“What’s ‘in perpetuity’ mean?” I ask.
“Forever,” the woman says, smiling.
“So, like, you own my image forever?”
“As it relates to this event? Yes.”
I look around. Everyone else’s parents are signing the form. “I’ll be right back,” I say. “Just need to find my parents. Mind if I take this pen?”
“No problem! I’ll be here!”
I take the form into a dark corner by some vending machines… and I forge Mom’s signature.
Jay frowns. “What are you doing, bro?”
“They already said I could race. What’s the big deal?”
“Isn’t it a little weird that they want to own your image forever?”
“This is how it works in the big time,” I say confidently, though of course I have no clue how it works in the big time.
I’d sign anything right now if it meant I could compete.
* * *
The Sneaker Queen’s up on a platform in her famous red tracksuit and pearls.
“Boys and girls!” she says, wireless microphone shaking slightly in her bony hand. “Boys and girls! Welcome! Oh, what a dream come true! To see all your bright shining faces! The very best of the best! The cream of the crop!”
We dutifully applaud.
The harsh lighting in the athletic center is making Babblemoney look almost transparent, like a reflection on water. “As you may know,” she says shakily, “I don’t have any children or grandchildren. My whole life has been invested in this company. I’ve worked hard, yes, but I’ve also been fortunate. I feel it is my duty to give back. Just a few weeks from now, our very special winners—one boy and one girl—will receive a trust fund worth one million dollars!”
I turn to Jay, eyes wide.
Someone lets out a whoop!, and we all cheer wildly.
17
Nationals are just like regionals: a series of prelims, then the top eight compete in a winner-take-all final. The big difference, of course, is that it’s indoor. In a way, actually, that could favor me. No wind to worry about, no rain, no distractions.
Well, I spoke too soon.
Up in the bleachers, Mom (who’s painted a red G on her cheek) counts, “One, two, three!” She throws up her hands. Beside her, Franny throws up his hands. Then Jay, who’s sitting with them. Then Tua. Then Dad, who, after completing their mini wave, cups his hands and yells, “Goooo, Grant! Yaaaaaaay sports!”
The kid next to me says, “Did that guy just yell… ‘yay sports’?”
“I think he did,” I say.
“You know him?”
“Nope.”
I do my prerace stretches and am just heading to the track when, over the public address system, I hear two bone-chilling words: “GRAAAANT FAAAAALLOON.”
I freeze. My whole body goes numb.
“GRAAAANT FAAAALLOON. PLEEEEASE REEEEPORT TO THE REEEGISTRAAAATION AAAAREA IMMEEEEDIATELY.”
Someone goes, “Oooooo,” like I’ve just been summoned to the principal’s office.
Everyone laughs. Everyone stares.
What the heck is happening?
A security guard leads me down a narrow hallway, into a room marked STAFF ONLY. It’s some sort of conference room—a long rectangular table with chairs all around it. Blank gray walls. It smells like a Band-Aid.
A woman in a navy suit is waiting in a crisp white Babblemoney hat. A lawyer. She forces a pinched smile, hands folded on the table.
Mom and Dad and Franny rush into the room.
Jay and Tua close behind.
“What’s going on?” Mom says, breathless.
“I’m afraid we have a problem,” the lawyer says. She holds up the copy of my birth certificate. “I’m afraid this paperwork is… insufficient.”
“What do you mean?” Mom says.
“I’m afraid”— the lawyer’s tone softens when she peeks at me—“you won’t be allowed to compete today.”
You wouldn’t think that a few sound waves passing through the air could make such an impact. But those words—“you won’t be allowed to compete today”—they knock me back against the wall.
That’s when the founder of the race, Esther Babblemoney, glides into the room on her electric scooter.
“What’s the meaning of this?” she yells at the lawyer.
And already I feel better.
She’s got my back.
She’ll make this right.
