Chapter Text
“The runners are rounding the last corner! Rule by Reason keeps her lead, as Onion fights the outside.”
A chuck of wet dirt flew back, smacking Onion in the face. Her breathing fell out of rhythm, as her hands clawed mud from her mouth and eyes. By the time her focus returned to the race, Rule by Reason had already begun her final spurt.
She mentally cursed. Onion changed her posture, leaning forward into her sprint. The wind rushed along her skin, as her chestnut hair trailed behind. Breathing through tight teeth, Onion bounded closer to her opponent.
“The runners are 200 meters out! Rule by Reason in the lead by a length. Onion is giving a final burst of speed.”
As the finish line drew closer, Onion felt a surge of frustration. Huffs of exertion escaped her lips. Acidic burning radiated from her legs. Hints of metal lingered in her dry mouth. With a roar, she poured any remaining effort into accelerating.
“And Rule by Reason takes 1st place, followed by Onion.”
Onion’s legs wobbled as she slowed to a trot, and then an eventual stop. She hunched over gasping for air. Hands turned to fists. Onion looked to Rule by Reason. Golden eyes were already locked onto Onion’s brown. Before Onion could react, Reason had already closed the distance.
“Good try.” She patted Onion on the back. “Maybe you should stick to the little leagues.”
Onion growled, as Reason walked off towards her trainer who, with a big smile, welcomed her with a high five. The crowd continued to cheer. Journalists and reporters eagerly snapped flashy pictures of the winner. Onion shook her head, and headed towards the stadium tunnel. Her cleats echoed along the concrete wall. It wasn’t long before she found herself inside the locker room.
She stood before her locker. Chipped blue paint coated its surface. A few moments passed by, as Onion’s breathing grew shaky. Her foot rattled the locker, as she kicked the bottom. Clangs from her cleats making contact rang through the locker room. Fists followed her feet, as they struck metal. More and more unsteady breaths escaped Onion’s mouth. Tears wet her eyes. Amongst the cacophony of violence, a short-of-breath voice uttered words of disappointment and anger. Onion finished her assault upon the locker, sat down on a nearby wooden bench for a few moments of respite, and then began to remove her combination lock.
Not much sat inside the locker. A blue and white school uniform was neatly folded beneath a black gym bag. After taking out the bag, Onion sat back down. Her fingers pulled the worn laces of her running shoes. Sweat soaked racing clothes followed suit, as she tossed them in her gym bag. She slid her feet into shower shoes, threw a towel over her shoulder, and walked towards the showers.
It wasn’t long until the warm water of the open bay shower hit Onion’s skin. Some of her aches were soothed, but slight pains still jabbed from her ankles. Sudsy shampoo washed through her hair, and a bar of soap exfoliated her skin. Her movements were slow and mechanical, as Onion’s mind was enthralled by replays of her race.
The snide remark, the dirt hitting her face, and the feeling of fatigue and pain which swept over her body; all of it for second place. Onion huffed aloud. Was it because she didn’t work hard enough? Did she stay up too late last night? Eat the wrong foods? Was her strategy wrong? Was it her running shoes? Was she just too weak? Maybe she wasn’t ready to race in G2 races yet? The train kept rolling and rolling and rolling along its tracks. It was only derailed by a sudden jolt to reality. Onion shook her head and continued to wash.
Her wet skin was exposed to the air, as she shut off the water. With a towel wrapped around her, she threw her dirty racewear into the gym bag. From her locker, Onion procured her school uniform. The blue color of Saratoga Training and Racing Academy adorned the blazer and accompanying skirt. After slipping on her school shoes, Onion threw her combination lock into the bag and zipped it up. She slung it on her shoulder. It wasn’t a long walk until she had left the underbelly of the stadium, and had found herself outside.
The purple and orange skyline expanded over the horizon. A cool breeze tempered the warm June air. Remnants of the crowd lingered. Betters collected their winnings, families bought last minute concessions for their kids, and there were even students chatting about the race.
A statue stood by the entrance of the racetrack. Onion paused mid-step, as she looked at it. There stood the Saratoga legend herself, Upset. The steel figure was adorned in her race wear, and her fist was raised to the sky. Onion knew what the plaque read without her eyes even having to read it. The runner who gave Saratoga Academy its moniker, the House of Upsets, after giving Man O’ War her only loss of her career. Onion’s fingers grazed the base of the statue, as she looked up at it. She lingered for a moment.
