Miranda Kenneally: Racing Savannah

The Goodwin kids are not what I expected…I figured they’d spent all their time taking tea and laughing hoity-toitily or something.

I open the door to Star’s stall and slowly approach the horse, to continue getting to know him. “So, it’s just me and you…want to tell me why you buck your riders?” He lets out a little snort and nudges my hand then tries to chow down on it.

“Hey, now!” I shove his face away from me. Sure, he’s being snotty, but I’d take horses over humans any day of the week. Horses never give a damn if I have labels on my clothes.

Herds are sort of like high school—they definitely have their own social dynamic. There’s always a stallion or gelding who thinks he’s in charge. Out in the pasture, horses bully each other around food and water; lead horses get their fill before others get a bite or a sip, and if a horse that’s low in the pecking order tries to butt in, he’ll get bitten or kicked. And there’s always a troublemaker or two, wallowing in the mud and teasing the fillies.

Once Star has calmed down and he’s treating me with respect, I pet his ears and let him eat a treat out of my palm. I want him to feel safe with me so he’ll let me ride him. “Good boy. Now, let’s see, what are you scared of? Raccoons, obviously. Are you scared of fillies? What about mud puddles?”

I rub his head until his breathing slows and he falls asleep.

Later on Saturday evening, Rory is driving me down the streets of Franklin, giving me the grand tour.

“We have three Shell gas stations, but each has a different nickname. There’s the Social Shell , where almost everybody goes to get gas. I always see somebody I know there. Then there’s the Secret Shell , which no one notices, because it’s not on one of the main highways. And the last is called the Soviet Shell , because it’s usually out of gas and the snack shelves inside are always empty.”

“Wow,” I say with a laugh.

“Franklin was named after the Benjamin Franklin,” Rory says.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. He also discovered electricity and invented the carriage odometer and he’s on the hundred dollar bill.”

“I bet Benjamin Franklin never had to take the bitch seat in a carriage.” Rory brought his Irish setter, Ava, along tonight and apparently she always gets the passenger seat so she can hang her head out the window. “I mean, isn’t it ironic that I’m sitting in the bitch seat while the dog gets the best spot?” I say, making Rory laugh. “My mom would’ve liked your tour. She was real big into history.”

“Where is she?”

“She died,” I say quietly, and Rory gives me a sad look. I tell him about the cancer and how much I miss everything from her macaroni lasagna to the way she braided my hair to how she said I love you every night.

“That macaroni lasagna sounds amazing,” he says, grinning.

“Oh, my mom kicked Martha Stewart’s ass for sure.” I tune the radio from rap to the hard rock station. “Ror, who is Abby Winchester?”

“I dunno.” He smacks my hand away from the tuner and flips it back to the rap station.

I pick at a piece of duct tape holding the truck’s upholstery together. “Mr. Goodwin sure seemed serious about Jack returning Abby’s phone calls today. She’s practically stalking him.”

“Maybe Mr. Goodwin’s doing some special business with her or something? I don’t know her. She doesn’t go to our school, unless she’s a freshman.”

“I see.”

“Why do you care?”

I tell Rory everything: how Jack didn’t know who I was and how he offered me a private tour.

Rory gives me a worried look. “Jack’s a good boss…but you shouldn’t get your hopes up about him—he never has serious relationships. Well, except for this one girl—Senator Lukens’s daughter. They dated last year. It didn’t end well apparently.” Rory pauses to drum his hands on the steering wheel. “So he wanted to take you on a private tour?”

“Yep. I bet he wouldn’t make me take the bitch seat either,” I taunt.

“Hush.”

I scratch Ava’s ears. “So my dating prospects are pretty bad so far. I mean, you’re out because you might break your neck trying to kiss me. And Bryant Townsend is a real dick—”

“I’d rather you date just about anybody besides Douchey McDoucherson.”

I howl laughing at Bryant’s nickname. “Even, like, that guy who rules North Korea who wears pajamas all the time? You’d be okay with me dating him?”

Rory stops at a traffic light. “That sounds like a great idea for my next script.” He pulls a scrap of paper from his pocket and the pen from behind his ear. He rips the cap off with his teeth and starts jotting down notes: Hot teen girl kidnapped by ruthless commie bastard/she falls for him/he brainwashes her by impressing her with his knife collection!!!

During the rest of my driving tour of Franklin, Rory tells me about how he wants to be a famous screenwriter one day. But I can’t figure out what genre Rory writes. What movies have eight million explosions, twice as many deaths, and loads of gratuitous sex scenes?

We pull into the lot of a place called Tennessee Ballers and park next to a Mercedes convertible. Two pretty girls, a guy, and Jack are climbing out of the car as we speak.

Crap. Of course Jack would be here, haunting me. I swivel to face Rory. “How can we afford this place?”

“It’s cheap, I promise,” Rory says.

Walking up to the wooden doors, I realize Tennessee Ballers is an old flour mill. A drugstore across the street is now an empty storefront.

Inside Tennessee Ballers, I gaze around at the odd décor. The tables, chairs, and carpet are tasteful and clearly brand new, but different kinds of dead fish (bass? sturgeon?) mounted on plaques and pictures of famous football players cover the walls. A picture of the Hundred Oaks’ football team from four years ago hangs right beside the cash register. The caption says the photo is from the Tennessee State Championship game. They had a girl quarterback? God, that’s so badass.

Rory and I get in line behind one of the girls who came here with Jack. She’s super tall with long blond hair. “Fish tacos at a place called Tennessee Ballers? Who came up with that?” I ask.

She turns, and a smile spreads across her face. “I know, the name is awful. I have to listen to guys make perverted comments every time I’m here.”

Rory pats his stomach. “Man, do I love me some fish tacos.”

“Ugh,” the girl says, rolling her eyes.

The guy she’s with grins evilly. “You love it when guys talk like that.”

“I hate you. So much,” the girl says to him before striding to the counter.

“You love me!”

“Who are they?” I whisper to Rory.

“That’s Vanessa Green and Colton Bradford. Colton’s dad is the mayor of Franklin. And Vanessa’s really cool. Her brother used to go to Hundred Oaks but now he’s in the NFL. First person ever from our school to make it.”

Crazy. How is it I’ve only been here a few days and I keep meeting people who are way out of my league?

Vanessa studies the menu, but Rory is studying Vanessa like she’s what’s for supper. I nudge him with my elbow. “Is she why we’re here?”

“No, we’re here for tacos.” Rory points his chin at the menu. Liar.

Jack slips an arm around the other pretty girl’s waist as they check out the menu.

“And who’s she?” I ask.

“Kelsey Painter. She’s a cheerleader.”

I’m so confused. Wasn’t he calling Abby Winchester earlier today? What if his bedroom really does have a revolving door?

I daydream of Jack touching me like that. Gently dragging his fingers across my hip, zapping me with lightning. Wait a minute. He was flirting with me earlier today when he knew he had plans with this girl tonight? What an ass. And I’m an ass for even thinking about him.