Girl Next Door - Alyssa Brugman [8]
On the other wall there's a set of fold-out doors that open onto a lawn area. A few men stand out there smoking. The lawn slopes away and beyond a fence is the track itself.
Nobody notices me at all.
Bryce Cole buys me a hot dog and a soft drink, and a beer for himself, and then he perches on a stool in the middle of the room, flicking through his race guide. He jots some notes in a small pad he pulled from his breast pocket.
I eat my hot dog, sip my drink and wait. So far he hasn't spoken a single word, other than 'hey' when I got in the passenger side of his car, but it's not as though I'm in trouble. It's more as if he's thinking about something else. I would have thought that he'd at least ask if I was sick, or why I was being sent home, but I don't think he cares. It's almost as though he's forgotten I'm here.
I wonder what's happening at school – whether everyone is talking about me being kicked out. People must get kicked out for not paying all the time, except I can't remember seeing it.
Last year a girl in the year below us left the school abruptly. She was whisked off in the middle of the day and two nights later they said on the news that her father had embezzled millions and fled the country. A few years ago, before I started at Finsbury, a girl left because her dad was the minister for education and the media went nuts about him not supporting public schools. There were photographers at the gates taking pictures of her being picked up in a government car.
Another girl turned out to be some daggy 1980s popstar's love child, not that it had anything to do with leaving the school, but people did talk about it, and it was in the newspaper. There are plenty of daughters of famous people at Finsbury.
My family doesn't rate gossip at that level. We're not even having a spectacular meltdown – just a slow leak, which we're all pretending isn't happening – but that isn't going to shield me from Finsbury narkiness.
After an hour has passed Bryce Cole slaps the race guide on the table in front of me.
'Who do you like in race one?'
I pick up the guide, flick to the page entitled 'Race One', and then read the list of names. It seems to me that there are three types of horse names: if people want you to think their horse is going to win, they call it something like 'Ima Winner'; if they have more confidence that it'll win despite the name, they put together a random selection of words; and in the last category they're so confident, or have so many horses, that they just shove together a series of letters in any order.
Makybe Diva. Phar Lap.
I select one that looks like random words.
'Esca's Foxtrotter.'
'How much?' he asks.
We stare at each other.
'How much money do you want to put on her?' he qualifies.
'Ten dollars?'
'On the nose?'
Then I nod, because I have no idea what that means and he's staring at me as though it should be obvious.
Bryce Cole stands at the door for a moment, hands on hips, taking in the fresh air, and then heads over to the betting booth. When he comes back he hands me a slip of paper with my horse's name on it.
By some secret signal, all the blokes move across to a spot in the corner where they can see the racetrack and the telly simultaneously. There's a click through the speakers mounted on the wall as a microphone is switched on. In the distance I can see the horses loading into the starting gates. It's much clearer on the television. A few men bundle one of the stragglers in. Then the race caller starts through the speakers, just like they do on the television.
'Set. Racing. My Delight is slow out of the gates, but Pageantry makes a solid start. Esca's Foxtrotter moves out wide. Berry Blessing stretches into the lead early, followed by Hidylow. Talking Magic is back on the rail. They're peeling off – Pageantry about mid-field. Berry Blessing drops back, followed by My Delight, and Esca's Foxtrotter is two lengths behind.'
The room has been silent, and then the man with ears like jug handles who's standing