Grant Falloon, Grantsylvania
No one was going to move us.
Leonard Lish, Emmy-Winning TV Producer
The confetti operator—I guess assuming the boys were going to finish—he’d accidentally pushed the button.
Jay Fa’atasi, USA
Yeah. So all this golden confetti was raining down on us. It was just chaos, man.
Franny Falloon, Brother
Babblemoney was over by the money, vein bulging in her neck, yelling, “This will not do! This will not do!”
Diane Falloon, Mom
The security guards—the commandos who’d been protecting the money—they started running toward the boys like they were going to drag them away.
Dave Falloon, Dad
But then the coolest thing happened.
Franny Falloon, Brother
If you look back at the footage, you can see all the other kids lining the track for the final, ready for what would happen next.
Devon Jones, Jamaica
We all knew. We raced out and formed a wall around Grant and Jay.
Dave Falloon, Dad
It was like seeing shields locked together in an ancient phalanx or something.
Diane Falloon, Mom
But the shields were phones.
Dave Falloon, Dad
They were all filming.
Diane Falloon, Mom
The guards wouldn’t go near them. They put their hands up and stepped back.
Grant Falloon, Grantsylvania
Franny was ready for his big moment. He’d hacked into the giant HD screen.
Jay Fa’atasi, USA
And there they were—the kids we’d talked to last night—from all around the world—Hilmi and Xu and Sannjh—telling their stories—showing photos of the factories. All of this happening in perfect order, just like we’d planned.
Franny Falloon, Brother
The crowd was stunned at first… watching the giant screen…
Grant Falloon, Grantsylvania
And then they started booing. Throwing stuff.
Jay Fa’atasi, USA
At that point Babblemoney realized the crowd had turned on her. She was speeding down the track on her scooter, trying to make a getaway. Well, that’s not the best way to put it. Her scooter was super slow. [Laughs.]
Franny Falloon, Brother
The scooter was moving so slow, she was like a sitting duck. But somehow everyone kept missing. Finally this hot dog came down and doinked her right in the head. [Laughs.] It was glorious.
Jay Fa’atasi, USA
I’ll be honest, as it all went down, I was expecting the cops to just arrest her on the spot—
Grant Falloon, Grantsylvania
Yeah, I was picturing her led off in cuffs, muttering, And I would’ve gotten away with it if not for you pesky kids! [Laughs.]
Jay Fa’atasi, USA
But that didn’t happen.
Grant Falloon, Grantsylvania
Nope. Instead… I couldn’t believe it… they escorted us off the property. Like we were the ones who’d broken the rules.
Jay Fa’atasi, USA
Which I guess… we had?
Dave Falloon, Dad
[Sighs.] It’s hard to explain this to your kids. How sometimes even when you’re doing what you know in your heart is right…
Diane Falloon, Mom
You can still be punished for it.
Dave Falloon, Dad
In the moment you’re not treated like a hero.
Diane Falloon, Mom
You’re treated like a criminal.
Grant Falloon, Grantsylvania
Obviously the hardest part was giving up the million bucks.
Jay Fa’atasi, USA
Trust me, we thought about taking it.
Grant Falloon, Grantsylvania
But we knew we had to fight back in a different way.
Franny Falloon, Brother
People like Babblemoney… the only way to hurt them is to go after their image. That’s what’s propping up their whole empires.
Grant Falloon, Grantsylvania
We realized we could make Babblemoney pay in more ways than one.
Adriana Santos, Brazil
After Grant and Jay told us what was really going on, the girls made a pact that whoever won would give the money to the families who had been hurt in the factories.
Maggie Olinyk, Ukraine
That was hard. I mean, it’s not like my family is rich. We could have really used that money.
Adriana Santos, Brazil
But everyone agreed. Which made it easier.
Maggie Olinyk, Ukraine
Maybe this isn’t the kind of thing I should admit… but I was also imagining how many likes and retweets we would all get from doing the right thing… everyone cheering us on in the comments.… I know, it’s so messed up, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about that.
