The Hurt Patrol (18 page)

 

Did I mention that my dad's an idiot?

Yeah.

Apparently the poor man cannot:

It's sad.

I am forced to deduce this because I've sent him two letters recently, one of which was my senior picture (yes—it IS big news!). Graduation is now about a month away.

No response at all . . . so what's the deal?

This is what I'm thinking when I should be having my head in the game, or at least the practice. I'm wondering about my dad when I hear the whistle and start my drill, which is how I make like the
dumbest
mistake you can make in Roller Derby; I see a girl go down in front of me—hesitate—and then react—a split second too late.

So down
I
go, barely into the drill, sprawled and whirling in a huge flailing circle. Which freaking hurts!

So
embarrassing! I'm a good skater but not great—yet.

I take a second to clear my head. I pick myself up and tell everyone I'm fine, till I see I have pretty much skinned my entire shin, where there is no pad. I shake my head in disgust. It's bad form to get blood on the track. I limp over to the benches to deal with the blood that is now trailing down my calf. This is what comes of not playing on-point, a major rule of which is “Pay Attention!”

Stay Present!

But no—apparently, I was somewhere in the wilds of Alaska.

I wince as I begin to clean off my leg with brown paper towels and start thinking about my dad again . . . or the lack of dad, anyway. I'm not even sure
what
to think.

It's been a long while since the divorce and all, but I am beginning to wonder if he's pissed off at me or something. Or if he walked out into the wilderness and did an
Into the Wild
deal and now he's all mummified in an abandoned bus somewhere.

I'm pretty sure that's not the case, but still—RSVP much, Dad??!!

While I mop the blood, let me catch you up.

At the moment, I'm drilling to join the Rat City Rollergirls, or RCRG. I'm not on a team yet, but I plan to be. It's been slow going. I want to be a Throttle Rocket.

More on all that later . . . first let me tell you about the gang. A lot of things have changed.

Remember our beautiful Leonie and our brave Beau? Well, they're good! They're excellent.

We have all changed....

After our trip to San Francisco, when we met our awesome adoptive gay uncles, Frank and Oscar, we came back to Seattle and Beau sued the school. He had a score to settle—for himself and future kids, both gay and straight. The officials hadn't done their job, which before anything should be to keep their students safe, especially from bullying. Since Beau got his lights punched out last year, it's pretty obvious they failed, big-time. Beau and his mom and stepdad, Gina and Matt, were interviewed after the suit was filed, and they were all on the news, and it was awesome!

It's all still in progress, and Beau has gotten pretty good at giving interviews. He recorded something funny and sad and amazingly honest for the It Gets Better website. I get a little verklempt whenever I watch it. Our boy's electrifying!!!

But the best part is that our inept principal, Ms. Blip, is also giving interviews and she always ends up sounding like a mental patient. She doesn't do her cause any good trying to explain how she won't be responsible for “special interests” (like safety for her students on school grounds!) and has made such a tool out of herself recently that even people who weren't interested have gotten involved. It's so great! Everything she says makes it worse for her. I routinely expect her to actually choke on the foot she consistently puts in her mouth . . . preferably on the steps of the school.

So: Beau is good. He has decided he wants to be a nurse. He's applied to Seattle U next year.

Of course my mom, the RN, thinks that's just wonderful.

And my mom . . .

She's cool, even if we will never see eye to eye. She loves Beau and Leonie. She says she doesn't worry about whether or not Beau is gay; it's not her business to judge what he or anyone else (except me) does; that's between him and God, and she thinks he will be a very good nurse.

That's good old Teresa, the
other
Saint Teresa, my mom. Loving, living saint.

Leonie lives with her.

Leonie adores my mom, and it's mutual, and of course The Bomb, our sweet lil' husky dog, is doted on (and sleeps on the furniture) because my mom, St. Teresa, is
so
into her.

I went over the other day to see them, and Leonie was sitting on the stoop in the sun with my mom and The Bomb, and she had already painted her own toenails (and my mom's!) and was now painting Bommy's. The Bomb was watching her own toenails being painted with great interest. Glitter pink. It was freaking adorable.

