by Janet Walker
Chapter Forty
THE FIRST MOVE
Grace sat at her desk, slowly and softly rolling her fingertips on the thick glass shield covering the desktop, and hoping she had not just made a mistake. In four years, this was the first time she had ever asked a lone student to come into her office for a private meeting. Normally, she conducted conversations with the girls at her table-desk on the gym floor, or at whatever point she happened to encounter them in the gymnasium—rarely in her office. The office was, for her, a space as personal and guarded as her home, its four painted walls an extension of the great white wall surrounding Gracewood. Therefore, on the few occasions when she had invited students into her chambers, she had made sure there was more than one of them, and she conducted the meeting quickly and crisply, so that the students understood that their presence before her was purely an official matter. And yet, on the sidelines after the scrimmage game, she had stood before Tracy Sullivan and asked the girl to come see her after the showers—Upstairs, in my office—for no official reason at all and without another student to accompany her. Grace still could not believe she had made the decision, and she was still not sure why she felt it necessary. But here she was.
Grace looked around the office, checking for flaws, though she knew there were none. She kept the office the way she did all her surroundings—neat and immaculate, with air so clean it was odorless. When she was alone in the office, she kept the draperies at her back in a closed position. When she held meetings in her office with Julia or other staff members, she opened the curtains. Now, she stood and did the same, tugging on the pulley that parted the broad burgundy-and-tan bands. Soft daylight filled the office; it was an overcast November day.
She sat again. Enough time had passed so that at any moment now, Sullivan would be here. A peculiar warmth fell over Grace’s cheeks. She recognized it as a sign of anticipation, and it startled her. While she had anticipated many things in life—the onset of a footrace, the start of a ballgame, the hanging of the Olympic gold around her neck, the culmination of a good season, the move into the mansion—she had rarely anticipated people. In fact, in her entire life, anticipation for only a few people had caused her countenance to warm. Tip and Darrel. Julian, her college boyfriend—once. Dr. Curtis, the first time they were to reunite in Atlanta. And, if she were honest about it, Charmaine, many times, until right before the end. But now—Tracy Sullivan? Grace smiled, puzzled. This was ludicrous! This was a child, after all, not someone who factored into her life outside the walls of this arena. Not really.
And then there were three soft knocks.
Grace pounded inside, started to rise from the leather chair, decided against it. Made sure her hands were properly placed on the armrests, cleared her throat, and called, “Come in!”
The door opened gently. Sullivan’s five-ten frame, covered now in street clothes, pushed into the narrow opening and paused. The teen peered at the woman with a look that requested permission to enter.
Grace was amused. “Are you going to talk to me from the doorway? Come in,” she urged.
The girl smiled shyly and, backpack bumping through the opening, stepped into the room and hesitated again, hand on the knob, unsure of whether to close the door or leave it ajar.
“Leave it,” Grace instructed softly.
Tracy obeyed, made a few steps toward the desk, before which sat two small armchairs, and hesitated again.
“Have a seat,” Grace invited.
Tracy slipped out of her backpack and laid it in one chair before sitting in the other. Woman and teenager looked at each other and smiled. This time, they were not separated by yards of space and so each could see what a smile looked like, up close, on the face of the other. Bashfully, each looked away. Tracy glanced around the room.
“It’s pretty in here, Miz Grace.”
“Thank you. I planned it that way.”
Smiles.
“How are your tutoring sessions going?”
“Ah’right.”
“I want your next report card to look better than the last.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“It has to, in order for you to continue to participate in athletics. You understand that?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Grace folded her arms across her chest and shifted into an attitude of open interest. “Where did you learn to play ball, Sullivan?”
Tracy hunched a shoulder. “I just always played.”
“Where?”
“At the playground in Area Place.”
“Who do you play against?”
Tracy smiled. “My boys.”
Grace cocked her head inquisitively.
“Um, we all grew up together. And we just always played together. Scooby and Pretty Boy. Short Fat Bobbie—” The girl chuckled at the name. The woman smiled. “Pat and Drexel,” Tracy finished. “Scooby my best friend. He like my brother.”
“So they’re your age.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You ever play against men?”
“Yop. I used to get beat a lot, though. But then I got tired of losing all the time, so I started playing them like they play me.” The girl smiled sheepishly as if she had just confessed a sin.
Grace chuckled, amused. Suddenly she felt deliciously at ease. There was something charming about Sullivan—her frank lack of pretense and unadorned articulation. And she spoke in a voice that diffused into the air of the room out of a long neck, warm and mellow and in an octave lower than one would expect from so pretty a face.
“How has your experience at Beck been so far?”
“Ah’right,” the teen answered honestly. She added bashfully with a grin, “Especially since you put me on the team.”
Grace smiled. “I’m glad you’re on the team. My teams are special to me. Like”—a blush crept across her cheeks—“having twelve daughters.”
