Free Wild Girl by Patricia Reilly Giff

voice:
“The horses are on the track.”
    I turned to Pai, but he was watching for that first glimpse of Rafael as they loaded the horses into the gate.
    I looked toward the gate and saw our first bit of luck. Rafael’s post position was number seven—not too close to the rail, where he’d be crushed in; not too far out, where he’d have to angle his way past the others.
    Next to me was the woman, smiling a little. “A good position,” she said.
    Pai leaned toward her. “Mrs. Januário,” he said. “I’m so glad you’re back, so glad you could see Rafael up on Doce.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “This is my daughter, this is Lidie.”
    Mrs. Januário. The owner of the stable.
    “A night creature, like me,” she said softly. Pai, glancing at the starting gate, didn’t seem to hear her. “I put your boot on the back step.”
    I raised my shoulders helplessly and whispered a thank-you.
    Pai glanced toward us. “Mrs. Januário came from São Paulo with her parents years ago.”
    I nodded. So that was why she sounded like us.
    Now I turned to the gate, my hands icy for Rafael. I tried not to think about what it would be like if Doce ran out of steam, if they trailed along behind that field of horses, or were boxed in where they couldn’t break out ahead of theothers. I crossed my fingers:
“Come in first,”
I whispered.
“Win.”
    I didn’t have time for more than that quick worry. The bell rang, and the gates banged open. The horses were out, running, thundering toward us, a blur of bodies and legs and jockeys high up on their mounts. I kept my eye on that bit of pink: Rafael, helmet down, goggles down, one with Doce.
    The lead horse was about a furlong ahead—maybe an eighth of a mile—and the others were bunched up behind him when three cut away and moved toward the lead horse.
    I knew Rafael was holding Doce back. It was something Pai had said again this morning:
Don’t make your move until the final turn
. And Rafael was responding as if Pai’s thoughts and his were one.
    Then it was time. Rafael asked Doce to go, and Doce responded instantly.
    Everything was blurred for me as Doce reached the horses in front of him. It almost seemed as if he’d have to create his own space to move through them.
    I found myself whispering,
“Anything can happen, anything—”
    We jumped to our feet as one of the horses clipped the heels of another. The rider was thrown from his saddle!
    The horse went diagonally across the track, slowing down the others. It gave Rafael enough room to squeeze through, around the horse, and around the rider, who had darted out of the way of the horses.
    Fast, then. It was all so fast. I grasped Pai’s arm, my fingers digging into him, hardly realizing what I was doing,yelling, “Rafi, Rafi!” as he closed the gap, passing the third horse, and the second.
    He was so close behind the first, so close …
    And then he was neck and neck with that first horse. Rafael was crouched down on Doce’s back, the reins tight as they crossed the finish line.
    But who had won?
    Next to me, Pai grasped the railing, and Mrs. Januário was yelling, “Doce, was it Doce?”
    In the infield, the sign lighted up: PHOTO.
    We waited; the crowd waited. Behind us, people were shouting.
    Pai turned to me. “Inside, they’re looking at photos of the finish line. They’ll study them from every angle.” He tilted his head, his mouth not quite steady. “Ah, wouldn’t it be something if …”
    He never finished. The answer was up on the board for us.
    I began to cry. I was crying from the excitement, crying because I loved Rafael, crying because, by just a nose, he had won!
    Mrs. Januário was shouting “Yes!” in her deep voice. Pai’s face was blurred by my tears. He grabbed my hand and we ran to be there, to see Rafael, his arm raised high over his head in a victory salute.

23
THE STABLE
    It wasn’t until the next morning that I thought about the orange cat. The rest of the afternoon had