Titans (17 page)

Batter. That’s the name of the jockey who’s built more like a doughnut than an éclair. Where the rest of the jockeys are lean, aware of how extra pounds could slow their Titans, Batter is round with a swollen belly folding over his saddle horn.
They call him Batter
is what Lottie said.
As in, cake batter
.

His parents apparently own two high-end toy stores in Detroit, places that sell one-of-a-kind keepsakes. Have an old sweater from Penn State? Batter’s family’s toy stores can use the fabric to create a soft, dough-faced elephant for your new, bouncing baby girl. The family isn’t rich, but they have one child who’s never been told
no
.

Batter is a boy who is used to getting what he wants. He has blind confidence, something Lottie says I shouldn’t ignore.

My eyes sweep over three more jockeys. Jockeys Lottie singled out on paper as being the front-runners this summer. The first is a girl no taller than five feet with a bright streak of blue running through her hair. Her parents christened her Roxanne, but she goes by Skeet on the track. Lottie writes that she’s a scrapper.
Gets into fights on and off the track. A foul-mouthed twenty-something who wouldn’t know proper mannerisms if they slapped her across her heavily rouged cheek
. Lottie’s words, not mine.

Skeet got the money for her Titan from an uncle who died weaving his Porsche 911 through traffic on 8 Mile Road. When he passed away, he left behind a will bequeathing 2.4 million dollars to Skeet, and a winning strategy for racing a Titan. Today, it’s Skeet you have to watch coming up your side, weaving her way through tight spaces, passing you by when you were certain there was no passing by to be had.

Skeet spits into her palms as I rub Padlock on his neck. I’m behind the tiny girl now as the Titans make their way to the starting gate.

I won’t underestimate your stealth
, I think at her before eyeballing another female jock. This one, Penelope, is closer to forty; a soccer mom who tired of watching her kids from the sidelines. She made her own money selling charms that hang from the corners of sunglasses. Everyone cheering for uniform-clad sons or daughters now wears Sun Charms on their eyewear, sterling silver wolves and red, glittery high heels and
#1 MOM
.

If you wanted to be friends with Penelope, you bought Sun Charms. If you wanted to have dinner with Penelope, and post pics arm-in-arm with her on social media sites that embarrassed your children, you became an ambassador, selling Sun Charms to your friends. And if you wanted to vacation at Penelope’s stepfather’s Malibu home, you worked on her Sun Charms, Inc., empire until your French manicure chipped and your hair stylist called to say you were two weeks late getting your roots touched up.

Twenty bucks says those same drunken heathens outside the Titan gates have bought Sun Charms for their wives and girlfriends alike
, Lottie wrote.

So Penelope created her own success. I won’t let her teased blond hair, fake tan, and porcelain veneers fool me. She spent a decade building Sun Charms, Inc. into a multimillion-dollar business. And then she withdrew exactly two hundred and fifty thousand of those dollars and bought a Titan. Her first and only grand expenditure since her company took off. If Lottie is right, it’s the Titan that she always wanted, not the business. And those stay-at-home, bored-to-the-bone moms—with tiny trinkets dangling in their peripheral vision—were only a means to an end.

Penelope sees me watching and raises her head.

I’ll hold your gaze all day long
, her eyes say.
Try me
.

I look away, expecting her to smile complacently from the corner of my vision. But she doesn’t. She only studies me as a robot might. Like her brain isn’t tacky gray matter, but hard drives and cleanly written computer code.

Finally, finally, I glance at Hart Riley II. The jockey who told me I’d never touch a Titan. The jockey who thinks we have more in common than I think.

I think he’s a pretentious, cocky, one-dimensional human being, that’s what I think.

Even Lottie didn’t have much to write about him.
I didn’t find anything on the family name,
Riley
, and I don’t know where he got his Titan from. But he finished first in the sponsor race, and I know he refused a partnership with Exxon-Mobil
.
Rags says his racing style isn’t strategic. So I wouldn’t expect him to do well consistently. Still, keep him in your sights.

