Ned came out of the kitchen and pointed to the phrase, “artificial garlic flavoring.” I was betrayed by the American fast food industry.
The lights came up. Big Mel’s voice staticked from the wall speakers. “Hey everybody! Let’s limbo!”
There was a crackle of steel drum notes. I caught Vince’s eye and he nodded. He had his eye on Ned and his mom. Besides, he wasn’t flexible enough to limbo. I dropped the pizza rolls back with their owners, and I rolled onto the floor.
I’m not saying that I’m a limbo expert or anything. Yes, I was having a seven-week winning streak, and I made a favorable showing, but the truth of the matter is that the limbo contest usually goes to the shortest and the scrunchiest. Little kids often won, and that’s cool, but since I was good at folding myself into little spaces, I was competitive under the limbo bars.
Big Mel joined us on the floor of the rink. When a man’s tall like a skyscraper and wide like a circus strongman, it’s not a stretch to call him Big Mel. His voice had the same showman’s flair as a ringmaster’s did, and in spite of the fact that he had muscles on his muscles, he was graceful on skates. I’d never seen Mel fall down. The man, the myth, the legend.
What added to the legend was the silver bat, which after my parents’ revelation this morning, I understood better than before. I used to think it was aluminum, but since he was a member of the monster hunting fraternity, I would suppose there was silver in there somewhere. Werewolf shows up to skate? Bam! Home run time!
I wondered how Mel had got into the business. A better question was how he had learned to roller skate and why. And how did he know my parents? And where was Mrs. Mel? Had there ever been a Mrs. Mel? These questions hadn’t mattered much before, but now there was a window into Mel that I was interested in looking through.
All of these were questions for the future. Vince and I would ask when we were back in our parents’ good graces, or when they weren’t around.
“Line up,” Mel said. “Line up for limbo.” He clicked the cordless mike into its stand. “Kids, clear off the floor, except for limbo contestants.”
There were twelve of us, including New Redhead, who had skated by me earlier. I thought she’d be too tall to be
any good.
“I’m Coral,” she said. Her smile looked like her parents had invested in it.
“Hi. I’m Abby.”
“Good luck.”
Obviously she didn’t know that I had skill on my side, but I thanked her. The contest began. Pretty much everyone made it under the first bar when it was set at the first notch. The first notch hardly takes anyone out. We lost our first contestant, a tiny little second grader, at the third notch when he lost balance and fell on his butt.
By the time you get to the fourth notch, generally you can tell the Hills from the Valley, as my mother might say. The fourth notch whittled it down to me, Coral, and another guy from Vince’s school who I used to know the name of.
The music echoed and the rink’s attention sank like claws into each skater. As I ducked my head under notch five, Mel upped the ante. “Abby Rath! How low can she go? Will she win this week’s limbo, making eight weeks running?”
Coral nodded when I got to the other side. Now, I expect, she knew where her real competition was. Coral horseshoed around the curve of the rink and amped her speed for notch five. She extended her left leg and sat low to the floor, using the right skate’s speed to see her through. I was so thrilled with the technique, I forgot to be annoyed she’d made it.
Vince’s friend wobbled and stalled out under the bar. He twitched and hit the pole. Mel announced him out. His name turned out to be Hector.
Sixth notch. Me and Coral. Show down. It had been a while since I had to negotiate the sixth notch. I wasn’t short, but I was shorter than Coral, so I was optimistic about my chances. It was obvious from notch five that she was more flexible.
I focused. I built up momentum, shot forward, and squatted, tucking my head and hoping that nothing would be in my way. The crowd reacted as I rolled under, the collective exhale signaled that I had made it. Now, if only Coral wouldn’t.
Coral contortioned. It was like watching the blade of a pocketknife fold into its sheath. Again, the skaters around us gasped.
“Come on, Abby!” Good old Vince. Marty gave me the thumbs up. Mel lowered the bar another notch on the poles, to notch seven.
My palms sweated and I rubbed them on my jeans. I chewed on my lower lip and threw my braid over my left shoulder as I rounded for speed. The rink was so quiet that I could hear the rasp of my wheels. Down I went, thinking as small as I could.
I felt the bar, the slightest bump, and heard the crowd’s collective “aw!”
It wasn’t quite over. If Coral couldn’t make notch seven, we’d keep working on notch six until one of us failed. I ground my teeth. Coral skated forward.
I swear, Coral must have sunk half of herself into the concrete to avoid hitting that bar, but she did it. The crowd went wild with applause and hoots. She unfolded herself, becoming her normal willowy height, and I decided that her bones had to be telescoping.
“That was really something,” I said, skating forward to shake hands.
“You too,” said Coral.
“You’ll have
