ALSO BY VICTORIA SCOTT

Fire & Flood

Salt & Stone

VICTORIA SCOT T

SCHOLASTIC PRESS / NEW YORK

Copyright 2016 by Victoria Scott

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Scott, Victoria (Young adult author), author.

Titans / Victoria Scott. First edition.
pages cm
Summary: Seventeen-year-old Astrid Sullivan belongs to a family of compul-
sive gamblers, and now that her father has been laid off from his job in Detroit
and lost all their money betting on the Titans, which are half-horse, half car, and
race around impossible tracks, her family is falling apartbut when Astrids
new friends give her the chance to participate in this years Titan races, she
thinks she sees a way to win some money and keep her family together.
ISBN 978-0-545-80601-5 (hardcover)
1. RacingJuvenile fiction. 2. Compulsive gamblersJuvenile fiction.
3. FamiliesMichiganDetroitJuvenile fiction. 4. InventionsJuvenile
fiction. 5. FriendshipJuvenile fiction. 6. Detroit (Mich.)Juvenile fiction.
[1. RacingFiction. 2. GamblingFiction. 3. Family lifeMichigan
DetroitFiction. 4. InventionsFiction. 5. FriendshipFiction. 6. Detroit
(Mich.)Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.S42936Ti 2016
813.6dc23
[Fic]
2015012090

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 16 17 18 19 20

Printed in the U.S.A. 23

First edition, March 2016

Book design by Nina Goffi

 For my daughter
Whatever you decide to do in this big, blue world,
your mama will bet on you to win.
I love you, I love you.
 CYCLONE TRACK PROGRAM,
TITAN DERBY
Final Results, Previous Season

COURSE NAME: Earthquake

DISTANCE: 32 Furlongs
BREED TYPE: Titan 3.0
ENGINE OIL: Diesel
SURFACE: Dirt

TITAN NAME JOCKEY TRAINER SPONSOR TIME RANK

The Man M. Franklin O. Richey Richey 10.50

Enterprises 1/4

Fuzzy A. Gaston C. Norman B&B Oil 11.03

Constellation and Gas 2/4

Prince of S. Barrins B. Lovato Stanley 13.60

Tides Stables 3/4

Sylvester H. Wells V. Pletcher Ned and ----

Carol Wells 4/4
 PART I
FRAGILE THINGS
 CHAPTER ONE
Tonight, the Titans will run.
I can see their eyes glowing red from my hard-won place
outside the fence. Grown men jostle me from both sides, slosh-
ing pints of beer, hollering over one another as they place
last-minute bets. The moon dips low in the sky, lured by grum-
bled curses and bare-knuckle fights and cigarettes pinched
between dirtied fingertips.
My parents dont know Im here. I snuck out my bedroom
window with Magnolia an hour before midnight, an hour before
the race would begin. Last year, I watched the machines run on
a local sports channelone of the few my family could afford.
The Gambini brothers should have been thrilled. The first year
and already they had cameramen and a spot in homes across
Detroit.
This time, though, I wont watch from under my mothers
arm, her fingers working their way through my hair. I breathe
in the pungent smell of sweat and urine, and press closer against
the fence. Magnolia stands beside me, her sight set on the course.
She takes my hand in hers and gives it a good squeeze. I squeeze
right back, and narrow my gaze to the Titans.
From inside the starting gate, the steel horses stamp the dry
earth and toss their heads. I can make out the jockeys colored
jerseys and anxious hands as they work their Titans control pan-
els. I know from reading online that theyre sending manual
instructions to the horses control centers, setting speeds and cal-
culating lean percentages and determining how close theyll
push their horses to the slay zone.

3
 The horses are a mixture of the real things and race cars.
Thats why Ive studied both. There isnt much to do in the sub-
urbs of Detroit, especially when where you live is less suburb and
more slum. As working conditions at my fathers plant worsened,
and my parents began to argue, the horses were transported into
the heart of the forest that nuzzled my house. A glittering prom-
ise of hope in the form of iron bolts and smooth steel.
The starting light in the center of the track flicks on, throw-
ing red across the dirt. The Titans lose their ever-loving minds
when they see that particular shade of cherry. They may not have
real minds, or real thoughts, but like any other computer they
have the potential for recognition and reaction. The jockeys toe
their stirrups, lean forward in their black leather seats, and grip
the handlebars as their horses thrash.
I see all of this through the bars of the starting gate.
And then the light changes colors.
It blinks yellowon and off, on and off.
Yellow.
The crowd moves in, bodies flush against my back until my
nose is pushed through the chain-link fence.
Yellow.
My heart thunders in my chest so that I can feel it in my
throat. Magnolia tightens her hold on my hand.
Yellow.
Finally, finally, the onlookers quiet. The absence of sound is
jarring. Its the loudest thing Ive ever heardall those men
breathing rapidly, eyes widening, hands clenching their bet
cards.
Green!
The gates slide away. A gun fires.
And the Titans run.

4
 They run and the world trembles beneath my feet. Steam
puffs from their nostrils and their eyes cut a crimson path and
their bodies clash against one another, steel on steel. As the
Titans rumble past, a smile sweeps across my face. Watching
them is like kissing a speeding train. Like dancing with a hurri-
cane. The horses are terrifying and beautiful at once. They are
mindless beasts, but under the stadium lights, their bodies mov-
ing down the track like ghosts, they are glorious.
Im thirteen years old the day I first witness the Titans run.
Its the same day I watch a grown man die.

