Titans

by Victoria Scott

  “What is that supposed to mean?” he asks.

  I start to answer, but now Zara is getting out of the car and Dad is yelling at her to stay put. I turn my back to him and march toward Candlewick Park, tears streaking down my face. I don’t want him to see me cry. But then again, I do.

  I want him to chase after me and hug me to his chest and say that everything will be all right. That even if we lose our home, we won’t lose each other. Not this time.

  But we’re already losing each other. We hardly speak anymore, and when we do, it’s with biting words and venom boiling in our blood.

  Our home is the only thing keeping us from shattering into five separate pieces.

  And it’s about to be gone.

  I have my head in my hands, feeling nice and sorry for myself, when a voice interrupts my thoughts.

  “You following me, kid?”

  Glancing up from my picnic table, I see it’s Old Man. “Go away.”

  I put my head back down.

  The table rocks and I know he’s sat down. “Maybe you need some water. Dehydration is dangerous.”

  He’s teasing me, but it’s the last thing I need. Realizing I’m not playing along, the man sighs. “Look, I’m not good at this kind of thing. So, can you help me out?”

  I peek at him, thinking he must be joking. “What exactly do you need help with?”

  “I’m trying to make you feel better. You’re over here sulking, taking up my usual spot. Everyone knows that’s my spot.”

  “So you want me to help you help me feel better?”

  He grins ever so slightly. With the way his mouth turns down, even a smile looks more like he’s indifferent. “When you put it like that …”

  I stare down at my hands, my father’s secret burning in my mind. How long has he known we were facing foreclosure? Did the letter come yesterday? A week ago?

  “You know what I’ve found?” the man says.

  “No.”

  “I’ve found you should say the thing that’s bothering you outright.” He holds up a fist and shakes it like he’s strangling a large bird. “Takes away its power.”

  “My family is being kicked out of our house.” I don’t know why I say it. Maybe because it doesn’t matter what this guy thinks. Or maybe I just want to sucker punch him for being nosy.

  “Is that it?” He leans back. “Hell, I’ve been evicted a half dozen times if I’ve been evicted once.”

  “My family will fall apart if we lose our home. They won’t make it.”

  “Yeah, they will. Now stop all this crying, kid. It shows weakness. You’re not weak, are you?”

  His words strike daggers through me. I’ve prided myself on having a stiff upper lip ever since we moved to Detroit, and this guy’s calling me a child. Well, he doesn’t know what I’ve been through. If he did, he’d feel bad about what he said. And perhaps that’s why I open my mouth and spit out, “My grandpa died the last time we got evicted.”

  Old Man couldn’t look less impressed with my horror story. “Yeah, well, that’s what grandpas do. They die.”

  I wince. “You know, you’re a real piece of work.” I start to stand up, but the man’s face softens and he holds up a hand to stop me.

  “All I mean is, your grandpa isn’t here anymore. So that has nothing to do with what your family is facing now.”

  My head lowers, and though it angers me so bad I could spit, my bottom lip trembles.

  “Oh, man.” The old guy runs a hand through his wild, white hair. “You’re one of those, huh? Got it in your head that you somehow killed the man, don’t you? I heard kids do that. Find a way to take ownership of tragedy.”

  “If I’d been there, he’d still be alive,” I say in a whisper. It’s the last thing I can say about it. No matter what he comes back with, no matter how upset he makes me. Not one more word about me and Grandpa and that day.

  The man stands up, and gazes toward the sun, then back at me. “You can call me Rags, I s’pose.”

  I wipe the back of my hand across my eyes. “Wh-what?”

  The old man scrunches his face like he’s trying to figure me out. “You were right about those cuts. I was a few degrees off.” He points at me, and his tone hardens. “But it wasn’t no three degrees. It was two. Maybe less.”

  “It wasn’t less than two,” I respond.

  He shoves his hands into jeans that sit too high on his waist. “No. No, I guess it wasn’t.” When I don’t respond, he stands up. “You gonna keep crying after I leave?”

