by Janet Walker
***
Grace sat at the desk in her office, lights off, fingertips falling rhythmically, slowly, upon the glass shield of her polished cherry-wood desktop.
Sullivan had come to school today.
Grace knew, because she called the guidance office that morning to find out if the girl had been present in homeroom, and shortly thereafter she received a phone call from Sullivan’s aunt. Grace thought of the call, which she had received six hours earlier, and still had mixed emotions about it.
Gresham-Nelson.
Uh, yes, hi, this is Madgelyn Porter, Tracy Sullivan’s aunt. And guardian. Is this…?
Grace Gresham-Nelson.
Yes, hi!
How may I help you?
I was calling to explain why Tracy was not in school yesterday. I…understand she missed your auditions.
My tryouts. Yes.
Well, I just wanted to explain why she was absent. She…ran into a little trouble over the weekend.
Trouble?
Yes. Tracy lives with my husband and me here in MacDonald Park, but she goes home to her mother on the weekends. Downtown, in Ariel Place Projects. Well, on Saturday there were some girls there who…decided to take something Tracy had bought from the store. And they beat her.
The news had alarmed Grace but to the aunt she expressed guarded concern.
Oh, no. How badly?
They split her lip and bruised her jaw. It was so swollen at first I thought it was broken!
Did she require stitches?
Grace held her breath as she waited for the aunt’s response; mandibular stitches would disqualify Tracy from physical activity.
No, she didn’t need those.
Grace exhaled.
But I did have her on strong painkillers that made her sleep. But that didn’t stop her from carrying on over your tryouts! She kept going on about it! Just killing herself worrying!
The aunt chuckled. Grace was silent.
She is in school today, and she was hoping it isn’t too late to still try for your team.
Grace had the strange sense she was suffocating and so she said something she hoped would quickly end the phone conversation.
I’m afraid it is.
Grace heard the aunt’s gasp on the other end of the phone.
Really? Oh, no! She’ll be so disappointed.
I understand that, Mrs. Porter. I was disappointed yesterday, because I really wanted Tracy there. But the rules of my program don’t allow students to miss a day of tryouts. And I make no exceptions for that rule. Grace heard the unrelenting voice coming from her mouth. It was that of The Coach, and she was grateful that the stern persona had shown up at that moment, when she needed it.
Well, I…I mean, does it matter that she couldn’t make it? the aunt tried carefully.
Doesn’t matter.
Oh, lamented the aunt in an odd, puzzled manner.
Grace ignored the distress in the other woman’s voice and crisply concluded the conversation. I’m glad Tracy’s better, though, and here today. I look forward to seeing her in class. Thank you for calling, Mrs. Porter.
All right…
Good-bye.
Bye…
Grace had hung up and felt shrunken in her middle. She had been rude to Sullivan’s aunt, she knew this, but the conversation had begun to feel like something Grace hated: the manipulating interrogation of pushy journalists. Naturally, the aunt wanted to know if Tracy could try out today—naturally, she was concerned. But Grace didn’t like feeling pressured by anyone, especially other adults, into making decisions. She resented being asked to deviate from a plan or routine she had set for herself—resented such coercion and rebelled against it by being evasive and curt and, when that did not work, exhibiting a dose of silencing sarcasm.
Now, seated at her desk six hours after the awkward phone conversation, Grace sighed, raked her soft hair with her fingers, and stared across the room thoughtfully. Of course she wanted the same thing the aunt wanted, of course she wanted Sullivan to try out for the team, but if Sullivan entered the gym in a few moments without a face full of dreadful bruises, the girl would not be able to try out this year. Everyone at Beck knew the rule. “If you aren’t dead or near death, then you have no excuse for missing tryouts,” she announced to a group one year.
The fifth-period dismissal bell rang.
Of course, she knew she didn’t mean it. She would excuse a girl for lesser reasons—a death in the family, for instance, or involvement in a car accident, or some other insurmountable obstacle. But she had never confessed this to any of the students, for she wanted them to regard her tryouts and, indeed, her entire athletic program with more respect than they did anything else in their young lives. And she believed they did. Not since the first and second seasons had she dealt with the problem of someone’s missing tryouts. There were several the first year, in ’86. The one girl—what was her name?—who missed the first day because she said she’d had a cold. And Angelique McAfee, who had sat out her sophomore season because her family’s Labor Day vacation lasted two days longer than planned. And the worst decision—excusing Lauren Eldridge in ’87, a senior returning player who missed the third day of tryouts because she “didn’t feel like coming.” Losing Eldridge could have hurt the team that year, but Sarah Trendenburg and another senior, Kendra Hall, had made up for the loss. Besides, at that time, early in her coaching career, it was more important to Grace to establish the seriousness of her rules than it was to preserve a good player. Since Eldridge, Grace’s reputation had become so confirmed at Beck that virtually no one dared to challenge her rules. Each year, new prospects showed up in great numbers on the first day. Several had dropped out by the third day, but no one who had missed the previous day dared to show up on day three. Because they all knew the Rule.
All except Tracy Sullivan—and her aunt.
But the two of them would learn. If Sullivan didn’t appear badly bruised today, both she and her aunt would learn what everyone else at Beck already knew: that Grace Gresham had a program, a method, a system for running things, and that no one forced her to deviate from her pattern or break her own laws.
Grace stood.
She walked to the interior window in her office, stood behind the one-way glass, and watched the sixth-period girls spill into the sports complex. She braced herself for Sullivan’s entry. She had looked forward to it all day, for she knew that if Sullivan looked like an injured victim—if her appearance somehow justified her absence from school on yesterday—then maybe Grace might have a reason to allow the girl to try out today.
Grace gasped. Because there she was, strolling in, long legs and arms in working order. Grace watched keenly, her heart pounding, as Tracy traveled across the floor below, headed in Grace’s direction, and then Grace sighed with disappointment because—no, there were no signs of trauma on the girl’s body, no casts or crutches or slings, not even a bandage on her face. The sight felt like a blow to Grace—a blow, because it, and not her own compassion, had become the factor determining the shape of this year’s team.
Grace turned away from the window. “Damn it,” she whispered angrily. And then, slowly, her anger softened into reasoning. Was it so important, really, that she follow the rule this time? The rules? Was it necessary that she maintain that part of her reputation? In fact, hadn’t she already done enough over the years to firmly establish her rep? Maybe. Maybe, but it went beyond that—went beyond preserving an image. As Grace, she had always respected the rules of Miz Grace. For three years she had done that, and for three years she had not lost a single regular-season ball game. So some part of her, the athlete who clung to superstition, believed it was her strict allegiance to Miz Grace’s rules that had given her the three-year winning streak. So she had to obey the rule today. Even if, ironically, it meant excluding a child who could bring her another championship.
