I dismount Padlock and stretch. Instead of revealing the nerves blooming in my stomach, I mutter, “I’m starving.”
Barney holds up his finger. “Pre-race dinner! Let’s hit up the Sugar Shack.”
Rags groans, but Barney insists. And Magnolia and I are curious. So we pile into Rags’s truck and head toward a restaurant that looks like it was built by the blind. The three of us are escorted to a red booth near the back and handed sticky menus featuring culinary delicacies like mozzarella sticks and potato skins. In other words, I’m in heaven.
After ordering a Pepsi, I glance up, delighted to have the best view of the lone mounted television. So I’m the one who spots it first. The one whose face changes, causing the others to turn in their squeaky vinyl seats and gape at the screen.
I can’t hear what the local news anchor is saying, but I don’t need to. Our names are rolling across the bottom, one at a time, and—oh, there we go—now they have the full list up on the screen. A shiver works its way down my spine, and Magnolia watches as she chews her straw, knowing exactly what it is that’s freaking me out.
I have the best view of the jockey lineup at the Sugar Shack that evening.
My question is—
Who has the best view in my parents’ home?
I do my best to forget that my family may now know what it is I’ve been up to these last few days. I’m seventeen, it’s summer, and they have bigger issues to deal with than where their child is spending her free time. But if they find out I’m racing, a good grounding will be the least of my worries. Jockeys as young as seventeen can register, but if a guardian submits an objection form, I could be barred from competing.
I can already picture the look on my father’s face if he knew.
The things he would say.
It was gambling that put our family in debt, Astrid. And it was that same debt that put stress on your grandfather’s heart. Have you learned nothing?
What he won’t say is the second part. How my grandfather was so addicted that it made the habit enticing to his only son, who knew all too well the risks it carried. My grandfather taught my dad how to properly hold a screwdriver. He taught him the words to whisper in my mother’s ear so that she’d allow him a kiss at the night’s end. And he taught him that the only thing more important than family was dealing cards around a green felt table. If my father didn’t lose his hard-won savings, and Dani’s only shot at community college, on that horse last summer, we might never have been served that eviction notice. He’d still be under pressure to find a new job, but we’d have a little more precious time.
If Dad never learned to gamble, he might not be so angry.
And I might not be here.
Even as I think these things, a small, stupid part of me hopes my father does find out. Would he come tonight? Would he stand outside the chain-link fence as I’ve done in the past and watch as his middle daughter rides to save their home?
As Padlock and I barrel down the track, I envision the wrath on his face replaced by something else. Bewilderment, maybe. No … pride. In my mind’s eye he raises his fist halfway through the run and shakes it with growing excitement. “That’s my daughter!” he bellows, tears stinging his eyes. “That’s my girl!”
I swallow a painful lump in my throat and concentrate on the fact that we’re pulling into Cyclone Track. Magnolia and I sit in the back without speaking, and every few seconds I wipe my hands on my knees. My stomach twists from nerves and the bacon-cheddar fries I shouldn’t have eaten. Even watching the medics readying their equipment near the track doesn’t soothe my nerves. In fact, it only causes me to imagine them using that same life-saving equipment on me, and brings to mind them using it on unfortunate jockeys from seasons past.
When we come to a stop, I glance out the window. We’ve parked behind the stables, and although there’s an hour until the race begins—the night accentuated with thick humidity and a full moon—I can still make out the crowd in the distance. The bodies sway together like a swarm of ants, muddied colors and constant movement.
Rags and Barney approach the bed of the truck and tear the blanket off the open coffin, which we brought because Magnolia swore it’d make for the ultimate accessory. After the two men roll him onto the ground, Rags inserts the key into his ignition and the horse springs to life.
As soon as Padlock sees where he is, and hears the rumbling of the crowd, he grows agitated. He twitches at the smallest sound and pins his ears back. I approach him slowly and speak in a soothing voice. The last thing I need tonight is another nervous party, whether that nervousness is falsely animated or not.
