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Overview
It is the summer of 1934, and even at the height of the Great Depression, money is no object for the socialites at posh Saratoga Race Course. The trouble is times are tough for everyone else, especially penniless track workers like fifteenyear- old Jack Walsh. When Jack suddenly graduates from exercise rider to apprentice jockey, or bug boy, he is an overnight sensation. Success brings him all sorts of attention, including that of a brainy blond beauty who is more involved with the gritty underbelly of the track than she lets on and a vicious thug who presses Jack to break his code as a jockey for a payoff that could solve all his family's problems.
Set amid the rough backstretch of Thoroughbred racing, this edge-of-your-saddle read follows the course of a young athlete whose rise to glory in the most popular sport in America is accompanied by ever-increasing pressure to do something that could leave him trampled in the dirt.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781429946599 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Farrar, Straus and Giroux |
| Publication date: | 07/21/2009 |
| Sold by: | Macmillan |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 256 |
| Lexile: | 780L (what's this?) |
| File size: | 218 KB |
| Age Range: | 14 - 17 Years |
About the Author
ERIC LUPER lives in Albany, New York, and is an avid horseracing fan. Of Big Slick, his first novel, Kirkus Reviews said, "Luper's authentic first-person narrative captures teen frustrations, feelings of confinement, and the mottled world of poker . . . Powerful momentum."
ERIC LUPER lives in Albany, New York, and is an avid horseracing fan. Of Big Slick, his first novel, Kirkus Reviews said, “Luper’s authentic first-person narrative captures teen frustrations, feelings of confinement, and the mottled world of poker . . . Powerful momentum.”
Read an Excerpt
Bug Boy
By Eric Luper
Farrar, Straus and Giroux
Copyright © 2009 Eric LuperAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-4659-9
CHAPTER 1
AFTER BEING COOPED UP IN THAT BOXCAR FROM Belmont to Saratoga, Fireside seems just about as desperate to run as I am to ride. That horse tugs at the reins in the hopes I'll let them loose, and he puffs like a steam engine each time his lead leg strikes the ground. Riding any racehorse for its first workout after traveling is like setting off a stick of dynamite — all that energy needing to get out.
And Fireside is no different.
Sure, it's the morning of opening day and all. Heck, everyone's excited. But Fireside is jumpier than usual and it makes me wonder if he knows something about this here racing season that I don't.
"Take that horse through his paces, Jack," Mr. Hodge calls to me from the rail. "I want him working hard at least six furlongs."
"Sure thing." I jerk my knees, and Fireside springs into a canter. You never work a horse hard the same day he's racing, but the down days are different. They say every extra pound a horse carries takes a length off at the finish line, and boy do they put on weight fast. You've got to keep them running or they get a belly on them. As far as I know, Fireside won't be competing for a few weeks, so it's extra important to keep him trim.
Fireside is the biggest and fastest horse I've ever had the chance to put my legs around. His sleek, gleaming coat is charcoal gray, nearly black, and his chest is as broad as the end of a barn. Despite his size, he's surprisingly nimble, able to skitter in and out of the pack like a sparrow darting between branches.
"Pick up the pace!" Mr. Hodge hollers, but I can't barely hear him. He's already long behind us, swallowed up by the morning mist. It's my favorite time of day, when the sun peeks over the tops of the pine trees and makes the fog look like a cloud decided to settle itself down on the track.
I give Fireside two taps with the whip and cluck in his ear. By my estimate, we cut two seconds off our next furlong. To top it off, Fireside's ears are still twitching, which means he ain't too serious about the run. This horse has a lot more to offer.
As we breeze past the next post, I give Fireside some slack. He takes every inch of those reins and really pours it on. Anyone who says that racing is cruel — that horses don't like digging down for that mile or so — has never been in the saddle of a world-class Thoroughbred as it's begging to tear down the stretch. Centuries of breeding's done it to them. Racing is in their blood. It's in their blood like it's in mine.
When we circle around to the backstretch, the only thing sparkling brighter than Mr. Hodge's pocket watch is his smile. It makes the creases in his leathery face seem even deeper. "Great time, son," he calls as we gallop past.
