“Yeah,” I say. “Well, we’re Falloons. We don’t give up that easily.”
Babblemoney notices the GoPro on my head.
One of her guards whispers something in her ear.
And it’s amazing: In less than a second she transforms into the sweet, smiling old grandma. “So,” she says warmly. “I hear you have a new… territory.”
“Yeah,” I say. “You’re lookin’ at it.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m the country.”
“Forgive me… I don’t understand.”
“It’s just a version of me that’s on the Internet. I have citizens that subscribe to my life.” I peek down at my phone. “Right now, in case you were wondering, we have four hundred fifty thousand viewers. You can wave to them if you like.”
Franny nudges me like no more messing around.
“We’ve come a really long way,” I say. “All we’re asking is that you open your mind to what a country can be. All we’re asking is—”
“Do you know why I started this competition?” Babblemoney asks, gazing down at her fingernails like she hasn’t even been listening.
“Because you’ve got more dough than you know what to do with?”
She smirks. “I do. But that’s not the reason. No, I created this competition because I wanted to inspire. Do you know what my father said to me on my sixteenth birthday? When I told him I planned to go to college to study economics?”
I shrug.
“He said, ‘Go on and waste your time if you want.’ He didn’t see any point in a girl educating herself. That was the world I grew up in. And so you know what I did? The day I graduated, I started my own company. A sneaker company. And I put his out of business.”
“Must’ve felt nice,” Franny says.
“It did,” Babblemoney says. “I’ve enjoyed it all thoroughly.”
“No,” Franny says. “I mean to have gone to college when it cost like four cents.”
She ignores him. She’s in full Grandma Mode now.
“Yes, my intention here, from the start, has been to inspire. And I must say… I didn’t expect this. I didn’t expect to be inspired myself. What you’ve done here, young man, is remarkable. I know what it takes to build something from scratch, against the odds. I respect that. And so you know what? I’m making an exception. I say welcome, Grant Falloon of Grantsylvania. You may compete in my race… though of course, as a visitor, you must obey the local laws and customs.”
“Laws?” I say. “Customs?”
“Well, to start, you’ll need to remove that crown. There are others here who have paid a great price for what we here call the ‘broadcasting rights.’ We must respect that, don’t you think?”
One of her beefy, short-armed security guards steps forward. When he talks, he sounds like he just swallowed his own Adam’s apple. “I’ll take that.”
I have to say, as I lift the crown off my head, I do feel suddenly less powerful.
We’re escorted out of the room by security. Last I see of Babblemoney, she’s parked beneath that epic wall of sneakers, watching us go, sucking on her dentures.
Or maybe she’s just smirking. It’s hard to tell.
34
There’s a big welcome party that night. Within a few hours, Babblemoney’s sneaker museum has been transformed into a ritzy-looking ballroom. The soft purple lighting reminds me of those UV lights used to whiten teeth.
“Who are all these people?” I mutter to Franny.
He frowns. “Bigwigs from all the sponsoring companies.”
A few feet away, a man in an expensive suit is pointing at me. He sips his cocktail and says something to his friend. The friend laughs.
I’ve just taken two meat-on-a-sticks from a passing server (they’re delicious, dripping with fat) when I spot Jay and his family. He’s wearing a red polo shirt, blue shorts, and white flip-flops. His sunglasses are on top of his head.
“Bro!” he says. “What happened to the show? Babblemoney canceled you?”
I laugh. “Yeah. I guess she kind of did.”
“You do remember that I had that idea first, right? For the show?”
“You did?”
“Are you kidding? I begged you!”
“Yeah, well, not everything has to be a competition.”
He looks at me like an alien is inhabiting my body.
“Sorry,” I say. “Of course it does. You’re right. You had the idea first.”
We laugh, and for a split second, despite the fact that we’re in this swanky ballroom, it feels like we’re back home in the neighborhood.