Rags loops reins around the horse’s head, and Padlock takes the leather in his mouth without the use of a bit. Handing the reins to me, Rags says, “Let’s lead him into the stables. It’ll give him a chance to relax before things begin.”
“When do we find out the race length?” I ask.
“For the tenth time, Astrid, it’ll flash on the board before the starting gates open.”
“But don’t they want the bettors outside the gates to know what they’re betting on?”
Rags shakes his head. “No bets tonight, you know that.”
The betting is the only part I never really paid attention to, because it hurt too much to envision my father salivating over his own bet cards. But now I wish I had. Rags says something about bets only getting upped in the last sixty seconds before the race starts, not changed, and I nod along as odds and percentages about me and Padlock and the length of this race swirl through my head.
Swallowing my anxiety, I follow behind Barney, who holds a large and a small bag. The bigger of the two is Padlock’s saddle. Not sure about the little one.
The bustle inside the stables is even louder than it was outside. Trainers jog past, headed to their vehicles, and jockeys throw fits to anyone who will listen, over every little thing. The floor is made of smooth concrete, and the soaring wooden roof makes those shouting voices thunderous.
When I pass by the first occupied stall, I spot an older woman dressed in the standard jockey uniform—calf-length breeches, boots, and silks. When she sees Padlock, her jaw drops. She stops talking to the man in the stall with her and walks to the front of her stable to gape at my Titan.
Ignoring the burning in my cheeks, I lift my head and continue down the path, seeking an empty stall in the largest stable in northeast America. With each one I pass, I accumulate more weary eyeballs and surprised gasps. Padlock doesn’t look that different from the other Titans, but I guess the details are enough. His black coat, his silver hooves, his nostrils flaring and the flutter of his lashes—it’s throwing an unknown into the jockeys’ well-planned wins tonight.
Rags searches for a stall with my last name, but comes up empty. All the other stalls are marked. Why not ours?
“Don’t worry,” he says from between clenched teeth. “I’ll talk to the track manager about getting you a permanent stall for the season.”
If I win this sponsor race, you mean.
Rags stomps away as Barney locates an unlabeled stall near the back and ushers us forward. Magnolia trails behind, digging her right hand deep into her pocket. I wonder if she brought along her playing cards for luck.
“You okay?” I ask as we file into the stall.
She beams. “My best friend is riding a Titan today. Right now I’m ten feet tall and bulletproof.”
Before I can stop myself, I throw my arms around her. “Thank you for being here.”
She pats my back. “Oh, you’re totally going to eat it out there. But I’m here when you do.”
I know she’s joking, but I still pull back and say, “There’s no way I can win this. I don’t even know why I—”
Magnolia takes my face in her hands. “You listen to me. Don’t worry one bit about winning or losing. When you go out there, I want you to remember the first time we saw the Titans run.” She lightly punches my shoulder. “Remember how on the way back we rehashed every second of t
hat race? We never thought we’d be given the chance to touch a Titan, much less ride one.”
A lump forms in my throat.
“Let that same little girl have fun riding today, okay?” she says. “That’s it.”
I nod, noticing she didn’t say I could win, and hating myself for noticing. Why must I always focus on the negative when my best friend is giving me a reason to be grateful? When I find my voice again, all I manage to say is, “You were right when you said this is gambling. My grandfather risked our home. My father risked every cent we’d saved. And now here I am, risking my safety to win it all back. This is no different than what they did.”
Magnolia opens her mouth to respond, but is cut off when Barney interrupts.
“If you girls are done with your mushy moment …” He unzips the smaller bag and swings it off his shoulder.
When I see what Barney pulls out, my concerns fall away. All that remains is my heart, leaping with excitement.
Barney holds a black pair of breeches, black riding boots, and a bold yellow silk. He turns the silk around and I nearly lose control of myself when I see my last name, SULLIVAN, across the top.
