rooftop, gruff and tough sounding. Benny may have been born on the other side, but his voice belongs here. It’s made of spark plugs and carburetors. He tried like hell to talk me out of racing, told me I was too young to get into it. I wore him down though. Showed up at his garage every day for a week and bugged him till he cried mercy. Finally, he said I had “pluck.”
I spat on his shoe, and he laughed.
“I’ve told you before—the name’s Ren,” I say, short. “Renata sounds like an Isle name. Can’t have my mech calling me by an Isle name. At the races, nothing would brand me worse.”
Benny ignores me, hands clasped behind his back. “How do you feel about a quick test?” he asks, pointing to the clock tower. “You’ll have ten minutes to climb up, then down that tower. No pressure, I’d just like to see how your mind works.” He pauses, then chuckles. “Some pressure, perhaps. Who wants to fail their first test, am I correct?”
My throat goes dry; I’m glad I took that swig from Aven’s canteen or I’d be crazy with thirst right now. Maybe I am nervous.
“What happens if I can’t do it?”
“Nothing horrible,” Benny assures me. “Tonight’s race will be a no-go, though. We’d spend the time going over where you went wrong.”
I swallow, and I walk to the tower. I’m racing no matter what. The tower’s no higher than fifteen feet . . . easy.
Carefully, my fingers graze the siding, feeling for tiny cracks to dig into. Bits of concrete crumble off, and when I look to my hands, I’m shocked. They’re shaking. . . .
I don’t shake.
I lift myself and begin the climb.
I pretend I’m that radioactive spider kid with supergrippy skin from old-time comics. At first it works. But no less than a minute in, the pads of my fingers go tingly and raw. I’m not used to climbing, and everything from my shoulders to my knuckles cramps. My legs have it a little better—they just burn. I keep going, and the feet drop away.
Then I look down.
That’s when I slip—gravity pries my fingers from the cracks. My feet kick against the wall and I suck in air. Don’t fall, don’t fall, I tell myself, and I don’t.
A few feet higher, I feel my palms fold against a skinny ledge. Trying not to show how happy I am about that, I elbow myself over till I’m belly down on the overhang. It’s so narrow, half my body dangles off.
Then I curse myself at what I see—
Along the far side of the tower, someone’s stacked a pile of boxes and extra piping. Alls I had to do was climb up, instead of ripping my palms to shreds.
Guess that’s lesson number one: scope around for the best route.
Holding on to the overhang with one palm, I crane my neck and put the lesson to use: Still another six feet to go, with no other route to the top. And then I have to make it down.
“Time?” I call out to Benny.
“Six minutes.”
It’ll take just as long to make it to the top, much less to the top and bottom. Of course, if I’d looked around to start, the climb wouldn’t have taken half as long—I’d have had those boxes to jump on.
I could have used them to help me up the second half, too.
Ugh, I groan, finally understanding that I actually need those boxes to make the climb in ten minutes.
Which means I have to get them.
I whine, facedown, little shards of concrete digging into my forehead. Can’t waste any more time, I remind myself, dropping my legs back over the side. I lower myself down, then let go of the ledge, falling the last few feet.
My feet hit the roof’s copper panels and I hear Benny laugh. Without looking, I growl at him, and rush to the farside of the tower. There, I begin stacking boxes. As they pile up, they lose their balance, so I reach for a long copper beam and prop it against the higher ones. That will keep ’em steady, I hope.
Done—everything’s in position.
I’m gonna do it, I’m hours away from being a real racer. I grin to myself and hop onto the first box, then the second, all the way up to the first ledge.
As I hug the tower and step up, the boxes jiggle underneath me, but I keep my foot firm on them. My fingers feel the brick for