“Be honest,” I say. “Was a little part of you—even the tiniest little part—hoping that Babblemoney wouldn’t let me in the race?”
“Yeah,” he admits. “But only because I know you can beat me. But then I realized it’s better that way. I won’t have to always wonder if I’m the best. One way or another, I’ll know.” He extends his fist. “No mercy.”
“No hard feelings,” I say.
We fist-bump.
He leaves to eat with his family, and I can’t really get comfortable the rest of the night. I stare down at my feet, feeling like a machine that’s been improperly assembled.
It makes me wonder if I’ll ever be comfortable in my own skin, or if this is just the curse of being human. We can evolve as much as we want, build skyscrapers and space stations and stuff, dress up and wear fancy clothes… but deep down we’ll always just be these insecure apes, looking around at the other apes, wondering Do they like me?
THE MILLION DOLLAR RACE PRELIMS
Excerpted from ESPN’s 30 for 30 documentary, “Crossing the Line: The Incredible True Story of the Million Dollar Race.”
Leonard Lish, Emmy-Winning TV Producer
The way the Babblemoney people had it set up originally, they were just going to run prelims and then have a final race, like they’d done at regionals and nationals. I said, “Why not mix it up a little?”
I pitched it as a two-day event. Day one you introduce all the characters, get everyone emotionally invested. Day two, instead of just a final race, you have a single elimination tournament—a final four. I said, “It’s like the Kentucky Derby meets March Madness.” The old lady loved that.
Jay Fa’atasi, USA
The corporate tents were endless. I couldn’t even count them all.
Diane Falloon, Mom
There was a corner of the estate used for parking private jets. [Shakes head.]
Jay Fa’atasi, USA
We all got our own “luxury villas” with our country’s flag flying outside.
Grant Falloon, Grantsylvania
The opening ceremony was Saturday morning. Babblemoney was up on this platform in her red tracksuit and pearls, holding a wireless microphone. I couldn’t figure out what she was waiting for. Then I saw the producer beside her. He had his hand up, giving the HOLD sign. He was waiting for word from the TV truck that they were back from commercial.
Leonard Lish, Emmy-Winning TV Producer
Maybe you’ve never thought of sports as a kind of reality TV show. But that’s exactly what they are. Look closer next time you go to a game. Professional arenas are just big, expensive TV studios.
Grant Falloon, Grantsylvania
They didn’t even build a whole track for the races. It was just the straightaway, the hundred meters, surrounded on all sides by TV towers.
Jay Fa’atasi, USA
I mean, I want to say it was weird being surrounded by all those cameras… but to be honest, it wasn’t that different from a normal day at school. Someone is always filming something. [Laughs.]
Grant Falloon, Grantsylvania
Yeah, but there were also dance teams and corporate mascots and rich people wandering around in big funny hats.
Jay Fa’atasi, USA
True, true. Makes you realize how crazy life must be for professional athletes. There’s all this noise, and you’re just… doing your job. You’re at work. Tha
t was how I looked at it. I was all business. I was leaving with that million bucks.
Franny Falloon, Brother
The boys’ prelims were first.
Leonard Lish, Emmy-Winning TV Producer
There’s a natural hierarchy in track—the sprinters are at the top. They’re the celebrities; the track is their red carpet.
But even within that top level there are tiers. And of this group, the American Fa’atasi, was at the top, the A-lister. Falloon was a curiosity, because of the Internet thing, but he was kind of awkward.
Grant Falloon, Grantsylvania
Since winning at nationals, Jay had become a star. A camera crew was following his every move.
Franny Falloon, Brother
Jay was in the first heat.
Grant Falloon, Grantsylvania
He was so fast. He looked like he was moving at one and a half times normal speed. He won his heat easily. I felt like one of us was definitely going to break the record.
Jay Fa’atasi, USA
The record was still 10.73. I ran a 10.75. So close.
Grant Falloon, Grantsylvania
The kid from Jamaica ran a 10.78.
