Titans (11 page)

Sweat runs down my face as I bring Padlock to a stop, fall forward on him and gasp to fill my lungs because all my oxygen is gone. It’s been stolen by the race. By the people pressing against the gates and the photographers snapping photos of the winner.

The person who will proceed to the Titan Summer Circuit, free of charge.

His silk is blue, a color that is all wrong on him, according to Magnolia. He removes his helmet, and then a red handkerchief tied around his mouth. Anger swells inside me like a storm cloud threatening to burst open. He stole my win. The same boy who spat that I’d never sit upon a Titan. But I did, didn’t I?

I raced today.

And I lost.

In all fairness, I guess I wouldn’t have won anyway. Sixteen other horses finished before me in addition to Blondie Who I Want to Punch. I secured sixteenth place out of forty-two. On a better day, maybe I’d be thrilled. I rode a Titan against more experienced jockeys and I wasn’t in last place. But I’m not thrilled. Because now I have to go home and hope my father finds a job and hope that the bank will hold off long enough for him to get his first paycheck and hand it over. Everything I was racing for rushes back over me. Even the anger at Blondie fades under the pressure that threatens to crush my whole family.

I slide out of the saddle and remove my helmet, ready to lead Padlock back to the stables, when the cameras turn away from the winner and start snapping photos of me and my Titan. Dirt is smeared across my face and forearms, and my entire body shakes from exertion, but the flashes don’t stop. A female reporter leans across the gate, calling out, “Hey, Sullivan, what kind of horse is that? Is it the next edition? A Titan 4.0?” A second reporter elbows the woman out of the way and calls out, “Who are you? You’re listed on the board but aren’t in the program. Are you a late addition? Who’s your manager?”

Padlock shies away from the flashes, stepping back until his rear bumps into something solid. Almost immediately, my Titan is shoved forward. I turn away from the reporters and see that a Titan 3.0 has head-butted my horse. Padlock lowers his own head, seemingly embarrassed. I jog over, but before I can console him, Padlock incurs a second hit from a different Titan.

“Hey,” I yell, facing the Titan’s owner.

A jockey dressed in orange merely laughs. She finished in second place, has the smug smile to prove it, and is giggling with another jockey and pointing at my Titan. I glance around and notice several other jockeys have dismounted and are gawking at Padlock, some laughing, some giving looks of disgust.

“Way to spaz out on those turns,” a jockey hollers, his cheeks scarlet. “Flailing idiots. Almost got the rest of us hurt.”

“We weren’t flailing. We’d done turns like that—” I try to explain myself, stupidly, but now managers are joining their jockeys and scrutinizing Padlock.

“That horse shouldn’t be here,” a burly man accuses, his thick arm around a jockey’s shoulders. “It’s not a 3.0.”

“If it isn’t a 3.0, it should be disqualified,” someone yells.

“Poseur horse,” a jockey coughs under his breath, making a bystander laugh.

I turn in a circle, realizing jockeys and managers alike are taking the opportunity to turn their loss into background noise. The real spectacle is this faux Titan. And if they can peg me and him as freaks, then maybe the sponsors won’t think too hard about who won and who didn’t. After all, don’t they see how that one Titan messed things up for everybody?

As more reporters close in, lured by the frenzy and bloodlust, I feel a slight brush on my back. When I spin around, I find Padlock trying to hide his head between my shoulder blades. He raises his muzzle for a moment, takes in the flashes and accusatory fingers and loud words, and cowers once again.

That’s when I see it for the first time.

The fear and shame in his eyes.

The
emotion
.

It isn’t a programmed response. The Titan is actually afraid, and sadness crinkles the corners of his heavily lashed eyelids. Fury builds in the pit of my stomach until it feels as though steam will shoot from my ears like every cartoon character I’ve ever seen. I spin around, my hands forming fists, and I face the first reporter I see.

“Are you seeking a sponsor?” a man in a white starched shirt calls out.

“Yes,” I answer. “My Titan and I are looking into our options now.”

“Are you saying you’ve already been approached?” another one asks.

“Several times. What I’m riding is a Titan 1.0, the first edition ever built. The
best
edition ever built. I’ve trained for less than a week, and this horse still beat out twenty-six others tonight. I have no doubt a better-prepared jockey would have won.”

My eyes find the blond boy, and he scowls.

“So you’ll be at Travesty Ball?” This question comes from a woman without a microphone.

“If I don’t sign with a sponsor before then, yes.”

