“Because of his silver hooves,” she explains meekly. “No?”
Rags sighs. “Name him, kid. Take ownership. Show me you’ll treat him as a partner, and not as a means to an end.”
I bite my lip. This should be easy. Just pick a name. Any name. Who cares as long as Rags buys that I’m playing along? But when I open my mouth, what comes out is a defiant “Horse.”
Rags points to the truck, and this time, I march toward it. I need a break from the old man anyway, and if we stay much longer, our parents will wonder where we’ve gone off to. So I climb inside the vehicle. Magnolia waves good-bye to Barney and follows after me. Then my best friend and I are alone in the front seat as Rags rounds the truck.
“Why couldn’t you just name it?” she asks.
I tongue the inside of my cheek and look back at the Titan. “Because it’s stupid.”
But that’s not the real reason, and we both know it. It’s just that I don’t want to open myself up to anything or anyone again. There’s also the simple fact that I don’t need a relationship with the dang thing to win, regardless of what Rags and Barney believe.
When Rags gets in, I turn back and look at the Titan.
“You’re just leaving it here?” I ask.
But Rags doesn’t respond. I don’t blame him, I suppose. Still, I watch the Titan as we leave, and so I see when the horse clambers to his feet and tosses his head in agitation as we pull away.
As if it knows that it’s being left.
As we drive home from Barney’s place, Magnolia lays her head against the window. It isn’t long before her breathing deepens. It’s awkward being the only conscious one in the truck with Rags, so I break the silence, despite our earlier head-butting.
“Can I ask you a question?” I say quietly.
Rags adjusts his weight in the seat, which is the closest I’ll probably get to him saying, Sure! Fire away, pal.
“Why me? You must have had that Titan for a while. Why didn’t you race it before now?”
The truck accelerates, as if Rags is eager to get home. “It was the right time.”
“Why?”
“Because I know some things about Arvin Gambini and his dealings. And because I’m tired of watching and waiting.”
“You don’t like Arvin, do you?”
Rags grips the steering wheel so tightly I’m afraid we’ll careen off the road. I elect to move past that subject and revisit my original question. “You haven’t said why you chose me to ride the Titan.”
“Because you were in the right place at the right time,” he grunts.
I smile, because I know that’s not all there is to it. Just like I know he and Arvin have a history I haven’t fully learned. I do know Rags and Barney worked for Hanover Steel, of which the Gambini brothers own a healthy share. And I’m guessing they got laid off. But I wonder what Arvin had to do with that. Did the three men clash on the Titan 1.0 project? As a large shareholder, Arvin would probably be able to fire them over whatever he wanted.
Look at me applying all my learning from Ms. Shimoni’s finance class.
She and her cat sweaters would be most proud.
On the walk home from Rags’s house that night, after I say good night to Magnolia, I spot a woman in the shadows. She’s moving with impressive stealth from yard to yard, pruning shears in her right hand. Anyone else would assume she’s about to commit a heinous crime, tiptoeing across people’s properties like that. But I know better.
“Hey, Mom.” I wave hello, and she holds a finger to her lips.
Making her way toward me, she whispers, “You been at Magnolia’s all day?”
I shrug so that it’s more a lie of omission. “What are you working on tonight?”
Mom points up the road to Mr. and Mrs. Wright’s house. They have a rosebush that’s been mistreated far too long. It now grows into the lawn itself and is infested with weeds and browning buds. “It needs a good pruning. If they won’t take care of it, I will.”
My mother, Horticulture Superhero, saving our neighborhood one snip at a time. I squeeze my fingers over my thumbs and ask the question I’m afraid to ask. “Mom, did you know about the eviction notice?”
She drops her gaze and twists the gold band on her ring finger. “ ’Course I did. But I was hoping we could keep it from you kids until your dad could figure things out.”
“We can’t just rely on Dad to help our family. We’re in this together.”
“He’s the head of our household, Astrid, and I’ll stand behind him the same way I have the last twenty-two years.”
