sitting through Vicki and Priam’s morning soap operas—while truly absurd and awkward—could at least be entertaining once in a while. But sitting through classes was just plain excruciating—the kind of pain I didn’t invite. I had to remind myself, though, to keep my eyes on the prize: graduate and get the hell out of here. I had my sights on a college in Southern California, where it was warm, skateboarding was still rad, and I could figure out what I wanted to do with my life away from here. Away from anyone who knew my “tragic past.” Somewhere no one knew me enough to constantly ask how I was feeling.

So though it was painful, I kept my head down and jumped through enough hoops to get where I needed to go. My reward at the end of each day was an afternoon of hurling myself across the skate park. Something to leave me aching, tired, and bruised.

But I had to get through this afternoon English class first. Fucking English. And poetry today to boot.

“Daya, which line did you like the best?” Ms. Leung asked.

Hmm… the last one? ’Cause it was the end? “I thought ‘following the darkness’ was interesting.”

“What did you find interesting about it?”

The words. They were made up of letters. “The word ‘darkness’ stuck out to me. Like the speaker was really frustrated or something. Like she just wanted to leave.”

“Hmm… good observation, Daya. Class, where does the speaker want to go, you think?”

Anywhere but here, I thought, slumping back in my seat and squeezing my pencil into the palm of my hand as tightly as I could.

Chapter Three

“Your arms are spaghetti, Daya!” Dad’s lips made that smacking sound they always made when he was irritated with something. “Is spaghetti strong?” he asked as he grabbed my boxing gloves and jiggled my arms around.

“Are we talking cooked or raw?”

He didn’t smile. Sometimes he did. Not today. Today I’d made too many mistakes. “Don’t be a joker, okay? It won’t be funny when your opponent thumps you.”

He held up his punch mitts in front of me. “Tummy tight, gloves up. Firm, quick jabs. Intensity, Daya!”

We worked like that for hours—Thatha coaching me, building me up so no one could take me down. Boxing had been his “thing” in Sri Lanka when he was younger. An interest passed on by his father. He’d been competitive, too—winning small titles here and there. But when he came here, boxing just became another thing he’d had to give up. When I’d asked him why he’d quit, he’d made that lip-smacking sound and responded, “What? You think we had all the time in the world when we moved here? When would I box? Before work? After night classes? Don’t talk nonsense.”

Now that he did have time for a few side interests, he spent that time coaching me. I think it was his way of protecting me. Of making sure I knew how to protect myself.

“Mental toughness,” he would tell me, “is vital for physical toughness. You can’t play sports without both, and you can’t succeed here without both either. If you show them weakness, Daya, they win. You must be better. Stronger.”

I kept his words in mind each boxing session, each match, every obstacle I faced, trying to show him I could be tough enough for whatever life brought me. And he kept pushing me to be stronger. So a layer of toughness had begun to grow along my skin even before my parents died, although I hadn’t been sure if I’d ever been strong enough for my dad. And now I knew I hadn’t been. I’d failed both of them, eventually.

But I was tough enough now. That layer along my skin had thickened, a full suit of scarred armor that could withstand anything. And I’d keep testing it to make sure it always would.

Chapter Four

My front wheels dropped in over the edge of the bowl and I leaned my body weight forward, sending myself careening downward and across to the other side. I almost made it up the vertical before toppling backward, my skateboard banging into my knees and my ass banging into the concrete. After another annoying, long day at school, this particular tumble at the skate park was just what I needed.

“Ooh, nice!” Fee called from where they were sitting on a picnic table nearby.

Fee and I met about nine months ago at this park. Skateboarding was a relatively new pastime for me. Shortly after the accident, I’d taken to wandering the neighborhood, mainly to escape Priam and Vicki’s excessive attempts to “connect” and get me talking. I was already being forced to see a counselor. The last thing I’d wanted was to talk about more shit at home.

I’d also quit boxing soon after the accident, and I guess I’d been craving something physical—some kind of contact that didn’t involve sharing my damn feelings… an activity that didn’t remind me of my parents. I’d found myself at this park, watching the skateboarders whipping in and out of the bowl, performing tricks, stumbling or crashing to the ground. Something about their plunging motions, the way they just gave themselves over to this deep dive into a concrete basin, seemed so appealing to me. So uncomplicated and gutsy. Throw yourself into a free fall and come up the other side. Or not. And each “not”—each time someone bailed—it was like I could feel the hit against my own arm, or ass cheek, or shoulder, jolting me out of my thoughts and into my body.

After I’d spent a few consecutive days watching from beneath a nearby tree like a creep, Fee had been walking by on their way to skate. I’d noticed them before—they seemed so calm and focused. They didn’t interact too much with the other skaters—just came, did their thing, and left. But as they walked by me that day, they’d paused and asked, “Where’s your board?”

After a lot of mumbling and awkwardness on my part, Fee had finally convinced me to get a skateboard and come back when I did. They promised me they’d show me some basics, and they’d done that and more. I’d spent so much time skateboarding with Fee these past few months, you couldn’t even tell I was a newbie.

Since then, Fee and I’d become something like friends, I guess. A first real friend, kind of, since I’d always been a bit of a loner. Fee would often drive me home, and sometimes we’d even grab a bite to eat or hang out. I hadn’t shared much with them—they knew my parents had died in a car accident and that I lived with my aunt and uncle—but I liked that we mostly talked about skateboarding or that Fee would ramble on about their own life without expecting me to reveal too much about mine. They seemed to get that I just wanted to be at the park, skating and crashing.

I went over to the picnic table now and sat beside them. Fee was huge—like, over six feet—and broad. They used to play ice hockey, until they couldn’t play anymore in the league they wanted to, since they didn’t fit the “gender requirements” or whatever. Stupid shit. They said they’d taken up ball hockey and skateboarding shortly after as a way to get out some of their excess energy.

“Hey, Hulk, you’re extra savage today. Something in particular crawl up your big green butt?” they asked, leaning into me and crossing their eyes. Fee was brown like me but had these wicked gray eyes—“Colonial vestiges, no doubt,” had been their explanation.

I leaned back. “Nah, I’m fine. I mean, besides the usual bullshit.”

“Yeah. All that bullshitty bullshit.” They contemplated me for a moment, like they were waiting for me to say something else. When I didn’t (because what else was there to say?), they tapped my knee and pointed out to the bowl. “I know I’ve said it before, but I wish you’d come play on my ball hockey team—we could use someone who dives into things like you do. Someone fearless.”

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