Bucky, one of the other exercise boys and my best chum in the horse business, is waiting for me on the outside rail. He brings his pony alongside Fireside, and we loop back, making sure to get ourselves out of the way of other riders coming through. Sweat glistens on Fireside's withers. "You sure were moving there," Bucky says. "Let me guess. You were thinking about driving one of those Alfa Romeos in the Monaco Grand Prix."
"Actually, it was a Bugatti in the Belgian."
"It's always Bugattis with you."
"What can I say? I like Bugattis."
After we make our way back to Mr. Hodge, I wait for him to look up at me from his notes. "Fireside lifted his head again," I say. "He was doing the same thing back at Belmont, remember?"
Mr. Hodge takes off his felt fedora and picks invisible lint off it like he does every time he thinks hard on something.
"Given any more thought to that shadow roll?" I ask. A shadow roll is a fluffy pad that rests across the bridge of a horse's nose. It would block the lower part of Fireside's vision to keep him from getting spooked by shadows underfoot.
Mr. Hodge studies Fireside while he chews that cigar of his. The smoke smells like the applewood my family burns back home. "Fit him up for one," he says. "We'll make a champion out of that horse yet." Then he looks up at me. "And a jockey out of you."
That's just about the nicest thing Mr. Hodge has ever said to me. I smile so big he could stick a muck shovel in my mouth without it touching my cheeks. I snap the reins and head off the track alongside Bucky.
"Did you hear that?" Bucky bounces in his saddle like a puppy waiting to chase after a stick. "Mr. Hodge is gonna bump you up to jockey soon."
"He didn't say anything about soon."
"But someday," Bucky says. "Someday. Me, I'll be lucky to shine your riding boots."
"Don't talk down about yourself that way."
"Aw, you know it and I know it, Jack. I'm no better at riding horses than Fireside here is at knitting."
"Pipe down," I tell him. "Fireside's a good knitter. He made me a scarf last Christmas."
Bucky grins at that, and his two front teeth press down so hard I think he might bite his bottom lip clean off. With teeth like his, Bucky's nickname didn't take too much figuring out.
"I grew up on horseback," I say. "My grandpa used to tell me I came into the world holding the birth cord like it was a set of reins and I ain't stopped since."
The thought of my family makes my thighs tense up around my mount. I wonder what my baby sister, Penny, looks like now. I haven't seen her — or the rest of my family — in over three years, not since I was twelve and my dad sent me off with that rat Tweed McGowan to learn the horse business.
"The first thing you gotta do if you want to start riding better is raise those irons up," I say to Bucky, pointing to his stirrups. "You ain't never going to get comfortable if you keep riding Western like you do."
Bucky ignores me. "You watch," he says. "You'll be bumped up to bug boy, win your first forty races right in a row, and be a full jockey in no time. Then, you'll forget all about the rest of us."
"How could I forget about you?" I say. "You owe me a quarter."
"A quarter? When you start riding for real, you won't bother stooping down for a crisp, new Ben Franklin, let alone a quarter. Things are going to take off for you, Jack. I can feel it."
"Does that mean I'm not getting my quarter?"
Fireside gives a little buck right then, and I hunch forward so as not to get tossed. I pat him on the neck and he seems to settle down some. When he bucks a second time, I know someone must be coming. Fireside gets jittery around strangers.
Then I see him.
In his gray suit and black fedora, the man is dressed too fancy to be a track worker. Even so, I can tell he ain't no pencil pusher. His nose is pushed in so bad it looks like he took a few too many shots to the snot locker. A few thousand too many.
"That's one fine horse you've got there," the man says.
One of the first things Mr. Hodge told me when I started working with Pelton Stables was never to converse with strangers who show up around the stable. He said folks like that are always looking for trouble. I nod to the man out of common politeness and guide Fireside to the far end of the shed.
"Yes, sir," the man continues as he trails alongside me. "That horse looks as sure as a Roosevelt dollar, he does."
As usual, Niles, Fireside's groom, is waiting for us. Niles always wears the same getup: a white, long-sleeved shirt and baggy pants with suspenders. He always wears the same eyes too — the kind that tell you his mouth is smiling just a few inches below. Even though I'm the one supposed to do it, Niles always hot-walks Fireside. He says the walking is as good for him as it is for the horse. Niles can say what he wants, but I'm glad to hand the bridle over. Leading a horse around and around in a circle until it cools down is a bigger bore than watching McIntoshes grow on the branch during a drought. Not to mention that all you need to do it is one good arm and the ability to turn to the left.
