standard. Anyway, flight during a roofrace isn’t allowed, but I’m curious nonetheless.
He shakes his head. “Just land and sea,” he answers.
I look at his Omni again and the realization settles in: this race is no longer in the bag. My Rimbo’s a good mobile, no doubt, but I don’t quite see how it can match Ter’s carrot.
For one thing, mine’s no boat. A Rimbo—short for rimbalzello, the Italian word for that game where you skip stones—just skips across water, like a pebble. You add enough thrust from the propellers and you can keep it skipping. Stop the thrust, the mobile sinks hard.
Terrence’s is airtight; it can move underwater. And because it’s airtight, without momentum it just bobs to the surface like an apple. Nice and safe.
If I get stuck on a canal or a gutter, it’s a big, fat Game Over—I can’t let that happen.
I swallow my envy. Ter made it out of Nale’s home alive, and with a rich new dad to boot. Rich by Ward standards, at least. Ter doesn’t need this money like I do. Losing is not an option for me. Ter’s shiny new metal is nothing.
Metal can’t think.
Metal can’t gauge how fast you need to drive if you want to fly.
I’m the better racer. That’s what matters.
Turning away, “I’ve got to get mine ready,” I tell him quietly, and stalk off, headed in Benny’s direction. I can just barely make him out on the other side of the roof.
“Don’t be a sore loser!” I hear Ter call from behind me. But I haven’t lost. Not yet.
As I storm across the roof, I can feel the remaining two racers’ eyes glued to me from under the brims of their derbies.
Jones and Kent. Both descendants of Manhattanites who wouldn’t leave when the Wash Out struck—didn’t want to stray too far from their skyscraping palaces. These guys come from old money. Money so old it ain’t even around anymore, but they like to play make-believe. Act rich, get treated rich. Those are the Derbies for you. Still thinkin’ they own the place.
Kent moves toward me, slow, waltzlike, whiter than a ghost. Lifts his derby to tuck a stray black hair behind his ear, then pins me with his eyes. He steps closer, stopping not two feet away. Faces me. Towers over, his body long and thin. Uses height to intimidate.
Jones follows suit. He is Kent’s pastier-looking shadow, after all. Wears his greasy blond hair just the same way and tips his hat to the exact same angle. Of course, Kent wears it better; Jones is hardly taller than I am.
They circle me, vultures.
“I’m feeling lucky tonight,” Kent says. The corners of his lips curl. He draws a line with his eyes straight up and down my body. He’s too close. I don’t like his words. Don’t like their double meaning. If I back away, he’ll see my fear.
Times like this, I wish I were wearing something less flashy. Less red. Something maybe not leather. This is a show, I remind myself. And you’re the main attraction. Besides, leather does wonders for girls who are small up top, and I don’t need any help making my backside look good. Plus, the bigger the audience, the bigger the winnings.
I move closer to him and look up, meeting his gaze, though my eyes are level with his chest. “Too bad you need skills, not luck.”
I’m thinking of Aven, and it helps. Gives me courage. She may not be blood, but she’s family—my sister. I reach for the penny around my neck. Three years, and the old coin has started to feel lucky, though that was the opposite of the point.
“You never did.” He scowls, then nods to a few bystanders watching our tiff.
Crowds of people have started to line the perimeter, all gussied up for the postrace party at the Tank. Girls in short skirts, braided hair coiled high on their heads. Guys in their best patched-up denim. Pleather jackets on both.
I wave big. People come for this part of the show too.
“Then why do I always win, Kent? Can’t blame it on the mobile; you’ve got a fancy postflood Honda and I’ve just got a Rimbo. Must be the driver.”
Through a smirk, Kent spits, “You’ve got no place in the races. No reason to be here. Go work a sickhouse, or the rooftop planthouses with everyone else.”
I turn to face him. “You don’t mean everyone else. You mean the girls.”
“We all have our jobs.” He shrugs.
“Tell that to my fans.