“There’s my little champ,” a short and scrawny man called out. He wore a wrinkled polo tucked into a pair of khaki pants. A battered and dusty baseball cap rested on his head. Recognition flashed across Onion’s face.
“Dad,” Onion looked to the ground. “I didn’t think you’d come.”
“That’s crazy talk. You know I ain’t missed a race of yours yet.” He stepped towards Onion, and ruffled her hair with his hand. She could feel the rough calluses scratching against her scalp. “Cmon now you must be starvin’. I’ll make ya a nice hot meal.”
An audible grumble came from Onion’s stomach. She blushed, but he gave a laugh. The two went to his car, an old beat up pick up truck, and climbed in. Despite the outside appearance, the interior was kept neat and void of trash. Leather upholstery provided a soft cushion for Onion, as her father started up the car. Rumbling from the engine flooded the air. Music from the radio began to play country tunes, as the truck pulled out of the stadium parking lot.
Being from the local area, Onion had the advantage of having her family home within a short distance from academy grounds. This meant that despite having to reside in academy dormitories, she was able to go home for short periods of time if she wanted. Headlights from other vehicles, along with street lights, illuminated the cabin. As they drove out of town limits her father tried to make small talk, but Onion’s curt responses dissuaded further conversation.
Pulling onto a forlorn back road, Onion’s childhood home came into view. It was a one story building between Saratoga and Schuylerville. Forest surrounded the property, and the once well kept yard had been encroached upon by the wild. Stepping out of the car, the two stepped on to the cracked driveway. Moss grew between the brick path which diverted from the driveway to the entrance.
“I’ll whip us up something good. You’ll hear me hollering when it’s done. What does my lil champ want for dinner?” Her father kicked off his shoes and set them neatly along the wall; Onion followed suit.
“I don’t know. Anything is fine.”
“Well I’ve never heard of a dish called ‘anything,’ but I’ll look in the recipe book.” Onion could hear her father chuckle to himself, as he walked to the kitchen.
Onion waited around in the living room, as the sounds of pots and pans rang out from the kitchen. Pictures hang along the wall. The pictures were arranged in a motley manner. Some depicted Onion’s father and mother on their wedding day, as the two kissed in each other's embrace; some were pictures of Onion’s father in army fatigues, as he posed with his buddies; some showed Onion’s mother on a racetrack while her tail trailed behind her. Lining the walls were shelves stacked with heirlooms, antiques, and other knick knacks.
Turning on the old television, the room filled with the sound of a news anchor reading reports; the coverage was dominated by the never ending conflict in the Middle East. A speech from the president played over American troops fighting in an Afghan village. With the click of a button, the channel changed to a cartoon. Onion lounged on a small sofa. Soon a call from the kitchen beckoned her. Plated on the dining table were grilled cheeses accompanied with tomato soup.
“Sorry it’s not a big meal.” Her father sat down, and so did Onion. “Works been slow.”
“It’s fine, dad.” Onion picked up her sandwich, dunked it into her soup, and took a bite. Plastic cheese, cheap white bread, and home-grown tomatoes made Onion feel less homesick.
“You know,” Her dad spoke between bites, “You were really fast out there. Almost like a blur; I thought if I blinked I’d miss ya.”
“I wasn’t fast enough apparently.”
“Well, you can’t win ‘em all.” Her father looked to Onion’s drooped ears. “Whatever that trainer fellow you are working with is doing, it’s working. You’re gonna be a superstar one day; I know it.”
“Thanks.”
Onion’s father frowned at the short response. Crunching from the toasted bread replaced conversation for a few moments. Onion’s mind tormented her like it did in the shower; it teased her with thoughts of what-ifs and whys. She was freed from this prison when her dad spoke up.
“Goodness sake,” Onion’s father gave a nostalgic smile. “You really do take after your mother; you know that?”
Surprise seized Onion, as her tail straightened, “I do? What do you mean?”
“I remember one night when she was racing at some place near Syracuse.” Onion’s father set down his half-eaten sandwich. He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “She got beat out by some hotshot from Buffalo. She acted just like you— mopey and in the dumps, but she dug herself out of it.”
“How?”
“Well she won her next race of course.” He leaned forward. “And I mean it when I say she won— she ran with such vengeance that I’d wager hell itself couldn’t keep such a soul.”