  “I’ll cry if you don’t leave.”

  That does it. The man—Rags—laughs. It’s more a bark than anything else, but it makes me smile. He squints in my direction. “You really that good with math and all that?”

  I square my shoulders. “I am.”

  “Well, come on, then.” He turns on his heel and walks away.

  “Am I supposed to follow you?” I yell.

  “Can if you want,” he responds without looking back. “No one’s making you.”

  I glance in the direction of my house and wonder if I should go back home. Zara must be confused as to what’s going on, and I hate to think of her worrying. But Rags’s orange vest is like a beacon of hope against my future, and I find myself trudging after him.

  Magnolia would flip out if she caught me following this dude through the woods. But we aren’t in the woods long, thank goodness. Rags leads me on the same route I walked a few days ago, and soon we’re stopped in front of his house. He fidgets, and I realize he’s nervous. This makes me nervous. What the heck was I thinking? The first thing my mother ever taught me was a lesson about strangers and not going with them.

  “I’m thinking I might show you something in my work shed,” he says.

  “Welllll,” I drawl. “If that’s not the creepiest thing anyone has ever said …”

  He rubs the back of his neck. “Can you keep a secret, kid?”

  “My name is Astrid, and I’m really thinking this is the part where I run home and call the cops.”

  He ignores my commentary and instead stomps between his house and the neighbor’s house, muttering the entire way. I stay rooted in place, watching him go. Craning my neck, I make out a shed in his backyard, cream colored with blue trim. It’s the size of a one-car garage, with a tired roof. He pulls a key ring from his pocket and unlocks the door. Only when he’s taken a couple of steps inside does he holler, “You coming?”

  “Nuh-uh,” I reply.

  Rags glances around to check if anyone’s listening and then says, “Astrid, I’m never going to make this offer again. Not to you. Maybe not to anyone. So you can come and have a look, or you can go home. It’s no sweat off my back.”

  Dead bodies. There has to be dead bodies in there. Or maybe a lifetime supply of orange vests, lightly splattered with inconspicuous blood for good measure. I’m not sure what’s in his work shed, but I do know fifteen minutes ago I felt like the world was ending. And now my lungs are pumping and my blood is warming and I’m walking toward the thing he’s motioning to.

  He steps all the way inside, and I follow him in. After he flips the light switch, I make out a lumpy figure on the dirt floor, covered by a burlap blanket.

  Yep, dead body.

  “Can I trust you?” he asks.

  “Can you trust me?” I repeat. “I’m standing in your Creep Dungeon staring at what looks like neatly arranged corpses. I think the question is whether I can trust you.”

  He shakes his head. “I’m an idiot for doing this, but I’m getting too old to stand still.”

  He bends down, knees creaking, and pulls back the blanket.

  I gasp when I see what he’s revealed. A Titan like I’ve never seen before, with smooth black steel and silver hooves dirtied by years of neglect. The animal’s legs bend at awkward angles, and its head is thrown back as if in pain. Though its eyes are closed, soft faux lashes encircle the sockets, giving the horse a kind appearance despite its intimidating black coat.

&
nbsp; I circle the creature, and my eyes land on the control panel at the base of its neck. The dials are different from today’s Titans, but I could figure them out.

  I could figure them out.

  That’s how quickly I go from studying this broken-down Titan to thinking about the one rider who will be allowed to enter the circuit this year, free of charge.

  I could figure them out.

  I could race in the Titan Derby.

  I could win and save my family’s home.

  I can hardly keep my legs beneath me when I look at Rags and utter, “Are you going to race this thing this year?”

  “Me?” He shakes his head like that’s preposterous. “No way. I’m an architect, not a jockey.”

  I swallow the lump in my throat, and ask the question I’m terrified to ask. “Can I race it?”

  He hesitates. “I’m not even sure this model would qualify.”

  “Course it would,” I argue. “It’s clearly a Titan.”

