Titans

  Until this second, I wondered why my father chose today to confront my trainer. He knew I was working with Rags. He must have seen him dropping me off a dozen times. But today Hart fell. Maybe for a moment, he imagined that jockey being me. Maybe on our tiny TV screen, after a mug of brandy, he thought it was.

  I’m about to reassure my dad, to tell him I’m careful when I race. But he cuts me off, his voice lowering. “She’s just a child,” my dad says in a tone that implies he’s stating the obvious. “A girl her age shouldn’t be out on that track. A girl shouldn’t be on a Titan at all.”

  His words are bee stings all over my body, leaving my skin swollen and itching. “Dad, are you saying that if I were a boy, I might have a chance?”

  My dad’s red-rimmed eyes narrow like it’s the first time he realized I was there. He doesn’t respond.

  “I’m not the only woman racing.” My voice is barely above a whisper. I hate how small I sound. I hate the way he’s looking at me, like I’m a disappointing little kid that brought a bad note home from school, and what is he going to do with me?

  “There shouldn’t be a single female out there,” my dad grunts, eyes back on Rags. “There’s a reason why the only people who attend those blasted races are men. It’s no place for women and children.”

  I remember what Lottie said about strength. How it has to come from inside me, and how, when it’s important, I have to dismiss anyone else’s opinion besides my own. “I’ve being going to those races since I was thirteen years old. And now I’m riding in them. I’m doing well, and I can do even better.” I suck in a deep breath. “I can win, Daddy.”

  My dad does the worst thing he could—he laughs. He laughs, but his eyes brim with sadness as he glares at Rags. “She can’t win. You know it, and I know it. She’ll only get hurt.”

  Rags steps closer to my father until they’re nearly chest to chest. “If you believed that,” my trainer says slowly, evenly, “you’d never have allowed her to stay in the season this long.”

  My gaze snaps to my father’s face, because what Rags said makes sense, and I want to gauge my dad’s reaction. My dad glowers at Rags, his nostrils flaring. I can hardly fill my lungs awaiting his retort. If he expresses his disbelief in me again, I may break, Lottie’s lesson forgotten.

  But my dad doesn’t reply. He only scowls at Rags until finally, finally, he drops his head and glances at me. He’s still breathing hard as he studies my face, and I do my best to stand up straight, to take on the appearance of someone brave and worthy.

  My dad turns away and marches inside. The deafening sound of the door slamming shut says what he does not—that he’s scared, that his world is spinning out of control. But Rags gave him a perfect opening to deny his believing I could win, and he didn’t. What does that mean?

  Hope dances inside my heart, makes me feel stronger. Lottie said to find strength within yourself, but my dad is my blood. He’s the same man who stayed awake the whole night through, me sleeping small on his chest after I got my childhood vaccinations. He never moved, never asked for someone else to take me while he got some rest in the dead of night. He only held me, patting my back when I roused from the pain. He’s always loved me. Deep inside, I know that.

  I stare at the closed front door, hanging on to the belief that maybe, just maybe, Rags got my dad to admit what he never would aloud—

  He thinks there’s a chance I can win.

  The following Saturday, I’m in my stall with Padlock at Cyclone Track. Magnolia works on my hair, and I play with the black headband she made for me while she braids. It’s wide, with a painted bumblebee flying through the loop of an alpha sign.

  “I made a stencil before I painted this one,” she explains, taking it from my hands and sliding it over my head. “It’s easier to correct a stencil than it is to repaint.”

  I grab her hand as she pats her newest work of art. “Magnolia, I’m scared. Before tonight, all I thought about was winning. But now that I’m so close, I’m terrified something will happen that’ll prevent me from moving on to the Titan Derby.” I grip her hand tighter. “I’ve been counting on that last race, but what if I never even make it there?”

  Magnolia takes my shoulders. “Don’t you dare think that way.”

  “There are seven Titans left. Only four move on to the last race,” I continue, my voice rising. “Why has it never occurred to me that I might be in the three to fall tonight?”

  “Because you won’t.”