Rags reaches me before I can dig myself in any deeper. “Get in the saddle,” he hisses. “Go back to the stables and wait for Barney.”

“Where’s Magnolia?” I whisper beneath the shout of the reporters.

Rags gives me a look like he’s going to strangle me for stalling, so I pull myself up onto a frightened Padlock. I’d like to give them one more piece of me. One more false smile and wave.

Look how confident I am! Put
that
on your front page
.

But when I see Arvin Gambini, his brother, Theo, and the tall man from our church stomping toward Rags, I know it’s time to skedaddle. Rags unrolls the papers still clutched in his fist like he’s ready to go to war, and heads toward the brothers.

I ride past the other Titans as more bulbs flash and jockeys yell for my horse to be disqualified. Even the crowd outside the gates seems uncertain. Do they want me to stay so they can bet on me? Or should they join the mob and cast me out?

Also, who is this girl they’ve never seen before?

No one special
, I want to tell them.
A moron who ran her mouth without thinking
.

When I get Padlock back into our unmarked stall, I dismount and watch as he cowers in the corner. “No way,” I tell him, stepping close and meeting his eyes so he knows I’m serious. “Don’t you dare let them make you feel bad. Did you see what we did out there? We passed more than half the Titans on that track. Titans with newer engines, being steered by jockeys much more qualified than I’ll ever be. You were amazing, Padlock.” I smile at him, run my eyes over his sleek exterior and steel-threaded mane. My heart clenches. “You
are
amazing.”

“You’re amazing too,” someone says.

Magnolia stands outside the stall with a look of awe on her face. “You really did it.”

I pat Padlock on the side. “Actually, I didn’t. This horse could have won. But I didn’t know what I was doing out there.”

“Coulda fooled me.”

“Me too,” Barney adds, coming into view and opening the stall door. “And what you said to those reporters. Oh, man. The Gambini brothers are going to have a hard time kicking you out now. On one hand, we made Arvin look like an idiot. On the other, he needs all the publicity he can get.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Expansion.”

“What do you mean,
expansion
?” I ask, but before Barney can answer, Rags rushes into the stall.

“I did it,” he says, his orange vest glowing beneath the buzzing stable lights. “Er, maybe you did it. Either way, they’re going to let us stay.”

“Stay?” My brow furrows. “What do you mean? It’s over. I lost.”

Rags raises his eyebrows, and I grasp what he’s implying.

“You can’t seriously think we should try for a sponsor,” I say. “I was upset out there. I acted like a cocky brat, and no one is going to want to work with me or an old, outdated Titan.”

Padlock huffs, and I rub between his eyes. “You know what I mean,” I mutter to the horse.

“A cocky brat is exactly what we needed. If we’re lucky, we might actually get an interview at the ball. All we need is one chance. Heck, if we could get a partial sponsorship, maybe we could come up with a way to get the rest.”

“I could make you a hair accessory to end all hair accessories,” Magnolia breathes.

I look back and forth between Barney, who is grinning, Magnolia, who is rubbing her hands together, and Rags, who looks in every way like a certified madman.

“If we don’t get a sponsor at the ball, we’ll look like idiots,” I say.

“Complete and total idiots,” Rags agrees.

I bite my upper lip. “But you think there’s a chance?”

The architect shrugs. “Sometimes sponsors fight for the jockey that makes the most noise over one slated to win. Not always, but it happens.”

I scratch behind Padlock’s ear, and think how crazy it is that we’d even try for a sponsor. But we’ve come this far, and though we didn’t win today, I’m not sure we really expected to either. Why not push this further? “We did make a little noise today, didn’t we?” I say. My steel horse leans into my touch, and with my family’s future thick in my chest, I turn so that Rags can’t see my face.

“I don’t even own a gown,” I mumble.

“I can dig up an outfit for you,” Magnolia offers. “It won’t be ball-worthy, but it’ll be eye-catching.”

I look at Rags to measure his reaction.

“Might go along with the whole noise angle,” he suggests.

I smile down at my hands, and crack my fingers one by one. Something I’ve seen my dad do a thousand times when he’s lost in his head. “Okay,” I say, “if we’re vying for four idiot awards, we may as well go all out.”

On Tuesday, after I’ve spent a morning with Zara at the park, Magnolia and I ride with Rags to training. It’s wishful thinking, we know, but it feels good to break a sweat in the Detroit summer heat. Travesty Ball is tomorrow, and while the other jockeys are busy with clothes fittings and getting their teeth whitened and trimming their hair—
not too much off the top, not too much!
—my horse and I run.

