Titans by Victoria Scott Page A

my back. Magnolia holds her stomach with laughter for several seconds, but when the Titan kicks more and more mud onto my clothes, she makes for the barn door, yelling that I’m on my own.
    Refusing to be bullied by a computer, I continue spraying the horse. And the horse continues spraying me. In the end, one of us is very clean. And one of us is covered in muck. I glance down at my shirt and jeans, my shoes and socks and bare arms. I’m wet. And filthy.
    And cool despite the summer heat.
    And having fun, though I hate to admit it.
    I shake the nozzle at the horse. “You’re an ornery piece of scrap metal, you know that?”
    The horse huffs, and I laugh. The sound startles the Titan. Its ears circle forward as if it’s surprised to hear this sound from me.
    “Can I wipe you down?” I grab one of the towels, feeling loony for asking permission from a machine.
    The Titan turns its face away, but I take a determined step in its direction. “Come on. Let me dry you off. Please?”
    The Titan looks at me and—I swear on my grandfather’s gambling addiction—it sighs. As if it’s conceding. As if it understood my request. I dry it off using firm pressure and a circular motion, and when I get to behind the Titan’s ears, the beast leans into my touch. I have to bite down to keep from giggling.
    Spotting the plastic bottle Magnolia left behind, I pick it up. After seeing that it’s some sort of Armor All for Titans, I grab a clean rag and work in the white cream across the horse’s body. Finally, I wring the used towel and pull it backward like I did a few nights ago when Zara and I cleaned dishes. Except this time, my target realizes what’s coming. I pop the horse lightly on the thigh, and in return the Titan noses me roughly in the back. I stumble forward and catch myself on the stall. Gazing ahead, I see that the gray mare is watching.
    “Your boyfriend’s aggressive,” I tell her. “You could do better.”
    I turn around and take in the Titan in all its clean glory, but it’s too dark in here to appreciate my handiwork. So I motion for the horse to follow me, and after the Titan pauses at the mare’s stall for a few seconds to prance, it obeys. I stop the creature at the front of the barn and wave my hand toward the mirror until it gazes over and sees its reflection. Almost immediately, the Titan jerks its head upright, chest puffing out.
    The horse turns from side to side, nosing the mirror and then lifting its chin. I suppose I can’t blame the mechanism for accessing its preprogrammed vain emotion. The Titan looks good—black steel shining, threads of steel hair smooth against its back, silver hooves glowing in the dying sun. Even its false lashes appear longer. Standing back, I swell with pride that this is the machine I’ll be riding in tomorrow’s sponsor race. It no longer looks like a broken-down engine stored in an old man’s work shed. Today, it looks like a champion. Not a first edition that’s been twice replaced, but the edition that got it right.
    My heart fills with something I can’t name, and before I can dwell on it, I toss the last of the used towels over the horse’s prideful head. Then I stride out of the barn and into the summer evening. Magnolia is perched on Rags’s unfolded tailgate, legs dangling beneath her. She covers her mouth and laughs into her hands when she sees me. And when Rags and Barney round the vehicle, they laugh too.
    I guess I look worse than I thought.
    “That horse is a menace,” I mutter.
    “That he is,” Rags agrees. “But he cleans up nice, huh?”
    We all turn and inspect the thing strutting outside the barn, never venturing too far from the full-length mirror.
    “He’s a good Titan,” Barney says. “Strong, with potential we never fully explored. We might just have a shot tomorrow.”
    Barney is saying what we want to believe. But the truth is the odds are stacked against us. Four days, I’ve been riding. Yes, I’ve studied every aspect of