Titans (9 page)

After church the next morning, I pack a small bag with an extra T-shirt, a clean pair of socks, and a stick of deodorant, planning to sneak out of the house for the day. In previous years, the lineup for the sponsor race was announced the morning of. But since my father didn’t come in to kill me in the middle of the night, and didn’t say anything this morning, I have to believe the list has yet to be revealed.

And I can’t be here when it is.

Zara stops me on the way out the door, a pout on her face. I sling my backpack over my shoulder and glance down the hallway to ensure my mom or, more importantly, my dad, isn’t coming. “You’re leaving again?” she whispers.

I grab her shoulder and give it a friendly shake. “I’ll be back soon enough.”

Zara pulls away, igniting a painful ache in my chest. “You’re gone like Dani is now.”

“That’s not true.”

Or is it?

Zara kicks at a pinkish stain in our dingy carpet and doesn’t reply.

“Look, how about tomorrow you and I hang out all day?”

She shrugs. “It’s weird around here. Dad yelled at Mom last night, and then she left with her garden stuff. She didn’t even come in to tell me good night.”

“She was gone that long?” I ask, surprised. Mom usually stays out late when she goes on a Garden Rescue Mission. But we’re allowed to stay up late during the summer. Late enough so that Mom always pokes her head in to say good night as we’re nodding off, dirt smudged on her cheeks.

I quickly hug Zara to my chest. Then I reposition the backpack and repeat that I have to go, but that I’ll be sure and stick around tomorrow. And to not worry about Mom and Dad. Parents fight. It’s normal.

But it’s not normal. The amount of yelling that happens behind my parents’ bedroom door lately is
not
normal. And I know that what Zara is really afraid of is the same thing I am. That it’s getting worse. That everything in our house feels brittle. Like there’s only a thin layer of ice beneath our feet … and man, is it getting hot in here.

“Things will get better,” I say quietly to my baby sister. “I promise.”

Then I turn and walk out the door, determined to keep my word.

I take Padlock out several times that day. We run two furlongs—a quarter mile—and Rags announces our time. I’m improving, but it’s not good enough to beat previous jockeys’ times, which I’ve memorized. The horse and I do better on the half mile. Even better on the mile. But it isn’t until we reach the three- or four-mile sprints that we excel. All those fractions of a second on turns add up. I know how to hug the curb, and I know how to lean to ensure my Titan is stable.

Numbers tick through my brain until I’m afraid my head will burst. Our only shot is to have a long race tonight. Three miles or more would be best. Two is a must. History doesn’t tell us anything. The other four sponsor races don’t contain numerical trends, though most have been longer than a furlong to give sponsors enough time to make judgments.

I can tell Rags and Barney have the same concern I do. Eventually, Magnolia calls the elephant for what it is.

“So we need a long race tonight, right?” she asks.

“Unless someone has an extra fifty grand on them.” Barney scratches his belly and inspects Padlock.

“They’ll do fine either way,” Rags says. “You never know what race night will bring. That’s what makes the Gambini brothers rich. People match jockey strengths to track lengths and place bets accordingly. But that doesn’t always work or they’d always win.” Rags meets my gaze and says again, “You don’t know what race night will bring.”

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 that 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.