A jazz band plays on a stage, and a few circular tables dot the outskirts of a parquet dance floor. A white light shines an illuminated GB over a jockey’s shoulders as she dances with her partner. “Does that GB stand for Goat Bagels?” Magnolia asked. “Sounds reasonable,” I say. “Or maybe Gigabytes?” “Ghost Bashers?” “Green Berets?” “It stands for Gambini Brothers,” someone new says. I turn toward the sound of the voice, and groan when I see the blond dude who won the sponsor race. “Yeah, we know. We were joking around. You do know what a joke is, don’t you?” Magnolia stabs a finger into his chest. “It’s you. You’re a joke.” The boy’s jaw tightens, but he manages to keep whatever insult he has between his teeth. Instead, he asks, “Would you like to dance?” “With you?” I laugh. “You must be kidding. Don’t you remember who I am? I’m the poor, jealous girl who’d never sit in a Titan saddle.” “I remember you.” “Then you’ll understand why I’d rather give you the middle finger than this dance.”