Franny Falloon, Brother
It’s easy to think that a “good” person always acts for the right reasons, and a “bad” person always acts for the wrong reasons. But I think it’s more complicated. Like, I think we did the right thing. I’m proud of what we did. But—let’s be honest—my ego was still a big part of wanting to do this. I wanted the praise! Of course I did. Though it was a little easier for me because I wasn’t out there racing.
Grant Falloon, Grantsylvania
It’s easy to look back now and say we made the right choice. But it’s much harder in the moment. My biggest fear was that we were going to execute this whole plan perfectly… and it wasn’t going to matter. We’d just get crushed like little bugs and everyone would laugh at us and the world would keep right on spinning. We talked about that a lot the night before. Is this even worth it? Is this our fight?
Jay Fa’atasi, USA
But then we just kept coming back to the people. Real people were getting hurt. We’d talked to their kids. We’d seen their faces. It’s like—imagine if it was happening right in front of you. You see someone getting hurt. You see the look on their face, the pain. Of course you’d try to help that person. But somehow it’s different when it’s far away. You can block it out and just go on with your life. Does that make you a bad person? Not necessarily. [Thinks.] Or does it? We just had to keep reminding ourselves what really mattered. Who we wanted to stand with.
Grant Falloon, Grantsylvania
So yeah. The boys made a pact too. We said that whoever made the final would do the protest. So that way the girls would take Babblemoney’s million, get it in the bank, and then we would come next and blow the lid off the whole thing.
Jay Fa’atasi, USA
But we weren’t done with Babblemoney just yet. That night Franny slowed down the video of her getting hit with the hot dog. We watched it wobble toward her head, frame by frame, laughing so hard. He put it online, and overnight she became the most famous meme of the year—even bigger than Grant tripping at the Penn Relays. The way Egyptian royalty got mummified? Yeah. She got meme-ified. [Laughs.]
Grant Falloon, Grantsylvania
Plus, because our release forms were forged, they weren’t allowed to use our images in their commercials. They had nothing.
Diane Falloon, Mom
[Neck turning red.] It all worked out. But let’s not get in the habit.…
Grant Falloon, Grantsylvania
And actually, other sneaker companies have reached out to us since then, offering us sponsorships. We’re still weighing our options.…
Jay Fa’atasi, USA
It’s kind of crazy if you think about it. If Grant hadn’t been raised the way he was, and if I hadn’t moved to East Falls in fourth grade, and if he hadn’t tripped at the Penn Relays, and a zillion other things, all in just the right order… none of this would’ve happened. Turns out this was our destiny all along. We just couldn’t see it.
Grant Falloon, Grantsylvania
Or maybe we’ve got the whole idea of destiny wrong. Maybe our
destiny isn’t written in advance like a script. Maybe our destiny is actually changing all the time, as we change, new lanes opening up before us as others fade.
Jay Fa’atasi, USA
[Nodding.] Whoa. That’s deep, bro. I like that.
Grant Falloon, Grantsylvania
I don’t know if it’s true. But it reminds me that my choices matter, you know? It’s all happening live, right in front of us, and we get to decide what happens.
Jay Fa’atasi, USA
So what’s gonna happen next, Mr. Smart Guy?
Grant Falloon, Grantsylvania
[Laughs.] You’ll have to subscribe to find out.
37
Before we flew home from California, me, Mom, Dad, Franny, Mrs. Fa’atasi, Tua, and Jay all rented bikes and went out for a long ride. It was funny—we were like a super-peloton, all of us in matching helmets and reflective vests.
“Pothole!” Mom yelled, and we all swerved around it.
We rode through the mountains, enjoying the scenery, and soon enough we saw it—the faded sign that said WELCOME TO THE GOLDEN STATE FAMILY COMMUNE: WHERE FRIENDS ARE FAMILY!
