“Give them yourself.”
Robby strides up, dapper in his Sunday suit of brushed cotton. “Hello, Jo!”
“Hello yourself. I hear I owe you some teeth rinse.”
“How about we toast with it after you cross the line? We’re real proud of you.”
Noemi nods. “Just moving down that road is a victory.”
Robby leans in, his laughing eyes glinty. “But bring home the big fish, okay?” He waves a ticket at me. “I got a bet on Sunday Surprise. But I also got one on you.” He winks.
The Atlanta Suffragists have again started up their battle cry, drowning out the Bluebells’ singing. Mrs. Bullis is frowning at us, and I give her a little wave that she does not return. She hands her part of the banner to another woman and stalks over. “You.” She crooks her pinky at Noemi. “Your group is making us into a spectacle. And you.” The pinky switches to me. “You arranged this to spite me.” She grimaces at the sight of Sweet Potato, drooling on my head.
“I wish I had that much influence, ma’am.” I drape my arm around Sweet Potato’s neck. “Rest assured, my mare and I will do our best.”
“Mare?” Her gaze slides under Sweet Potato. “Oh, good gullywash. We will be laughingstocks!” Her face crumples, and I feel myself softening, curse my wax heart.
“If you believe that females are equal to males, then have faith, ma’am.”
Her face unwrinkles, and she gusts out an indignant “Well!” Then she storms back to her suffragists, hissing to the Bluebells as she passes, “Will you please hush?”
The Bluebells break off their song. Noemi sighs. “I better move the troops, before they show us the boot. But first, I made you something to help you get past Thief.” From her pocket, she pulls something wrapped in wax paper.
“A cookie?” I reach for it, but she pulls it away.
“Not you.” She holds it to Sweet Potato, who snatchesit right up, wax paper and all. “It’s got my secret ingredient. Never hurts to try.” She grins and all the bluebells on her hat grin along.
“Do you have an extra sash?”
“No, but you can have mine.” She whips it off, then watches as I tie it around my waist. Something airy and hopeful wings around her face. “Good luck, sister.”
Sprinting races have already begun to warm up the crowd for the main event. A sign with the wordCONTESTANTSpoints toward the stables at the far end of the grandstand. The word chases a chill up and down my spine.
I ignore the stares, as I have done all my life. The noise of the attendees collects in my ears, making my heart pound like Etta Rae is whacking it with her rug-beater hands.
A gray horse barrels past me, tossing its anvil of a head and snapping its jaws. A purple saddle pad emblazoned with the number 4 wraps the horse’s middle. Where do I get one of those numbers? Perhaps this is where having a team helps.
The grandstand is beginning to fill. There must be at least five hundred people there already, watching the sprint races, with room for five hundred more. Next to the grandstand, more people amass under a magnolia tree, on which is nailed a sign,COLORED. There are no chairs, but some folks have brought picnic blankets to set on the ground. I picture Old Gin standing under that tree, not weak and battered, but as he used to look, balanced and whole. His shabby clothes still hang neatly, and he faces the world with serenity, as if he had landed right on the spot he was supposed to land. He waves his flag at me, onward.
Behind a line of trees, a double strip of stables is populated by a grunting, noisy mass of men clustered around horses. The gray anvil that passed us earlier rears up on its hindquarters, and its jockey, a man with a weathered face, yells curses. Old Gin never cursed at a horse. Horses only give, never take, and should be treated with respect. Another horse screams, and I recognize it as the voice of a certain Arabian, Ameer. Johnny Fortune rides him into the arena, looking splendid in gold silks, a riding crop under his arm. I do not see Thief.
Sweet Potato and I stride up to an official-looking man with a red bowler to match his bright bulb of a nose. “Good morning, sir. I am Jo Kuan, and this is Sweet Potato. We are here to check in for the race.”
“You? There are only twelve animals in this race, and certainly no females.” He spits out that last word as if it were a seed that had gotten stuck in his teeth.
“But—could you please check again?” I eye the ledger he clasps to his velvet cutaway. “Mrs. Payne added us to the roster herself.” At least, she said she did.Don’t let me down again. Not today.
“I have the roster memorized. Twelve horses, all checked in already. Now, move along, or I shall call security.”
“But I—but we—”
A tailored morning suit struts up on shiny sable boots. “There you are, Miss Kuan. We’ve been waiting for you. Have you been giving our last jock a hard time, Mr. Thorne?”
Merritt Payne twists one handle of his three-forty-five mustache and looks down his aristocratic nose at the official.
Mr. Thorne flips through the pages of his ledger, nearly dropping it in his agitation. “Er, sorry, Mr. Payne. I was sure I knew all of the contestants. Twelve, I thought it was—”
“Please.” Merritt wiggles his fingers. “Now you are wasting our time. Come, Miss Kuan, Sweet Potato. Your stable boy is waiting, and they will be calling for line shortly.”
