not allowed to know.
“My partner and I will finish this race,” Sebastian growls at the screen.
I wish he’d said win , but at least he mentioned me. And he didn’t call me Tarzan.
A female voice from off-screen behind Garrison murmurs, “Mr. President, the envoy is waiting.”
She mentions the name of a country in the Middle East. Ugh. I avoid the news as much as possible, but everyone knows there’s a civil war going on there again. When wasn’t a war going on in those sad countries? It seems to be an eye thing; people have been killing each other there for eons.
Yes, it’s awful. But after spending zillions of dollars and killing thousands of soldiers, our leaders finally admitted we’re not changing anything by diving into these bloodbaths.
President Garrison says he’ll keep America strong and rebuild the economy by keeping the country out of international conflicts. Unfortunately, his strategy for growing the economy is to put the corporations in charge of every decision. One guess how well that’s working out for most of us.
On the screen, the Prez glances briefly toward his aide, murmurs something unintelligible, and then looks back at the camera. “Be careful, son. I love you.”
“Good night.” Sebastian presses the Off button. His expression is a mixture of exasperation and exhaustion.
“At least you got a phone call,” I point out, yawning. Marisela and the kids would be asleep now, and Emilio’s probably cruising around in a tank somewhere.
Outside the mess tent, bells and whistles go off, and we hear one of the newsquackers reporting to his own camera crew in a smooth, rehearsed voice. “Team One, Catie Cole and Ricco Rossi, has just arrived.”
The cameras inside the tent quickly duck outside. I glance at my watch. Cole and Rossi are fifty minutes behind us. Too close for my comfort.
Mrs. Wrinkle delivers two small envelopes to me, laying them beside my plate on the table. Next to Sebastian, she sets down a big bouquet of red roses and a cardboard box containing multiple envelopes.
At the end of each day, competitors are allowed to receive any items and messages our fans want to send, after the items are inspected by the race officials to be sure none of us is getting tips or performance drugs or anything else that’s verboten.
When races are Stateside, the crew often delivers huge piles of gifts and messages to even the lowliest racers. But we are so far away from civilization that it costs a small fortune to ship anything here. So I’m not surprised that I get only two envelopes. I can’t help being envious of my teammate’s bounty, though.
“Wow.” I point to his box. “You must have a lot of rich fans.”
A flash goes off. The cameras have returned to our tent, which means that Cole and Rossi must be in the showers.
Sebastian throws me a look I can’t quite decode. Then he picks up the bouquet and reads the tag in a flat voice. “Good luck from the White House Staff.”
He tosses the bouquet over his shoulder. The female suit rises from her chair to rescue the flowers from the floor.
Sebastian paws through his box. “Senator Barker, Senator McKee, Representative Pickard, Senator Wright, Representative Parenti, Governor Howard—”
“I get it.” I guess it makes sense that the government high-ups would want to please the president by supporting his son.
“Our tax dollars at work.” Sebastian finger-walks through the batch, tossing each envelope over his shoulder onto the floor after reading the return address. Finally he comes to a light blue envelope that he pulls out and keeps.
“Mom,” he says, grinning. He slits the envelope open with his dinner knife, and reads in silence.
I take this as my cue to open my first envelope. It is, as I expected, from Marisela. The mailing date proves she was thoughtful enough to post this almost two weeks ago so she could get the cheapest rate.
Her kids Kai and Kiki, ten and eight years old, have sent drawings of
“My partner and I will finish this race,” Sebastian growls at the screen.
I wish he’d said win , but at least he mentioned me. And he didn’t call me Tarzan.
A female voice from off-screen behind Garrison murmurs, “Mr. President, the envoy is waiting.”
She mentions the name of a country in the Middle East. Ugh. I avoid the news as much as possible, but everyone knows there’s a civil war going on there again. When wasn’t a war going on in those sad countries? It seems to be an eye thing; people have been killing each other there for eons.
Yes, it’s awful. But after spending zillions of dollars and killing thousands of soldiers, our leaders finally admitted we’re not changing anything by diving into these bloodbaths.
President Garrison says he’ll keep America strong and rebuild the economy by keeping the country out of international conflicts. Unfortunately, his strategy for growing the economy is to put the corporations in charge of every decision. One guess how well that’s working out for most of us.
On the screen, the Prez glances briefly toward his aide, murmurs something unintelligible, and then looks back at the camera. “Be careful, son. I love you.”
“Good night.” Sebastian presses the Off button. His expression is a mixture of exasperation and exhaustion.
“At least you got a phone call,” I point out, yawning. Marisela and the kids would be asleep now, and Emilio’s probably cruising around in a tank somewhere.
Outside the mess tent, bells and whistles go off, and we hear one of the newsquackers reporting to his own camera crew in a smooth, rehearsed voice. “Team One, Catie Cole and Ricco Rossi, has just arrived.”
The cameras inside the tent quickly duck outside. I glance at my watch. Cole and Rossi are fifty minutes behind us. Too close for my comfort.
Mrs. Wrinkle delivers two small envelopes to me, laying them beside my plate on the table. Next to Sebastian, she sets down a big bouquet of red roses and a cardboard box containing multiple envelopes.
At the end of each day, competitors are allowed to receive any items and messages our fans want to send, after the items are inspected by the race officials to be sure none of us is getting tips or performance drugs or anything else that’s verboten.
When races are Stateside, the crew often delivers huge piles of gifts and messages to even the lowliest racers. But we are so far away from civilization that it costs a small fortune to ship anything here. So I’m not surprised that I get only two envelopes. I can’t help being envious of my teammate’s bounty, though.
“Wow.” I point to his box. “You must have a lot of rich fans.”
A flash goes off. The cameras have returned to our tent, which means that Cole and Rossi must be in the showers.
Sebastian throws me a look I can’t quite decode. Then he picks up the bouquet and reads the tag in a flat voice. “Good luck from the White House Staff.”
He tosses the bouquet over his shoulder. The female suit rises from her chair to rescue the flowers from the floor.
Sebastian paws through his box. “Senator Barker, Senator McKee, Representative Pickard, Senator Wright, Representative Parenti, Governor Howard—”
“I get it.” I guess it makes sense that the government high-ups would want to please the president by supporting his son.
“Our tax dollars at work.” Sebastian finger-walks through the batch, tossing each envelope over his shoulder onto the floor after reading the return address. Finally he comes to a light blue envelope that he pulls out and keeps.
“Mom,” he says, grinning. He slits the envelope open with his dinner knife, and reads in silence.
I take this as my cue to open my first envelope. It is, as I expected, from Marisela. The mailing date proves she was thoughtful enough to post this almost two weeks ago so she could get the cheapest rate.
Her kids Kai and Kiki, ten and eight years old, have sent drawings of
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