Titans (15 page)

For the next two days following Travesty Ball, I train with Rags. Magnolia comes along on Friday, so she’s there when I attempt—for the hundredth time—to race Padlock off-track. The lesson is simple: learn to trust my Titan enough to use autopilot. But I can’t get the image of that first day out of my head; the one where Padlock ran like a feral animal. He seemed faster then, sure, but he also seemed volatile, and I’m not sure I could have reined him in the way Rags did.

So I tell my manager, when Padlock and I dive into the mouth of the forest, that I engage the autopilot for a few seconds longer each time. He drives to the other side of the dense crop of trees and waits with a stopwatch while Magnolia cheers me on. But I never get faster. Not that I’m slow. Far from it, Rags says. But of course the constant turns Padlock and I make to avoid tree trunks and thick, claustrophobic foliage work to our advantage. Still, according to Rags we should be gaining speed with each run, at least a fraction. Padlock is programmed to learn patterns and anticipate almost any challenge when operating on his own.

“Plus,” Rags says, pulling on his stubbled chin, “the horse should want to improve. It should want to win.”

Yeah, sure, maybe computers can want things
, I think to myself.
But not the way I do
.

“Maybe it’s because it lacks competition,” Magnolia suggests. “When Astrid switches him to autopilot, maybe he’s not running at his fullest potential because there aren’t other Titans around.”

Barney quirks an eyebrow. “Not a bad theory.”

Rags considers this. “Astrid, you
sure
you’re using autopilot?”

“Yep.”

Nope
.

“And you’re keeping it on longer each time?”

“Yep.”

Nope
.

He shoves his hands into his hunting vest. “Maybe we should have you start on autopilot and see what happens.”

Tension forms a tight ball between my shoulder blades, and I’m afraid I’m going to have to actually attempt this autopilot business. Rags glances at me sideways, as if he’s had me figured out this whole time and is just now calling me out on my lying.

Barney is mumbling his agreement that this is a good idea when I hear the sound of a vehicle approaching. I turn in Padlock’s saddle and spot a pearl-pink luxury sedan cruising down Barney’s drive. The Jaguar emblem on the front has been replaced with a shiny
L
set with giant rhinestones.

Rags curses under his breath as the Jag pulls off the gravel drive and heads straight toward us, slicing a path through the tall grass. I see Lottie smiling through the windshield as bright as that sparkling
L
announcing her arrival. She’s still grinning when she steps out of the car.

“I don’t know who you are,” Magnolia breathes as my sponsor climbs out of the car. “But I know I like you.”

Lottie laughs easily. “You must be Astrid’s friend. I’m glad I’m met with approval.”

“With a car like that, you’re met with my deepest respect and servitude.”

“Would you like to drive it?”

Magnolia’s eyeballs nearly burst from her head. “I don’t … I don’t have a license. I got my permit, but I never took the test.”

“How’d you find this place, Lottie?” Rags asks, interrupting their conversation.

“I’ve been here before, remember?” Lottie glances back at Magnolia. “You can drive it around Barney’s property, if he doesn’t mind. Just don’t take it on the main roads.”

Magnolia looks at Barney, and Barney looks at the Jaguar.

“I ain’t gonna be seen driving a pink car,” Barney says gruffly, but he’s already walking toward the vehicle, running his fingers lightly over the hood and licking his lips.

Lottie tosses Magnolia the keys, and just like that I’m abandoned by my best friend. Barney slips in the passenger seat, pointing to the gauges excitedly, his mouth moving silently behind the windshield.

The woman chuckles. “How are you, Astrid?”

Deciding I’m being rude, I dismount and come to stand beside Rags. “I’m good. Thanks.”

For the first time, I see Lottie is holding a large envelope in her left hand. When she sees I’ve noticed it, she brings it to her chest as if she’s afraid I’ll steal it away. “I brought the season schedule,” she says, her eyes running over Rags’s face. “They’ll announce it tonight along with the jockey-sponsor lineup, but I wanted to show it to you as soon as possible.”

This time, Rags can’t hide his enthusiasm. He rushes toward Lottie and snatches the envelope. Lottie steps in closer as he studies the schedule, stopping occasionally to look at her as if she were giving off a manure-esque smell.

“There was a separate packet that included information on the Circuit Gala, and interview opportunities. The Gambinis are really putting on the works this year.”

Rags hands me the schedule.

“I guess the preliminary races will be harder than the sponsor race, huh?” I ask.

“Bet your bottom they will be. A lot of those jockeys don’t put in much effort during the sponsor race because they’ve already aligned with someone beforehand. Don’t want to push their horse too hard before they have to.” My manager shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. You’ve proven you can run with the best of them.”

“Why is that?” Lottie asks sincerely.

Rags glances at her like he’s seriously considering feeding her to an alligator, if only he could locate a handy swamp. “The kid’s got a gift. What are you trying to say?”

“Oh, I didn’t mean anything—” Lottie begins, but I cut her off.

“It’s fine. Honestly, I think we were all surprised my Titan did as well as it did last Sunday. I like the turns because I can calculate how to lean into them, I suppose. But really, it’s the horse. It was well-designed and well-built.”

Rags’s face brightens from my compliment. “Baloney. The kid races well because she has more to lose, and more to gain. Simple as that.”

“So she’s a fighter,” Lottie chances. “She’s fighting for what she wants.”

Oh, man. That look. Rags glares at Lottie, his jaw working back and forth. Whatever she said struck a serious nerve. After an uncomfortable moment, he takes the schedule back. “First prelim is next week. We need to start training harder, and get you prepped for the circuit races at the same time.”

“Those are the ones with the jams, right?” I ask.

Rags meets my gaze. “Don’t be afraid of those.”