Except when we turned up the driveway… it was gone. All that was left was a broken-down school bus propped on cinder blocks.
“We lived right over there,” Dad said, pointing to a cluster of falling-down shacks. I closed my eyes, and it was like I traveled through time. I saw Young Mom, in a long flowered dress, and Young Dad, in a baggy flannel shirt, showing up on their first day, nervous but excited to build a new kind of family. I saw them sitting around a campfire, laughing, Mom palming her pregnant belly. I saw them packing up their clothes years later, feeling like they’d failed, but doing what they needed to do for their kids.
And when I opened my eyes—and I saw us all there together, the Falloons and the Fa’atasis, it felt like—through me—their dream had been realized. The baton had been passed. We all squeezed in for a selfie in front of the broken-down school bus, and I thought, This is my family, all of us, no matter what the paperwork says.
* * *
Two weeks later, I’m back in East Falls. School starts again tomorrow, my first lap on a brand-new track—high school. I’ve been having these nightmares where I’m lost in a locker-lined maze and I can never find the right classroom.
“You’ll be fine,” Dad says, drawing in his sketchpad at the kitchen table. “You just have to show up, put your feet in the starting rocks, and—”
“They’re called starting blocks, Dad.”
“Well whatever. You get my point.”
He holds up the sketchbook and shows me the idea for his new Dracula doll. “Modern Dracula” wears a cool band T-shirt (the Impalers) and skinny jeans, and demands to know where all his blood is sourced from.
I have to laugh. “You’re so weird, Dad.”
“Yeah? And that’s a bad thing?”
Mom’s still waking up at four a.m. to review her case files. It’s hard work, but she knows that if she doesn’t do it, no one will.
And it’s worth it: A few weeks ago she noticed a conflicting timeline in a police report and saved an innocent man from spending the rest of his life in jail. The man’s kids sent us handmade thank-you letters, colorful stick figures with their arms all joined together. They’re hanging on the fridge now.
As of last week, Franny has officially taken over the Grantsylvania channel. He’s been driving me nuts, begging me to guest-star all the time (“The people demand it!”), but at least I know his heart is in the right place. He really believes this “life-streaming” is the wave of the future. He says it’s great because we can “open our borders” and, at the same time, travel and see the world from lots of different points of view. He says it’s how we’ll connect and make the world a better place.
Maybe someday we’ll come to think of this “life-streaming” like books, how you can transport into another consciousness for a while to enrich your own. It’s hard to imagine, but Franny has always been able to see multiple steps ahead—he’s fast like that. Who knows, maybe one day he really will win that Nobel Prize—or at least an Emmy.
* * *
I’m on the fenced-in bridge over the highway, just after dawn. I still plan to break Usain Bolt’s record someday, and it’s not gonna just magically happen. I have to work for it. I have to train every day. It’s a Sunday morning, so there’s no traffic right now, just an occasional car flashing by like a comet.
“Bro,” Jay says, appearing from his side of the bridge. “What’s the deal?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Didn’t you get my text?”
“Nah. I left my phone. What’s up?”
“Dude, it’s hilarious. Check it out.”
He takes out his phone and shows me the site he made last night. It’s a picture of us with our arms locked in protest at the Million Dollar Race. Above us, a digital clock is counting up infinitely.
“We never finished,” Jay says, “so technically the clock is still running. Every day it just keeps adding up and up. So if you think about it, we actually did break the world record. Both of us.”
“We did?”
“Yeah, man. We ran the slowest hundred-meter dash of all time!”
I laugh and punch him in the arm. I worried for a long time that we couldn’t be best friends and rivals. That the DNA of our friendship was flawed.
But now I see that that’s dumb. We’re best friends because we compete. We push each other. We make each other better every day.
“Race you to the end of the bridge,” he says. “Winner gets the last slice at Franks.”
I smirk. “You’re on.”
For us, anything can be a finish line. A house. A tree. A telephone pole. A stray cat. It never ends.
