Demon Derby by Carrie Harris Page A

her that. The worst part about it was that I didn’t really like nachos. The chips were fine, but the cheese looked too much like nuclear waste for my comfort. And now I’d have to eat them just so Darcy would quit guilting out.
    Thrillsville.
    “You might as well go home,” Ruthanasia said, rolling toward me. “Did you drive?”
    “I don’t have a car.”
    She sighed like my lack of transportation was a personal affront. “Of course you don’t. Fine, then. I’ll get one of the girls to take you home. Hey!” she called, waving her hand. “Ragnarocker!”
    “Darcy can take me home.” I put down the ice and rose halfway from my seat. “But I didn’t think we were done.”
    “Oh, we’re not. But I figured you wouldn’t want to stay.” Ruthanasia’s syrupy purr reminded me of every bad actionmovie villain rolled into one. “You’re injured, and you’re just getting over this massive illness, right? I’m sure your doctor wouldn’t approve.”
    “Actually, I’ve been cleared to play,” I replied. I’d said itso often, I was beginning to believe it myself, but she wasn’t even listening.
    Ragnarocker detached from the gaggle of derby girls clustered by the snack bar and sauntered over, popping her bubble gum. She was one of the few members of the team still in street clothes, but the width of her shoulders and the cocky tilt to her smile suggested she’d be pretty formidable on skates. Hitting her would be kind of like running into a wall. As of about a half hour ago, I was an expert on that topic.
    “ ’Sup, boss-girl?” she said to Ruthanasia.
    “Can you take Casey home?”
    “Yup.” Ragnarocker turned and held up her fist for me to bump. “Nice spill.”
    “I don’t want to go home, thanks.” I bumped knuckles with her, though, because she seemed like the kind of person I should be nice to.
    Ruthanasia was a different story. She’d been rude from the moment we’d walked through the door. And yeah, maybe I’d come here with something to prove, and maybe that made me a little oversensitive, but that didn’t make her behavior acceptable. Under different circumstances it probably wouldn’t have been a big deal, but between the lava-guy flashback and the brick facial, I’d had enough. I wasn’t about to deal with a complete wench on top of it.
    “What’s your problem, RJ?” I asked.
    “Ruthanasia,” she corrected, looking down her nose at me.
    “Whatever. You’ve been a total wench since we got here. What exactly did I do to piss you off?”
    Ragnarocker backed away, holding her hands up in a gesture that clearly said she wanted no part of this conversation. But Darcy picked that moment to return with a giant plate of nuclear-orange nachos, and she nearly dropped them when she overheard me. “Casey?” she asked uncertainly.
    Now we were the center of attention. The last two girls made their painstaking way around the obstacle course, but no one was watching. Even Michael had dropped his clipboard and was staring at us.
    “Well?” I demanded.
    “Look, I’m sorry if I offended your delicate sensibilities,” Ruthanasia hissed, “but I’ve got a responsibility to my team. We’re not one of those sissy leagues. Girls get into scraps here and people get hurt. You’re damaged goods, and that really sucks, but I’m not going to be the one to go to your house and tell your mommy and daddy that I broke you.” She looked me up and down, shaking her head. “You don’t belong here.”
    “You can’t make me leave,” I said flatly. It took every ounce of self-control I had not to punch her in the face.
    Ruthanasia opened her mouth to say something, but then she looked around the room at our audience. She closed her mouth, moved closer.
    “Maybe you’re right,” she said quietly. “But when you get beaten down, don’t come crying to me. I told you so. Excuse me for trying to help.”
    And then she stalked off. How she managed to do this while wearing skates on carpeting