Titans (12 page)

Magnolia comes by the next afternoon when my house is cleared out; Dani with her boyfriend, Zara with my mom at the public splash park, and Dad with Magnolia’s dad, probably drinking an afternoon beer and shaking their fists at early-evening commuters who don’t deserve employment the way they do. Sure as the world turns, they’ll have a deck of cards between them. Playing for quarters. Or nickels. Or the lint in their pockets if that’s all they’ve got.

My friend tiptoes down the hall and then pokes her head around the corner.

I have the dress laid out on the bed.

“Oh, holy mother of Batman,” she whispers. “Where did this come from?”

“My mom.” I step back so she can inch closer, and remember my mother’s bare hands from the night before. “I think she sold her wedding ring.”

Magnolia stops and stares at me. “Things that bad?”

I shrug, because I don’t want to add to her worries. And because it’s not like she told me about her parents visiting the bank on her own. Her brother brought that up. “We need to pay some bills. I’m sure they’ll buy it back after Dad gets a new gig. Or maybe she’ll get a rock this time.”

Magnolia takes the dress and holds it up to her petite frame. She could probably wrap it around herself a time and a half. “Canary yellow,” Magnolia breathes. “Plunging neckline, cap sleeves—it’s beautiful.” Her eyes meet mine. “But it’s the bottom that’s going to kill.”

I stroke the delicate yellow feathers that stretch from hips to floor-length hem, and my heart swells with conflicting emotions. Gratitude that my mother did this, fear that my father will soon find out, shame because I’m afraid I will fail my mom tonight and the expense will be for nothing. I think about the note she left with the gift.

Do your mama one favor. Let me give you this dress quietly. Let me love you this way.

What she meant was,
I don’t want to discuss how I got this, or why I’m giving it to you.
So I honored her wish and didn’t mention it, but guilt sits heavy in my chest. I don’t deserve this kindness. I don’t deserve her faith.

“Think she got it at Goodwill?” Magnolia licks her lips like she’s imagining a Detroit boutique with a carbon copy of this dress in her size. A clothing store we’d never shop in. One with racks of dresses sparkling on well-lit floors, with mirrors that make you look like royalty.

“Probably,” I say. “No way we could have bought this otherwise.”

“I can’t believe the stuff people give away.” Magnolia shakes her head like she’s furious at whoever was thoughtless enough to trade this dress for a tax credit. “Not that I’m complaining in this scenario. Astrid, you’re going to blow their minds tonight! Have you tried it on?”

“Haven’t had a chance. Dani just left.”

Magnolia puts the dress down as if it’s breakable. “I’m going to do your makeup and hair, and because you’re the luckiest vixen to ever walk this here earth, the accessory I made you will still work.”

“Makeover party?” I ask, remembering the celebrity magazines squashed beneath my mattress, thinking about the women with bony arms perched on narrow hips wearing dresses that cost thousands of dollars.

“We’re going to need sodas. Do you have soda?”

“No.”

“We’re not going to need soda. But we will need to go to my house. What time did Rags say we have to be over there?”

I think back to last night. “Seven o’clock.”

Magnolia folds the dress over her arm and smoothes the feathers. “I’ll carry her. It’d be my honor.”

My friend spends the next two hours slathering two pounds of makeup on my face, instructing me to rub her mother’s Jergens lotion all over my body, and even jogging back to my house to grab my good bra—the strapless, nude, push-up number that, okay, actually belongs to Dani. But it’s cool. Sisters can share bras. I mean, what’s the point of siblings if they can’t help in your quest for cleavage?

Magnolia also works on my hair, using a flat iron to straighten it down my back. She then takes a round brush and gathers a chunk of hair near the top of my head and brushes against the grain. I look like an eighties rock star until she flips the hair back over the ratty nest she made.

“Are you ready for your crowning glory?” she asks.

I stand and follow her to her closet, where she withdraws a shoe box wrapped in Calvin Klein advertisements. When she removes the lid, a male model winks at me before being tossed onto the bed.

“I worked on it all morning,” she says, clutching the opened box to her chest.

Goose bumps rise on my skin, because I have a best friend who would work on something for my hair for hours on end. For
my
hair, not hers. A friend who apparently has an online store and could have spent the time making a piece to sell instead.

She brings out an antique floral-shaped brooch with silver stones decorating the interior. Attached to the brooch is an offshoot of black-and-white striped feathers, and the entire piece is attached to a clear headband.

