Racing Savannah (8 page)

I set my helmet and gloves on the ground, take the cup, wrap both hands around it, and sip slowly. “It’s perfect.”

He smiles. “I thought Cindy was lying to me. She didn’t seem happy when I asked her how you take your coffee.”

“She didn’t lie to you,” I say, sipping again.

“I figured you might like it black or something. Black for a badass girl.”

I give him a look. “Well, thanks, I think.”

Jack’s hounds circle around us as we walk back to the house arguing about black coffee versus coffee with delicious sugars and creams until he reaches for my elbow. “Listen,” he says quietly, turning me to face him as we reach Hillcrest. He places a hand above my shoulder against the house. My heart bangs against my chest. “I want to say thank you for helping me. It means a lot to me.”

I should tell him that he has a huge staff of people willing to do anything for him, because the Goodwins pay them, but somehow I know he considers what we did this morning more personal than regular ole work. He smiles, and I find myself staring at his lips.

Then Yvonne waddles up with a laundry basket under her arm and Jack tries to take it off her hands, but she swats at him. “Don’t even think about it.” She wags her finger at him, and then motions for him to lean down so she can kiss his cheek. Then she kisses my cheek and heads inside where I can hear her getting on to Cindy for not drinking some special prenatal green tea she concocted. Jack and I laugh at Yvonne together.

“Anyway,” Jack says. “I have to finish balancing the accounts before school.”

He takes off for the manor house, and I sip my coffee. Mmm. Perfect.

• • •

I shower and dress for school, and while I’m sitting at the table trying to finish my stupid geometry homework, the maid bell starts ringing. Cedar Hill has several bells that date back to the Civil War. Each bell indicates if one of the Goodwins needs something. The chef bell, for food or coffee; the maids’, for laundry, bedding, or cleaning issues; the gardener, for gardening issues.

You know, in case there’s an emergency gardening issue.

The maid bell ringing doesn’t make any sense—none of the maids are down here right now. They’re making beds and serving breakfast and doing other things maids do. Then the phone rings. “Savannah,” Cindy says in a weak voice.

“Is something wrong with the baby?” I rush to ask.

“I’m not feeling my best…I’m so tired,” she replies. “I need you to send Paula up to work breakfast instead of me.”

“She’s not here.”

“Oh no, I just remembered it’s her day off.”

“I can come up before school—”

“No, no,” Cindy says. “Mrs. Goodwin doesn’t like it when the help track mud in the house.”

“I’ve already changed clothes.” I peek down at the pink Converse Dad gave me for Christmas last year. “I’m coming.”

I jog up to the manor house and barrel into the kitchen. Cindy’s sitting at the island, wiping sweat off her face. Jodi, the Goodwins’ chef, is frying an omelet and writing down notes at the same time.

“I can’t serve breakfast,” Cindy says, on the verge of tears. “I don’t know how I’m gonna make it another four months. I’m so tired.”

“You should take some time off.”

“I need the money,” Cindy whispers, shaking her head. “You know I need a root canal and I won’t be able to afford it for a long time and I want to buy your little sister clothes and start a savings account and—”

“Shhh,” I say soothingly. She Who Must Not Be Named should be able to take time off if she needs to. But with Dad still paying off Mom’s medical bills, having enough money to take time off seems like a fantasy. What the hell are we gonna do after she gives birth?

“Jodi? What do I do?” I ask in a harsh tone.

“Refill their coffee. Mr. Goodwin drinks his black. So does Jack. Mrs. Goodwin drinks tea. Shelby likes hot cocoa with lots of whipped cream, so make sure she has enough.”

I quickly wash my hands in the sink and take a deep breath.

“Come back to grab Shelby’s omelet,” Jodi says.

I tie on an apron and grab the coffeepot before striding into the dining room. A chandelier hangs above the table made of a deep cherry wood. Sunlight illuminates the room through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Shelby is doing the word search in today’s paper. Mr. and Mrs. Goodwin look up at me.

“Short-staffed today,” I say, holding up the coffeepot.

Mr. Goodwin sets his paperwork down. “Is everything okay?”

“Cindy’s a little under the weather. She’s really tired. And Paula has the day off.”

“Oh, of course,” Mr. Goodwin says, returning to his papers. He’s reading printouts of the
Daily
Racing
Form
. Dad and I read it every day so we can stay up-to-date on the best horses and jockeys and their news.

“Welcome to the team,” Mrs. Goodwin says, toasting me with her teacup.

“Thank you, ma’am,” I say. I saw her at the races on Sunday, but this is the first time she’s spoken to me. I can see where Jack and Shelby get their good looks from—Mrs. Goodwin is exquisite.

