A derby girl in leopard-print stockings and black leather skates with white stripes flies around the rink, zephyrous, daring anyone to outskate her. A couple of girlfriends skate together, jumping, doing 180s, laughing every time either of them falls down. An older man orbiting the disco ball in the center of the rink cuts elegant figure eights. My friends Meghan and Wyatt make a dream team in camel suede skates: she floats backwards in loose circles in a long floral dress and he rolls around the rink in a vintage denim jacket, hands clasped behind his back.
Nothing is cooler than roller skating. The rink itself is cool in that self-deprecating way that is so in right now. We all wish we lived in the ’60s, but the felt banner over the bathrooms commemorating the roller rink’s 50-year anniversary is the real deal. On my white skates with red laces and skateboard wheels, struggling to stand up straight, I feel cool, too.
I edge out gingerly onto the floor, keeping my eyes in front of me and staying close to the wall so as not to run into anybody, and begin my continuous rotation in the flow of traffic. Then I am moving fast, quick and low, crossing one foot over the other and gliding, frozen in time. I feel elated, as if from a particularly successful middle-school dance where I slow danced with not just one or two but maybe even three or four painfully awkward 12-year-olds.
I’m so engrossed in trying to lap Wyatt and catch up to the derby girl that I lose track of time. I forget about grocery shopping, whether or not my two best friends are still not talking to each other and class in the morning. I don’t even know what year it is, though “Stayin’ Alive” would have me believe it’s 1977.
Solemnly, the DJ announces, “Skaters, this will be the last song.” As the opening notes of “Celebration” fill the rink, Wyatt ducks down low, Meghan continues to glide backwards while dancing with her upper body and the guy doing figure eights keeps making figure eights. I wonder if the last song is always “Celebration.” “Usually,” Meghan says as we leave, “there’s a lot more Michael Jackson.”