Hearing her words frustrates me to no end. What is this? The 1950s? “You can do what you want. Stand by and pretend Dad will magically fix everything even though he’s the reason we’re in this mess. But as for me? I’m taking action.”
I turn on my heel and head toward our short-term home. My mom calls my name three times before I glance back. She raises her hands like she’s helpless in all this. Eventually, she says, “Help me with this rosebush, mi amor.”
I sigh, because my mother is who she is. She’ll always be the woman who is bold only when others are asleep in their beds. That way no one can challenge her head-on, and she’ll never have to deal with confrontation. But because she’s my mother, the same woman who made a “If my daughter were a dinosaur, she’d be a Mathosaurus” sign before a math competition in middle school, the mother who told me I was born a shooting star—my frustration lessens. “No, Mama. I’m going to bed. But you have fun.”
She gives her wedding ring one last twist, and heads toward our neighbors’ yard.
I show up at Rags’s house early the next morning, a sleepy Magnolia by my side. She insisted I wake her when I was heading over because “my battle is her battle.” My chest warms remembering the way she looked at me when she said this.
Magnolia is my best friend, and so it doesn’t surprise me that she’s committed to helping me compete in the Titan Circuit. But she doesn’t know that if I won, somehow, a part of that money would go to her. I don’t know how Rags would split the hypothetical winnings between us—he being the one with the Titan and knowledge, and me taking the risks out on the track. But Magnolia’s family has struggled as much as mine has, and I want to make sure they don’t end up with their own eviction notice in hand.
Rags is loading two bags into the truck bed when we arrive, and this time he doesn’t even complain when he sees Magnolia, other than mumbling a quick “Why is she here?” I hold my breath, afraid he’ll tell me it’s over since I didn’t refer to his precious Titan as a he. But the old man only waves toward the truck and retrieves a thermos of coffee from the hood. I sigh with relief and Magnolia and I jog to get in.
When we’re safely inside, Rags gets behind the wheel and says gruffly, “It’s Wednesday. The sponsor race is this Sunday. No more messing around when we get there, understood?”
“Understood,” Magnolia says.
I smile at her, and then look back to Rags. “I understand.”
With a slight nod of his head, we travel toward Barney’s house. It’s a quicker trip than it was the day before, and when we arrive, Barney is already outside his house. His eyes move immediately to Magnolia’s empty hands, and the man deflates.
“Next time,” she says. “I promise.”
Barney shrugs. “You can’t go gettin’ a man’s hopes up. You bring muffins one morning and there’s a certain amount of expectation after that.”
The Titan prances when it sees Rags approaching. In anticipation of riding, I wore jeans and my favorite lime-green sneakers, and I’m hoping my preparation isn’t for nothing. Rags opens the Titan’s engine flap, glances inside at the parts within, and closes it. Then he pats the Titan on the neck and scowls at me. “Today, you ride.”
Goose bumps rise on my arms.
Rags strides toward his truck and withdraws the larger of the two bags. Inside is a standard black leather saddle I’ve seen other jockeys use. He walks toward the Titan and then toss
es it over the creature’s back.
“With a real horse, we’d put a saddle blanket down first so the leather wouldn’t rub. No need for that here.” He grabs a knob-like thing at the front of the saddle. “The saddlehorn is typically used to mount, dismount, and to keep from falling off if the horse ever bucks. Since you have the handlebars on the dash, you won’t need it for stability. But you’ll still use it to mount.” Rags holds up the stirrups that fall on either side of the Titan’s middle. “You’ll use these to mount and dismount, but also to lean forward and backward depending on the track. If you’re going downhill, lean backward to take weight off the Titan’s front legs. If you’re going uphill, lean forward. This’ll help him maintain top speed during the race.”
I know most of what he’s telling me, but I don’t interrupt. And when he says it’s time to mount, I decide this is my reward for being attentive and patient.
“One foot in the stirrup. Always mount him from the left side.” Rags stands ready to help me. “That goes back to ancient times when soldiers holstered their swords on the left. They mounted on this side so they didn’t accidentally sit on their swords.”