Hart’s dark eyes flick across the track, taking in every grain of dirt, every pothole kicked up by Titan heels. When his gaze falls on me, I freeze. I’m not afraid of running against Hart Riley, but I don’t like the way he looks at me—like an opportunity. Like a silly girl he can use and discard. His mouth twitches at the corner, and I have no doubt why. That smug jerk thinks he’ll beat me again. He thinks I’m recognizing him as worrisome competition, and is grinning to drive the fact home.

And so as Padlock enters the starting gate stall, and the door closes behind us, I respond most appropriately. The way Rags would have me do. The way Lottie would shudder at.

I salute Hart Riley with my middle finger raised, and throw him an old-fashioned Astrid Sullivan wink.

Then I turn toward the digital display board.

The lights flash on, and the race length is announced.

Behind the gates, where I once stood on hot summer nights, the crowd erupts.

The race is of medium length. Two miles, slightly longer than the sponsor race. Long enough for me to gain an advantage. Sixteen furlongs. Thirty-five horses in total. The first of two preliminary races. And only three minutes to cross that finish line.

Digging my heels into the stirrups, I lean against my Titan’s neck. I breathe in the smell of diesel oil, and listen as the chain-link gates rattle under the weight of frenzied onlookers. I don’t glance away from my horse again. Not to study my competition, and not to seek out my trainer or best friend.

My eyes are on Padlock now.

I reach forward until I’m as close to his ear as I can manage. “We can do this. We have a longer run this time. And no one can take corners like we can.”

I close my eyes. “I believe in you.”

Padlock’s ear rotates toward the sound of my voice. I hear it squeak as it turns on tiny gears in need of hinge oil.

I sit upright and run my hands over the control panel. Red splashes like a blood-soaked omen in our prison cell when I push the small black button.
It’s the same track
, I tell myself.
The finish line will simply be farther away
. I repeat this in my mind, but my back prickles with goose bumps and my scalp tingles and it feels like someone is breathing down my neck.

But there’s only me. And Padlock. And an iron gate standing stubbornly between me and my slippery sanity.

Oh, never mind.

The gate is gone.

I push that magnificent turbo button and Padlock jolts to a start. It takes him a moment to process the request. To realize it’s go time. The other horses have already launched forward. But remember the slow and steady tortoise. Remember the early bird is actually annoying with his self-righteous eagerness.

An extra second.

Maybe three.

And then my Titan is off and I’m screaming my battle cry and Padlock is barreling down the track like a bullet that held its breath.

Thirty-five Titans race ahead of us.

But not for long.

Leading the pack is Hart Riley, the infuriating boy with his ridiculous red handkerchief covering his nose and mouth. How did he get out of the gate so quickly? He did the same thing at the sponsor race.

I brace myself in my polished leather saddle, the wind whipping past my cheeks as we dive into the black mouth of the forest, tree trunks molar-white against the darkness. My body rattles when we hit a dirt path, my eyes adjusting to the twinkling lining the temporary track like runway lights. I push the gas bar in concentrated bursts, eyeing how the small lights disappear in the distance into a turn. A heartbeat later, maybe two, we’re leaning together—two lovers performing a sacred dance to the beat of rolling hooves. Padlock is down, he’s down …

And then he’s up, up, and away!

Already, we’ve passed three Titans. It’s been twenty seconds according to my stopwatch. One hundred and sixty remain before we’re disqualified. But no worries, because here comes another turn to save the day. To save the night.

Lean, lean, lean … fingers brushing the soil cast in red.

Straighten.

Repeat.

Seven Titans chasing Padlock’s twitching tail now. Up ahead, I spot the four jockeys Lottie warned me about. Skeet is in the lead, then Penelope, Hart, and Batter. Batter is galloping with one hand waving over his head like he’s riding a roller coaster, unsure on whether to let go with his other hand.
What if the ride bar isn’t secure? What if the next downward dip is steeper than it appears?

I’m close enough to make out the blue stripe in Skeet’s hair.

One glance at the performance gauge tells me we’re already flirting with the
warning
area.

You feelin’ lucky?

Maybe.

Padlock and I brush past another Titan in the next turn, and again I tap the gas bar as we bend with the tide. Numbers form before my eyes.