  The old man teeters on the edge of indecision. Though why bring me here if not for a reason? So I give him a nudge.

  “I could win,” I whisper. “No one would want it more than I would.”

  Rags scratches his chin. Looks at me. Looks at the Titan. “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  I slap my hands together and jump a foot off the ground. “No way! This is not happening. I mean, it is. But what are the chances?” I run a hand through my hair, struggle to pull in a deep breath. “How do you even have this machine? Don’t they cost like a quarter of a million bucks?”

  “Do you really care where I got it?”

  Nope. Not really. My mind is racing so fast that I don’t care enough to concentrate on anything except the Titan. I mean, if he stole it, I should probably know so I can fully appreciate what I’m getting myself into. But it doesn’t look like he wants to share this information, so instead, I say, “So, what first?”

  “First? First you get out of here and let me think on the poor choices I’m making and how much bail money I’ll need.”

  I try to contest his backtracking, but Rags won’t hear it. He all but strong-arms me out of the work shed and into the street. But that’s okay, because he says I can return in two days. I can’t feel the asphalt beneath my feet on the return trek to my house. I can’t remember the tears I cried earlier today when I learned my family was losing their home. Because now there’s a chance I can do something to help. Something big.

  Dad may believe this problem is his to handle. But I’ve learned a lot from watching my silent, brooding father over the years.

  Don’t let others do for you what you can do for yourself.

  I head straight home from Rags’s house and locate Zara.

  I tell her everything will be okay.

  I’ll make sure of it.

  As Magnolia and I walk toward Rags’s house, she lists the reasons my riding a Titan in this year’s circuit is a terrible idea.

  “You’re only seventeen.”

  “Entry age is seventeen and above,” I retort. “As long as my parents don’t mail an objection form, I’m cool.”

  “Your dad will kill you.”

  “If he finds out.”

  Magnolia gives me a look like I’m crazy. “How would he not find out?”

  “I can do this, Magnolia,” I say, as if that’s an answer.

  “Of course you can. Astrid Sullivan can take on the entire world as long as she doesn’t have to rely on anyone else to help her.”

  I grin. “What can I say? I work better alone.”

  “It’s kind of gambling, isn’t it?”

  I halt in place, because she’s broached the one subject we both avoid. I want to dismiss what she said, but she’s right. My grandfather’s gambling cost us our first family home, and my dad’s addiction will soon cost us our second. Magnolia and I loathe gambling, and everything that goes along with it. Yet here I am, ready to involve myself in the tracks—the same thing that led to the biggest loss in my father’s habit.

  “This is different,” I mutter.

  Magnolia nods, recognizing that I don’t want to discuss this. Instead, she adjusts the bumblebee hair clip she made from wire, yellow spray paint, and glitter, and motions for us to keep walking. “Well, you’ll need me for moral support. And for fashion advice. If you go through with this, you’ll need a glam squad. That’s what celebrities have, Astrid—glam squads. I know these things.” As we walk in silence, she sobers. “What about the guy we saw fall off his Titan? The one who—”

  “I know the one.” How could I forget? We were only thirteen, and the man couldn’t have been older than thirty. I can still see the surprise on his face as he tumbled from his horse. Still hear the way the crowd screamed as one throbbing mass as the other Titans trampled his body.

  “There have been others too,” she says quietly.

  I don’t answer. Because I know she’s right. But I can’t think about them. I have to think about the winners. That’s where my focus must lie, never wavering.

  Rags is waiting at the end of his driveway when we arrive, one hand on a brown pickup truck that looks like it was built in the eighties. He’s already shaking his head. “No. No way. I’m not dealing with two of you. One teenage girl is more than enough headache.”

  “Hi, Rags!” Magnolia waves cheerfully. “I brought muffins.”

  “I don’t like muffins,” he grunts.

  “You’ll like these,” she replies.

  Rags looks at me. “Why is she here? I asked if you could keep a secret.”

  “I can,” I say. “But not where my best friend is concerned.”

