Bret Easton Ellis writes Ume Musume Pretty Derby
content warning: abuse, animal abuse
Special Week sits on the paper-covered exam table, legs swinging like a little kid. Trainers aren't supposed to be in the exam room, but there are a lot of things that trainers aren't supposed to do, and the doctor knows the score. I need to know what her body is doing, whether she'll be fit to race in the Wakagoma Stakes in three days.
She's always nervous in the doctor's office, even though we've done this a million times before. She's stopped complaining about the smell, at least, disinfected surfaces and the damp, heavy odor of bodies underneath it. She's better at suppressing the fear and discomfort now. She sees me watching her and gives me a tight, controlled smile, one that says "I'm being good, you can see that I'm being a good little filly, can't you?" I smile back at her, a smile that says, "We'll get through this, and the next thing, and the thing after that."
The vet comes in with his Prada brushed-leather loafers and doesn't say a word to either of us, just lays out some ampoules on a small silver tray, cortisone and phenylbutazone and a special mix of compounded long-lasting opioids. He says it's a special mix, anyway, but I think it's just DepoDur.
"The pain is coming back faster," says Special Week. She offers this in her neutral, media-trained voice, like she's commenting on the weather or a delayed train. I can hear the tremor beneath it.
"One to ten?" asks the doctor, pointing at the white laminated poster with the smiling and frowning cartoon faces.
"Right now?" she asks, glancing at me.
The doctor nods. His head is tilted down, the syringe in his hand. He looks at her over his Cartier glasses. He's lab-coat chic.
"Seven," says Special Week, offering up the number like an opening bid at Sotheby's. She expects us to talk her down to a lower number. I'd done that before, convinced her that a seven was a four, that she was overreacting and histrionic. She hadn't known what the word meant.
If she's saying it's seven, it's probably eight.
The doctor gives her the injections in her flank and her leg twitches by reflex. He wipes the spot and watches it for bleeding, trying to decide whether she would get a cute pink Band-Aid. There wasn't even a drop of blood. I worry that there will be spotting later, a stain on her pleated skirt.
She's been missing her periods too.
"She'll have to come back in two days if the pain's come back," the doctor says to me. The "if" was a courtesy to her, a way to soothe her tension. "I think the Wakagoma Stakes are —"
"Necessary," I say. "If she doesn't make them, her career is over."
The doctor nods. He doesn't give a shit. He's seen hundreds of girls come and go, and had probably put a few of them down. He leaves in a hurry, no notes for me. I watch Special Week get her clothes back on.
She hops from the table and the paper tears, leaving a diagonal scar. She looks at it. She zips up her jacket with two sharp tugs.
"You've got that winner's spirit," I say. "And winners push through."
It's a joke of a pep talk, but she gives me that tight smile with pain in her eyes, on the verge of tears. "Winners push through."
We were going to have to work on that. If I wasn't convinced, the fans wouldn't be either.
