Miranda Kenneally - Racing Savannah

“I got you something for good luck,” he whispers in my ear. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a purple swirl lollipop.

“Yaaaaaay.” I take the sucker, and before I know what I’m doing, I slip my arms around his waist. He sucks in a breath. Clenches up.

Crap. He doesn’t want this. I take a step back, pissed at myself. I can’t believe I gave in to instinct.

“I’m sorry.” My cheeks are burning.

He looks away. “I need to tell you something. There’s gonna be press here today. Press specifically for you.”

“Me?” I blurt.

“Yes, you.” His mouth slides into a small smile. “You’re a big deal. This race is nothing compared to some of the big Kentucky races, but still. You don’t see girl jockeys all that often at races in general. Especially ones so young.”

I was already nervous enough. I drag a hand down my red braid and bring it to my mouth to chew on it. I pull a deep breath.

“Thanks for telling me,” I say. “I’d hoped you were gonna tell me something else.”

“Oh yeah? What?”

“Nothing,” I say, shaking my head quickly.

He gently pulls the braid from my mouth, grasping my hand for a sec. The heat from his skin soothes my nerves and makes me want to dive right back into his arms. Jesus. When did I become such a horn dog?

That’s when Rory brings Echoes of Summer back from her race and Jack disappears. Rory looks from me to where Jack vanished and starts beat-boxing, making music like you’d hear on his video game, Ho Down in Hoochieville. “Bowchicawowow.”

I flip him off.

I pause and breathe deeply as I unwrap the sucker and stick it in my mouth.

“How’d she do?” I ask as Rory pushes Echoes of Summer into a stall.

“Third place,” he says, grinning. “Not bad for an old lady.”

I pat her muzzle. “She’s only seven. I’d hate to hear what you call me when I’m not around.”

Rory yanks a wrinkled booklet from his back pocket. “Hey, I got the race program. Your name’s in it!”

I dash over to him, stick the sucker Jack gave me in my mouth, and thumb through the program. There I am.

HORSE

Tennessee Star

JOCKEY

S. Barrow*

TRAINER

G. Solana

OWNER

J. Goodwin/Cedar Hill Farms

* Denotes Apprentice Jockey

I close the program and cradle it against my chest.

And before I know it, before I can get my heartbeat under control, Rory has Star’s tack thrown over his shoulder and we’re heading up to the paddock, passing by other barns and the drug-testing pavilion. I finish the lollipop during our walk and throw the stick away.

Dad, Gael, Jack, and Mr. Goodwin meet us there as we’re securing the colt’s saddle.

Dad squeezes my shoulder. “You know you don’t have to do this, right? We can always send Townsend out instead.”

I tighten my gloves, glancing around at the other jockeys. They all look relaxed, chatting and joking with their trainers and owners. I blow air out through my mouth and bounce on my toes.

“I got this,” I tell Dad. Jack and Rory exchange a smile at my words.

I mount Star and we make our way out onto the track. Kentucky Downs is old and the grandstands are small like the bleachers at the Hundred Oaks softball field; most spectators are hanging around the fence and on the infield. Or they’re inside at the casino.

The cheering starts the minute Star begins to trot across the grass. A bunch of reporters are taking pictures of me. The flashes make me see spots. I hope Star isn’t scared of cameras. I groan, praying my picture won’t accompany a front-page article on how I blew it at Kentucky Downs.

Dad appears to my right, riding an Appaloosa pony. Star sniffs the pony and rams his head into Dad’s side, acting bratty.

“Don’t hesitate to pull up if anything goes wrong,” Dad says, and I nod, chewing on my braid. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” I reply.

When it’s post time, I meet two hands at the starting gate and they push Star inside the fourth position, locking the gate behind us. Dad disappears off the track.

Seven furlongs. Just under a mile. I can do this. I breathe in and out. In and out. In and out. The crowd cheers. It sounds like pressing a seashell to my ear and listening to the dull roar of an ocean.

The bell rings and the gates crash open.

Star blasts off. It’s a clean break out of the gate. We shoot to the front along with two other horses.

“Go!” I shout, holding on tighter than ever before. The nine sets of hooves slamming the grass sound like a train speeding away with my heart.

I glance to my right and left. Sergeant Major, a speed horse, is right next to me. He’ll lose his energy soon—I can already hear the colt huffing and puffing. On my left is Lazy Monday, who has good endurance. I’ve gotta make sure Star doesn’t get too tired, too fast, so I ease up a little on the first turn.