  “Why not? I’ve never once placed in the top four.”

  Magnolia cranes her neck to the side, smiles. “My dear, stupid friend, you’ve made the mistake of assuming the previous races have anything to do with tonight. You are not the same Astrid Sullivan you were a week ago.”

  “I’m not?”

  She shakes her head adamantly. “I don’t even recognize you! Check this girl out—custom-made silks, polished horse, the look of danger in her eyes.”

  “I have a look of danger in my eyes?”

  “It’s unnerving, I’ll tell ya.”

  Magnolia shudders, and I laugh. Padlock hears me giggling and nibbles at my hair, attempting to return my attention to him where it belongs. I rub Padlock behind the ears, tell him I have danger in my eyes and he better watch out.

  He seems unimpressed.

  Hart strides into the barn like he built the place with his own hands, then cranes his neck, searching for the cameramen. When he sees it’s only us, he loops his good arm around Magnolia. “Don’t suck out there, Sullivan.”

  “Gee, thanks,” I mutter, frowning at his fingers squeezing Magnolia’s waist. Knowing I’ll snap his one remaining arm into twelve separate pieces if he breaks her heart. “Sorry you can’t race today.”

  “No, you’re not,” he says.

  I grin. “Yeah, I guess I’m not.”

  Remembering Hart’s comments about this race being his only chance at a new life, my smile falters.

  “Don’t you dare feel sorry for me,” Hart says. “Not you.”

  I flip him the bird, and he laughs.

  Rags trots over to our stall, and instead of supplying a pep talk, he simply jabs his thumb at Mag and Hart, implying they should beat it. After Magnolia blows me a kiss and says my headpiece looks fabulous and not to wreck it on the track because she could totally sell it for millions, Rags jogs my shoulders.

  “I haven’t talked to you about your dad since that night,” he says.

  I break my gaze away. “Don’t worry about it. I’m fine.”

  “Your dad cares about you, Astrid. He’s not the best at showing it, I noticed, but he wouldn’t have hit me if he didn’t.” Rags smiles. “Your dad loves his kid, and he knows how to throw a hook. That’s a man worth admiring.”

  “His gambling is the reason I’m having to do this.” The first time I admit this to Rags is the first time I feel real resentment toward my father.

  Rags hesitates only a second before saying, “Then show him what it means to bet on yourself.”

  “He said girls shouldn’t be on the track,” I mutter.

  “Well, he’s an idiot. Admirable? Yes. An idiot? Also yes.”

  This time I’m the one who laughs. Rags slaps me on the back harder than necessary. “Get your behind into that saddle and race hard, Astrid Sullivan. I already know how strong you are—you just go show everyone else.”

  I can’t speak, because suddenly I can’t help imagining what it would be like if Rags were my father. He would have believed in me from the start. He would have helped me train, and pushed me back into the saddle if I fell. He would have been tough, and brutally honest, but he would have been proud of me every step of the way.

  But then I think: Does it really matter whether or not Rags is my father?

  He did those things either way.

  My manager gives Padlock a quick smack the way he did me, and my Titan trots out of the stall. As the woman with the clipboard checks off my horse’s parts, I think about what Rags said. I thi
nk about it as my pulse begins to throb behind my eyes. I think about it as my blood begins to burn.

  Soon, we are corralled into the stalls. Soon, I’m hearing my last name shouted by the crowd and smelling sweat from the jockeys and feeling the static of rain threatening to fall. I’m turning on Padlock’s racing capability, and sensing when his steel body hums with power.

  Soon, the gate pulls away.

  And the final circuit race begins.

  The seven Titans break from Cyclone Track earlier than ever before and plunge into the forest, the fresh two-mile dirt path lit only by the subtle lights on the temporary gates. After a few seconds on the Shooting Stars track, a rumbling sound emanates from the ground. I don’t slow Padlock. I can’t. Not this time. Not for anything.