“Is that true?” Magnolia asks.
“All Titans are designed to tolerate being mounted from that side because of that,” Barney answers her. “We liked the idea of keeping to tradition.”
I look at Rags, impressed that these two had a hand in minor details that are still in place for Titan 3.0s. Rags gestures for me to go ahead, and my heart flutters as I slip my foot into the stirrup, grab on to the saddle horn, and pull in a breath. The machine turns its head and gives me a good, curious sniff like a real horse might do. It’s startling, but I remind myself it’s only an artificial response to mimic emotions. Not real ones.
I return to the moment. A moment I’ve thought about since I was twelve years old. Since I first heard about the track being constructed and glimpsed those steels gods being rolled into the forest.
I ease my foot into the stirrup and stretch until my hands find the saddle horn. Pulling in a deep breath, praying I don’t make a fool of myself through mounting alone, I hoist myself up.
My opposite leg swings over the top, and every nerve ending in my body fires at once. I’m on a Titan. I’m sitting in a saddle … on a Titan.
“You look like an empress,” Magnolia declares.
“An empress who’s going to fall on her rear if she doesn’t grip those handlebars tighter,” Rags says. “Are you ready to ride?”
I answer him without speaking, because somewhere between the ground and this place above the rest of the world, I’ve lost my voice. After a few moments, I find it long enough to say, “I’m sorry about being difficult yesterday.”
“Yesterday is gone,” he replies, adjusting the stirrups. “Let’s take him out.”
There’s only one starting gate stall, and the Titan and I are in it. The horse stomps its feet and bangs its back end against both sides, anticipating its first track run in who knows how long. Maybe its first track run, ever.
There I go again, thinking of it as a thing with feelings.
“I’m not going to give you any instruction other than to keep the horse in the safe zone,” Rags says. My eyes fall on the performance gauge, and the stretch of green I have to play with. Fair enough. “Don’t worry if you have a hard time getting him to accelerate or turn or whatever. Just get a feel for what it means to stay in the saddle. If at any moment you get afraid, push the brake bar up slowly. Slooowly.”
I can barely hear him above the blood thrumming in my ears. The Titan slams against the starting gate, and I can’t help but agree. It feels like I’ve been back here an eternity, like I’ve spent my whole life in this exact spot, waiting to feel the breeze off a track slice through my hair.
When Barney’s hand closes over the steel rod to open the manual gate, I close my eyes. Breathe in, breathe out. Try to quiet the voice that says I won’t be able to do this. I lean forward in the saddle and hear the leather adjust to my weight, smell the scent of polish Barney applied this morning. Then I push the smaller black button to ready the machine. When a faint red light grows in color, signaling the Titan’s readiness, pledging power and action, I lose my mind with excitement. I touch the gas bar, and the Titan produces a low whirring sound.
Everything falls away. My best friend is speaking, but I can’t hear her. Sparks are flying off the Titan as it clashes against the gate, but I don’t feel a thing when they hit my skin.
Rags provides one last nugget of advice. Something about staying in the saddle.
But all I see when I look ahead is my grandfather standing in the distance. His face is the same ashen color it was when I returned home to our apartment, the day my family failed me. The day I failed my family. Grandpa is trying to speak, but can’t. I’m fumbling for his heart pills, something Dani should have remembered, but I know it’s too late. I know he’s dying, but there’s nothing I can do to help. There’s nothing I can do.
But when that starting gate slides open, it’s as if that old, helpless Astrid slides away with it.
Now I am Astrid with a Titan beneath her.
I am invincible.
Unstoppable.
I push the black turbo button—Manual transmission. Go!—and the Titan runs. He’s slow to start, much different from the same horse I saw yesterday running on his own. But a quick push of the accelerator, and he’s off, gaining speed. His head jerks up and down with the pounding of his steel hooves. He’s not even a fraction into the safe zone, and it feels like we’re flying impossibly fast. The landscape whips by. The trees and ground blur into a brown mass. There’s a turn coming up, and I grit my teeth, terror swimming through my veins. We won’t make it. The Titan will skid out, flip, and I’ll go flying.