“From all of us,” Barney explains. “They’re used, and Magnolia had to iron on the lettering, but it’ll work for today.”
“There’s this too.” Magnolia reaches into her right pocket again. This time she produces a black-and-yellow headpiece I can’t quite figure out. She walks around behind me and pulls my dark hair into a ponytail. “The bumblebee covers your hair band, with its wings at the top, and then this gold tail wraps around your actual pony, down to the very tip.” I feel her secure the bumblebee around the base, and then use the flexible gold wire to wrap my pony. “It’s like my pin, only a hundred times better.”
I touch a hand to my hair, amazed by friend’s talent. “I can’t believe you made this for me.”
“Uh, you’re a jockey in the sponsor race. This is publicity for my work at its finest.” She bites her lip. “Besides, my best friend training to race has been the most exciting thing to happen to me. Not to mention the best distraction, ever.”
I want to ask Magnolia what she needs distracting from, but Barney is motioning me to get dressed, and shoving a heavily scuffed helmet into my hands. The two of them start to leave, but Magnolia stops before rushing off. “You could have won this race when you were thirteen years old,” she says evenly. “Those other jokers don’t know what it means to hunger.”
Her words ring through the stall, snaking around my rib cage in a firm embrace. Then it’s only Padlock, who’s been saddled, and me, whose knees are shaking. All around is the sound of unfamiliar voices. Some call for equipment, others whisper strategies with their managers. The smells of fuel and wax and sweat mingle in the air, and though it’s not a pleasant scent, I breathe it in, exhilarated to be inside this stable for the first time.
When I notice that Padlock is hovering near the back of the stall, I’m struck by guilt. All this time I’ve thought of only my fears, my doubts. But Padlock was programmed to have these emotions through his EvoBox, wasn’t he? And whether they’re real or not, they must feel real enough to him. Ensuring no one is watching, I slip on my riding gear and approach Padlock. I hold my hand out, and he sniffs the pink of my palm.
Stepping closer, I bring my lips to his steel ear. “Did you hear what Magnolia said? We should just have fun.”
Padlock snorts, and I smile.
“I know what you mean,” I say. “I want to win too. It’s our only chance of continuing. No one will want to sponsor a poor girl from Warren County and a late edition Titan. Even though … even though I think you look pretty legit.”
Padlock pushes his muzzle into my hair tentatively, like he’s afraid of how I may react. Taken aback, I suck in air from between my teeth, and then slide my hand through his steel-threaded hair. The horse releases a funny neigh as I give him a good scratch.
My Titan is really getting into my affection when Rags jogs up to the stall, red-faced and out of breath. “Hey, listen.” He glances over his shoulder as if someone might be watching. “They’re going to have the horses line up soon for parts check. If they try and stop you from proceeding, steer Padlock by them, okay? Don’t stop. Just get to the starting gate.”
“What are you talking about? Why would they stop me?” Understanding dawns on me. “They don’t want a Titan 1.0 running. Did the registration papers not get approved? They listed my name last night.”
Rags clutches a roll of papers in his hand. He smiles and slaps them against the side of the stall door. “Just get to that starting gate.” He turns to leave, but then glances back, admiring the used silks he, Barney, and Magnolia surprised me with. “You look good, kid. Like a real Titan rider.”
Then he’s gone.
Just as he predicted, a few moments later I hear the booming voice of a woman with authority. When I peek my head out, I notice she has a clipboard in her right hand and a walkie-talkie buzzing on her belt. My blood pounds in my ears as I turn and pull myself into Padlock’s saddle.
Bending toward his ear, I say, “Listen, horse, we might have to run earlier than the rest of the Titans, but don’t panic.”
Padlock stomps his foot.
After kicking the stall door open, I return my boot to the stirrup and watch as the other jockeys lead their Titans into a neat line. The woman at the front, who has purple-framed glasses balanced on the tip of her nose, searches intently inside a Titan’s engine flap, then checks something off before the horse is allowed to leave the stable.
