Titans

by Victoria Scott

  Barney turns the starter over in his hands. “It’s not quite that simple. But, yeah, with some adjustments I should be able to make it work.”

  I run my hands over Padlock’s neck for the umpteenth time. His unseeing eyes pain me, and though he’s only been turned off for six days, I feel as though it’s been years since I’ve watched him prance or felt the nip of his steel lips. I miss his attentiveness, his neighs and sweet nuzzles. I miss his head-butts and the swish of his tail. And I miss riding.

  I’m not the only one who misses the horse either. Barney and Rags stare at Padlock, wearing the same helpless, sorrowful looks on their faces.

  “How much longer until they get here, you think?” Magnolia asks, her voice small.

  No one answers her. We just turn from Padlock and instead gaze at the driveway leading to Barney’s house.

  And we wait.

  At eight o’clock that evening, Rags throws the handkerchief he’s been wringing to the ground. “You can’t trust anyone to do their job anymore!”

  “Didn’t they promise it by this evening?” Magnolia asks.

  Barney pats her on the back. “They said they’d do their best.”

  “I bet you Arvin Gambini got ahold of every parts maker in Michigan,” my manager snarls. “He probably bribed them to deliver every piece we needed except one.”

  “There’s got to be something else we can do,” Magnolia says.

  Barney shakes his head. “The horse won’t run without that part. It might not have run with it.”

  Rags kicks over an oil canister, and I kneel as best I can with my injury and lay my body over Padlock’s still, cold one.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  Rags yanks me upright and pulls me against him. He hugs me tight and holds my head to his chest. “Don’t you cry, kid. Don’t you dare cry.”

  But I can hear the quaking in his voice, and it causes tears to spring to my eyes.

  Magnolia joins our hug, and Barney lays his hand on my head.

  It’s much later, maybe an eternity of holding each other in that barn, when Barney says quietly, “We started this with a discontinued Titan, two old men, two clueless teens, and a woman we thought we’d never speak of again. In the end, we made it to the Titan Derby. No one’s laughing now.”

  We’re quiet for several minutes before Magnolia mumbles, “I was not clueless.”

  The whole way home, I quiz my manager on what we could still try. We could scour junkyards. We could call other ex-engineers who’ve left Hanover Steel. We could drive all the way to Sandusky, where the part is sold, and pound on the door in hopes of finding an after-hours employee.

  But Rags has an objection for every idea I offer. What infuriates me is that his rebuttals make sense. I know it’s over. I just can’t accept it. One week ago, I rode Padlock better than I ever have. Now my horse is a pile of lifeless metal in the back of Rags’s truck.

  When we come to a stop outside my house, I feel splintered. I feel helpless.

  “You raced a Titan on Cyclone Track, Astrid,” Rags says softly, staring ahead. “You remember that the rest of your life, okay?”

  A choking sound leaves my throat and I fight back tears.

  Rags reaches over and squeezes my shoulder, but still he won’t look at me.

  When I manage to get myself out of the truck, I glance at the man I’ve learned to love like I did my own grandfather, flaws and all. “Thank you for caring about me,” I say. “Now go get Lottie. Don’t let all this end without something good happening.”

  The pain in Rags’s eyes is a knife through the rib cage. I shut the door and reach into the truck bed, rub the flat of my hand over Padlock’s cheek.

  “You were a good horse,” I whisper. “You will be again when that part arrives.”

  Padlock will have decades of running through open fields, and if Rags allows it, it’ll be me on his back. But we won’t have another run like we did six days ago. We won’t have another race, another starting gate, another finish line so thrillingly close. But we’ll have each other. And I’ll have Rags and Barney and Magnolia. At least for as long as we can stay in Warren County.

  Stories don’t always end the way you want them to.

  Life isn’t always a fairy tale.

  Life is rarely a fairy tale.

  Sometimes, the real point is pursuing a worthwhile goal, even if you fall short in the end.

  My dad is awake when I step inside our house. He rises to his feet when he sees me, and I’m careful not to favor my bad ankle, to cover up my injury.