Mom immediately had The Bomb spayed after we got home last year. That is something she is passionate about: no more puppies into this overpopulated world, already full of unwanted pets!

I'm glad. Bommy's had enough separation and sadness. Now it's her turn to have some fun.

Leo too.

Well . . . almost time, anyway. I'm not sure how much fun Leo is actually having just yet.

Our lovely Leonie is a model! That is, as she always corrects me, she's
starting
to model.

Actually, that is only one of a ton of things she's starting to accomplish.

First off, after our road trip she came back and ratted out our horrible pedophile teacher, Ratskin.

Imagine! We were so stoked! Revolution in the air! A mob like in Frankenstein!

We waited with bated breath. We figured he was gonna be in
big
trouble.

But . . . no. Sadly, no one in the school district was even that surprised. He was removed, but there was a definite mood of “oh, no—not again.” This is not the first such accusation of abuse (or the third or the tenth) that has been revealed in our crappy-ass school system.

Some great teachers abide, but bad teachers abound.

So anyway, before I go off ranting . . . lemme finish bandaging my leg and give you the rest of the 411 on the gang....

In spite of how much she has been through in her life, Leo is undaunted.

Well, she
is
daunted, but she forges ahead anyway.

Because she was underage when she reported our teacher, Mr. Adkins, aka Ratskin, the Vile Pedophile, they videotaped her statement so she wouldn't have to testify in court. It was very hard for her anyway . . . she cried so much her face was wet, but her voice never faltered.

And justice, albeit past due and underwhelming, has been done.

Ratskin is no longer with us.

I heard he is locked up somewhere, or maybe has an ankle bracelet. If he tries anything, hopefully it will electrocute him like a bug-zapper, and he'll shoot up in a shower of sparks, in joyous commemoration of the ultimate downfall of douche bags.

Ha! Suffer Like You Made Others!!

Um . . . I suppose you can tell
some
things haven't changed....

I reluctantly had to have one final conversation with Ratskin after we got back from our trip, when I went to get my term paper at the end of the semester.

And finally,
finally,
he had a haunted, hunted look about him, all jumpy and dark circles. He knew his end-time of evildoing was drawing nigh. I found out later he'd been contacted by the police earlier that day.

Yet, when I paused at the threshold of his classroom that last time, he still tried to be all affable, like in the olden days before his actions with Leonie annihilated my innocence, as well.

“Rusty!”
Grinning from ear to ear he is! Like we're buddies!

I just stand there at the doorway. I keep my game face on. We are so
not
friends.

He goes on.

“So, I have your paper here. It's great! I think you have a lot of talent and I hope you use it.” Big toothy shark smirk! The better to eat you with, my dear!

I taste rage on my tongue. I consider it. The taste is metallic. And salty . . . bloody, even.

I enter the room and take the paper in silence: an A plus. Right. I snort under my breath.

I bet he didn't even read it.

Then I just eyeball him, to try to see what it is that they see, the girls that he goes after.

I still don't get it. He's just a guy. A no-big-deal average-looking guy.

He's pretty old, like forty, and though he's getting frown lines, he still has kind of bad skin. He's not unattractive; he's tall and thin, but the thing that immediately gives you the idea he's probably an idiot is his hair. His hairline is receding, which is not the problem, it's that he combs and mousses his hair up and back from his forehead so it's all poofy and high, and he has a pointy little Renaissance beard. Only the beard is a little too long, like his hair, so it looks like he thinks he really
is
Shakespeare, and it's just one more pathetic poser loser thing about him.

While I'm looking down on him, he stares at the papers on the desk in front of him and then back up at me. I don't blink. I don't sit down. He dares to look me in the eye. All innocence. He bats his eyes sorrowfully and looks at me wistfully.

“Wow . . . Rust . . . I don't know what happened to us. . . .”

This is the smack he has the nerve to start with.

I just stare at his forked beard for a sec while feeling my entire head grow molten. He makes my blood boil. I try for a deep breath.

“What?” I manage. I think I sound a little wheezy. He makes it hard for me to breathe, what with the white-hot anger and all.