Jack chooses that moment to enter the dining room, looking fresh in a pair of dark jeans, cowboy boots, and an Oxford button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, of course. His hair is still wet from the shower.

He sees me standing there and stops moving. Avoids my gaze. God. This is the most. Embarrassing. Moment. Ever. He kisses his mother’s cheek before taking a seat and placing a napkin on his lap.

“Morning, sweetie,” Mrs. Goodwin says to him, smiling as she sips from her teacup. Then she goes back to sorting through the pile of mail in front of her. It’s probably invitations to charity balls, political fundraisers for her brother who’s the governor of Alabama, and cocktail parties, or it’s about her cookbook.

Apparently every year she develops recipes for a special cookbook—
Entertaining
with
the
Goodwins: Prizewinning Recipes from Prizewinning Cedar Hill Farms
. She sells them for charity. We have a copy on the Hillcrest common room coffee table.

I move to pour hot coffee into Jack’s cup. Dear God, don’t let me spill.

“You know,” he says under his breath. “Just because I brought you coffee doesn’t mean you had to bring some to me.”

I freeze as Mr. and Mrs. Goodwin exchange glances with each other. I move to pour coffee in Mr. Goodwin’s cup, but he puts a hand over it.

“I’m fine. I’ve had enough.”

Jack selects a muffin from the breadbasket. “Dad, I’m selling the Big Society yearling.”

“To who?”

“Bushy Branch Farms in Georgia. Got Paulsen up to $320,000.”

“Good boy,” Mr. Goodwin says with a smile, making Jack practically glow with pride.

Jack sorts through the mail at his place setting. He opens an envelope and pulls out a card. The embossed initials on the paper read AW.

“Crap,” Jack mutters, dropping the card on the table.

“What is it, dear?” his mother asks.

“It’s just a card from Abby Winchester. I saw the AW on the front and thought it was about A&W Root Beer.”

“You goof,” Shelby says.

“I love root beer,” he replies, sounding sad and overly emotional about root beer. Boys.

Mr. Goodwin opens his mouth, presumably to talk about AW of the Abby Winchester variety, not the root beer, so I go back into the kitchen. Jodi hands me a tray loaded up with the omelet, little bowls of something I don’t recognize, and another basket of scones and muffins. I reenter the dining room to another interesting conversation.

“I want pink streaks in my hair,” Shelby says as she licks hot cocoa off her upper lip.

Mrs. Goodwin sets her letter opener down. “No.”

“C’mon! I want pink hair for my birthday! Carla got blue streaks and Whitney has purple streaks and I think I would look good with pink!”

“No,” her parents say simultaneously. Mr. Goodwin never looks up from the
Daily
Racing
Form
.

I put a bowl at each spot. It looks like some sort of wonderful egg casserole bacon mash-up? I bet it totally rocks the socks off the Fruit Loops I had for breakfast.

“Dear,” Mrs. Goodwin says to Jack, “what do you think of the cheese grits brûlée?”

He shovels it into his mouth, talking with his mouth full. “Delicious.”

She claps. “You’re not just saying that?”

Jack looks like a goddamned bulldozer scooping it up. I’d say he likes it.

“Trust us. It’s wonderful,” his father says, glancing up from his paperwork to smile.

“Maybe try adding some sour cream to the grits,” Jack says.

“I’ll tell Jodi,” Mrs. Goodwin replies, nodding as she writes a note about sour cream. “Can you look over the draft cookbook again after school?” she asks Jack.

“Of course,” he says. “I hope you added the surf ’n’ turf option like I suggested.”

He helps with the cookbook? Who knew? I thought his activities consisted of:

1. Womanizing

2. Thinking about horses

3. Torturing me

Now that they’ve been served, I hover between the kitchen and the dining room, waiting on everybody to finish. Mrs. Goodwin goes with Shelby to help her get ready for school, leaving Jack alone with his dad. I’m about to leave to go finish my math homework when I hear my name. I feel guilty for eavesdropping, but I can’t help it.

“What were you doing with Savannah Barrow this morning?” Mr. Goodwin asks.

“Trying to get Star used to the starting gate,” Jack replies.

“Is that all you were doing?”

“Yeah, I swear.”

I peek around the corner to see Jack taking a gigantic bite of muffin, so big it looks like he might choke. I lean up against the wall, making sure to keep out of sight.

“It doesn’t look good when a businessman dates his staff. Or uses them for any other activities.”

A pause. “Savannah had some ideas for training Star, that’s all.”