100-degree arc.

Make that 108.

Counter-lean to the right at sixty-five degrees.

Keep Padlock steady.

Feel our weight as gravity sharpens its teeth. Adjust. Another five degrees.

There
.

My fingers find Padlock’s mane. I gather the silver threads in my palm and smile into the night. My heart pitter-pats watching my horse run. Wild, free, eyes rolling in his head. He may be on manual, but Padlock is present. He’s here, anticipating what I need from him the same instant I input instructions. Maybe Rags is right about one thing.

Maybe Padlock really could perform as well on autopilot.

I push the thought from my mind, because I need this sense of control. If there’s a cavity in each of us, unbearably empty in our bellies, this is what fills mine.

Twenty-six horses race behind us now. Eight are ahead. Four jockeys I know, the others I don’t. I concentrate on the unknowns and charge toward them. Up ahead is another turn. If I time it well enough, we may be able to bypass another three horses. Padlock seems to sense my anticipation, and his steel hooves dig deeper into the soil. I glance down, marveling at his speed as my pulse shotguns through my veins.

It’s then that I see it—

A red line.

We cross over it so swiftly I almost don’t register its existence. When I glance back I see the mirage of it beneath a syrupy moon. Already, it slips away, too far back. I gaze forward, refocusing my attention on the next outside turn, this one to our right. Using the joysticks, I veer Padlock toward it, but my mind is still on that red line. On why it was there. On what it means.

My suspicion deepens when I spot those Titans ahead of us. They pull to the left as if they’re afraid of this next turn. For one stolen moment, I consider doing the same. But what they’re giving me is an opportunity I won’t regain—a chance to take a tight turn while they lose ground. I could easily bypass the four jockeys I singled out. Maybe even one or two of the big dogs while I’m at it.

I lean forward, my braid lifting from the back of my neck. We close in on the turn and Padlock takes it like he’s done it a thousand times. We’re halfway through it when I realize the other Titans have slowed. Not simply veered away from the turn, but slowed.

I sit up, eyes widening—

And the ground falls away beneath my Titan’s feet.

A trench, four feet deep, opens beneath us. The gate tumbles into the cavern, and in its place springs a line of spear-like objects.

Padlock falls.

Padlock falls and I fall with him.

At the last moment, I pull my right leg from the stirrup and whip it over the saddle. No sooner than my thigh is out of harm’s way does Padlock crash to the bottom of the pit. I glance up and watch as six Titans leap over our heads with expert precision. Soon after, five more do the same. And then more, and more. We’re in last place again. All because of a jam I should have seen coming. But jams are generally reserved for the circuit races, and this is just a prelim.

Padlock lies still, but after I push on the brake bar and twirl the joysticks, he’s back on his feet. Grinding my teeth, I navigate my Titan upward. Padlock climbs the steep incline to the opposite side, and I lead him backward. Then we face the jump again. The other Titans are racing away in the distance. Though it’s felt like an eternity since we fell, it’s only been eight seconds. Enough time that we can still finish the race in under three minutes. But will we be able to catch up to the other horses?

I press down into the saddle and slam the gas bar. Padlock gallops ahead, and before I can think about what I’m doing, I press the purple hurdle button. My Titan leaps over the spears as I hang on to the handlebars. If Padlock hits the jagged fence below, it’ll do little to slow him down. But for me …

My eyes snag on the arrowheads pointing straight up from beneath my Titan. They seem to stretch away from the poles they’re attached to, aching for a taste of my flesh. But Padlock clears them easily enough, and soon we collide with the ground on the other side. Now we’re off Cyclone Track, tearing down a narrow path that cuts between the trees. My hands return to the control panel, and I release a breath I’d been holding since we thundered past the red line.

We’re more than halfway through the race, and I have no idea how many turns this new route will hold, but I steer Padlock faster, knowing that if I finish in the bottom fifteen it’s over for me. And for Rags and Barney and Magnolia and Lottie too.

And for Padlock.