"Everything all right there, Mr. Jack?" Niles asks. His eyes flick toward the shifty guy.
"Fine," I say.
Niles helps me to the ground. After I thank him, I start toward the barn. Most of us workers sleep at local boardinghouses, but if there's a free stall at whatever track we're working, I take it. The chirping of the crickets and the snorting and stomping of the horses set me at ease.
When I get to my stall, I make sure everything is the way I left it. My unmade cot sits against one wall. Spoons, the spider monkey I picked up in a dice game down at Hialeah, is rolled up in the blankets, snoring away like an idling two stroke engine. He has pulled off his black cap, but he's still wearing the purple and white striped silk jacket Mrs. Dalton, the boardinghouse keeper down in Belmont, made for him. Sure, that monkey is a pain in the keister, always stealing fruit and knocking things over, but his beady black eyes and the fuzzy ring of white fur around his wrinkled old-man face grow on you. Not to mention that he settles the horses down something serious.
The apple crate next to my cot is stacked high with things I like to look at before I go to sleep: old horse journal clippings, some car brochures, a few comic books, and some French postcards. I begin to straighten out the piles.
Someone clears his throat behind me. The phlegmy rattle sounds like one of those newfangled chain saws I saw at the fair ripping through a log. "So, what do you think of Fireside?" the guy in the suit says.
"Who are you?" I say right back. "You ain't even supposed to be back here."
He holds out his hand. "Name's Jasper Cunningham."
I don't want to shake on account of I don't trust the guy, so I spend some extra time taking off my helmet and hanging it on the hook I've nailed to the wall. The helmet's seen better days. The silk is frayed to bare threads, and the cardboard skullcap is tattered and soggy. Nevertheless, it was my first helmet and the thing's brought me nothing but good luck. And a new one costs two and a half bucks. Who's got that kind of money?
Jasper gets the hint and slips his hand back into his pocket. "Listen, kid," he says. His voice goes quiet and he steps toward me. "I know what life is like for you exercise boys. You're treated worse than these here horses. What are you, fourteen?"
I want to correct him, to tell him I'm fifteen, but I keep my mouth shut and take my good old time hanging up my crop. Neither of us says a word for a while, but being around the track so long, I know the sound of fingers riffling through cash.
I turn around.
Jasper's smile wrinkles that lump of a nose of his so bad it looks like a chewed up wad of gum. He knows he's got my attention. "Look, I have an offer for you, kid," he says, stepping close enough that he could grab me if he wanted. "I have an offer for you, and I think it's one you'll have a hard time turning down."
CHAPTER 2THE FIRST TIME I CAME UP TO SARATOGA, MR. HODGE called Claire Court the Rolls-Royce of training tracks. It's buried deep in the backstretch, behind the proper track, behind rows of low barns and storage sheds. Huge oaks surround the loop of white fencing as though the track was there first, as though the trees themselves are the trespassers. I hope Jasper doesn't ruin its charm for me, but as we walk over there, I already know I'll never look at Claire Court the same way again.
"Eat up," Jasper says, leaning against the fence. He nods to the egg sandwich clutched in my hands. I haven't eaten much these past few days, and all I want to do is shove that sandwich in my mouth. I want to swallow it in one bite and go get me another.
The problem is I need to drop weight. I'm pushing one hundred and sixteen pounds. That's a lot for a jockey. If a chance to ride comes up and I'm not light enough, someone else will get my mount. Mr. Hodge says I'm not ready for a big race yet, but I'm lead exercise boy. Unless they hire on a seasoned rider to bump me, I'm the next one to move up.
Jasper takes a bite of his own sandwich. A chunk of egg drops to the dirt. "I told you to eat up," he says. "I paid good money for this grub."
I want to tell Jasper to chew and to swallow like a normal human being, but thinking about eating makes my stomach twist in knots. I unwrap the sandwich so an edge pokes out. If I only eat the edge, I couldn't possibly gain weight. The smell of scrambled eggs makes my eyes roll up so far I can nearly see the wrinkles in my brain.
