Racing Savannah

“I’ll carry her back,” Jack says, slipping an arm under my knees and the other under my shoulder blades, lifting me off the track. Mr. Goodwin gives his son a look, but Jack doesn’t pay attention.



“Put me down,” I tell Jack through clenched teeth. “Nobody’s gonna take me seriously if you’re carrying me all over the place.” He immediately drops me back to my feet and a pang of pain engulfs my shin. I hiss and hop on one foot.



My dad starts rubbing his eyes and wiping sweat off his face, glancing between Mr. Goodwin and Jack. I can see Dad’s pulse racing beneath the skin of his neck.



“Son, get her off the track,” Mr. Goodwin says, and Jack grabs my arm and pulls me toward Hillcrest.



“Can I still race on Saturday?” I ask, hobbling.



Jack avoids my question. “Let’s go check out that leg.”



He leads me back to Hillcrest and escorts me to my bedroom. There, he looks around my super tiny room. It’s only big enough for a twin bed and a small dresser that doubles as a nightstand. A framed picture of my mother hangs beside the door. Yellow paint is peeling off the walls and the only sunlight filters through a tiny rectangular window near the ceiling. The twin bed has the same bedding I’ve had since I was eight—Strawberry Shortcake.



Jack chuckles at my bedspread as we plop down. “I knew you were a Shortcake.”



I want to dive under the covers and die from embarrassment. I need a new comforter immediately.



After helping me remove my gloves and vest, Jack pulls my boots and socks off, lifts my legs onto his lap, peels my pant leg back, and examines my shin. He whistles at the big purple welt forming. “You should ice it, but it doesn’t look serious—”



“Son,” Mr. Goodwin says, appearing in my doorway with my father. Both men stare down at my legs in Jack’s lap. “You need to get back on the track and let the horsemen know why we have a twenty-minute delay this morning. You need to do your job, understand ?”



The emotion disappears from Jack’s face, he removes my feet from his lap, and he suddenly stands. “Yes, sir.”



“I hope you feel better, Savannah,” Jack says seriously before leaving, clicking the door shut.



Dad watches Jack disappear then sits down on my bed. “What happened out there? How did you lose control?”



“Star’s strong and he was scared.”



My father shakes his head. “I don’t want you riding that horse anymore.”



“No—”



“Don’t argue—”



“The only reason the Goodwins are training me as a jockey is to ride Star—”



“And you think they’ll let you now after you lost control of the horse and fell?”



“That happens to everybody! And raccoons were involved! This happened to a rider on the third day we were here, for God’s sake!”



Dad clenches the Strawberry Shortcake comforter in his fist and shuts his eyes.



I can’t give up the chance to make a better name, a better future for myself. The fact I’m still using the same kid bedding just proves I need better opportunities. Sometimes you’ve gotta take risks to get something better.



“Please,” I say. “I’ll do anything. Please let me keep working.”



“I’ve gotta get back to work,” he says. “Stay in that bed.”



“Dad!” I call out, but he leaves without another word.



God, is it all over after less than a week? I bury my face in my pillow. What happened this morning scared me…but not having a future in horseracing scares me just as much, if not more.



Midafternoon when I’m icing my shin for the fourth time, Gael brings film for me to watch and I move to the common room because I don’t have a TV. It brings a smile to my face that Gael isn’t gonna let me quit just because I fell.



“When I was a jockey,” Gael says, “I fell at least once a month. And I didn’t even have raccoons to blame.”



Later in the day, Dad sits on my bed with me. “I’m sorry I yelled at you this morning,” he says. “But you need to get your body in better shape so you can ride at high speeds if you want to keep your job.”



“I can keep it?” I exclaim.



Dad runs a hand through his hair. “What happened this morning wasn’t your fault.”



“Yeah, it was those goddamned raccoons.”



Dad pats my knee. “Hey, watch your mouth, Shortcake.”



“Can I race this weekend?”



“We’ll see…but you need to start doing more workouts with Gael. And don’t think I won’t hesitate to stop your training if I don’t think you can handle it, understand?”



I hug his neck, promising myself I’ll be extra vigilant from now on. He’s right—this job can be the difference between life and death.



Dad hands me a packet of papers. “Jack came by. He brought your schoolwork.”



“Groan,” I say. “He must not know me very well if he thinks I actually want to do my homework.”



On top of the papers is a thick beige note card embossed with Jack’s name in gold ink. John Conrad Goodwin IV. What guy has his own stationery? It even smells like his cologne. Jesus Lord.



The note reads,



Star says he's sorry. For his punishment, I'm withholding carrots and he isn't allowed to play in the pasture with the fillies for a week. That'll teach him a lesson. I'd go crazy if someone took away my favorite food and access to girls. Feel better soon -JG



I laugh silently at the note. But couldn’t he have told me this in person?