We bend our knees, side by side.
Ready…
Set…
Go!
I take off, arms pumping, the biggest smile on my face. When I’m running, it’s like time moves differently. I can feel myself passing through the seconds like they’re a physical place.
I drive with my legs, exploding forward with maximum force. I go faster and faster, becoming blurrier and blurrier, until I’m no longer the kid dodging stares at school. I’m no longer the kid who re-writes his social media posts ten times, worried what people will think. I’m just a beam of light hurtling through time and space.
That’s the hardest part to explain to non-runners. Yes, the point is to reach the finish line. Yes, you’re charging toward it with everything you’ve got—back straight, elbows in, fingers fully extended.
Eyes. On. The. Prize.
But at the same time, deep down, a part of you doesn’t want to get there. You wish the finish line would just keep receding so you could stay inside this moment, and this feeling, forever.
THE END
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A huge thanks to my editors, Anna Parsons and Alyson Heller. This book changed a lot, over many years, and I’m so lucky to have had your insight and support. Thanks to my agent, Melissa Edwards, for your relentless advocacy of my work. Thanks to the world-class team at Aladdin books—Heather Palisi, Elizabeth Mims, Sara Berko, and Mara Anastas—as well as cover illustrator Oriol Vidal. Thanks to Fiona Simpson for your support when this was just a weird little seed of an idea. Thanks to Jason Finau for schooling me on Samoan-American family life. Thanks to all the hardworking teachers and librarians out there getting books like this into the hands of young readers. I’m so grateful for the work you do. Thanks to my son, Quentin, who is reading this in the distant land of the future: hi! And thanks, most of all, to Georgia: I got grief for putting you at the bottom last time, but sorry, that’s where the most important person goes. I love ya.
More from the Author
Lizzy Legend
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A brief conversation with Matthew Ross Smith
Q: The Million Dollar Race combines a traditional first-person narrative with an oral histo
ry format. Why did you choose to tell the story that way?
A: Well, a novel about a sprinter has to move fast. Switching between the formats keeps the story racing forward. Also, I think the oral history sections mirror the way we consume sports and reality TV. I always think it’s cool when a novel’s structure is shaped by its subject matter. I even briefly considered selling sponsorships (Chapter One, presented by Frank’s Pizza!). That would’ve been funny.
Q: How long does it take you to write a novel?
A: I usually bang it out in a week or two, then go back and do a quick read-through for typos.
Q: Is that true?
A: No. It takes years. I’m lucky to have a really smart team backing me up. Sometimes you need someone to peel you off the track, point you in the right direction, and say, “You got this. Keep going.”
Q: So I guess you wanted to be an author when you were a kid?
A: No! I never wrote anything when I was a kid!
Q: Come on. Nothing?
A: Well, just the boring stuff I had to write for school. In sixth grade I wrote an essay about my cousin, Luke, who had died. I didn’t think about it too much. I just wrote what I felt, and I handed it in. Next day the teacher, Mr. Batt, made me read it aloud in front of the whole class. Afterward there was this stunned silence in the room. I mean, in a good way. I liked that.
In high school I started writing silly things for the school paper. The goal was to make my friends laugh. That was all I cared about. I remember seeing my mom reading one of my articles in the living room one night, laughing so hard, and that made me feel good.
But it was still a while after that before I started to take writing seriously. So if you’re out there and you already want to be a writer—awesome. You’re ahead of the game. If you’re out there farting around like I was—that’s cool too. You’ve got time.
Q: How does an author decide what to name their characters?
A: For me, it’s musical. You play the note. It sounds right or it doesn’t. That’s usually it. But in this case I was also thinking about one of my favorite writers, Kurt Vonnegut. He has this concept of a granfalloon that I think relates to the book in an interesting way. It’s not worth explaining in detail here, but you can google it if you want. I hide lots of Easter eggs like that in my books, mostly for myself.
The Million Dollar Race Page 11