“I brushed black fabric paint over white feathers and laid them out to dry last night. Couldn’t find any zebra-striped ones at the craft store.” Magnolia motions to a chair, and I sit. She slides the headband into place, stopping it right before the spot where my hair poofs. The brooch sits heavily to the right, and the spray of feathers shoots straight up from the side.

“It’s absolutely beautiful.” I stare at my reflection in the mirror, admiring Magnolia’s work. “You could be a makeup artist in addition to selling your headpieces.”

Magnolia sighs dramatically. “I could if these buggers didn’t take up every spare second I have.” She heaves the yellow dress over her arm. “It’s a good thing your mom picked a neutral number. Now you can still pull off the headband and heels without clashing.”

My friend helps me slip the dress over my head, and when we’re done fitting it around my hips and adjusting the neckline, Magnolia’s brother barges through the door. He takes one look at me from beneath his shaggy hair and skater clothes and says, “Dang, Astrid. You look like a brick house in that dress.”

My cheeks flame even though the comment is coming from a guy I’ve known since pre–voice change.

“Oh, gross!” Magnolia shoves him backward and slams the door. After he yells something about dinner, my friend returns her attention to me. “Sorry about the troll. But, yeah, you totally do look amazing.”

She hurries to pull on the outfit I’d originally intended to wear, minus the zebra pumps, and positions a large red flower in her hair. “We’ve got to run. As glamorous as we look, we still have to walk our rears over to Rags’s place for a lift.”

“Out the window?” I ask.

“Like true ladies.” Magnolia slides the glass open and I wrangle myself through, wondering how often her parents find their daughter missing from her room. And why they haven’t thought to get a lock on this thing. And why my friend has such an aversion to doors.

Rags lets us into his entryway when we arrive, tells us to stay there, and dashes off. A week ago, this would make me wonder what he’s hiding in his house. But now I know it’s just Rags being his usual bizarre self. When he returns, I take in the man’s blue suit and white button-down. He’s even wearing a red bow tie, though I never would have pegged him as a bow tie kind of guy.

“So you do own clothing that’s not covered in grease,” I say.

“So you do know how to dress like a girl,” he replies. Rags wipes a hand over his freshly shaved jawline, and produces something from behind his back. “The girl jockeys wear these sometimes.”

I glance down at the white rose corsage bound in a plastic tub, and my mouth pulls into a smile. “You got me this?”

“Wasn’t going to get red, obviously. Just put it on. We’re meeting Barney in the parking lot.”

He locks the door and trudges toward his truck, shoulders slumped like the blue suit he’s wearing causes him physical pain. We arrive at the Marriott at the Renaissance Center after a twenty-minute drive, and when I see the building where the ball will take place, my insides flutter. It’s enormous, with blue lights snapping against a dark sky, and the Detroit River cutting a path directly behind the hotel.

Barney meets us in the parking lot wearing a brown suit, brown shirt, and brown dress shoes. Magnolia tells him he looks like a grizzly bear with a Godiva addiction, and he beams, decidedly satisfied with this description.

“Remember what I told you,” Rags says as he motions toward the hotel entryway.

I remember. A twenty-minute drive isn’t long, but it is when your manager is telling you what to do, and what not to do, at lightning speed the entire way. Then asking if you heard him every few seconds.

Magnolia straightens the headpiece in my hair, and then nods with such sincerity, I almost laugh. We’ve got two old men who lost their positions at Hanover Steel, one with an obvious chip on his shoulder, a girl whose family is facing foreclosure and smiles anyway, and me, with my own family to worry about.

But now I worry about these three as well. Because they’ve done so much to help me fight my way into the Titan season, each with their own reasons—revenge, perhaps, or to reminisce, or to forget. I need a sponsor to have a chance at saving my family, but it’s quickly becoming more than that. I
want
a sponsor, to keep these three mismatched people by my side. Because whether I’ll admit it aloud or not, these past few days have been incredible. I want to win for Magnolia because of the overwhelming support she’s given me. And for Rags and Barney too, who have invested their time, knowledge, and resources, and placed their dreams gently in my hands.

I straighten my dress and stride into the Marriott.

Confidence courses through me, much more than it should, until we spill into the ballroom. Until I see the circus I’ll be facing tonight. Until I spot the jockeys with their designer clothing, elegant stances, and polished smiles.

I cling to Rags’s comment before we stepped out of his truck.

Just get a silver ticket, Astrid. That’s all we need. Just one ticket.

Just one chance
.

Fourteen wooden boxes sit at the front of the ballroom, and I seem to be the only jockey worried about their presence. Nameplates are attached to each one, and mine is the farthest to the right.