The Japanese kid ran a 10.79.
There was a big group all bunched at 10.80.
That meant I had to run a 10.79 to make the final four.
Dave Falloon, Dad
I just didn’t want him to trip. Anything but that. Just cross the line.
Dan Rossum, Broadcaster
[Transcript from TV]
Okay, folks, welcome back! Here we are, the final boys’ heat of day one. Russia in lane one. China in lane two. New Zealand in lane three. France in lane four. Peru in lane five. Zimbabwe in lane six. Greece in lane seven. And there in lane eight—the young man everyone has been talking about—representing himself—Grant Falloon from Grantsylvania.
Jay Fa’atasi, USA
Grant and the kid from Peru jumped out in front. They were even for a while. But Grant was faster. He pulled ahead.
Dan Rossum, Broadcaster
[Transcript from TV]
Falloon takes it! And goodness, Rebecca—look at that time.
Rebecca Moffet, Color Commentator
[Transcript from TV]
Wow—10.76! Just shy of Fa’atasi! Oh, what a final four this is going to be!
35
That night I’m with my family in our “luxury villa.” Unlike the motel, everything in it is gleaming and spotless and futuristic-looking. From the helicopters circling above, the villas probably look like rows of futuristic space pods.
Mom and Dad are shoulder to shoulder in bed, reading the same book. (Because they’re corny like that.) I open the minifridge to get a bottle of water… and the handle breaks off. For a few seconds I’m just standing there, holding it, confused.
“What a piece of junk,” I say.
“Figures,” Franny says. “This is all just for show. It’s like that fake music festival a few years ago. This room just needs to look good in a picture.”
“I’m taking a walk,” I say. “I can’t breathe in here.”
Outside, the night sky is so crowded with stars I almost wonder if Babblemoney had them CGI’d into the sky. She’s so rich, anything seems possible.
I walk down the row of “luxury villas,” lost in my own thoughts. Next thing I know I’m at the track. Without fans or broadcasters, it really does just look like a desolate TV studio.
I kneel in the starting blocks and press my fingertips into the spongy-hard track. I drop my head. I lift my hips. I close my eyes and inhale deeply, feeling the cool night air tracing the outline of my body. I simulate my start, and that’s when I notice someone else down at the far end of the track. They’re in lane one, stepping foot over foot like they’re on a tightrope. I’d know that posture anywhere—it’s Jay. He’s wearing a red-white-and-blue tracksuit and big noise-canceling headphones.
“Hey!” I call, dropping my voice lower so I sound like a security guard. “You’re not supposed to be here!”
He spins, startled.
I smirk.
He pulls off one side of his headphones. “You’re the one who’s not supposed to be here,” he shoots back. And I have to give it to him: It’s true.
We walk toward each other.
“What you doing out here?” I ask.
“Well I was measuring this track—”
“With your feet?”
“I didn’t bring a tape measure, bro. But I looked it up. A hundred meters is three hundred and twenty-eight feet, give or take a few inches. So…”
I know what he’s thinking: If I’m gonna break the record, I want this track to be official, not a foot too short or too long. I know he’s thinking it, because I’m thinking it.
Just then a voice calls from behind us. “Hey! You’re not supposed to be here!”
We both spin, startled.
But it’s just Franny. He steps out of the shadows, onto the track, grinning like gotcha. Jay shakes his head, frowning. “The Falloon sense of humor must be genetic.”
“Guys,” Franny says, reaching into his pocket. “Listen. I know you’re trying to focus on your race. But you both need to know something. I figured it out.”
“Figured out what?” I say.
“What this is all about. I did some snooping while the races were happening. Look at this.” He shows us a picture of what appears to be a warehouse full of boxes.
“Wow,” Jay says. “She’s got… boxes. Let’s call the cops.”
“Boxes of these.” Franny points down at his feet. I can’t believe I hadn’t noticed. He’s wearing these shiny, futuristic-looking sneakers. At first glance they appear to be made of tinfoil.
