Titans Page 3

  I just like her being close by.

  Two hours later, I’m in the room I share with Dani. She slipped out the window Magnolia-style before I got there, off to see Jason the Glorious. Spreading out on my twin bed, I fiddle with the gears my father brought me over the years. He worked at an electrical plant, but a large space on the first floor was rented out to some guy who built customized parts for the Titans.

  Titan 3.0s are built identical to one another, but there’s a hefty demand for after-market products that don’t affect performance. Pricey items, like sprocket covers engraved with the owner’s initials that no one will ever notice. That’s the kind of stuff this person made. When Dad realized it, he started bringing him vegetables from my mom’s garden. It took three tries before he hit the dude’s sweet spot.

  Okra. He liked okra.

  Dad never said anything when he left the parts on my bed, but I choked up every time. I wish my dad would say the important stuff out loud. I wish he’d tell me that what happened with Grandpa wasn’t my fault, and that we’ll never be as bad off as we were before we moved to the suburbs of Detroit. I wish he’d hug me and let me mourn. I wish he’d say he was proud of me, and that he’s still happy being a father and husband.

  But I settle for the Titan parts.

  I twirl a lug nut between my fingers and inspect the diagrams I drew of last year’s tracks. Cyclonetrack.com lists the basics from the previous season’s winner—name, sponsor information, finish time. But I had more. I calculated the winner’s turn ratios to the hundredth of a degree. I figured out his spin radius inside a particularly nasty jam, and the seconds he could have gained if he’d pushed closer to the slay zone.

  I smile as I pencil a new set of numbers into my notebook, and draw a heavy box around an answer I’ve been computing for weeks. Then I return to the lug nut. Hold it up against the moonlight streaming through my bedroom window.

  Does it need to be this heavy?

  When the sound of my father’s radio reaches my ears, I spring from bed. I know what he’s listening for. It’s the only reason he ever tunes in versus flipping on our box television set. I creep from my room and slip down the hallway. Another door opens, and I spot Zara grinning in my direction. I wave her toward me and hold a finger to my lips.

  At the end of the hall, I peek around the corner. Dad’s in his faded red recliner, the radio in his lap. I catch sight of Mom in the kitchen, knees covered in dirt. She’s watching my dad the same way we are. If we’re too eager, he’ll send us running from the room. But if we advance like enemy soldiers, one silent footstep after another, he’ll ignore us.

  Dad lost what little money we’d managed to save since moving to Detroit on a Titan that never had a shot. It was before he got laid off, back when he thought a promotion was in the near future, and why not make two big things happen at once? Since then, he feigns hatred for the Titans and the drunken trouble the track brings so close to home. But he’s as fascinated with the horses as we are. And so he only mutters his discontent as we crawl onto the floor, settle near his knees, and listen as the jockey delves into the latest news to come from the Gambini brothers.

  “As all Cyclone Track fans know, this year marks the fifth year the Titans run. The winning Titan and jockey will be awarded the usual monetary prize of two million dollars, and will lead Detroit’s annual Thanksgiving Day parade down Woodward Street. As always, all jockeys must complete the entire Titan Circuit, starting with …”

  The man stops speaking and shuffles some papers. Within seconds, a female voice comes on.

  “I’ve got it here, Jordan. All jockeys will start by registering their Titan 3.0s on cyclonetrack.com. That must be done by end of day next Friday. And that same weekend, the Titans run for the first time.”

  “That’s right,” the man interjects. “The sponsor race will take place on Cyclone Track so that companies, and those individuals who can afford the entrance fees, can be sure they’re partnering with the best Titan and jockey. After the race, the jockeys and trainers will attend Travesty Ball to mingle one-on-one with sponsors. Once sponsorships are secured, and contracts have been signed, entrance fees will be paid and the official jockey/Titan lineup will be announced for the season.”

  The woman laughs lightly before adding, “Of course, then there are the preliminary races, the circuit races, the ad sponsorships to fulfill, and all the Cyclone Track gossip that jockeys have to contend with soon after.”

