by Janet Walker
* * *
The knocks on the office door were timid, but Grace flinched as if they were hammer blows. She stood, took a deep breath, felt fluttering in her belly, strode to the door, pulled it open just enough for her body to fill the opening. She affected an air of annoyance not only because it was taboo at Beck for a student to visit Miz Grace in her office, but also because she suspected, even before she opened the door, who the knocker would be.
Tracy Sullivan stood in the hall outside the door, a few feet away from the threshold, as if aware that her presence was a violation and so afraid to stand too close. Grace blinked, startled by what she saw on the girl’s face. A black eye. A split and swollen bottom lip. And beneath a thin veneer of makeup, a discoloration on the girl’s left cheek. Grace almost smiled—Sullivan was visibly injured, after all! Because of the inner smile and secret satisfaction, when Grace spoke she was surprised to hear The Coach’s voice come forth.
“Yes?”
Tracy opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.
“What do you want, Sullivan?”
Tracy bowed her head. “D-Did my aunt call you?”
“Yes, she did.”
The girl hesitated, uncertain, before continuing. “Well, I was…wanted to know if…I could come to tryouts today.”
Grace wanted to say yes, knew she now had reason to say yes, but something—an unwillingness to concede so quickly, or The Coach’s stubbornness, or some playful part of Grace—she wasn’t sure what it was, but something made her open her mouth and give a firm and simple denial.
“No.”
Surprise flickered across Tracy’s eyes and the girl’s good cheek flushed.
At that moment, Coach Julia and Nan Vinson, the dance instructor, emerged from Julia’s office and floated by. For them especially, Grace said, “I was very clear about the rule, Sullivan: All days of tryouts, or you have no chance of being considered for the team.” Julia and Nan pretended not to hear their boss’s conversation but passed the elevator and walked to the end of the hall, to take the stairway to the ground floor. Grace was quite aware of them but focused her gaze on the youth standing before her.
Tracy gazed a moment without speaking. Grace stared back. Large brown eyes, long pretty lashes. Then the eyes grew pink and the girl blinked rapidly and looked away. “Yes, ma’am,” she said softly. “Thank you.” She turned away and began heading down the hall.
Grace stepped back, closed the door of her office, and stood in the dark room with her hand resting on the doorknob. She felt a mangled mass of emotions. She had hurt the girl’s feelings, had upheld her own law, and for the sake of what? Making a point? Proving that she was the Great Unchangeable Miz Grace? Why had she not just said, Yes, Sullivan, you may try out today, when she knew the girl had a valid reason for missing tryouts and had the injuries to prove it? Grace was not sure, and this feeling of uncertainty disturbed her; she was not used to not sure. And had she been serious a moment ago, at the door, or was she simply playing a stalling game with the child? She, Grace, definitely wanted to let the girl try out, but she was not sure about her, Miz Grace, The Coach.
Suddenly, Grace realized the train of her thoughts—she, her, Grace, Miz Grace—and chuckled. This was ridiculous! Of course she would let Tracy Sullivan try out for the team. Of course! After all, she was in charge of it all, in the end, wasn’t she? She was in charge of the decisions she made, not Miz Grace, nor The Coach, nor any other decision-maker living in her head. What was she, anyway—Sally Field’s Sybil? She chuckled again and nodded a few times in resolve. Of course. The decision was clear and easy—and comforting, once she had made it. There was no way she would turn away a player she wanted more than any other girl she had ever seen on court.