On the backstretch, I move up on the outside. For a moment, we take the lead. Then in a blink of an eye we’re back in the third position. But as I’m entering the final turn, a colt named Winning Waves sneaks up on the inside. He bolts past me. Dirt from a mud hole splatters on my face and chest.

“Come on,” I urge Star. He gradually increases his speed, but he’s losing his breath. We begin to pass Winning Waves. The horses are neck and neck.

On the home stretch, we’re fighting against Winning Waves. Two other horses are in front of us. The crowd is going wild. Cheering. Clapping. I’m loving the rush. “Go, Star! Hurry up!”

I cross over the finish line right before Winning Waves. A horse named Gina’s George is announced as the winner.

We lost by two lengths! Damn.

But we came in third place. Star has never done that before.

I hug his neck. “Good boy, Star. Good boy.” He nickers and sighs.

I make my way over to the scoreboard to check our time. Reporters snap photos of me and I grin as I push my goggles up on top of my helmet. Third isn’t bad for my first race. Then I see my official time on the scoreboard. My practice this morning was faster by three seconds. I rub my eye and take a deep breath, working to swallow the disappointment. Third is good, I remind myself. But will Jack be angry?

Over at the paddock, Rory is smiling as he reaches out to take the reins and control of the horse, and the next thing I know, Jack is pulling me down and wrapping me in a tight hug as more photographers take my picture.

“I’m so proud of you,” he murmurs. “Thank you.”

I bury my face against his chest, laughing, getting dirt all over his suit. We spin around in a circle and I’ve never felt so close to another person, not even when we were kissing.

I love that we worked together to make this happen. I’ve never felt so strong, like I could lift a boulder. Like I could do magic.

“I want you to be my jockey in the Dixiana Derby.”

“Shit, for real?” I exclaim. That’s only like three weeks away. It’s a huge race at Paradise Park with a half a million dollar purse!

“I do,” Jack says. I leap into his arms and we jump around like kids during recess.

“Jack,” Mr. Goodwin says loudly. “We all want to talk to Savannah.”

Jack releases me and grins. Out of the corner of my eye, I see that our fathers are actually smiling. Wait. We were just hugging like crazy, and they aren’t freaking out?

“Let’s go see your mother, son.” Mr. Goodwin leads Jack toward the bleachers. He and I look back at each other, beaming.

“You did good, Shortcake,” Dad says, squeezing me close to him. “I wish your mom could’ve seen it.”

I wrap an arm around Dad’s waist, get up on tiptoes, and kiss his cheek.

I came in third friggin’ place.

Hell. Yeah.

Church bells ring at Westwood Chapel for Will Whitfield’s wedding.

Rory, his younger brother Trey, and two other guys I don’t recognize dressed in tuxedos are serving as ushers, seating the female guests.

“Wow, you look great,” Rory says, sticking an elbow out. “I’m glad you got all that mud off your face.”

“You ass.”

“You aren’t supposed to say ass in church, S.”

Smiling, I take his arm and let him escort me to a pew. I’m still giddy from the race a few hours ago. I’m on such a high, I feel like I could slam dunk a basketball. Jack wants me to be his jockey in the Dixiana Derby!

Along with an ace bandage to mask the hideous bruise on my shin, I wore a green silk dress that belonged to my mother. It’s really beautiful and not mom-style at all.

The Goodwins sit a few rows in front of me. Jack sits between his mother and Shelby with his arms stretched around them across the pew.

I run my fingers over the beige wedding program laced with blue ribbon. It reads:

Parker Anne Shelton + William Connor Whitfield

Vanessa walks into the church and looks around, clutching her wedding program. I wave at her then pat the seat next to me. One of the ushers—a guy with loose curly blond hair that reaches his shoulders—sees Vanessa and gives her a big hug before escorting her to my row.

“Thanks for letting me sit with you,” she whispers, rolling and unrolling her wedding program. “I wasn’t sure if I should come.”

“Why not?”

“I mean, Rory invited me, but it’s not like we’ve been going out all that long. I haven’t met his parents yet.”

“It’s fine—his family will love you. Besides, I just met Rory, like, a month ago, and they invited me. Who was that guy who you hugged? The super hot one.”