SULLIBAN

“Did they spell your last name wrong?” Magnolia squints at the box.

Rags curses under his breath, says something about it being done on purpose, and stomps toward the Gambini brothers.

“He’s going to get us kicked out if he’s not careful,” Barney says. “It’s a miracle he was able to talk them into letting us continue at all.”

“Yeah, how did he do that anyway?” Magnolia asks.

Barney lifts a glass of champagne from a waiter’s serving round. “Printed some literature from their site that supports his argument that it doesn’t have to be the most recent model of Titan to race. But I think it has more to do with their investor Bruce.” He points his glass toward the tall man that’s been Arvin Gambini’s shadow this summer. “He also happens to work for the
Chicago Tribune
.”

I study the man, his green pocket square and black suit. He has a long face and broad shoulders. He’s maybe in his late forties, but even I see the attractiveness he’s worn since childhood. Bold, brown eyes survey the room, and when they fall on a female, smiles are exchanged.

“Why is an investor from Chicago here?” I ask.

“Because Arvin Gambini is looking to franchise the tracks, and Chicago is as good a city as any. Plus, that guy from the
Tribune
has the publicity angle covered, which we all know Arvin craves. So, yeah, I think he let Rags get his way because the last thing he wants right now is a spectacle.”

Over the next two hours, sponsors dressed in red jackets make their way around the room. Their nametags announce who they are and what companies they work for. I speak with each of them, fidgeting with the feathers on my skirt and the flowers on my wrist the entire time. There are even a couple of individual investors who stop by for appearances’ sake, but neither talks with me for more than a couple of minutes.

Only one man, early thirties with a shaved head and sad eyes, chats with me in earnest. He asks me about taking those turns, and whether it’s something I think I’ll improve on. He also asks about my straightaways, and has my manager considered upgrading the engine to match the other Titans? Because I could be a real contender to watch if, for example, some company could pay for that upgrade. The man keeps digging in his pocket like the secrets to the universe lie in his pocket lint. He asks me one last question.

“Would you be willing to work with a new manager? Someone who had connections and could place you in a new light?”

I tell him, politely, no. I like the light I come from. And I wouldn’t be here without Rags. I’m Warren County through and through, and I refuse to pretend to be something I’m not to appease these people.

The man squeezes my arm, gives a head nod that causes a bolt of hopefulness to shoot through me, and then leaves to network with a different jockey—a jockey who wears a fur shrug even though it’s summer, and lifts slender fingers to allow the sponsor to kiss her hand.

“So weird,” I mutter.

Magnolia trots back over, despite Rags’s specific instructions to keep away, and asks me how my last meet-and-greet went.

“Not as bad as the others,” I admit, watching as the man moves away from Hand Kiss Girl and inspects the room, as if he’s not sure what to do with himself now. I’m about to tell Magnolia what he asked me to gauge what she thinks, when Arvin Gambini’s voice rings through the room.

“Hello, everyone, I’m Arvin Gambini, as many of you may know.”

Arvin’s entourage chuckles, ready to touch up his hair or spritz cologne on him at a moment’s notice.

“I want to thank you for coming out tonight,” he adds quickly, immediately launching into business. “Matching sponsors with jockeys is a very important part of the Titan racing business, and the last step before we announce the official jockey-sponsor lineup and release the racing schedule.”

Arvin waves a hand toward the boxes, and then again at a side door in the ballroom. “At this time we’ll ask that the sponsors drop their silver tickets into the boxes of the jockeys they’d like to make formal offers to, and we’ll ask that the jockeys exit through the side door to Ballroom B for dancing. You’ll be called one at a time to enter the interview wing, and if any sponsors have dropped a silver ticket into your box, they will be there waiting for you in one of the three interview rooms.”

My eyes flick to Rags, and he nods toward the side door like,
Go on. You heard the rat
.

Magnolia squeals by my side and grabs my arm. “Let’s go! I want to see how many jockeys I can dance with.”

“Uh, you’re not supposed to flirt with the competition,” I say as the two of us follow after the other jockeys and their team members.

“Don’t worry, I have a plan. I’ll make them fall madly in love with me, and then
bam
, I’ll break their hearts and they’ll lose their Titan-racing concentration and the gold medal will be ours.”

“I don’t think there’s really a medal.”

“You’re missing the point.”

Magnolia and I exit through the side door, and my pulse quickens along my neck. A ballroom filled with dance partners who also serve as the competition. I can only imagine how this will go down.