My right hand pulls away from the handlebars and shakes above the brake lever. I have to slow down. I must. But as we barrel closer to the turn, I think back to the races I’ve watched. Those Titans were going three times as fast, maybe more, and they closed those turns with ease. At the last minute, I push up on the accelerator and ease the joysticks to the left, leaning away from the turn like Rags taught me to do.
The Titan leans too.
Tears sting my eyes when I see the ground racing past, so close it’s as if I could reach down and touch it. Feel the skin rip away from my palm. But I hold tight and lean, lean, lean. Then we’re upright, and the Titan is off again. We race down a long straightaway and take two more turns. Each time, I accelerate into them, though it’s the opposite of what I’ve seen on the cyclonetrack.com replay videos.
The Titan rolls with my punches, lapping up each degree in acceleration with an eagerness I envy. As for me, my hands are sweating, and I can barely keep a grip on the bars. This wouldn’t bode well in an actual race. I need my hands to switch gears, to turn the Titan with precision. But the only thing I bring to the table now is my mind.
Each new twist I discover in the track is a calculation waiting to be solved.
Thirty-five-degree turn.
One sixteenth of a mile.
Traveling at twenty-nine miles an hour.
Wait … wait … Now! I accelerate and lean, and the Titan leans against me. We arch toward the track in a dangerous dance before pulling upright again. Knowing Rags will kill me if I go too much farther, I snap my teeth together, bear down in the saddle, and look at the performance gauge. Nowhere near the caution zone. A light-year away from the slay zone.
Nothing to lose.
“You wanna go faster?” I yell.
The Titan neighs, surprising me with the realistic sound. I laugh against the fear and imagine the Titan actually comprehended what I said. Kicking my heels lightly into his side, I nudge the accelerator bar. And then I nudge it again.
Perspiration beads on the Titan’s body, and tremors shake my arms.
It feels as if we’re going so much faster than forty miles an hour.
I’m not sure my mother has ever driven our busted-up Buic
k this fast before. The wind tears through my hair the way I always imagined, whispering for me to close my eyes, but I won’t. I don’t want to miss a single second of this. I’ve never felt so free. So fast. So bold. So beautiful.
I’ve never been this critically close to the grave.
I don’t know where the last thought comes from, but once it’s there, I can’t shake it loose. My eyes snap to the ground and I realize how much damage we’d both incur if we crashed. The difference is the Titan is made of steel. I am soft skin, fragile bones.
I push up on the brake bar. The problem is I also push up on the accelerator. I panicked and punched both, and now the Titan is jerking from side to side, blazing into the grass on the edge of the track and back onto the dirt path. He doesn’t know what to do and I can’t remember which is the brake bar and the horse is on a crash course with a tree that has no mind to move aside.
My hands fly across the control panel, searching for anything that will get him to turn. I catch sight of the performance gauge. We’re in the yellow. Rags is going to kill me. I’m going to be flattened by this tree, and then the old man is going to finish me off.
I hit the black turbo button repeatedly, but that only causes the scent of smoke to touch my nose. Maybe that’s what brings me back. That smell. The tree is maybe four feet away when I take the joysticks in my hand, turn gently to the left, and then push the brake bar forward. The Titan swishes away from the tree, but I still duck to keep from having my head taken by a limb.
Once we’ve bypassed it, I bring the horse back into the center of the track and slow him to a stop. My hands are shaking and sweat drips down the back of my shirt. I hear Rags, Barney, and Magnolia yelling in the distance, but it does little to calm my nerves. Sliding off the horse, I fall to the ground, landing hard on my left hip. The Titan turns its head in my direction.
Then it gives me a look. I kid you not; the horse looks at me like I’m an idiot. Maybe I’m hallucinating, and my pride is so injured that I’m seeing laughter in a steel horse’s eyes. But something tells me I’m not imagining this.
Titans Page 6