5
 CHAPTER TWO
Four years later

Its the first Monday of summer. Theres no Ms. Finchella with

her chalky fingers and history papers. There are no Styrofoam
trays with steak fingers and questionable gravy. And theres
definitely no gym class where kids are separated by the volley-
ball kneepads they don: florescent white for those who come
from money, and murky gray for those who grab from the
used pile.
Who needs those things when its finally summer? When the
sky spreads out over our neighborhood with blueness so deep
you could slurp it through a straw. I dig my hands into my pock-
ets and tip my head back, open my mouth like maybe some of
that blue will float down like snowflakes. Once my eyes are cast
upward, I find myself counting those fluffy clouds, sorting them
into categories based on size and shape, seeing mathematical cal-
culations dance across their white bellies.
Of course, I see numbers everywherein the leaves, in the
way the grass grows, even in the lines that cross my palms.
My feet carry me between two clapboard houses while my
brain keeps sorting patterns, until a sharp rapping sound steals
my attention. Its Magnolia waving from inside her window. She
slides the glass pane open and music blasts into the warm air like
its relieved to escape her room.
Whatcha want, Astrid? she asks with a smirk.
Nothing, I reply. Wrong house, wrong window.
She laughs. Even so, its your lucky day, because Im in the
market for a little adventure. She climbs through the window,

6
knobby knees getting stuck in the frame before she yanks them
out. My best friend wears black shorts and a black tank. Shes
even got black sandals on her feet. Youd think she was allergic
to color, but thats not it at all.
You like my new piece? she asks when she rights herself.
I admire the orange headband in her long blond hair.
Attached to it is an orange veil that lies backward, just begging
for a breeze so it can flip forward and cover her heart-shaped
face. Now the black makes sense. Magnolia claims people should
dress to accommodate their accessories, not the other way
around. And Magnolias favorite accessory of choice is one worn
on the crown of her head.
I made it this morning. She nudges the band back. Still
need to sew on a line of sequins to the bottom.
Nah, no sequins.
No?
No.
She grimaces. What do you know?
I smile. I dont. I just like to get a rise out of you.
Magnolias white teeth flash behind red lipstick. It clashes
with her orange headband, but I wont tell her that. The only
thing Magnolia likes better than her custom headpieces is her
Revlon red lipstick, No. 22. What do you want to do?
I shrug. Go for a walk?
Yeah? Shes already heading toward the street, our foot-
steps retracing the same path weve cut countless times before.
You think anyone will be out there this soon?
Maybe.
We dont have to mention the place by name to have this
conversation. Its why we spend so much of our summers in the
woods past Candlewick Parkto catch a glimpse of them in

7
the daylight, though most dont ever make an appearance until
nightfall. Just thinking about the Titans running at Cyclone
Track gets my blood pumping.
Howd your dads interview go? Magnolia asks.
I cringe at this question. Both our fathers lost their jobs at
the electrical plant a couple of months ago. Strategic restructur-
ing, the newspaper called the layoffs, which only made my
father angrier. The company replaced the men with machines
made in Taiwan, is the truth. I know because Dad went around
the house in the weeks following his restructuring and searched
for anything in our house made in Taiwan. A couple of my
younger sisters stuffed animals, our microwave, and one of
my mothers favorite hand shovels were among the culprits. He
threw them all away, save the microwave. Its today, I tell her.
Oh, I thought it was last Friday.
I step over the curb and into crisp leaves. Rescheduled.
Magnolia nods like this is something she expected. Dad
says he might apply there too if your dad likes the place and the
monkey who interviews him.
No point in doing it before then, I reply. But we both know
Magnolias dad has probably already applied. Between the two
old friends, theyve marched their way into every plant and fac-
tory Detroit has to offer. Magnolias dad even took a class at the
library on creating a resume. Youd think hed discovered another
planet, listening to him gloat over that manila-colored piece of
paper.
Little good it did him.
Magnolia must notice the distant look on my face because
she rubs my back. I smile with one side of my mouth and return
the favor. Its our ritual. Our we ll get through this one-two dance.
On some twisted level, its nice to know Im not alone in this

8
situation. That Magnolia and I are both waiting for things at our
houses to implode. But its also twice as scary, because theres a
specific something Detroit factory workers do after theyve
exhausted their options.
My stomach twists, imagining my family packing their bags
for another town, another house. I cant do that again. I wont
survive the nights in grimy motels, or worse, the days huddled in
our car while my dad hunts for jobs elsewhere.
It nearly broke my family the last time we lost our house. But
this time would be even worse, because it would mean leaving
Magnolia. Of course, she could leave first.
My mind spins as I skip from one potential solution to
another. This is what Ive done every day since Dad became
unemployed: think through the ways I could help my family.
Yes, my dad needs another gig. But at this point, we just need
money. Enough so that if he lost another job in the future, we
wouldnt have to entertain worst-case scenarios. My landing a
minimum wager could help, but the last time Mom came home
with an application from a craft store, Dad shouted about respect
and a mans responsibility to support his family. My sisters and I
watched the vein in his neck throb, making ourselves small at
the table.

9
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