  But the sound grows louder, and terror fires down my back when two enormous blades split the earth apart. Built like oversized throwing stars, the blades slide back and forth across the track, daring any Titan to race between them. The two stars growl from the outside of the gate, cross each other in the middle, pause, and roll outward once again. They aren’t tall enough to reach the jockeys in their saddles, but they’ll crush our Titans’ legs and slice their underbellies.

  The first jockey doesn’t hesitate. He flies between the two grinding blades and continues on. It was a lucky break. Nothing else. The second jockey isn’t granted the same favor. Her Titan is caught between the gleaming stars, and a screeching, grinding sound fills the air. The crowd cheers and rattles the gates, threatening to bring them down in their excitement.

  As I race Padlock faster, I notice the stars only hesitate when they cross each other in the center of the track. The jam makes it seem as though you have to wait until the stars open again and rush through before they snap back together. But what about that pause? It must be there for a reason. And then I see what I hadn’t before—the narrow open spaces on either side of the blades when they cross each other. The key isn’t to rush through the middle, it’s to sneak past on the outside.

  Padlock picks up his pace as I navigate him nimbly past the far right side, almost sideswiping the gate as we race. The jockeys behind me take my lead, and the next time the stars cross, they take the outside as well. They may have mimicked my strategy, but that jam bought me fourth place out of seven, and as with all races, every second counts.

  Using the controls, I push Padlock through twists and turns in the track, and come upon the second jam. The jockeys ahead of me—Skeet, Penelope, and Batter—have stopped cold. Tiny, razor-sharp stars fall from the sky, landing shy of the gates on either side. The entire mass of stars moves in a circle much like a tornado. There are narrow crevices on the outside of the falling stars, but those crevices move in a circle too, and there’s no way to tell when you could—

  Unless.

  I watch the stars, and run through every circle I’ve ever studied. I can’t be sure by eyeballing the swirling mass, but it appears to follow a Fibonacci sequence. These sequences are mathematical circles that wrap around tiles, so if I counted correctly, Padlock and I could walk with the rotation until we reached the other side like entering a revolving door.

  I look for the pattern, try to estimate the exact Fibonacci sequence. There! I rush Padlock forward and we squeeze into a safe place unreached by the falling stars. No sooner than Padlock’s hooves reach safety do we blast forward.

  We’ve only run a few steps when a thought occurs to me.

  We’re in first.

  I passed the other three Titans when I figured out that jam, and now we have a shot at winning. If it takes the other jockeys too long to pass the falling star cloud, then we could make it across the finish line. I sweep my eyes across the track and into the distance, and I see it.

  The end is near.

  The crowd screams my name, and Padlock’s hooves thunder against the ground. I allow myself to believe I’m going to win. I envision Rags giving me an honest-to-goodness hug and Magnolia dancing in place. I imagine telling my father I won the last circuit race, and that means I can win the Titan Derby too. I imagine reporters asking for an interview, not because I’m a poor girl from Warren County with an old, first-gen horse, but because I know how to race.

  I imagine all of this.

  And then I see Batter coming up my side.

  His horse catches up with mine, and a quick glance back tells me Skeet is gaining on us. For now, I concentrate on beating Batter in a head-to-head race. I saddle down and push Padlock’s gas bar. Padlock responds with fierce eagerness, driven to action by the Titan running at his side.

  There’s little distance between us and the finish line, and though Padlock has never been best at straight runs, he’s holding his own. He’s really doing it! My hands sweat and my thighs burn and my world rocks as we charge faster and faster.

  When I spot a turn before the line drawn in the dirt, my heart leaps.

  I’ve got him.

  Batter realizes he’s going to lose, and he jerks his Titan to the left to slam into me. But no bother, I jerk harder. Padlock and I pull all the way to the left and hug the gate until we come to the curb.

  We lean.

  We lean.

  I scream with triumph and watch as Batter eases back.

  And then we fall.

  I slam into the ground and Padlock rolls over my right leg. I hear a pop from my body as Padlock skids along the dirt. He comes to a stop as Batter charges past, and seconds later, Skeet does too.