A small smile came across Onion’s face, and her ears raised up. The conversation gathered steam after that. Small talk about school life filled the air, as the two ate. Onion’s father persistently asked if Onion was making friends, and Onion assuaged her father’s concerns by affirming that she was no outcast; Onion couldn’t look him in the eyes while she spoke. Eventually crumbs became all that remained of dinner.
“You sure you don’t wanna spend the night in your room. It’s exactly as you left it.”
“The school is pretty strict on that stuff, and I don’t want my roommate to worry.”
Her father relented and told Onion he’d do the dishes, then drive her back. Onion helped clean up and, true to his word, the two left the house and got into the car. Fatigue started to weigh down on Onion’s eyes, as she peered out the window. Gentle rocking from the bumpy road, low background noise from the radio, and the soreness from her race all combined to cause Onion to drift away.
***
Rule by Reason sat in front of an ornate dressing table, atop which sat a mirror. Various cosmetics sat neatly organized by the rim of the table. Slight breathing came from her sleeping roommate. Bright moonlight shone in from an open window, which also allowed a slight cool breeze to enter the room. Loose and airy fabric of a nightgown rested as a blanket atop Reason’s pale skin.
Her wrists rested on the edge of the table, and her fingers toyed with an envelope. Cursive words were written on the front. Reason’s eyes looked at the return address; the address to the home she grew up in. Then her look went to the name of the sender. She frowned. The soft pads of her fingertips continued to fiddle with the envelope. They flickered across the already opened top. She briefly thought of reading it again, but she figured she’d already seen enough of it in the past few days.
In her mind, she wondered if the folks back home would care about her win. Reason doubted it. They were all too busy reminiscing on their own victories. Family gatherings were always a barrage of stories about glory days and nostalgia; one thanksgiving lingered in her head. It was only a week after her debut, yet her aunt wanted to talk about a stakes win from 10 years prior. Reason’s hands began to crumple the envelope, as they tightened their grip.
A reflected version of herself gazed back from the mirror. Clipped school newspaper articles were taped to the edge of the mirror. Reason knew every race each article covered; they were all ones she won after all. Her debut, ungraded invitationals, G3’s, and once the paper was published she could add a G2 to her collection. Still, empty space along the rim lingered. A call came from deep within Reason, a yearning. She needed that space to be filled.
Rustling bedsheets startled Reason from her musings, as her roommate shuffled around in her sleep. The soreness in her legs, and the weight hanging from her eyelids, told Reason it was time to rest. She slowly opened a drawer, and slid the envelope inside. A gust of wind swept in from the window and rustled the fabric of the curtains. Sleep came quickly for Reason, as she listened to the rustling trees outside.
***
Harsh ringing erupted from a phone on the nightstand. Onion grumbled, head still stuffed into the pillow. Her hand lazily slinked towards the screen and stopped its wake up call. Sunlight had just begun to shine in through the window. With a big stretch of her sore muscles, Onion sat up in bed.
She looked to her roommate's bed, which was on the opposing wall of the room. The blanket and sheets were tossed open, and her pajamas were strewn on the floor. Onion took note of her roommate's absence, and turned on the small television which sat on her desk. An enthusiastic news anchor gave a prolonged greeting to the town of Saratoga, as he started his broadcast.
While television droned on in the background, Onion began her morning routine. It was a slow process, as Onion moved mechanically and slowly. She occasionally paused to wipe sleepy sand from her eyes. Warm water from her room's shower helped jolt her mind awake. She stepped out from the fogged up bathroom, towel wrapped around her, as the news anchor shifted to sports.
“Big news coming from Belmont Park. Secretariat has just won her third crown of the season by a record breaking 31 lengths.”
Onion’s eyes widened, as she paused. She looked towards the small screen. A video of the final stretch of the race played. Boisterous cheers from the crowd could be heard, as Secretariat crossed the finish line. Where are the other runners? Onion’s internal question was answered when after a few seconds, Twice a Prince and My Gallant crossed for second and third respectively. The screen cut back to the reporter.
“This marks the final crown in a legendary triple crown run. According to her trainer, their next destination is Chicago for the Arlington Invitational. A spokesperson from Churchill Academy says that they’re excited to see Big Red’s continued success.”
Breaking trance, Onion tore her attention away from the TV. Her ears remained perked up, as she changed into her school clothes.
