The Scorpio Races

CHAPTER SIXTY

The beach is not as crowded as I had expected. It’s between two of the smaller races, and only the capaill uisce who are entered in the next races are on the beach. All of the spectators who were down on the sand before are now huddled up on the cliffs, pressed as close as they dare to the edge. The sky above them has cleared to a deep, deep blue like you only get in November, and the ocean to my right is dark as night.

I can’t think that I’ll soon be racing beside it or I won’t be able to move.

I quickly find the race officials’ table in the shelter of the cliff; two men in bowler hats sit behind a table with tantalizingly varied racing colors folded in front of them. I hurry across the sand and duck close so that I won’t have to shout.

“I need to pick up my colors,” I say. I recognize the man on the right; he sits near us in St. Columba’s.

“None left for you,” replies the other official. His crossed arms rest on a stack of them.

“I’m sorry?” I ask politely.

“None left. Good-bye.” He turns to the official next to him and says, “What do you think of this weather? Warm, isn’t it?”

“Sir,” I say.

“I’m not complaining about the heat, that’s for sure, but it’ll bring out the midges,” says the other official.

“You can’t just pretend I’m not here,” I say.

But they can. They make pointed small talk, ignoring my presence, until I swallow my anger and humiliation and give up. I tell them that they’re bastards, because they won’t say anything back to me anyway, and go back the way I’ve come. I meet Gabe on his way down the cliff road. The wind has made his hair a mess.

“Where are your colors?” he asks.

I don’t really want to confess it to him, but I do. “They won’t give them to me.”

“Won’t!”

I cross my arms over my chest. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll race without them.” But it does matter, a little.

“I’m going to go talk to them,” Gabe says. His righteous anger is a welcome thing to see, even if I don’t think it will help. Sometimes it helps just to have it shared with another person. “This is stupid.”

I watch him descend and cross the sand, but I can tell from their faces as they watch him approach that he won’t get a different answer. I tell myself it doesn’t matter. I don’t need to look like one of them. I don’t need to belong.

“Sod them,” Gabe says when he returns. “Old Thisby biddies.”

Beside us, someone shouts out that everyone but the entrants in this last match race need to clear the beach, because it’s nearly time for the final race.

That means us.