I ensure Padlock and I are in the very back, and by the time our turn comes, I have a dozen half-fleshed-out excuses for whatever argument she may provide. Or maybe I’ll go with Rags’s plan. Just bypass her and act like I can’t hear what she’s saying.
When we’re two steps away, I can hardly pull in a breath. The woman looks up like my being there is a surprise. When her eyes fall on Padlock, I know my earlier suspicion was accurate.
Rags never got full approval for me to race a Titan 1.0 model.
I open my mouth to say something, anything, but Padlock beats me to the punch. Kicking out with his back legs, he neighs and whines. The woman spreads herself against the wall, and as Padlock throws his head, I yell, “Sorry, I think there’s something wrong with him.”
She points her clipboard at us. “That’s not a 3.0!”
I don’t respond. Instead, I hang on as my demon horse races away and heads toward the starting gate, like he already knows where it is. The woman shouts from behind us, but her complaints are soon drowned out by the crowd. The crowd that knows this is it. We are all here. Not all of us will secure a sponsor and race in the circuit, but that doesn’t matter just now. What matters is these are the contenders.
Among this group of forty-two Titans is this year’s champion. And everyone is waiting to see if they can pinpoint that champion after the first run.
The stalls are open from the back, but within seconds someone is sliding the gate closed, locking us in. I glance around, attempting to see through the bars to the other jockeys. But I can’t make them out in detail. Only that they are staring forward, studying the track, as I am studying them.
The Titans stamp the dry dirt, and already my mouth and tongue feel gritty. With trembling fingers, I reach down and push the smaller of the two black buttons. A small click, and then Padlock’s eyes blaze red across the front of our stall. His sides grow warm beneath my legs as his engine prepares to race.
Nerves fire through my body, making every sense sharp as a blade. Sharp enough to cut through the night sky and cause the stars to rain down. The crowd roars, feverish, as the digital scoreboard flickers to life. Our last names ping across the top, and I see my own name appear.
SULLIVAN.
My heart thunders at the sight, and I wonder if Magnolia feels the same way I do in this moment. Terrified. Exhilarated. Hopeful, though it’s ludicrous.
I lean forward, keeping one hand firm again
st Padlock’s side, and watch the RACE LENGTH output. It flickers on and off, on and off. And then a zero. And then, finally, the actual length—
TWELVE FURLONGS.
Padlock rocks inside the stall with impatience as my mind reels. A mile and a half. A half mile less than I need to have any confidence at winning. We can’t beat the others this way. I know this. I’m the girl who spent every spare second she had studying cyclonetrack.com. Many of the previous jockeys I understand better than my own family. Their successors will beat me here today, and I’ll lose my shot at entering the summer circuit.
So here’s what I do.
I let go of the dream and remember what Magnolia said.
I lean forward, wrap my arms around my steel horse, and whisper, “Let’s do this, Padlock. Not to win. Not to place. But to remember this moment as the time we ran with the Titans. Because you are a Titan. And tonight, I am a rider.”
Padlock kicks the front of the stall with aggravation, eager to put my words into action, or so I’d like to believe. I breathe evenly, letting my fear slip away. In its place is wonder for this machine I’ve mounted. I gather his hair between my fingers, and rub the place behind his ears. Then I grab the left joystick and place my right hand above the turbo button.
A man runs toward the starting gate and the crowd cheers. He motions to another man, who has a gun pointed at the moon. They share a hand signal, and I fill my lungs.
The starting light flicks on.
Red.
The stalls shake from the steel horses, but my own horse, Padlock, settles.
Yellow.
Yellow.
Yellow.
The first man approaches the starting gate and places his hands on something I can’t see. A mile and a half. Not long enough to win. But long enough to be remembered.
“You ready, Padlock?” I yell, the moment working me into a state of madness.
Titans Page 8