“Anything new?”

“Not really. Same stuff we usually do.”

“Did it work this morning?”

“The horse seemed calmer than usual. He’s been clocking excellent times during his workouts. Savannah just knows how to control him.”

“Don’t get your hopes up that Savannah can make a difference with the horse. I haven’t decided if she’s talented. I still think you should sell Star.”

I breathe in and out, suddenly panting.
Please
don’t sell Star. Please don’t sell Star.
He might end up with a cruel owner. Just like Moonshadow.
Please
don’t sell Star. I can’t bear to lose one more thing.

Mr. Goodwin says, “Don’t forget, we have that dinner tonight. I’ll have Yvonne get a suit ready for you.”

I peek around the corner one more time to find Jack rubbing his eyes. He sighs, picks up the
Daily
Racing
Form
papers, and stands as he chugs the rest of his coffee.

Jack didn’t stand up for me when his father questioned my talent. I guess it’s not surprising. I just started working as an exercise rider here. I haven’t proven myself.

I slowly take off my apron.

• • •

Out the kitchen window I watch as Jack’s big shiny red Ford truck coasts down the driveway toward the main gate. I pull a deep breath and walk back into the dining room where Mr. Goodwin is poring over
The
Tennessean
.

“Sir?”

His head pops up and he smiles. “Yes, Savannah?”

“May I have a quick word?”

“Of course.” He folds the newspaper, places it next to his empty bowl, and looks up at me expectantly.

“I’m sorry Cindy wasn’t here to serve breakfast this morning. She’s normally not a flake—it’s just she wasn’t feeling well and I’m sure it won’t happen again. I know we haven’t made a good impression our first week here. I hope you won’t take it out of her paycheck since I worked—”

He waves a hand. “No big deal. I understand you’ve got a new little brother or sister on the way?”

“A sister, yes, sir.”

“How are you liking living here? Is your bedroom okay? Everyone treating you nice down in Hillcrest?”

The paint is peeling off my bedroom walls, but Dad said we can wait until we’ve been here awhile to fix that. “Everything’s great, sir. I mean, except for that Yvonne won’t let me wash my own clothes.”

“Join the club.” He smiles. “Anything else? You probably need to be getting on to school.”

I toe the fancy Persian rug with my pink Converse. “Sir, I was wondering. My dad and Cindy have a whole lot going on. Lots of bills and debts and stuff.”

“Yes,” Mr. Goodwin says slowly, narrowing his eyes.

“I’m wondering…since Cindy will need to take more time off for the baby, can you please keep my paychecks instead of docking it from hers? At least until the baby is born?”

“If that’s what you want. But I wish you’d save it for yourself instead.” Mr. Goodwin studies my face. “Let your father handle his debts.”

“I want to do this.”
I
won’t let my little sister grow up like I did.

“I’ll make it happen.” A sly grin forms on Mr. Goodwin’s face. “Tell me something, Savannah. Do you know what’s wrong with Tennessee Star?”

“I’ve got a possible idea, yes, sir.”

It surprises me when Mr. Goodwin doesn’t quiz me further. Instead, he winks. “Can’t wait to see if you’re right at the race this Saturday.”

The evil Coach Lynn is making us run laps around the track in gym class. It’s eighty gazillion degrees outside and my arms and legs feel like Silly Putty by lap three.

Vanessa Green slows way down so she can run beside me. “Wow, you’re in dead last,” she says. “I guess your horse-riding skills don’t translate to running.”

I swipe sweat from my upper lip. “Yeah, totally different muscle groups.”

“I hate gym,” Vanessa says, wiping sweat off her brow.

“Really? Isn’t your brother like the best athlete ever? Like Superman or something?” He’s in the NFL.

“Don’t let him hear you call him Superman. Ty’s head’s already big enough since he started dating Gabriella Marsden.”

“The supermodel?”

“Yeah, she has nothing interesting to talk about though. It’s like he went to a supermodel factory and said ‘I’ll take that one please. The one with the extra-long legs and the big boobs and the hair that falls past her butt.’”

We laugh together, and at that moment, Jack and Colton sprint by. Jack turns, bows, and says, “Ladies,” before streaking off again, his long hair flopping in the wind. He’s so hot, my breath catches in my throat and I cough.

“You think he’s cute?” Vanessa asks.

“Who doesn’t?”

She shrugs. “He’s hot, but he’s not my type. He’s too pretty.”

I laugh at the irony. The most beautiful girl at school doesn’t want the beautiful boy.

“Hey,” Vanessa starts. “Do you know if Rory Whitfield is dating anybody?”