The lawyer shuffles some papers. “Ms. Babblemoney. I was just, uh, saying. There’s a problem with this young man’s paperwork. We caught it just in time.” The lawyer turns stiffly to Mom and Dad. “Mr. Falloon. Mrs. Falloon. When your son was born, did they give you this certificate at the hospital?”
“Our son wasn’t born in a hospital,” Dad says.
Please don’t get defensive, Dad.
Just fix this.
“Right,” the lawyer says. “So it was… a home birth?”
Dad explains about the commune in California.
The lawyer’s glasses are hanging from a chain. She lifts them onto her nose. “It says here the witness was someone named… Karl?”
“Dr. William Karl?” Babblemoney says. “From Berkeley?”
“No,” the lawyer says. “Just… Karl.”
“Yeah,” Dad says. “Sure. Yeah. Karl. He was there.” He looks at Mom urgently. “Remember? He’s the one who had the certificate made. Right?”
The lawyer frowns. “You can’t just make your own birth certificate, Mr. Falloon. We need a legally certified document from the State of California.”
“Why?”
“Because this is an international competition. There can only be one qualifier from each country, and each contestant must be the age they claim to be. This was all made very clear in the terms and conditions. Did you not read them?”
Dad throws his hands up and laughs defensively. “Oh come on! You want people to read that stuff you should have to provide microscopes!”
“As a matter of fact,” the lawyer says, “I do expect people to ‘read that stuff.’ That’s why I write it.”
Mom—the lawyer—is staring down at the floor, shaking her head. Jay and Tua are pressing their backs against the wall, trying to make themselves invisible.
Franny’s filming (of course).
I feel the moment slipping away.…
18
Wait,” I say, panic rising in my throat. “This is crazy. I’ve never even seen a birth certificate!”
And honestly—why would I? Has anyone my age? Our generation barely knows what a document is. Everything’s online. I’d have to go to a museum or something. And now this stupid thing—a piece of paper—is going to decide my whole fate?
“I’m thirteen,” I say, “I promise you. I’m American. I just don’t have the paper. Can you please just make an exception? Please?”
I’m saying all this directly to Ms. Babblemoney, I realize, my hands clasped like I’m praying. Which I guess I sort of am.
Parked beside a fake fern on her electric scooter, Babblemoney’s using all her strength to try to wrench open a sports drink bottle, blue veins pulsing in her neck. Feeling the weight of the room tipping toward her, she looks up. “What now?”
I repeat my heartfelt plea.
It seems to connect. Her red-rimmed eyes are watery. She folds her hands primly on her lap, lifts her chin, and says, very formally, “No.”
“Huh?” I say.
“I’m sorry,” she says, brow raised. “But I’m afraid my stance on paperwork is quite firm.”
Mom can’t take it anymore. She goes full Lawyer Mode. “Listen,” she says. “We don’t want to fight you, lady. We’re just saying… can’t we use a little common sense here? You’ve got these kids’ dreams in the palm of your hand. Maybe you don’t take that seriously. But you should. My son hasn’t done anything wrong. Don’t penalize him for our mistake. He’s a good kid. He worked hard to be here.”
“I don’t… doubt�
� that,” Babblemoney says, trying again to open the sports drink bottle. Finally an assistant opens it for her. She takes a birdlike sip. “But think about it from our perspective. If we, the sponsoring organization, turn a blind eye to a matter like this… well then what? What happens next? I’ll tell you. Chaos. It’s like dominos. Tip one over, and it hits the next, and it hits the next…”
“But—”
“There must be rules in life,” the old lady says, driving the scooter the long way around the conference table. It’s the slowest scooter I’ve ever seen, like a toy car running out of batteries. “Hard lines that cannot be crossed. Maybe your little family here doesn’t believe that. You color outside the lines. I see that. Okay. Fine. Good for you.”
She stops the scooter directly in front of Mom. “But guess what? Little news flash for you, missy. We’re not living in your world. You’re living in mine. So don’t you come here, to my event, and presume to tell me right from wrong.”