“I’m not.” I square my shoulders, and Padlock nudges me from behind, reminding me he’s there, and that he’s also unafraid. Or so I like to believe.

“You’ve got a lot of training to do,” Lottie agrees. “But don’t forget I need her from time to time.”

“What the heck for?” Rags challenges.

“For publicity training,” she responds. “And to learn about her competition. She can’t effectively outrace the other jockeys until she understands them.”

Rags looks at me like I had a hand in what this woman’s proposing, but actually, what she’s saying makes sense. So I shrug and utter, “It’s in the contract.”

My manager grumbles about the “blasted contract” and something about a “devil woman,” and eventually waves his fingers at Lottie’s face, excusing her from our space. Then he all but shoves me into the saddle and instructs me to run the same path, and that he’ll meet me on the other side.

He leaves Lottie standing alone in the tall grass as he beelines for his truck, and I shrug an apology, not sure what to say. Padlock prances beneath me, showing off for our new company.

I check my Titan’s gauges and reposition my feet in the stirrups, readying myself to shoot through the forest. I even allow my finger to linger over the autopilot switch in case Rags is watching.

“Faster this time,” Rags roars out the driver’s side window. “Eight days until the first prelim!”

On Sunday afternoon, two days after she first arrived, Lottie demands her first hour-long block.

Magnolia is beside herself with excitement.

Barney has cleared a room in his colossal, albeit crumbling, farmhouse, and says we can use it to do our “girl stuff.”

“How was church this morning?” Magnolia asks.

“Awkwardness at its finest,” I respond. I’m not sure my family said more than ten words to one another.

“Good times.” Magnolia cringes as we climb the burping stairs, eyeing the dusty black-and-white photographs of people we’ve never met, places we’ve never been. “Do you think Barney inherited this place?” she asks, changing the subject.

“Without a doubt,” I respond. “He got his hands on this house because his daddy left it to him, and he does nothing to keep it maintained. But that’s Barney for you. He’d be just as happy living in the barn, and that’s why you can’t hate him for lucking into a place like this.”

Magnolia runs her hand over damask wallpaper that peels at the corner. “It could be beautiful.”

When Lottie hears us coming, she pokes her head out of the small room and grins. Her dark hair is pulled into a French braid, and she no longer wears the makeup she did at Travesty Ball. I can see her more clearly this way, though her features are less defined.

“Magnolia, I’m thrilled you’ve decided to join us.”

“Uh, I wouldn’t miss this for the world. Any woman who drives a pink Jaguar is someone I’d like to learn from.”

Magnolia drops down in a chair, crosses her legs, and folds her hands on her knees. “Annnd … begin.”

Lottie laughs and glances in my direction. “I take it you aren’t quite as enthusiastic.”

“I need all the time I can get on Padlock,” I admit. “But you’re my sponsor, and we made a deal.”

Lottie crosses the room to where oversized sheets of paper are pinned to the wall. She picks up a red Sharpie from a cleared table and writes these words:

Etiquette

Grace

Aspirations

Loyalty

Strength

She sets the pen down. “We’re going to learn about these five words every day, for an hour a day, except Sundays.”

Magnolia raises her hand.

“Yes, Magnolia?”

“Today is Sunday.”

“Today is an exception.”

Magnolia nods like this is the most obvious thing in the world.

Lottie sets her gaze on me. “The first thing we’ll go into detail on is etiquette. But because your first public race is in six days, we’ll briefly touch on the others as we go along. Do you understand?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Got it.”

Lottie smiles. “Sit up, dear. And from here on out, you’ll call me ma’am. This falls under the umbrella of etiquette, which are societal rules set by the upper class.”

“But I’m not upper class.”

“No, you’re not. And don’t you ever be ashamed of that. But proper etiquette is a language in which you should be fluent. That way you can communicate with anyone, on any level, and gain their respect. You don’t always have to use this language, but you’ll have it in case you need it.”

“Cool,” I say.

Lottie stares at me until I modify my response.

“Uh, that’s cool,
ma’am
.”

Magnolia rubs her hands over her thighs. “I’m going to like this. I can tell.” She opens her arms. “I am but a piece of clay, madam. Make me into something more.”

“Shut it, Mag,” I mutter.

She sticks her tongue out. “Bite me.”

Lottie returns to the board. She draws five lines from the word
etiquette
and attaches those lines to new words—meals, gifts, invitations, attire, language. “For the next hour, we’ll go into detail on how to eat a proper meal, and the utensils you should be familiar with. We’ll discuss what gifts are appropriate to give, at what times, to what people, and what amount is proper to spend. We’ll talk about invitations, and how it’s important to extend them to people of influence even if we don’t prefer those people, and how to respond to invitations we are granted.

“Using me as an example, we’ll also go over proper attire for different occasions, and how to put an outfit together that is both timeless and enviable by those of all ages and social statures.”

Magnolia especially enjoys this last part, asking for a pen and paper to jot down ideas. When I glance at her, she mouths,
I got you
, as if she knows I’ll never remember Lottie’s points when it comes to dressing myself.

“Language,” Lottie says, “is something I’ll teach you over time. It’s a delicate balance, speech. You want to use proper grammar and address people with respect, but you also don’t want to lose your roots. Try too hard when you’re speaking into a camera, and you’ll come off as pompous. Don’t try at all, and you’ll come off as ignorant. You need to find a balance of educated and approachable.” She picks up a small booklet and hands it to me. “These are presidential addresses, both major and minor. I want you to read through the more recent ones, in the back. Notice how the president uses words that are confident and precise, but never words that the common man wouldn’t have in his vocabulary.”

Magnolia nearly falls out of her chair to get a look at the little yellow book.

I clutch it between my hands with an eagerness that causes my cheeks to warm.