I glance at the performance gauge and see we’re halfway through the warning area. Not too far from the red. But still, there’s some wiggle room. And if I ever needed wiggle room, now’s the time.

I drive Padlock onward.

His legs pump harder, as if he likes skirting this close to danger.

There, coming up in a few yards, is a turn around a crop of trees. Four Titans trail behind the others, and I set my sights on them. Clenching my thigh muscles, I hang on as my Titan attempts to make up for lost time. The dirt-and-stone track twists through the forest as the sound of the crowd dies away. Now there is the sound of hooves. The sound of jockeys straining against the repetitive impact. The turn is on top of us in an instant. Right before we take it, I think to myself,
What if this is a second jam?

But no, the other Titans aren’t shying away, and as they angle their bodies, nothing happens. And so Padlock and I join their ranks, my Titan and I hugging the turn like we’re dear friends that time and distance have separated.

When we hit the sweet spot, I touch the gas bar. The smallest brush of my fingers sends Padlock driving faster right as the other jockeys are schmoozing with their brake bars. It buys us the critical seconds we lost, and when we straighten from our turn, we’re able to blast away like never before.

There’s a straight stretch, and in the distance is a line in the dirt, a man with a gun at the ready. It’s the finish line, but I still need to beat out eleven horses between here and there.

The sound of the crowd resurfaces, growing in volume as the Titans rumble past. The noise of hooves stampeding toward the end is deafening, but it can’t drown out the screams of the spectators, their hands shaking the chain-link fence, eyes widening like stars that ventured too close to the earth.

I see the white tickets in their grasps.

I smell their sweat and hope and desperation.

Did any of them bet on me, the girl from Warren County?

Time seems to slow this close to the end. I pass another Titan. Then another. As we increase our speed, we fall into a cluster of horses. How many do I still need to pass? Too many. Way too many this close to the finish line. There’s nothing to do now. I can only hang on and watch, slack-jawed, as Padlock pummels the ground.

I breathe in.

I breathe out.

And we blaze across the finish line.

But we didn’t make it. Not really. We only passed seven horses at best guess, and we needed fifteen.

The crowd cheers and curses and throws their beer bottles to their feet in excitement or frustration, depending. When the scoreboard lights up, my throat tightens. Magnolia is running out onto the track and the cameramen on the sidelines snap pictures of her as she flies toward me. They have no idea who she is, I’m certain, but there’s a wild banshee girl appearing out of nowhere and no way are they missing that.

Magnolia yanks on my leg until I slide off the saddle. She smiles and yells something I can’t hear. The crowd is too loud and my head is pounding.

“What?” I ask.

“You did it!” Magnolia turns me toward the scoreboard, and that’s when I see my name, along with my time: 0:02:53.

“But I didn’t place well enough,” I say, dejected. “I only beat out seven horses.”

Magnolia laughs. “No, dork face. You beat out seven
teen
. Were you paying attention on that last turn? It was amazing!”

A grin parts my mouth and Magnolia takes my hands and it isn’t long before we’re dancing in a circle. We yell things over each other like we do when we’re excited, and I don’t even see the other jockey coming until he’s almost on top of me.

Hart Riley II jerks me away from Magnolia. At first I think he’s going to hit me. It’s what I’d like to do to him, no reason necessary. But then he takes my face in his hands and the look on his own can’t be mistaken for anything other than concern. He runs his eyes over my body like he’s checking for wounds, and then hugs me close. I’m too shocked to do anything other than sputter when he nabs the handkerchief from his pocket and wipes my brow.

I find my voice at last. “What are you doing, freak?”

“My darling, are you okay? I saw you fall!” He leans forward so his lips touch my ear. “Smile for the cameras.”

He positions our bodies so the flashes engulf us, and the concerned look on his face deepens. Only I can see the falseness beneath his mask. Using my elbow, I jab him in the ribs. He grunts and backs away, letting Magnolia reclaim her rightful place as my person.

“What a tool,” Mag says before smiling. “But seriously hot.”

Before I do anything else, I turn and throw my arms around my Titan. My imagination may be taking liberties, but it feels as though Padlock’s stone-solid chest swells with pride beneath my touch.