I decided it wouldn’t do any harm to try Ginge at a gallop.
I rocked up high in the saddle and put my legs on, asking him to go faster, and the trot became a canter. Ginge was snorting and huffing beneath me, and when I urged him on some more he reluctantly picked up the pace into a slow, loping gallop. That was Ginge all right. He’d never won a race and it drove Dad mad because he knew Ginge had speed in him. He was just stubborn about showing it.
“Come on, Ginge,” I coaxed him. “Let me see what you’ve got.”
Nothing. I was hustling him along, kicking and pumping my arms, but Ginge refused to go any faster.
We rode almost three furlongs like that and then, as we swept around the far side of the track, I heard this almighty crack. The ride-on mower had backfired. It sounded just like a gunshot and it put a shock through Ginge like a lightning bolt. He spooked violently and I felt him suddenly skitter out sideways from underneath me. For a sickening moment I thought I was gonna fall, but somehow I managed to stay with him and get my balance back. He was so strong against my hands, stretching out flat at a gallop. I don’t know what made me do it, but instead of trying to pull him back, I let him run. “Go on, then! Go!”
Ginge’s hooves pounded out like thunder against the soft loam, as I perched up there on his back, urging him to go faster and then a little more again until we were flying.
The wind was so strong in my face it stung my eyes. I had tears streaming down my cheeks, and even though they weren’t real ones, it felt so good to cry. I was racing the wind and everything that had happened that day got left behind in my wake and I was myself again and I was free.
Back around by the exit to the stables I pulled Ginge up at last and brought him back to a jog. He was blowing so hard that I had to do another whole lap of the track at a walk to cool him down, and then I leapt down and led him back to the stables.
“That didn’t look like no jog to me.” Fernando glared at me as I brought Ginge through to his stall. “This horse has to race on the weekend, you better not be messing with his training.”
I shook my head. “Sorry, Fernando, I tried to pull him up, but he took off on me and I couldn’t hold him.”
Fernando looked at me with an air of resignation. “You think I’m a fool, Lola? I know what you were doin’ out there.”
He took Ginger’s reins and I thought he was in a bad mood with me until he cast a look back over his shoulder and smiled. “You ride track real good. You look just like Ray out there.”
Just like my dad.
That was all I ever wanted to be.
My brother Johnny glared at the spaghetti on his plate. “C’mon. Are you kidding me?”
“What’s your problem now?” Dad asked.
Johnny poked at it with his fork. “Is that all I get? Where’s the rest of it?”
“It’s enough.” My dad ignored his complaint and carried on dishing up meatballs to the rest of us. “You know the deal. You want to ride track, you gotta watch your diet.”
“I do!” Johnny insisted.
“Sure,” my dad grunted. “So that must be why I saw you at Dunkin’ Donuts on the way home after workouts this morning.”
Vincent gave a hoot of delight. “Busted!”
“Yeah, laugh it up, brother!” Johnny jabbed his fork at him.
I kept cutting into my meatball.
“You’re very quiet this evening, Lola,” Dad said.
“I’m hungry, that’s all,” I said.
I was hoping he wouldn’t ask me about school because if he asked me straight up then I would have to confess that I had been suspended. That note from Mr Azzaretti was still there, glowing out at me like neon from my school bag in the corner of the room.
My dad cast a glance at Nonna, as if she might have an insight as to why I was so silent, but she gave a shrug as if to say she had no idea and so Dad let it drop.
“Loretta.” He cleared his throat. “You remember that Ace of Diamonds filly that Frankie was training last season?”
Nonna nodded. “You mean the bay with the white socks on the hind legs?”
“That’s her,” my dad said. “Well, you always said you thought she had star quality. Frankie thought so too. He sent her off to Lance Barton’s stables in Kentucky and the word is she’s been breaking three-year-old records on the training track there in every single workout.”
“Is she ready to race?” Nonna asked.
My dad nodded. “This Thursday at Churchill Downs is her maiden. Frankie’s told me on the down-low that she’s a sure bet to win it. And the odds, Loretta.” My dad’s voice dropped to a low whisper. “She’s paying out at seventy-three to one.”
Nonna Loretta’s face fell.
“Absolutely not, Raymond!”
“Listen –” my dad began, but he was cut dead by Nonna.
“No, Ray, you listen to me! How many rules do we have in this family?”
There was silence around the table. None of us dared to speak when Nonna was in full flight like this.
“Two rules, Ray!” Nonna sure had a powerful voice for a little old lady. “Two rules that the Campiones live by. We don’t bet on horses and we don’t tell lies.”
I felt myself curl up a little, trying to make myself smaller as she said this.
“But, Loretta!” My dad bounced back. “This horse, she’s a machine. She’s gonna win by ten lengths and nobody will ever see it coming! And seventy-three to one! Maybe even more. The bookies will –”
“The bookies will take your money because that’s what bookies do,” Nonna Loretta said stonily.
My dad took a deep breath. “I’m telling you …”
“No, Ray,” Nonna said. “I’m telling you. The racing business is how we make our money, but betting on races is different. That’s a sure-fire way of losing the lot. We’ve made it this far without betting on horses, haven’t we?”
My dad sighed. “All right, all right. I thought, just this once …”
Nonna’s scowl deepened.
“OK,” Dad said. “I get it. No betting, period. OK?”
“Aww, c’mon,” Donna groaned. “Can’t he place just a little bet, Nonna?