  “Astrid,” he says, simply. His voice is so devastatingly heavy with regret that I sink through the carpet, plunge into the center of the earth. “When I’m wrong, I say I’m wrong.” He clears his throat, has a hard time making eye contact. “I was out of sorts before your last race. You shouldn’t have seen me that way. It’s just I didn’t want you to get hurt, and I—”

  I stop him, because I can’t do this now. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” I mutter. “My Titan got damaged, and we can’t fix it. It’s over. I won’t be racing tomorrow night.”

  Now my dad does look at me. There’s confusion and surprise spread across his face. If he’d watched the local news channel, he would have seen my name announced with the other three jockeys going to the Titan Derby. Lottie’s been careful with the media, explaining that Padlock was damaged in the final circuit race, but was quickly repaired and ready to race. So my dad wouldn’t have known.

  Nobody will know until tomorrow at midnight, when Padlock and I aren’t there to step onto the track.

  I head toward my room, but stop short of the hallway. “You need to talk to Dani about Jason. Make her tell you.”

  “Astrid …” my dad tries again.

  But I’m already gone. Already slipping into bed. Already feeling the steady beat of my throbbing ankle beneath the blankets. Already imagining who will take home the Derby Cup tomorrow night.

  Dani’s bed is empty when I fall asleep.

  I’m not sure what to do with myself the following morning. After more than two months, it’s strange to wake with no training to complete. No weekly sessions with Lottie to attend. No race to prepare for. I’m simply me again.

  I walk to Rags’s house, because I can’t stand the idea of losing contact with him. He stands in his garage, tinkering with the same machine I saw him working on at the start of summer when I told him he was off by three degrees. Maybe more. He turns the machine on, and then off. Then he holds a silver object up to the light in his garage and stares at it cockeyed.

  “What’s going on?” Magnolia asks.

  I jump at the sound of her voice, then hold a finger to my lips and point at Rags.

  Magnolia rubs the sleep from her eyes, and I love her time and again for always appearing when I need her, which, I’ll admit, is almost always.

  Rags pulls down his welding mask and goes to work on whatever it is he was holding. Sparks fly as a rare August breeze sweeps past Magnolia and me on the street. My heart leaps in my chest watching Rags work with such intensity. Has he found a solution to our problem? I take in his disheveled clothing, tousled white hair, and manic movements, and wonder if he’s been up all night. Then again, he doesn’t look much different than usual.

  He labors in silence before pausing to scrutinize his work. He holds the gadget up a second time and scratches his jaw.

  Then he hurls it across the garage.

  My stomach drops to my feet, and I shuffle toward him. “I thought we were moving past this and being thankful for the opportunity and all that?” I say.

  Rags removes the welding mask and drops it on a workbench. “I can’t stop thinking I can figure it out. But I’ve been at it for hours, and nothing works. See this lever?” He shows me a piece that’s shaped like a question mark. “I need something to make it catch. Should be easy enough, but it’s not, because once the engine turns over, this piece of junk unlatches and then the engine overheats.”

  I la
y my hand on his arm and attempt to comfort him the same way he did for me last night. “You and Barney did your best, Rags. It’s okay. We’ll be okay. Let’s go do something fun today, and tonight we’ll watch the race and criticize every move the jockeys make.”

  Rags chances a smile. “I’d do well at that.”

  Magnolia punches his shoulder. “You win at standing still and providing useless information, my man.”

  Rags glances at her. “Why are you here?”

  “Sustenance, remember?”

  Rags sighs. “I’m sorry, Astrid. There’s got to be a way to rig this blasted thing. I just don’t know how to do it.”

  “Mind if I take a look?” a familiar voice asks.

  I spin around and find my father standing in Rags’s driveway. A few feet behind him is Magnolia’s dad, holding a cup of coffee and a rusted toolbox.

  “Daddy?” I say.