  “You enjoy that last part, don’t you?” the man jokes.

  “Guilty!” She laughs harder. “I buy every issue of Titan Enquirer I can get my hands on. You know I still believe Harding and Flynn had an off-course romance last year.”

  “Okay, before we get lost in that debacle, let’s announce the big surprise the Gambini brothers have lined up.”

  “Oh, right!” the woman squeals. “I couldn’t believe this when I heard.”

  Zara scoots closer, bringing me back to my parents’ crowded living room. We’re all packed together in there now: Mom sitting on the couch, Zara and I as close to my father as we can without him barking at us to go to bed.

  “In celebration of the fifth year of Cyclone Track being opened, the Gambini brothers have decided that the first jockey to cross the finish line at the sponsor race will have their entrance fee waived.”

  My mouth falls open. No way. Someone will race this year for free? No fifty-thousand-dollar barrier? It could be anyone who got that free spot! It could be someone from Warren County, even. What if they won the derby at the very end? That kind of opportunity could save a family out here. It could set them on a different course for life, far away from poverty.

  “It’s so exciting,” the woman says. “Of course, they’ll need a Titan to enter.”

  My heart plummets, which is ridiculous. Even my dad turns off the radio at this last part.

  “Who do they think they’re fooling?” he mumbles to himself, ignoring the fact that we’re here. “All they’re doing is letting some rich chump hold on to cash he doesn’t need.”

  “Yep,” I mutter without thinking.

  My dad’s eyes connect with mine.

  Uh-oh.

  “What are you guys doing up? Off to bed. Both of you!”

  I jump up with Zara, and my mom returns to the kitchen. As I head back to my room, I can’t help sharing my father’s resentment. I once heard that a cat is both drawn to, yet repulsed by, the scent of its own litter box. Maybe that’s how I feel about the Titans. And about the celebrity magazines I hide beneath my mattress. They offer a glimpse into a different kind of life, one with excitement and security. I can’t help but be drawn to something like that.

  I also can’t help but hate them for dangling a life that’s unreachable.

  Two days later, Magnolia is elbow-deep in a hair accessory project she won’t leave alone. She begs me to come over and sit on her bed to watch her “genius in progress.” I’ve been vegging out in front of the television for six hours, and need to take a break before my eyeballs roll out of my head. I tell her I’ll be over after lunch, and decide to go for a walk around our neighborhood.

  Where we live is nothing to get excited about—one-story houses with old siding and trash cans stinking by the curb. The homes are missing shutters, and their screen doors are torn. Mr. Reynolds has had a yellow couch on his front porch for as long as I can remember, and two houses down from there is a car parked in the grass.

  Of course, most people’s lawns are 100% all-natural weeds anyway. Don’t want to wake to the sound of a lawn mower at 7:00 a.m.? Then we’ve got a place for you!

  I smile thinking about my mother and these so-called lawns. Nothing in this entire world makes Mom more upset than people who don’t maintain their garden beds. If they knew what she did to their properties as they chased sleep, they’d probably torch our house.

  Or give her an award.

  I walk five or six blocks before my footsteps falter. There’s a man standing in his open garage weari
ng a welding mask, a machine between his hands. He’s sliding something under the machine slowly but steadily, rotating the piece every few seconds. Orange sparks fly in all directions, and a high-pitched whirring reaches my ears.

  The man straightens and places a hand on his lower back, stretching. Then he flips the hood up on his mask and curses loud enough for me to hear him from across the street. I can see his face clearly now, but I knew who it was all along. Both hands find his hips as he turns and looks in my direction.

  “Nice vest,” I yell.

  He turns the machine off and squints. “You that girl from the track?”

  “The one and only.” I make my way across the street, drawn by the way he stands just like my grandpa, leaning too far back, shoulders raised toward his ears. I’m not sure how I missed the fact that he lived so close to Magnolia and me until now.

  “What’re you doing?” he says with obvious irritation.

