Titan rider.”
Then he’s gone.
Just as he predicted, a few moments later I hear the booming voice of a woman with authority. When I peek my head out, I notice she has a clipboard in her right hand and a walkie-talkie buzzing on her belt. My blood pounds in my ears as I turn and pull myself into Padlock’s saddle.
Bending toward his ear, I say, “Listen, horse, we might have to run earlier than the rest of the Titans, but don’t panic.”
Padlock stomps his foot.
After kicking the stall door open, I return my boot to the stirrup and watch as the other jockeys lead their Titans into a neat line. The woman at the front, who has purple-framed glasses balanced on the tip of her nose, searches intently inside a Titan’s engine flap, then checks something off before the horse is allowed to leave the stable.
I ensure Padlock and I are in the very back, and by the time our turn comes, I have a dozen half-fleshed-out excuses for whatever argument she may provide. Or maybe I’ll go with Rags’s plan. Just bypass her and act like I can’t hear what she’s saying.
When we’re two steps away, I can hardly pull in a breath. The woman looks up like my being there is a surprise. When her eyes fall on Padlock, I know my earlier suspicion was accurate.
Rags never got full approval for me to race a Titan 1.0 model.
I open my mouth to say something, anything, but Padlock beats me to the punch. Kicking out with his back legs, he neighs and whines. The woman spreads herself against the wall, and as Padlock throws his head, I yell, “Sorry, I think there’s something wrong with him.”
She points her clipboard at us. “That’s not a 3.0!”
I don’t respond. Instead, I hang on as my demon horse races away and heads toward the starting gate, like he already knows where it is. The woman shouts from behind us, but her complaints are soon drowned out by the crowd. The crowd that knows this is it. We are all here. Not all of us will secure a sponsor and race in the circuit, but that doesn’t matter just now. What matters is these are the contenders.
Among this group of forty-two Titans is this year’s champion. And everyone is waiting to see if they can pinpoint that champion after the first run.
The stalls are open from the back, but within seconds someone is sliding the gate closed, locking us in. I glance around, attempting to see through the bars to the other jockeys. But I can’t make them out in detail. Only that they are staring forward, studying the track, as I am studying them.
The Titans stamp the dry dirt, and already my mouth and tongue feel gritty. With trembling fingers, I reach down and push the smaller of the two black buttons. A small click, and then Padlock’s eyes blaze red across the front of our stall. His sides grow warm beneath my legs as his engine prepares to race.
Nerves fire through my body, making every sense sharp as a blade. Sharp enough to cut through the night sky and cause the stars to rain down. The crowd roars, feverish, as the digital scoreboard flickers to life. Our last names ping across the top, and I see my own name appear.
SULLIVAN.
My heart thunders at the sight, and I wonder if Magnolia feels the same way I do in this moment. Terrified. Exhilarated. Hopeful, though it’s ludicrous.
I lean forward, keeping one hand firm against Padlock’s side, and watch the RACE LENGTH output. It flickers on and off, on and off. And then a zero. And then, finally, the actual length—
TWELVE FURLONGS .
Padlock rocks inside the stall with impatience as my mind reels. A mile and a half. A half mile less than I need to have any confidence at winning. We can’t beat the others this way. I know this. I’m the girl who spent every spare second she had studying cyclonetrack.com. Many of the previous jockeys I understand better than my own family. Their successors will beat me here today, and I’ll lose my shot at entering the summer circuit.
So here’s what I do.
I let go of the dream and
Then he’s gone.
Just as he predicted, a few moments later I hear the booming voice of a woman with authority. When I peek my head out, I notice she has a clipboard in her right hand and a walkie-talkie buzzing on her belt. My blood pounds in my ears as I turn and pull myself into Padlock’s saddle.
Bending toward his ear, I say, “Listen, horse, we might have to run earlier than the rest of the Titans, but don’t panic.”
Padlock stomps his foot.
After kicking the stall door open, I return my boot to the stirrup and watch as the other jockeys lead their Titans into a neat line. The woman at the front, who has purple-framed glasses balanced on the tip of her nose, searches intently inside a Titan’s engine flap, then checks something off before the horse is allowed to leave the stable.
I ensure Padlock and I are in the very back, and by the time our turn comes, I have a dozen half-fleshed-out excuses for whatever argument she may provide. Or maybe I’ll go with Rags’s plan. Just bypass her and act like I can’t hear what she’s saying.
When we’re two steps away, I can hardly pull in a breath. The woman looks up like my being there is a surprise. When her eyes fall on Padlock, I know my earlier suspicion was accurate.
Rags never got full approval for me to race a Titan 1.0 model.
I open my mouth to say something, anything, but Padlock beats me to the punch. Kicking out with his back legs, he neighs and whines. The woman spreads herself against the wall, and as Padlock throws his head, I yell, “Sorry, I think there’s something wrong with him.”
She points her clipboard at us. “That’s not a 3.0!”
I don’t respond. Instead, I hang on as my demon horse races away and heads toward the starting gate, like he already knows where it is. The woman shouts from behind us, but her complaints are soon drowned out by the crowd. The crowd that knows this is it. We are all here. Not all of us will secure a sponsor and race in the circuit, but that doesn’t matter just now. What matters is these are the contenders.
Among this group of forty-two Titans is this year’s champion. And everyone is waiting to see if they can pinpoint that champion after the first run.
The stalls are open from the back, but within seconds someone is sliding the gate closed, locking us in. I glance around, attempting to see through the bars to the other jockeys. But I can’t make them out in detail. Only that they are staring forward, studying the track, as I am studying them.
The Titans stamp the dry dirt, and already my mouth and tongue feel gritty. With trembling fingers, I reach down and push the smaller of the two black buttons. A small click, and then Padlock’s eyes blaze red across the front of our stall. His sides grow warm beneath my legs as his engine prepares to race.
Nerves fire through my body, making every sense sharp as a blade. Sharp enough to cut through the night sky and cause the stars to rain down. The crowd roars, feverish, as the digital scoreboard flickers to life. Our last names ping across the top, and I see my own name appear.
SULLIVAN.
My heart thunders at the sight, and I wonder if Magnolia feels the same way I do in this moment. Terrified. Exhilarated. Hopeful, though it’s ludicrous.
I lean forward, keeping one hand firm against Padlock’s side, and watch the RACE LENGTH output. It flickers on and off, on and off. And then a zero. And then, finally, the actual length—
TWELVE FURLONGS .
Padlock rocks inside the stall with impatience as my mind reels. A mile and a half. A half mile less than I need to have any confidence at winning. We can’t beat the others this way. I know this. I’m the girl who spent every spare second she had studying cyclonetrack.com. Many of the previous jockeys I understand better than my own family. Their successors will beat me here today, and I’ll lose my shot at entering the summer circuit.
So here’s what I do.
I let go of the dream and
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