Girl in the Arena - Lise Haines [16]
When the sounds start to quiet, I feel my grief like blood pressure. It pumps in my chest, fills my ears, runs through my hands. It knocks at my temples to get out. I look at the sweat beaded on Allison’s forehead. I know her heart is working so fast it could rip through her chest. Mine has already torn in two.
She says, —No. She says no as if someone’s offered her potatoes with her dinner. That’s the way she does shock.
I say, —Seven.
It’s a stupid thing to say even if it’s true. But everything has changed for my mother. She will be a GSA Widow till life cuts her from its belly.
i don’t know what to do.
I whisper this to her, that I don’t know what to do. But I know she can’t hear me.
now. now the whole thing hits her. I can see it. Like a high-rise set off by dynamite charges. I watch the demolition begin in her jaw. Her cheeks go slack, her nose pulls downward, her forehead creases. Her hands fly up as if to hold her brain in place. Her earrings swing back and forth. She’s wearing the tiny executioner blades Tommy gave her one Valentine’s. Allison drops into the seat next to me. and i don’t know.
i don’t know anything anymore. The stadium noise cranks and I realize everyone’s looking at the scoreboards. Officials have raised a flag.
—Look. A penalty! I shout, as if this will bring Tommy back to life.
—What? Allison says, clearly disoriented. Her lashes are soaked through and her teeth have cut into her lower lip.
—You have to go down there, I say, pulling at her arm.
She shakes her head. I want her to do something with that bead of blood on her lips. But she’s paralyzed.
—Not Tommy, she says.
If I were Allison, I’d be halfway down the stairs by now, trying to breathe life back into him, into his guts, his heart. But Allison sits there like the ambulance on the other side of the gates with its motor running, lights on. Waiting for the officials. Waiting for nothing. What do you wait for after death? Sixty thousand expressions of waiting all around us.
I look at the series of cuts up and down Uber’s legs, across his chest, and over his shoulders. The coagulated blood looks like wax dripping down a candle. Each cut made by Tommy, so I know they smart extra hard.
If Uber’s weapon is illegally balanced, he’ll be dismissed from the league. I’ve heard that Glads who cheat are sent to live on abandoned ocean platforms, the ones out near the Caymans, where they have no companions or toilet paper—only get limited food drops—and the televisions are primitive and often receptionless. But that could be an urban legend.
The media talk about the ugly relief map of Uber’s face as he removes his tight helmet. They became chatty and informational about how to eliminate those marks from the forehead and cheeks. How to get the best fit in a helmet. And one sportscaster talks about which tattoo needles to use if you want to make a permanent tracing on your face: to have that tight-helmet look all the time.
I try again.
—You have to go down there, I say.
But Allison’s lost. She’ll be better when the cameras are on her and she has to pull herself together. But right now, all she can do is sit in her seat and shake while Thad tries to lean against her. I look for a friend, even Sam or Callie, anyone we know in the crowd who might help out, but I can’t spot a soul.
The officials are looking at Uber’s helmet now. Tommy once told me that Helmet Wearers spend more time scrounging material for their gear than they do killing. They can’t cover all the vulnerable parts of a face—the eyes are left bare by tradition and for visibility’s sake—but Tommy believed that real Glads went for exposure, that you shouldn’t be anything less than exposed when you fight.
The woman behind us has started to gripe about the penalty flag, shouting, —What the hell are they doing?
She must have taken hours to paint this red