  “Preparing to catch you when you fall. It’s hotter today than it was on Monday.” I gaze at the material he has beneath his oversized power tool. It’s a sheet of steel, which I’ve seen before, but the shade is darker. There’s a subtle ripple effect that only the sun catches, and a sparkling sheen that lies beneath the surface. These things tell me everything I need to know. “Where’d you get that?”

  “Get what?” The old man turns off the machine, and wipes his hands on a rag that could use a spin cycle or two.

  “That’s Titan steel.”

  He catches my gaze and studies me closely. “It’s no such thing.”

  “Is too. It’s got that ripple and sparkle and—”

  “Kid, if you knew what you were talking about, you’d know this is much too dark to be Titan steel. Why don’t you skip on back across the street and keep going wherever it is you were going.”

  He lowers his mask and stares at me like a serial killer.

  I inspect the steel again, and my enthusiasm wanes. He’s right. It’s too dark.

  Studying his cut lines, it’s obvious he’s off by three full degrees. Even if he does get the octagonal shape he’s going for, it’ll have unequal sides. I raise my chin. “I used to know someone like you, old man. Beneath all his grunting and frowning was a nice guy.”

  When the man raises a hand and flicks it toward me, basically telling me to shoo, my face reddens.

  “You’re off by three degrees.” I point to the steel. “Maybe more.”

  Then I turn to go.

  “You think because you do well in high school math, you know about building things that run?”

  “I know a bad line when I see one,” I retort over my shoulder.

  The man doesn’t say anything else. I turn back once when I’m a safe distance away and see him holding the steel up to the daylight, inspecting his cuts. I smile to myself, imagining I’m right.

  If I kept a diary like my idiotic older sister, I’d probably leave today’s entry out. It starts on Sunday morning, at St. Joseph’s Roman Catholic Church. Arvin Gambini has made an appearance, and it has the entire congregation humming with equal parts excitement and disgust. The priest must have been given advance warning of our visitor, because he preaches with incredible zeal, waving his fists and thumping his Bible for emphasis.

  Zara sits between Dani and me, and my dad sits to my left. Mom has squeezed herself in next to Dani, and I wonder if it’s to ensure her oldest daughter doesn’t flee halfway through the service. I don’t listen to most of the sermon. Instead, I concentrate on my father’s arm pressing against mine. It’s warm, dressed in a white shirt my mother ironed hours earlier. I stare at him from the corner of my eye, breathing in the scent of his Old Spice aftershave. He’s running his tongue over his teeth, displeased by whatever our overweight, sweating priest is trying to drive home.

  I glance around the room at the other dads. Most that are sitting next to their kids have their arms extended across the back of the pew. A church hug, if you will. Not my dad, though. His hands are clenched between his knees.

  I wish he’d give me and Zara the church hug. He’s got enough arm length to stretch behind the two of us. Biting my lip, I nudge closer to my dad. His eyes dart in my direction before moving his torso in the opposite direction a half inch. He probably thinks I want more room, but that half inch feels like a knife to the heart.

  To shake things up, I turn my attention to the priest and actually listen to what he’s saying. Suddenly, I understand my dad’s tenseness. Father Tim is laying it on thick, talking about reaping the benefits of hard work. About how God loathes laziness, and awards those who toil for their Lord and family.

  “Proverbs 13:4 says, ‘The soul of the sluggard craves and gets nothing, while the soul of the diligent is richly supplied.’ ” Father Tim shows us his trusty Bible. “I say to you now, if you put your hands to work, be proud, for this pleases the Lord. But if you do not, I ask whether it is because work is truly unavailable, or because you are not willing to pick up a hoe and tend the fields.” The priest holds up his index finger. “No work is beneath us, for the Lord does not discriminate between the field owner and the laborer. All are loved equally.”

  Dani, Zara, and I all turn slowly toward my father. His head looks like it’s about to split open. He’s actually quaking with anger. The priest couldn’t be clearer in his message.

  If you’re out of work, it’s because you don’t want work.