It’s clear now that Babblemoney’s got a sort of Dr. Jekyll and Ms. Hyde thing going on. Except the opposite. Under the bright camera lights, she’s a sweet, harmless grandma. The rest of the time she’s a monster, barely able to contain her rage.
To her credit, Mom keeps her composure.
What she does, in fact, is laugh.
Babblemoney doesn’t like that. She glares at Mom, then turns to me and says, “Let this be a lesson to you, young man. If we don’t have rules, we have nothing. My daddy taught me that a long time ago, and it’s served me well. It’s not too late for you to go on and make something of yourself.”
“Easy for you to say,” Dad scoffs. “You don’t like a rule, you just pay a few million bucks to have it changed—then you act like it’s been chiseled in stone since the beginning of time. You dangle a dollar on a hook, and all us suckers chase it around while you pick our pockets and call it ‘fair.’ Those are the ‘rules.’ ”
Something about that amuses Babblemoney. She transforms back into the sweet grandma. She rubs the pearls hanging over her red tracksuit. “I just hate that you came all this way,” she says, delivering each word with devastating politeness. “It’s just terrible. But, as I said, rules are rules. I’m afraid I must get back to the competition now. This matter is closed. Your district will have no—
“Waaaaait!” I say.
I don’t even know what I’m going to say until I say it.
“This is our alternate,” I say, pointing to Jay. “Jay Fa’atasi. He finished second at regionals. He’s here. He’s ready. He’ll take my spot.”
“And you have the proper paperwork?” Babblemoney says to Jay.
Jay looks at me.
He mouths, You sure, bro?
I nod.
“Yeah,” Jay says. “I think I actually still have all my stuff in the car from regionals.”
“And the image release?” the lawyer says. “Signed by a parent or guardian?”
“I can…” He peeks at Tua, then at me. “I… can get that signed for you.”
Against the wall, Tua crosses his arms.
But he doesn’t say anything.
He lets Jay make his own choice.
I really don’t think it’s that big a deal—forging a release form.
Mrs. Fa’atasi would sign it if she were here, right?
“Very well,” Babblemoney says, looking around, eyebrows raised, like she’s done us all a great favor. “Then our little problem is solved.”
19
It’s an experience I’ve had so few times in my life—the feeling of falling behind, the pack leaving me in the dust.
And I hate it.
I hate it so much.
Hours later, I’m still here in the soulless conference room. I won’t abandon Jay and leave the venue completely, but I can’t show my face out there. I can’t bear the stares. Every few minutes a cheer bleeds through the wall. I’m following online and know that the final race is about to start.
Mom, Dad, and Franny are on the other side of the long conference table, keeping their distance. Dad clears his throat. “Son, I just wanted to say… I think it needs to be said… that what you did earlier was… honorable.”
“What?”
“Giving your spot to Jay like that.”
“Great,” I snap. “Well maybe I can compete for Honor-slovakia!”
Franny laughs—a little too hard. He pounds the table, cracking up.
I glare.
“What?” he says—still filming of course. “It was funny!”
I can’t take it anymore. I leave the room and stomp back down the hall into the athletic center. Instead of everyone staring at me, like I expect, something even worse happens. No one notices me at all.
Jay’s made it to the final. He’s in lane five. I widen my eyes, trying to get his attention via Best Friend Telepathy. But it’s too crowded in here. The signal is jammed. I’m as invisible to him as I am to everyone else.
As the race starts, the other seven kids have their Ugly Running Faces in full effect. Wide-eyed. Desperate. But the look on Jay’s face is almost serene. I marvel at his long, effortless strides. He’s doing it. He’s pulling ahead.
Watching him cross the line, watching him leap joyously into Tua’s arms, I feel bad that I almost kept him from having this moment.
* * *
It’s a long bus ride home. Somewhere in New Jersey, I lock myself in the dark, smelly bathroom.
I’ve been having this problem for a while now that only seems to be getting worse as I get older. The problem is I can no longer feel just one thing at a time. The pure days of childhood, when I could experience a single emotion and not, like, see around the edges of what I’m feeling are gone.