“What’s going on between you and him?” Dad asks.



I bring the note card to my mouth, to chew on the corner. “We’re working with Star. That’s all,” I lie, wishing I could erase last weekend’s make-out session from my mind.



“Make sure that’s all it is,” Dad says, giving me a stern glare. “I had a hard time keeping him out of here this afternoon. I told him he couldn’t see you ’cause I didn’t want you stressed out in case you got a concussion this morning.”



So that’s why he sent a note.



“Jack only wants to get in your pants,” Dad says.



My hands fly to cover my eyes. “God, Dad! Shut up!”



“Mr. Goodwin would never allow his son to date you.”



It hurts hearing Dad say that. Because I know it’s true. I’ve heard it from Mr. Goodwin’s own mouth.



“You know the maids’ stories about all the girls Jack messes around with in his room. And like Cindy told you, you’re too good for him.”



I might have thought that a week ago. But a week ago, he wouldn’t have sent me a card and collected my homework. I smell the card again, enjoying his cologne, thinking of his funny words. I really like who he is as a person.



Regardless of what anybody says, I’d give him another chance if he wants to try to make us work. But still, which Jack is the real Jack? The farm owner at home or the sweet goofball who emerges when we’re alone?



My First Race



Even though I majorly crashed and burned Tuesday morning on the track, Jack still wants me to race Saturday at Kentucky Downs. Other than him, it’s all I can think about during the day. Gael has me riding for hours a day now, and my arms and legs feel like noodles thanks to his weight training.



But late at night, when I’m alone with my thoughts, while Dad and Cindy are cuddling together on the couch and Rory is immersed in his writing or spending time with Vanessa, I think of Jack. I should’ve known better than to make out with him, but everything felt right, and I’ve always heard you should live in the moment. When she was my age, I doubt my mother thought she’d lose her life at thirty.



On Thursday night after everyone has gone to sleep, I climb out of bed in my pajamas and go to the common room. I flick on the lights and sit down at the computer.



I type colleges in Tennessee into Google. A school called Belmont pops up as the first choice. I tap the link and a picture of a brick building surrounded by lush green trees fills the screen. I click on the admissions homepage and scroll through the requirements. Looks like they suggest a minimum GPA of 3.5. Mine is 3.2. School has never been my forte. I’d rather shovel manure than do algebra.



Holy shit—the Belmont application fee alone is $50. Is it that pricey at every school? Didn’t Rory say some cost $35? Applying to five schools like this one would cost $250. Other than people like Jack, who can afford that?



Still. The pictures of the dorm rooms, the quad, and students having fun at basketball games make my heart speed up a little.



“Why are you out of bed?”



I quickly exit out of the browser and swivel to face Dad, who’s standing there holding a glass of water.



“Couldn’t sleep,” I say. “What are you doing?”



“Cindy was thirsty. What were you looking at on the computer?”



“Um, nothing really.”



Dad sits on the couch armrest. “It looked like you were on a college website.”



I slowly lift a shoulder, cracking my knuckles. “Just messing around.”



“I didn’t know you were interested in college. I thought you were gonna work as an exercise boy.”



“I am,” I say quickly. There’s a long still silence, as Dad’s eyes leave mine and focus on the glass of water.



“You’ve changed a lot in the few weeks we’ve been here, Shortcake…I barely recognize you anymore since we moved. I never imagined you’d be interested in jockeying or college.”



I sigh and push the button to turn off the computer monitor.



“Don’t get me wrong—I’m proud of you, but I don’t know anything about college,” Dad goes on. “I guess we could ask Mr. Goodwin what he knows but I don’t know how we’d pay for—”



“No, no,” I say. “Don’t talk to Mr. Goodwin.” I can’t handle the idea of being more in debt than we already are. What I need to do is keep making money. That wouldn’t happen if I went to college.



“Dad?” I ask. “Are you going to marry Cindy?”



He gives me a sad smile and cradles the glass in his hands. “I’m going to ask her when I have enough money to buy her a ring.”



The memory of Mr. Winchester snapping his fingers at me to refill his wine glass pops into my mind. He was wearing a large ruby ring encircled with diamonds. He didn’t even say please and thank you. Probably doesn’t care who he hurts, just like Mr. Cates. He didn’t care that he sold Moonshadow to a bad man who whipped her and made her race, even though she wasn’t in shape. I bite down on the inside of my cheek so I won’t cry, so the pain won’t swallow me.



“You’d better get to bed, Shortcake. You’ve got training in the morning.”



I climb back in bed and mentally run through my game plan for Saturday’s race, but as I begin to nod off, lush images from the Belmont website fill my head, flooding my dreams with color.



Friday afternoon after I’ve visited Star in the pasture, I meet Gael in his office in the manor house to watch racing film.