“I don’t think he is.”

“Oh…I wondered if you and him…?”

“Naw. Why?”

“Just wondering…” She gazes across the track. Rory and Jack are now racing each other, trying to be King of Gym Class. “He’s cute.”

“But you’re like,
you
, and he’s Rory—he’s my friend, and you could date whoever you want and I don’t want him to get hurt and you’re super popular,” I say, flustered as hell.

“So?” she says.

“Would that supermodel be dating your brother if he weren’t an NFL quarterback?”

Her nose crinkles. “Who knows? Who am I to decide something like that? If you like somebody, you just like them, you know?”

“Do you really like Rory?” I ask.

“I’m not sure. I mean, I’ve known him forever, but it’s not like I’ve thought about getting to know him better and kissing him or whatever…until lately, I guess.”

“I’m sure he’s thought about it,” I say, and Vanessa flashes me an excited grin.

“Really? What’d he say?”

I laugh. “He hasn’t said anything to me. It’s just the way he looks at you.”

“Good to know. Thanks,” she says, and we finish running our laps together. On the last lap, Colleen and Jaime, these snotty girls, run by and give me strange looks.

“Bitches,” Vanessa says.

“Bitches,” I agree.

We bump fists and head into the locker room to change clothes. I’ve never been all that great at making girlfriends, but I like Vanessa. I smile over at her as I pull my gym bag from my locker.

Crazy that she’s interested in Rory, considering they come from very different lives. What will the other kids say when they hear about this? Will they wonder why Vanessa would date a farmhand?

That’s when it hits me: even if other people had a problem with it, Vanessa wouldn’t give a damn. I wish I could get away with not giving a damn.

• • •

After study hall in the library, I drag my fingers across locker doors on my way to the art room.

I discover Colton fast asleep on the sofa outside the guidance counselor’s office. Vanessa wasn’t kidding that he likes to sleep. When I look at the wall above the couch, I’m blinded by inspirational posters: CONFIDENCE, WINNING, COURAGE, TEAMWORK, DESTINY, CHARACTER.

Oh, my eyes. Why can’t there be an inspirational poster for BADASS?

Thinking about Rory and his dreams of going to college, I open a pamphlet about the ACT. I scan the information, reading about upcoming test dates and facilities and—

Shit.

Just taking the test costs $50.05! Why is
nothing
free? Or at least cheap! How are poor people supposed to plan for the damned future if everything costs so damned much? How can Rory afford the testing costs plus the application fees?

And what the hell is the five extra cents for?

I slip the pamphlet back in its slot and turn away, and run smack into Jack. He’s drinking a Capri Sun and carrying a blue camping cooler.

“Yvonne packed you an entire cooler?” I ask, giving my Velcro bag a dirty look.

He grins. “Sure did. She gave me string cheese. And a juice pouch!” He toasts me with the Capri Sun.

I shove his chest. “She gave you string cheese!”

“I might have one left,” he says with a wink.

“I want it!”

“You wouldn’t share your roast beef with me yesterday.”

“Yeah, well, you ate half of it anyway.”

“What were you looking at?” Jack asks, nodding at the wall of brochures. “Deciding when to take the ACT?”

“Oh, um, no—”

“Did you already take it? I’ve taken it twice but I’m gonna take it again because Dad thinks I can do better,” Jack says, sipping his juice pouch.

“I haven’t taken it.”

“You can borrow my study guides if you want. I’ve got a whole box of them.”

“I’m not taking the test.”

“You’re taking the SAT then?”

“No…I’m not applying anywhere, so there’s no reason to take the tests.”

“But what about college?” Jack asks.

“Why would I go to college? I can work as an exercise rider and make plenty of money. You have to, like, pay for college.”

“But don’t you want more?” Jack asks, furrowing his eyebrows.

“I do. That’s why I applied to be an exercise rider. Plus, a high school degree is worth a lot.”

Jack stares at me for a long time, sucking on his Capri Sun.

“Are you going to college?” I ask.

He looks shocked at my question. “Yeah. Probably nearby, so I can keep an eye on the farm. Maybe Vanderbilt. I’m gonna major in business and get my MBA, like my dad did.”

At my old school in Charles Town, only about half the graduates ended up going to college. The rest went on to work at the casino or a hotel, or got married.

Jack continues, “I have no idea why you wouldn’t go to college.”

I suck in air through my nose, dumbfounded that he doesn’t understand how little money I have. Is he clueless?

“My family could never afford it.” Hell, Cindy can’t afford to take one morning off work. Not to mention the root canal she needs.