“In our local racing scene, Rule by Reason won a stakes race at the Saratoga Race Course. I’d keep an eye on her folks. With her lineage, we might have ourselves a local legend in the making.”
A fist clenched the hem of her skirt. Onion turned the TV off, as she mentally mocked the title of ‘local legend.’ Before she could stew in the memory of yesterday's loss, the door to her room opened. Onion’s roommate and practice partner, a horse girl by the name of Prove Out, entered. Coffee in two disposable cups sloshed around in her hands, as she closed the door with her hip.
“Hey Onion,” she greeted, as she set down one of the drinks on her desk. “You sure woke up later than usual.”
“Yea.” Onion started to pack her gym bag, putting her dirty clothes in a laundry bag.
“Make sense.” Prove Out picked up a cup, and took a sip. Red lipstick left an imprint on the rim. “I was at the race yesterday. You almost had it.”
“Almost,” Onion repeated. She shook her head, as she put fresh clothes in the bag. “Almost isn't good enough.”
“Jeez, you shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.” Prove Out looked at a camera on her nightstand. It was a newer model which was sleek and lightweight. “I took some good pictures. You wanna see?”
“I’m good.”
Prove Out frowned. “You know, the cafe near campus was having a sale today. I picked up a free coffee.”
Onion’s ears perked up. She looked towards the cup on Prove Out’s desk. Steam escaped from the lid. “Did you now?”
“I did. I was thinking of sharing it with someone I knew, but…” Prove Out dragged the word out. A sly smile appeared on her makeup adorned face. “That someone was being a real jerk. Maybe I’ll just drink both of them.”
“Sorry, Prove.” Onion scratched the back of her head. “Just a bit sore about how my race went.”
“Apology accepted.” Onion smiled, but dropped it once she saw the cheeky grin on Prove Out’s face. “But only if you buy me one of those crepes from the bakery.”
“That's extortion.”
“Well if you’re not sorry then I’ll gladly take this coffee for myself.”
“Fine. I’ll buy you a crepe.” Onion sighed.
Prove Out giggled, as she handed the coffee Onion. The two made light small talk, as they made last minute preparations for the school day. Laments about upcoming final exams and boring professors were the main topics. After double checking to make sure she had everything, Onion headed out the door. Prove Out followed, and the two made their way to their first class of the day.
***
“Can anyone tell me why the Battle of Saratoga marked a turning point in the Revolutionary War?”
Hazy noontime sunlight beamed in from the windows of the classroom. Inside a bunch of horse girls in school uniforms sat neatly arrayed desks. The professor, a balding man with a plump belly, looked among the class. Once he found his mark, he pointed at them with a marker.
“Onion.” Onion’s propped up head slipped out her hand, as she barely prevented herself from face planting into the wooden desk. Her eyes met the professor’s. “Do you know why the Battle of Saratoga was a turning point?”
Wiping the sleep from her eyes, Onion answered, “because the British lost a bunch of troops.”
“Wrong.” The professor had an unamused tone. “Luck won’t stay with you forever, Onion, so please stay awake in class.”
The class giggled at the remark, causing Onion’s face to grow red. In an attempt to save some embarrassment, she nodded to the professor—who carried on teaching. Now awake, Onion rubbed her eyes and idly drew in her spiraled notebook. As Onion continued her daydream, School bells gave a harsh ring. Students begin to pack up their belongings, as the professor gave a hurried set of final notes. While Onion slung her school bag onto her shoulder, Prove Out saddled up beside her.
“Onioooon.” Prove Out leaned close. Half lidded blue eyes looked up into Onion’s. “Do you wanna get some lunch?”
“Sure.” A yawn escaped Onion’s lips, as the two made their way into the hallway.
Horse girls flooded into the hallway. Loud conversations crowded the environment. Onion and Prove Out fell in with the streams of uniformed students in the hallway, as they went to the academy’s cafeteria.
Saratoga’s cafeteria was large, yet humble compared to most other racing academies. There was a snack line, a main line, a fast food line, and a desert line. Onion didn’t complain much, as she was content with simply having three hot meals a day, but it wasn’t hard for her to imagine the accommodations at Churchill or Belmont. Her stomach growled at the imaginary feast.
Today was Italian day. Hot trays of chicken Parmesan, noodles with carbonara or bolognese, and garlic bread were laid out, as staff served the people in line. Onion and Prove Out got their food and sat at one of the many long tables. Onion began to dig in without hesitation.