No matter how we try, though, we can’t find a solution to the straightaway problem. The fact is, Padlock can’t compete when it comes to sheer speed. The turns are where we have our advantage. So as night falls, we give up and return to our ramshackle neighborhood. Where my house is. Where my
dad
is.

Dad doesn’t seem to know about the races. Could be because I trashed the local paper before he could see it. The one that ran a quarter-page story about the winner, with a few lines about the second- and third-place jockeys. And at the very bottom, a short mention of the Sullivan girl, who ran a controversial Titan 1.0, who may or may not make an appearance at Travesty Ball.

Somehow, some way, I limboed under my dad’s radar.

But that wouldn’t last forever.

“I’m still amazed you didn’t kill yourself during the sponsor race,” Rags says, interrupting my thoughts.

I lean against his still-warm truck as Magnolia inspects her nails. “And I’m amazed the Gambini brothers didn’t burn us at the stake,” I tell him.

He rubs the back of his neck. “You could have gotten hurt out there racing the way you did.”

“You knew how I raced,” I respond. “Besides, what would you care if I injured myself?”

In true Rags fashion, the man grimaces. “I don’t. Not my problem if you want to race recklessly.”

Magnolia snorts, and I look down to keep from laughing. Rags talks a big game, but we know he cares more than he’ll ever admit. My head falls to one side and I say, “Why do you go by that name,
Rags
? Is it short for something?”

Even in the darkness, I see the blush creep into his cheeks. “Ask Barney. He’ll enjoy telling the story, I’m sure.”

“I’m asking you.”

He tugs on his hunting vest and mumbles, “Thought about switching from Titan architect to engineer.”

“And?”

“And so maybe I made a few messes in the Hanover chop shop while I was figuring things out,” he barks.

I have to swallow a breath to keep from laughing, because yeah, it would have been great to hear Barney tell this story. “Messes the engineers had to clean up with a bunch of
rags
?”

“Messes
I
had to clean up.” His voice grows stern. “What does it matter? It showed I was totally vested in the Titan. Not like any of those hacks could design a single Titan part to save their lives.”

I want nothing more than to tease Rags about his nickname, but he must take some element of pride in it or he wouldn’t have introduced himself as such. Plus, I like it too. I can absolutely picture the guy being caught red-handed, grease smudged across his cheeks, oil dripping down the sides of a Frankenstein-type Titan. I bet those
hackers
had a good laugh when they found him in their shop. Threw their well-washed rags at him and slapped him on the back as they held their guts and crowed.

“Good night, old man,” I say.

Rags grunts.

A few minutes later, I’m parked on Magnolia’s bed, clothes strewn across her room as if her closet had an exorcism. My best friend has narrowed the choices to two outfits, and both make me cringe for different reasons.

“Classy and dangerous,” Magnolia purrs, lifting black leggings, a long red V-neck blouse, and black pumps into the air, “ooor, sexy and dangerous.” She plucks a pair of zebra-striped pumps from the ground and holds them next to the same leggings and blouse.

I fall back on the bed, realizing it doesn’t matter what shoes I wear. I’ll still be underdressed and out of place at this ball. But when I see my friend’s face fall, I manage an enthusiastic grin. “The zebra shoes for sure.”

“Really?” she squeaks. “I didn’t think you’d make the right choice, but I see you have vision when it matters.”

I cover my face with her pillow as Magnolia launches into how she can
absolutely, positively make an animal-inspired headpiece tonight to accentuate the heels,
and lift the pillow back up when I hear someone knocking.

“If that’s you, Brandon, I’m going to scream.”

“Mom needs whatever you have,” he says through the door.

Magnolia throws an anxious look my way, so I sit up in bed, alarmed but not sure why. She opens the door a fraction for her older brother and whispers furiously. I can’t make out what she says, but I hear him clear enough.

“Didn’t you make anything from your stupid online store?” he says, annoyance lacing his voice. More whispers from Magnolia, and then, “Come on, Mag, give me what you have. They’re going down there tomorrow.”

Magnolia slams the door in his face, avoids my gaze, and crosses the room. She pulls her blond hair into a pony, and then lets it fall down her back.

“Mag?” I say, in a much softer voice than her brother used.

She ignores me and reaches into a white chest of drawers that’s covered in glittery Hello Kitty stickers. She withdraws an envelope and marches back to the door as Brandon pounds on it. Pulling it open, she shoves the envelope into his chest.