He sips from his Capri Sun again. “Don’t your parents want more for you?”

“My dad’s really proud I’ve made it this far. I mean, he doesn’t have a high school degree or anything…neither he or Cindy went to college, and no one in their families have ever been…My mom died, you know?”

A sad smile crosses his face. “Yeah, my father told me. We were really sorry to hear about that…What was she like?”

I swallow the lump in my throat and blink tears away. “Well, she sang when she vacuumed. She was a real bad singer. Like, worse than the horrible singers on
American
Idol
.” Jack laughs with me. “And she made Mickey Mouse pancakes every Sunday morning. She loved history.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet her,” Jack says softly, gazing down at me.

The bell for fifth period rings. Jack reaches into his cooler and whips out the last string cheese and hands it to me before taking off down the hall.

I peel the plastic off the cheese, put it between my teeth, and yank it away, chewing.

• • •

After school, I spend a good hour grooming Star and feeding him, and then I decide to walk to the very edge of Cedar Hill and skirt the lake over to Whitfield Farms. I climb the fence and walk past cows and pigs and ducks and other animals up to Rory’s farmhouse. I ring the doorbell, he lets me in, and we go to his room. His dog Ava is lounging on the rug, panting with her tongue hanging out.

Old movie posters cover his walls. It seems all posters in his room must feature one or all of the following:

1.
An explosion

2.
A woman’s cleavage

3.
George Clooney

Rory flops down on the floor and resumes playing some crazy racecar game called
Ho Down in Hoochieville,
where he drives around and picks up hookers.

Pig.

I drop onto Rory’s bed and sigh. “You’ve gotta ditch the
Star
Wars
bedding if you ever expect to get laid.”

“The right girl will accept me, Darth Vader and all,” Rory says, thumbing his controller.

Trying to block out images of Sunday night’s almost kiss and trying to forget how Jack said I could go to college—which further proves he and I will never work out—I cuddle with Rory’s Chewbacca stuffed animal and watch him play his video game that is effectively setting women’s rights back a hundred years.

“I heard you ate lunch with Jack yesterday,” Rory says.

“It was more like he wanted to steal my roast beef sandwich.”

“I’d bet $20 that you’ll hook up with him within a month.”

I fall backward onto Rory’s pillow, thinking about the past few days. Jack could be a first-class womanizer who’s way out of my league…but he has a soft side. He calls his sister sweetheart and helps his mom with her cookbook. He brought me coffee just the way I like it. But I won’t be one of the supposed one-night stands the maids talk about. Hell, he could’ve hooked up with both Kelsey and Abby last weekend, and that was after flirting with me! But he’s so nice…and he wasn’t paying all that much attention to Kelsey at lunch…

“You’re on. That’ll be an easy $20. I’m not gonna hook up with him,” I say.

Rory pauses his game. “Just be careful. He won’t give you the kind of relationship you deserve.”

My friend is telling the truth, but embarrassment washes over me nevertheless.

“Well, just for that, I’m not gonna tell you the great gossip I’ve got on you, Ror.”

“Me?” He starts playing his game again. “Did someone tell you how I acted out a scene from
Call
Me
When
Your
Mom
Is
Back
in
Town
—”

“No, no,” I say. “Somebody likes you.”

“God, I wish we could send that girl to Antarctica or something. I can’t stand how Evelyn Treanor stalks me between classes and tries to pinch my butt. Who does that—”

“It’s not Evelyn.”

Rory’s pimp character picks up a hooker in a monster truck. “Who is it then?” he asks, sideswiping a pimpmobile.

“Vanessa Green.”

He drops his controller and whips around, his mouth falling open. On the screen, his monster truck runs into a 7-11, flinging a bunch of bystanders into the air and causing a massive explosion.

“Bullshit.”

“Nope. Should I talk to her or anything?”

Rory pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. “I’m interested, but you don’t have to say anything. I’ll handle it myself.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“I dunno,” Rory replies with a shrug. He pushes his bangs off his forehead. “I’ll just wait and see what happens.”

But doesn’t he want to be in control of something like this? Doesn’t he want to put himself out there?

“Would you take her to dinner or something?” I ask. “A girl like that—you gotta take her somewhere fancy in Nashville, not Tennessee Ballers. Where are you gonna get the money for a date like that?”

“I’d find the money.”

He abandons the hooker game to stand and pace around the room, pausing to check his floppy brown hair in the mirror. I love that Rory says he’d find the money. It’s black and white for him: if he wants to take a girl on a fancy date, he’ll find a way to make it happen.

Would Jack ever take a risk for me?