Prove Out began to lament about her work with the school newspaper, life, and other tedious topics. Onion listened while she ate. At one point Prove Out was forced to stop herself, as she informed her compatriot that there was a noodle on her blazer. The conversation started to pick back up, but Onion found herself focusing on something else.
Rule by Reason sat alone only a few tables away. A few students with trays in hand had stopped and picked up conversation with the winner. Onion’s imagination went rampant with conspiracies. She figured Rule by Reason was boasting of her latest victory; That haughty voice of hers singing her own praises, as though she were an idol descended from the heavens. The thought of it made Onion frown. Prove Out caught on to her friend’s mood, as she followed Onion’s eyes.
“Still have a bone to pick, huh?” Prove out sighed. “You know, word around the school newspaper club is that she’s going for the Whitney Stakes in August.”
“Not surprised.” Onion looked back at her food. “The nepo baby has high ambitions.”
“Onion,” Prove Out hissed, “that's rude.”
“You didn’t hear what she said to me.” Onion pointed her marinara covered fork towards Prove Out. “She’s a cocky heiress who rests on the laurels of her family.”
“Anyway.” A sigh escaped from Prove Out’s lips. “As I was saying before before you stopped listening, Yesterday was my last day with physical therapy, so I should be able to run with you at practice today.”
“Good to hear.” Onion gave a small smile. “Don’t push yourself too hard though. It would be a shame to hurt your ankle again.”
“Gah, you sound like our trainer.”
Onion giggled at the comment. “Any thoughts on your next race?”
“I don’t know yet. Probably something small.”
The two continued talking as they finished up their meal. After returning their trays, they ventured back into the hallways. Onion parted from Prove Out, and walked towards her next class. After maneuvering through cramped hallways Onion was able to make it to class. Time became a blur of writing, listening, and daydreaming; all of this would repeat class after class. The cycle would be broken when the final bell rang.
***
Her trainer’s office was the epitome of organized chaos. A humming light fixture revealed papers scattered across the desk; there was a mixture of admin forms, racing statistics, and newspapers. Ribbons and dusted trophies sat tucked away. A whiteboard on wheels was in the corner. Its surface had shadows from previous markings upon it.
Then of course was the trainer himself, Larry Jenkins. His wrinkled forehead gave into a receded hairline. Wispy brown hair peeked out from a straw fedora, which was paired with a dress shirt and cream colored slacks. A hand was massaging his clean shaven chin in thought, as Onion announced her presence.
“Ah, just the person I wanted to see.” Jenkins leaned back in his office chair. “We need to discuss your next race.”
Onion took a seat, leaning her school bag against the leg of her chair. In what felt like a flurry of time, Onion hadn’t put much thought into her next race; everything hinged on winning her last one. Pangs of anger and disappointment still associated themselves with that loss.
“Now given how the last race went. I think we should reconsider our plan and stick to what we know—sprints.” Jenkins slid a few registration forms across the desk. Onion’s eyes jumped to the big bold letters at the top of them. “I think the best ones coming up are the Amsterdam Stakes or the Vanderbilt Handicap. They’re both G2’s and both are your preferred distance.”
“I don’t want to stick to what I know.” Onion frowned. “I’m not going to play it safe because I lost.
“Okay then.” Jenkins scooped up the forms and filed them away. “What exactly do you want then?”
She mulled over the question. A spark of fire ignited in her body, as a race came to mind.
“The Whitney Stakes.”
Jenkens raised an eyebrow. “Whitney Stakes? I suppose we can make it work, but that's quite a jump from what we’re used to. The distance is longer than your specialty, and it’s the highest stakes race we’ve shot for.”
“That’s fine.” Onion’s fist tightened, as she locked eyes with Jenkins.
“Well if that's what you’re gunning for then let's do it.” Jenkins cracked a smile. “The Whitney is in early August, so we have time to prepare. I’ll sign you up for the Saratoga invitational in July— it’ll be a good benchmark.”
Minutes passed by while the two discussed a potential training plan. Onion nodded along, but her mind was elsewhere. Her mental focus was fixed on what her dad said at dinner. As Onion put her signature down upon an admin form to affirm her desire to race in the Whitney Stakes, she told herself there would be no second place this time; She would do as her mother did long ago, and run with a vengeance. Ink flowed from the pen, sealing her pact.