  Magnolia shoves a cranberry-orange muffin into Rags’s hand after we cross the street. “Don’t worry. I’m like a vault. Whatever you put in this thing ain’t coming out.” She taps her temple.

  Rags studies my face before rolling his eyes. “This is strike one, kid. If you cross me again, I’ll toss that Titan in an incinerator and be done with this harebrained idea.”

  “So we’re still on?” I ask, all business.

  In response, he walks toward his work shed. “The first thing we gotta do is get you registered, and don’t be surprised if the Gambini brothers shut us down then and there. They’ll be looking for any reason to keep us out of the race, and we’re going to give them a solid one.”

  “Why?” I ask. “Because our Titan isn’t—”

  “Even if we can get you registered, you’ll have to ride well enough to compete in the sponsor race. At the very least, we have to keep you in the saddle.”

  “She can do more than stay in the saddle,” Magnolia interrupts. “She rode my brother’s skateboard like a pro. He said so himself.”

  Rags rubs his forehead. “A Titan isn’t a skateboard.”

  “How is it not?” she contests. “Four wheels. Four legs. Both unstable.”

  “Why are you here again?”

  She holds up the muffins. “Munchies.”

  Rags tosses the muffin into an ivy patch my mother would detest, and stomps the rest of the way to the work shed. “I’ve been working on him ever since you left.”

  “I think you were working on him even before that,” I reply, patting Magnolia on the back, none too happy about her disgraced muffin.

  Rags doesn’t respond. But when he gets to the door, he turns with a glint in his eye. “He’s prepped for transport, but I’ll need help rolling him to my truck and loading him in.” He unlocks the door and pushes it open. Inside the shed is what appears to be the largest coffin I’ve ever seen. It’s painted black with yellow trim.

  “It looks pretty morbid,” Magnolia mumbles.

  “It looks wicked cool,” I say.

  Rags motions toward a flatbed with wheels, and together, the three of us manage to get the covered Titan onto it using ropes and pulleys that Rags configured. After we roll the Titan coffin next to his house, and struggle to get it into the truck bed using a ramp, Rags slams the
tailgate closed. “You can ride with me,” he says, ignoring Magnolia.

  “And where will Magnolia ride?” I ask.

  “She can ride her skinny rear back to her house.”

  I cross my arms, and he growls deep in his chest. “You know I could find a hundred different people to race this Titan.”

  I remain fixed in place.

  “Get in the truck,” he says, tossing an oddly shaped bag into the back. “Both of you.”

  “Wait,” I say, realizing I’m missing the bigger point here. “Where are we going?”

  “To my friend’s place south of the city. He’s got a track.” Rags rounds the truck and gets behind the steering wheel. When Magnolia and I slide inside, he glances over at us. “Your parents going to put an APB out on you two?”

  “My mom’s working.” Magnolia bites into a muffin. “And Dad’s looking for work.”

  Rags glances in my direction.

  “They won’t be looking for me,” I say, staring ahead.

  “All right then.” He starts the ignition. “Let’s waste some time.”

  The two-story white clapboard house sits so far off the road it’s as if Rags’s friend is hiding something. Turns out, he is. The course that winds between the trees near his home is a close replica of Cyclone Track. I wonder why he has it, but Rags instructs us not to ask him stupid questions before we get out of the truck.

  “Barney,” Rags says with an honest-to-goodness smile.

  The man, Barney, moves toward us. He’s as bald as the day is long, with short legs and arms that swing as he waddles. A white beard sweeps across his face, and his blue eyes dance as he clasps hands with Rags.

  “Thought you said you might bring a girl by,” Barney says. “As in, one.”

  Rags nods. “You know how girls are. Takes two of ’em to use the toilet.”

  “Excuse me?” I say.

  Barney looks at Magnolia. “What’s that you’re holding?”

  She purses her lips, but holds out the basket. “Muffins.”

  Barney looks at Rags and then back to Magnolia. “Anyone who brings food is welcome in my book.”