  My dad shoves his hands in his pockets and his face reddens. I walk over to him slowly, smiling because I can’t help myself. He’s the one man who can fix anything, and him being here means everything. I stand before my father, letting the moment sink in. Recognizing that he may have gotten me into this mess with a habit his own father taught him, but he’s also the man I let down the day Grandpa died. I wrap my arms around his waist. He hugs me back immediately, and it’s strange and awkward and perfect.

  When I let go, he jabs a thumb over his shoulder. “I brought Frank. He’s mostly useless, but he has a decent set of tools.”

  “At least I’ve got a set of something,” Frank jokes.

  While Magnolia hugs her dad—and steals his coffee—Rags strides down the driveway and approaches my father.

  “I, uh … I’m sorry about the other night,” my dad says to Rags. “I haven’t been myself lately.”

  Rags touches the bruise beneath his eye. “I told your girl you’ve got a nice swing.”

  “I played baseball at Canyon High,” Dad responds. Then he offers Rags his hand.

  Rags shakes it. “Just so you know, I’d hit a man for putting my daughter on a Titan too.”

  My dad smiles. “Didn’t say I was sorry for hitting you. Just said I was sorry.”

  “I see you found my house without my telling you where it was.”

  Dad’s grin grows wider. “Remember that.”

  Rags laughs, and then eyeballs Frank’s tools. “You really think you can fix this pile of metal?”

  “We can fix anything,” Frank replies, before spitting on the pavement.

  Rags pats his truck and grins, excitement making him stand taller. “Well, we better get on over to Barney’s place then. He’s got better equipment.”

  The sun is setting when my father and Frank appear from Barney’s work area. They’ve eaten nothing but the sour cherry danishes Magnolia made, and have sweat so much that I smell my dad before I see him.

  I jump off the back of Rags’s truck gate, anxiety rolling off me in waves.

  Magnolia is at my side.

  Neither one of us breathes.

  I watch my father’s face for signs of triumph, or discouragement, but as always, I can’t read him. It isn’t until a shadowy figure appears in the doorway of the barn that I get my answer.

  Padlock trudges toward me, head held high, black steel glistening in the dying light.

  I cover my mouth to stop the emotion from pouring forth. “He’s fixed?”

  Rags wipes his hands on his jeans. “Not entirely. Your father and Frank fastened a part to the compressor, but we have no idea if it’ll hold.” Rags glances at my dad before adding, “I’m not sure it’s safe to ride, Astrid. If the part malfunctions during the derby, you could get seriously hurt. Even if it does hold, it’ll be much harder to work the control panel than you’re used to.”

  I look at my dad too, awaiting his response. If he says the part will hold, I trust him. But he doesn’t mention his work, he only stares at me, a small smile pulling at the corner of his lips.

  “Astrid can make it work,” he says. “My little girl can do anything.”

  We make it to Cyclone Track a half hour before the race begins. I throw on my silks, breeches, and riding boots, and hug my best friend. Magnolia doesn’t give me a long speech to inspire confidence. She simply smiles and says, “Remember: You’re here. You made it. Love you madly.” Lottie nudges Magnolia, and after giving me a small wave, she guides my best friend to watch from the crowd. I like to think she’ll stand by my father instead of Hart, but he went home after repairing Padlock’s part, saying that I didn’t need him.

  I was too proud to admit that I did.

  Barney slaps me on the back, grins, and follows Lottie and Magnolia outside. I guess the time for talking is over. There’s only one thing left to do tonight.

  I run my hands over Padlock’s side, and the horse bends his head in greeting. “I don’t know what I’ll do if I don’t win tonight,” I say to him. “My family stills needs money to keep the house. And Magnolia’s family does too. My father … he’s better, sort of. But what happens when Monday rolls around and he goes on another bad interview? What happens when that final notice on our house arrives? My parents will fight. Dani will run. And Zara will look to me because I failed to fix things like I promised.” I hug my horse close. “I need this, Padlock. And you deserve it.”

  My horse jerks back and looks at me intently. My brow furrows watching him study me that way. It’s like he’s peering into my soul. Like he’s trying to tell me something important, but can’t say it aloud. His determined stance soothes me, tells me he’ll catch me if I fall. And his eyes seem to say only: Trust me.