I take a small bite and tell myself to chew slowly, to savor every moment the egg and cheese and roll are in contact with my tongue.
Jasper still hasn't said a word about why he wants to talk, but I figure I know. Owners try to hire experienced exercise boys away from other stables all the time. That way, they get fully trained riders instead of going through all the trouble of teaching the ropes to new kids. A few of the other stables have already offered, but I've turned them all down. Mr. Pelton and, more important, Mr. Hodge have been real good to me. That's worth more than the few extra nickels I could make someplace else. No one knows better than me how bad getting with the wrong people can be.
I take another bite and swear it'll be my last. I can't afford to gain an ounce. As Jasper inhales his sandwich — chewing doesn't seem to be on his list of skills — a gray spotted gelding gallops by. Its hooves sink deep into the dirt and kick up a shovelful each time they lift out. The heavy surface of Claire Court is perfect for building a horse's strength.
"Look, kid," Jasper finally says. "I'm not a bullshit kind of guy. I wanted to get you away from your barn so we could talk business."
Jasper pulls a cigar from his pocket and snips off the end with a small pair of scissors. He spins the cigar on his outstretched tongue until the dark leaf wrapper glistens with spit. He lights a match and puffs the cigar to life. "Fireside's going to be racing soon," he says. With each word, a small cloud of smoke pushes out of Jasper's mouth. It makes the smell of manure in the air seem even stronger. "When he does, I need you to make sure he doesn't win. Put simple, I need Fireside out of the picture."
My breathing goes shallow. "Out of the picture?"
Jasper smiles like he knows what I'm thinking. "Don't worry, kid. We just want him slowed up a little."
"I'm not Fireside's jockey," I say. "I only work him out."
"Don't you think I know that? But Showboat McGinn will stand to make a lot of dough if he wins on Fireside's back. We won't be able to sway him." Showboat McGinn is Pelton Stables's lead jockey and the guy likely to get to ride Fireside in any and all of his races.
"Who's we?" I ask.
Jasper chuckles through his nose, and it makes a squeaking sound. A fleck of snot fires out and lands on the edge of the white fence. If Jasper notices, he doesn't seem to care. "You don't think I'd tell you that, do you?"
I wrap the rest of my sandwich in the paper and perch it on the edge of the fence, well away from Jasper's snot. My fingers are covered in grease. I wipe them on my trousers.
"Here," Jasper says. He pulls out his handkerchief and stuffs it in my hand. Normally I wouldn't take another guy's hankie, but judging from what's clinging to the fence post, I figure Jasper doesn't use his for wiping his nose.
"I don't think I can help you," I say. "Mr. Pelton's been good to me. I don't want to risk anything."
"Risk what?" Jasper says. "Sleeping in a stall with the horses every night? Getting treated worse than the animals you ride?" He leans in close, and his voice drops to a murmur. "Look, kid, we'll pay you two hundred dollars."
Two hundred dollars? Two hundred dollars is near two months' salary for regular folks. For an exercise boy, it's more like a million years' pay. With two hundred bucks I could go back home to the Finger Lakes for a while. I could see my sister. I could see my folks. I could visit Grandma's grave out by the orchard on the south hill.
But what would happen if I got caught? Exercise boys have been killed for much less than tampering with a horse. Not too long ago I heard a rider got beaten to death for lending a rival barn a few horseshoes. What would Mr. Hodge do if he found out I was messing with Fireside? What would Mr. Pelton do? My family depends on the small amount of money I send home every month. Thinking about little Penny makes up my mind for me.
"Sorry," I say. "I can't risk it."
"That's the beauty of it," Jasper says. "There is no risk." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a round yellow sponge about the size of a skate wheel. He places it on the fence next to my sandwich. "On the day before the race, roll this up and stick it in one of Fireside's nostrils. Shove it in there deep so as you can't see it. It'll make it a little tougher for the horse to breathe. It'll slow him down just enough. No one'll be the wiser."
Jasper takes a white envelope out of his pocket and places it next to the sponge. I know there's two hundred dollars sitting in that envelope. All I have to do is take it. All I have to do is take the envelope and the sponge.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Bug Boy by Eric Luper. Copyright © 2009 Eric Luper. Excerpted by permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux.
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