“They’re amazingly light,” he says, shifting his weight on the track. “I can barely feel them on my feet at all. I could probably dust you both right now.”
Me and Jay look at each other… and bust out laughing.
“Wait,” I say, my laugh trailing off. “You stole those?”
“Think about it,” Franny says. “You’ve got a brand-new product you want to unveil. The hottest thing since Crocs or those stupid toe sneaker things.”
“I like those,” I say.
“You would. But stay with me. You want to launch a new product in a crowded marketplace. What’s the best way to do it?”
“Um, make a commercial?”
“Can’t you see?” Franny pinches the bridge of his nose like we—the two track stars—are unbearably slow. “It’s like I’ve been saying from the beginning. This whole thing is the commercial. They’ve built this whole ‘experience’ to sell these stupid”—he points at his feet—“whatever they are.”
I pace with my hands on my head. “Franny. We can’t be thinking about this right now. We have the biggest race of our lives tomorrow. It’s for a million bucks.”
Franny looks around at the world-class outdoor TV studio. “Drop in the bucket,” he says.
“Huh?”
“A million bucks. Drop in the bucket of an advertising budget for a company like Babblemoney’s. It’s not a prize. It’s an investment. How much you wanna bet you’ll be racing in these tomorrow?”
He’s snapping pictures of the futuristic sneakers from all angles.
“So what?” I say. “Even if everything you say is true… so what? How’s it any different from the Olympics? Or the Super Bowl? It’s all just one big commercial with some sports in between. We still get to race with the whole world watching. One of us still gets the million bucks. That’s all that matters.” I turn to Jay. “Right?”
Jay nods, but he’s squinting like he’s still processing what Franny is telling us. Franny peeks over his shoulder to be sure no one’s listening.
“Wait,” he says. “There’s more.”
36
So you know how we have that Contact Us page on the Grantsylvania site?” he says.
“We do?” I say.
“Yeah. It’s kind of buried. To be honest I j
ust put it on there ’cuz Dad made me. I didn’t think people would actually use it. But they are. We have thousands of messages. I started responding and—hold on, I’ll show you.”
He opens a video chat app on his phone. Seconds later a dark-haired boy our age appears on the screen. I can’t figure out why the kid’s so excited at first—wide-eyed, open-mouthed. Then I realize. He’s starstruck. “Grant!” he says. “Is it really you?”
I wave awkwardly. “Hey.”
“Ah! And is that Jay?”
Jay flashes a peace sign. “What up?”
“This is Hilmi,” Franny says. “He’s from Malaysia. Hold on.” He patches in another boy from China, Xu, and a girl from India, Saanjh.
We’re all on the same video chat.
The kids take turns telling their stories. “A stitching machine exploded,” Saanjh says. “My grandpa was burned. The factory is still open.”
“My mom’s arm was crushed,” says Xu.
“The company covered it up,” Hilmi says. “A man came to give us money, but Mom won’t take it. She says it’s blood money. We don’t know what to do. No one will listen. They’ve paid off the mayor and the newspapers and the TV stations, even the doctors.”
“Do you have evidence?” Franny asks. “Pictures? Videos?”
“Of course,” Hilmi says. “But I’m telling you—no one cares. It’s impossible. There’s nothing we can do.”
Listening to their stories, I can’t help thinking how I would feel if Mom’s arm got crushed, or if Dad’s hands went numb and he couldn’t make art anymore… if they could potentially die just because they’re trying to provide for their family. It sounds so insane—but to these kids it’s real. We just don’t hear about it.
If I’m honest, there’s a part of me that wishes I didn’t know. That I could just go on like before. Chasing my dream without the weight of knowing.
I look over at Jay. Three months ago we were just two kids from East Falls dreaming of fortune and glory.
Three minutes ago we were just two kids caught up in a sneaker company’s marketing scheme.
The Million Dollar Race Page 9