This time, I hear what she says. “That’s everything.”

She slams the door a second time, and I hear Brandon padding down the hallway. Magnolia won’t meet my gaze after he’s gone.

“What’s going on?” I lean against her headboard, my stomach churning.

When Magnolia looks up, her eyes are red. She’s not crying, and I don’t expect her to, but it’s clear she’s upset. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and start to approach her, but she moves toward her closet, putting distance between us. “My parents are going to the bank tomorrow. See if they can keep them from foreclosing on the house.”

The wind is knocked out of me, and the room starts to spin. “Do your parents have enough? Do you think they’ll let you stay?”

She starts rehanging clothes, but doesn’t turn around. “I don’t know. Maybe enough for a month or two because of Mom’s part-time gig. But if Dad doesn’t find something soon, he’s going to start looking elsewhere before …”

“Before the new school year starts,” I finish for her.

Magnolia spins around. “Look, can we not talk about it? It doesn’t do any good. I want to concentrate on this. On what shoes you’ll wear to Travesty Ball. I don’t care how petty that is. It’s what I need right now, okay?”

“Okay.” I stand up, my legs quaking. “I should probably get going anyway. It’ll give you space to work your magic on my headpiece. It better be good.”

Magnolia smiles, and it almost lights up her face. “Could anything I make be less than perfection?”

“Not a chance.” I walk toward her window, and then, because everyone needs to be blindsided by a hug once in a while, I throw my arms around her. “I’ll never let go, Jack. I’ll never let go.”

She hugs me for three full seconds before shoving me off. “Ugh. That movie is so old.”

“
Titanic
is a classic.” I slide her window up and say over my shoulder, “Everything will be okay, Mag. We’re factory families. This happens sometimes, but it always gets better. Your dad will find something last minute just like mine will.”

“Oh, I know,” she says, waving off the encouragement.

But she doesn’t really know if it’ll get better. And neither do I. All I
do
know is that our families are both on the brink of losing their homes. And that Magnolia and I could lose each other in the process. Even if my dad ends up finding work here last minute, what are the chances that both our dads will? And what are the chances that their habits won’t put us in this same position a year from now?

The pressure of this realization weighs on my spine as I make my way home. When I see my mother working in Ms. Padison’s yard, darkness cloaked over her shoulders, I’m flooded with relief. There’s something about seeing her doing the same things she’s done for the last five years that’s soothing.

She hears me approaching and her head appears from behind a butterfly bush.

“Just pruning the right side,” she says, as if the bush belongs to me.

I watch her hands working lightly over the thin branches and purple flowers. There’s a pile of trimmings at her feet. “Mom, did you ever have a best friend?”

She wipes the sweat from her brow, but doesn’t stop working. “Sure I did. Several.”

“Where are they now?”

“Oh, most are still in Texas. My family moved when I was fifteen.”

She doesn’t need to say any more. I’m shadowing my mother’s own life. Born to a factory family, slave to job openings and union negotiations. She moved twice before meeting my dad in Milwaukee. The third time her parents moved, she stayed behind, a shiny gold band encircling her finger, a shiny new factory man on her arm.

“Are you and Magnolia okay?” she asks.

I watch her hands more closely, and a nagging sensation spiders up the back of my mind. I feel like I’m missing something. “Yeah, Mom. We’re fine. I’m just worried about next year.”

Her back straightens, but still her hands flutter over the bush, pale and nimble in the moonlight. “No te preocupes, my little girl. Things have a way of working out.”

“You’re right,” I say, because it’s what she wants to hear. And because I didn’t catch everything she said, though half of me is made of her. I throw my mom a backward wave and head toward our house, but Mom calls out before I reach our sidewalk.

“Astrid?”

I glance back at her.

She stops pruning the butterfly bush.

“I left something for you under your bed. Don’t let Dani or Zara see it. Or …”

Or Dad. Regardless of what it is, don’t let Dad see it
.

“You’re my little shooting star, right, baby?”

“That’s right, Mom.” I’m frozen where I stand. I don’t know what she’s getting at, but I’ve been hiding a massive secret and I’m afraid the first whistle has been blown.

“Mamas worry about their baby birds.” She returns her attention to the neglected bush. “But that doesn’t mean we don’t want them to fly.”

I look one last time at her long fingers, making things beautiful as silent clouds tiptoe by overhead. Then I jog toward the house, dying to know what secret she left for me beneath my bed.