Titans

  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 y
ard, 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.

  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 Magn
olia’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.”