  After the congregation sings a half-hearted hymn, we file out. My dad glares at Arvin from across the room, cringing when the priest shakes Arvin’s hand and thanks him for coming. With Arvin is another man dressed in a gray tailored suit. He’s tall and dark-skinned with a smooth head. There’s a cloth square, red as sin, peeking from his pocket. Arvin introduces the guy to the priest, and they shake hands too. Arvin’s older brother, Theo, is nowhere in sight.

  “That’s who Dad interviewed with on Monday,” Dani whispers to me.

  My head snaps in her direction, unbelieving. “But Daddy hates the races.”

  “He hates them the same way he does brandy, with one hand on the bottle.” She shrugs. “But he needs a job.”

  “It didn’t go well?” I ask, afraid of her answer.

  “Do Dad’s interviews ever go well?” she responds, too loudly. “That man couldn’t get a job if it hit him square between the eyes.”

  Zara nudges me and cocks her head toward Dad, who is glaring at Dani. When Dani sees him too, her eyes bug out from her head.

  “Dad, I didn’t mean—”

  But he only brushes past her and storms toward the car, back muscles tight with anger.

  I cast one last look at the younger Gambini brother before we head after Dad. Arvin is short and thick with too much hair on his head, as if he’s mocking men who are balding. He smiles easily, but the gesture never reaches his too-small eyes. His ruddy cheeks remind me of Christmas and beautiful Michigan winters, but he’s missing the authenticity to drive the resemblance home. The tall man by his side motions toward the exit, and Arvin wastes no time excusing the two of them.

  This makes me smile, seeing Arvin jump when someone else instructs him to.

  No one speaks on the way home, which only makes things worse. When our family argues, it’s almost a relief. We’re communicating. We’re trying. But when everyone shuts down like this, it rattles me.

  Discomfort crawls over my skin as my dad pulls our snot-green ’02 Buick into the driveway and kills the engine. I’m afraid to breathe until Dani gets out of the car and slams the door. My mom goes after her, and then my dad charges after my mom. Only Zara and I remain. She’s sucking on a peppermint she got from church and asking what Dani said that made Dad so mad. But I can’t answer her, because my eyes have snagged on something that causes my heart to race.

  Tucked into a small slot next to the Buick’s steering wheel is an orange envelope.

  I watch the house for any sign of my dad, and then I reach into the front seat and grab it.

  “Was that the thing in Dad’s pocke
t last night?” Zara asks in a whisper, though there’s no one to hear us.

  I turn away from Zara in case it’s really bad, and open the flap. Out slides a thin piece of paper. I don’t read much of it. I don’t need to. The red, stamped words are the only thing I need to know.

  EVICTION NOTICE

  I crumple the paper in my hand and my breathing comes faster. Zara calls my name and tries to pry the paper from my fingers, but I’ve shut down. My body tightens and my eyes cinch shut and sweat pricks the back of my neck. It’s happening again. My biggest fear will be actualized.

  When I finally open my eyes, I find my dad standing outside the car. He sees the envelope in my hand and tears the door open. “This isn’t yours,” he snaps. Unlike Zara, he’s able to rip both envelope and paper from my hand with ease.

  I don’t know where the anger comes from, but it slams into me like a hurricane. Great, heaping piles of anger so rich my mouth waters. “It’s kind of mine, isn’t it? And Mom’s? And Dani’s? And even Zara’s? It’s for all of us!”

  My voice rises, and I know it won’t be long before neighbors peek through their blinds for free early-morning entertainment.

  “This is for me to figure out, Astrid. Go inside. Your mom needs help with lunch.”

  I shove him. I’m not sure what I hope to accomplish, but the mountain of a man hardly budges. “We’re going to be on the streets, and you weren’t even going to tell us. How much time do we have?”

  My dad shakes his head like I’m overreacting. “I’m doing everything I can here.”

  “No, you’re not,” I shout. “You’re looking for work, but what about us? We can help too. Mom could work. So could Dani and I.”

  “No,” he says, his nostrils flaring. “I can take care of my family.”

  I drop my head to one side, the fight leaving my body in a rush. “But you’re not, are you, Dad? If you were, you’d know we need you more than we need money. I forgive you for going to those races last summer. I just wish you could forgive me.”