All I want right now, hiding in this bathroom, is to be angry, to be livid, to be freaking furious, but I also feel bad, because I know my parents didn’t mean for any of this to happen. They’re devastated too.
All I want is to text my best friend, tell him, You did it, bro. I knew you could. I’m proud of you! But a part of me is resentful and bitter that he just won what should’ve been mine.
All these feelings, colliding at once. The net result is a hazy numbness that starts behind my eyes and spreads down through my whole body.
I don’t remember when I started crying. But it’s all pouring out now. Snot’s bubbling out of my nose. My throat catches. It hurts so bad, but, in a weird way, I find myself balling up, holding on to the pain.
It’s as close to a pure feeling as I can get.
“You okay?” Dad says when I sit down again.
I stare absently out the window. “I’m fine.”
20
Next morning I’m sprawled on the picnic table outside Frank’s Pizza, tossing a tennis ball up to myself. Above, through the wavy heat lines, the birds look like they’ve melted to the telephone wires. The plastic Coke sign has faded bubblegum pink.
“Not sure if you heard,” the owner says, sticking his head out the side window, leaning on the ledge. “But this ain’t a hotel.”
I sit up slowly. “My bad.”
“Where’s your friend?”
Jay’s brother took him to get celebratory pizza at Lorenzo’s on South Street. I don’t mention this to Frank. I don’t want to make him jealous. I just shrug.
Frank dabs his pencil on his tongue and flips to a fresh page on his notepad. “What’ll it be then? More grilled chicken?”
“I’m not really hungry,” I say. “You mind if I just hang?”
“Sorry, kid. You know the rules. No loitering.” He nods to a broom leaning against the wall. “But if you’re workin’, that’s different.…”
I push some stray pizza crusts around on the sidewalk for a while, thinking about Jay. About how our destinies were always joined. But now I’m stuck here, disqualified, and he’s racing off to fame and glory without me.
Just when I feel like I’ve hit rock bottom, my brother comes oozing up the sidewalk. It’s weird to see him without his phone in his han
d, like an action figure without its weapon. “What are you doing?” he says.
“Oh hey,” I say, pretending I just saw him. “Forgot to tell you. Kylie Jenner called last night. She wants her haircut back.”
“Very funny.”
“What do you want, Franny?”
“I’ve been looking for you.”
“Well congrats. You cracked the case.”
“We need to talk.”
“Go ahead. It’s a free country.”
He looks both ways, like we’re being watched, then says, “I think I found a way to fix this for you.”
I set the broom against the brick wall, dust my hands. “Fix what?”
He leans away from the fly-swarmed trash bins and pinches his nose. “It’s nasty out here. Meet me at my office in an hour.”
I’d roll my eyes—
But it’s too hot, and he’s not worth the effort.
* * *
Franny’s “office” is just a corner of his bedroom. On the walls he’s taped up replicas of all the awards he plans to win someday—the Nobel Peace Prize is the centerpiece. His feet are up on his trash-picked IKEA desk, big toe sticking out of a hole in his sock.
“Listen,” I say in the doorway. “I don’t know what you’re up to. I honestly don’t care. But can you just… do it quickly?”
He opens his laptop and types his super-long password. The only folder on the desktop says TOP SECRET. Which, to me, seems like a dumb thing to label a top secret folder. Inside the folder are dozens of video files, documents, and spreadsheets.
He’s been hard at work on something.
He says, “Did you ever go back and read those terms and conditions?”
“What terms and conditions?”
“On your sign-up sheet. For the race.”
“Of course not. Why would I?”
He sighs. “This generation—ugh. Nobody reads anymore.”
I grit my teeth to keep from smacking him.
He pedal-wheels his chair across the carpet—pausing briefly to untangle some dirty socks from the wheels—and closes the door. Like we’re having some kind of secret meeting. Like we—me and him—are a team.
The Million Dollar Race Page 5