  I open my mouth to tell my horse how much he means to me, but Rags chooses that moment to make an appearance. My trainer fidgets, shifting his weight back and forth, and I know it’s not the race he’s worried about.

  “I don’t have the words for this kind of thing,” he says, patting Padlock on the haunches. “But you should know it’s been my honor to be your manager.”

  My tongue is thick in my mouth as I try to respond. Unsure of what to say, I come back with, “I hope at the end of this race you still think I was the right person to race your Titan.” I pause. “I hope I make you proud.”

  Rags meets my gaze. “You’ve already made me proud, Astrid. Sometimes I’m so proud I could burst.”

  I turn away to collect myself, because I have to concentrate.

  Because I have to win.

  Rags spots me as I swing into my saddle. “Remember what I said about his engine. You’ll have to race smart, not fast. If you push Padlock too hard, the part could disconnect. If that happens, he’ll turn off and you probably won’t be able to get him started again quick enough to get back in the race.”

  “I understand,” I say.

  Rags nods, and then opens the stall gate. I guide Padlock to the parts check line, flutters tickling my insides. What if she doesn’t let me compete? The part we have isn’t standard issue, and isn’t that what she’s monitoring?

  When it’s my turn, Rags nervously licks his lips. The woman pops open Padlock’s engine flap and starts checking off boxes on her sheet. She stops and frowns at us, and my stomach drops to my feet.

  Tapping her pencil eraser on Padlock’s belly, she says, “This isn’t standard issue. What is this?”

  “It won’t give her an advantage in the race, I assure you,” Rags says firmly.

  “Doesn’t matter,” the woman retorts with a yawn in her voice. “No foreign parts.”

  My blood surges and my hands curl into fists. This can’t be happening. Rags tells me we can hardly get Padlock to stay running, and now we can’t even race with a handicap?

  A man steps into the barn, someone who’s been spying on our check-in. “Let them go ahead, Devon,” Arvin Gambini says, casting his million-dollar smile my way. “We don’t want to hold anyone back.”

  “No, you wouldn’t want to do that, would you?” I snap.

  Arvin continues to grin as the woman looks from h
im to me, and shrugs. She closes Padlock’s hatch and waves us forward.

  Rags walks beside me as we leave the barn. “I’m not going to question his intentions back there, and neither should you. Mind on the track, okay?”

  “Okay,” I reply, but I glance back anyway and catch sight of the tall, dark man watching Arvin Gambini. He narrows his eyes and jots something down on a notepad. Standing next to him is Theo. He doesn’t appear pleased.

  I return my attention to the final race. The Titan Derby—a race entitled Darkness Falls. I notice the starting gate is empty, and that the crowd is thin for such an important night. I’m about to ask Rags what’s going on when a handler approaches.

  “I’ll lead you to the starting point,” a young boy says.

  “Where will that be?” Rags demands.

  “Can’t say.” The boy reins Padlock and leads the horse behind him. Before we get too far away, he shoots Rags a backward glance. “Special track tonight.”

  My gut twists into knots. A special track? The derby track is always special—longer, or packed with harder jams—but never has the media not known some detail beforehand, and as a result, the jockeys and attendees as well.

  Rags stands tall as we’re guided away. Right before we’re out of earshot, my trainer yells, “You can do this, Astrid. I can already see the cup in your hands.”

  I laugh to myself, touched by his unbreakable confidence. But as I’m led farther and farther from my manager—down, down into the blackness—my laughter falls away.

  We’re beneath the ground in some sort of mine shaft. I don’t believe the engineers created the shaft itself, but they must have created the downward slope we took to arrive here. I remember my history teacher once referring to Detroit as the City of Salt because of its elaborate mining system beneath our buildings and streets and rumbling, spit-and-vinegar vehicles.

  There’s no crowd to be seen. No cameramen or photographers. There are only four Titans prancing next to one another, and a few minutes later, there is Arvin Gambini. The man is followed by the reporter and his brother, who don’t seem to enjoy being underground.