  When I raise my head, I see many things: Batter racing over the finish line, the crowd throwing their bet cards into the air, Padlock on his side, hoofing the open air. But above everything, what I notice the most is Arvin Gambini’s face.

  He wears the same smile he does in the papers.

  He’s standing right outside the gate, right where a steel, star-headed spear tripped my Titan. Arvin nods as if acknowledging his own handiwork. Then he shoves his hands into his pockets and whistles as he walks away. I can see the way his lips form a small circle, the way his throat moves merrily.

  That’s when I realize something horrifying. If I don’t get back on Padlock, I’ll finish in the bottom three and won’t continue on to the Titan Derby. I push myself up, screaming against the pain of my sprained ankle, and hobble toward Padlock, who’s now on his feet.

  Jumping off my bad foot to get back in the saddle causes my vision to blur with pain. I push Padlock’s turbo button, slam on the gas bar, and we’re back in the race.

  But something is wrong.

  Padlock oozes black smoke from his mouth and nostrils, and though we’re yards from the finish line, I’m terrified he’ll break down. His insides clank and his steps begin to falter. The rush of approaching Titans reaches me, and Penelope tears past me to secure third place. Two more Titans are close behind her, threatening to overtake me.

  Pain sears through my foot and ankle, and my hands shake from trying to keep Padlock straight as he runs. I worry we won’t make it before we’re passed yet again. But mostly, I worry for my Titan. Machine or not, he’s my friend.

  But as we near the end, and the other horses gain on us, Padlock seems to quicken beneath me of his own accord. I follow his lead and give him a touch more gas.

  We fly past the finish line, and a breath later, the final three Titans do as well.

  For a moment, we were in first. We were so close to winning that I could feel the victory draped across my chest. But in the end, we finished in the last possible place to proceed to the Titan Derby. In the end, my Titan stumbles to the side and leans against the fence, smoke pouring from his mouth and nose and eyes.

  Cameramen leap over the fence, making a beeline for my horse. The crowd roars, making my ears ring, though the snapping of the camera lenses still reaches me. The flashes are blinding, and the smoke enveloping us is a raging river of black. Rags and Magnolia make it to my side—my manager asking if I’m okay, Magnolia yelling for me to lean on her.

  I’m here, Astrid. I’m here!

  But I
can barely understand her. Because I’m limping toward my horse, calling his name. And because my brain is machine-gunning this question without pause—

  What has happened to Padlock?

  What has happened to Padlock with one race remaining?

  It’s been six days since Padlock and I fell. Six days, and the derby is so close it’s breathing down our necks.

  The problem lies with the engine. The high-compression race starter is shot. The part works inside the engine, engaging the system and allowing it to operate at its fullest, and fastest, potential. Rags theorizes that when the spear slammed into Padlock’s side and the horse fell, that the impact caused the part to crack and malfunction.

  The problem is twofold. The part itself is no longer available through aftermarket companies because the Titan 1.0 was never introduced commercially. Also, even if Barney could create another part from memory and raw materials, he doesn’t have the equipment to do so.

  So we panic, and make phone calls, and panic some more.

  Lottie comes through on her end as my sponsor and procures machinery with which Barney’s familiar. She purchases some of the materials he needs as well. But it isn’t enough.

  “The problem is this piece right here.” Barney holds up the starter and points to a hole that looks like it shouldn’t be there. “We need this in order for Padlock’s engine to turn over.”

  “Lottie ordered it, though, right?” I ask, rubbing my wrapped ankle.

  “She did, but that doesn’t mean it’ll get here in time,” Rags responds.

  The August sun blazes, and soon Barney is working in only a grease-stained T-shirt.

  Magnolia plops down on a hay bale inside the barn and asks, “When does it need to get here in order for Astrid to be able to race?”

  Rags and Barney exchange a glance. Because I’ve been here every day while they’ve worked on Padlock, I already know the answer.

  “If it was going to arrive, it’d be by this evening,” I say. “The company is closed on Saturday.”

  “So what happens when it gets here?” she continues. “You guys just pop it in or something?”