Briefly, but only briefly, they looked intently at each other. Inside each, something melted, forming a pool of pleasant warmth and leaving both unguarded.
“What do you want to be in life, Tracy?”
The teen looked bewildered. “Um…”
“Have you thought of college?”
“Nope.”
“Well, you should.”
“Um…I don’t think college for me.”
The woman moved to the edge of her chair and rested her arms on the desktop. For a moment, she examined the girl with fascination.
“You remember the video we saw a few weeks ago about Cheryl Miller? The USC player?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Grace clasped her hands and became reflective. “I’m going to tell you something few people know. I went through a long period of grieving during which I became reclusive. Didn’t want to see people or talk to them. But one of the things that drew me out of hiding during that time was Cheryl. She was playing for my alma mater’s rival, and I had read where someone had said she was the best ball player to come out of the two schools. Well! I believed I was the best player, so naturally I had to go see her for myself.”
Grace adjusted her weight in the chair and gestured with her hands as she spoke.
“Tracy, the first time I saw her play, I was sitting in the stands. And when she made this absolutely incredible move—spin, fake, under the basket to the other side and then up for a finger roll—I…stood…up. I stood because that’s what you do in the face of greatness. And because otherwise I would have screamed, and we both know I’m too cool for that.” They both grinned, and Grace grew reflective again. “What I’m trying to say is that I hadn’t felt like that about any player since then. Until”—Grace pinned the girl with a stare—“the first time I saw you scrimmage.”
The teen gazed at the woman in wonder.
“You are gifted, Tracy. And I don’t know how or why that fact has escaped the notice of other coaches, but I’m glad it did because I’ve got you now and I promise you, baby, you and I can go all the way together! And I’m not just talking here.
I’m committed to Beck, that’s true, but if I weren’t, Tracy, I’d follow you to college just to make sure you got the coaching you needed to be the best you can be.”
“For real?”
“Yes! If you perform this season the way I think you’re going to, by the time you graduate you’ll have your pick of Division I colleges. They’ll be throwing money at you to try to get you to come. And I can help you make a good decision. And after college, there are international pro leagues for women—you’ll get paid, like any athlete, for playing. In the States, there’s NCAA coaching. Teaching. Administration. And who knows? Maybe one day this country will have another pro women’s league on a level with the NBA. It’s 1990—it’s long overdue. I just want you to be ready to receive whatever opportunities come your way. You understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“That means you have to go to college. And to do that, you must begin taking your tutoring seriously. And studying on your own. Learning to appreciate learning. You understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And it means dedicating yourself to my program. So far, you’ve done that—I’m very pleased with the way you’ve performed. Keep it up. Don’t let anybody discourage you.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Grace hesitated, gathering breath and composure, for she had run on with such passion that she felt winded. What had possessed her to reveal so much? The same thing, she concluded, that was pushing her to reveal yet something else.
“How good are you at keeping secrets, Sullivan?”
“Good.”
“Really? What secrets have you kept?”
The girl’s mouth formed a bewildered “oh” before realization snapped into place behind her eyes. She smiled slyly. “If I told you, they wouldn’t be secrets no more.” The girl smiled triumphantly for not having fallen for the trick.
Grace chuckled and then became serious again. “Normally, I don’t reveal this information to anyone before I officially announce it to the entire team. But I want you to be one of my starters this year.”
The girl’s mouth fell open in shock. Grace smiled.
“B-but I’m a sophomore,” the girl recovered enough to point out.
“Listen, I don’t care if you’re a kindergartner. I look for players who’ll help me win. So you’ll start.”
The girl was pleasantly dazed. “Okay,” she said. “Thanks,” she added.
“Our secret,” the woman warned. “I don’t want any hurt feelings before I announce the starters at the banquet next Saturday.”
“Yes, ma’am. I won’t tell anybody.”
Grace examined the girl’s face and was convinced Sullivan was trustworthy. “All right,” she said, which meant, We’re done.
Tracy, not understanding the hint, remained seated and simply nodded in response.
“You may leave, Sullivan,” the coach said, amused.
“Oh.” The girl grinned sheepishly. She stood, picking up her backpack and hoisting it over a shoulder.
Grace stood but remained behind her desk.
“Bye,” the teen said to the woman.
Grace nodded once in response.
Tracy reached the door, but before she stepped out she heard the woman’s voice.
“Sullivan?”
Tracy looked back and saw that a new emotion had been added to the friendliness of her coach’s expression, a tenderness that had not been present when they faced each other a moment ago.
“You still go home to Ariel Place on the weekends?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What about the bullies?”
“They don’t mess with me no more.”
“Good. Why not?”
“My aunt talked to them.”
“Great. I’m really glad to hear that. Because I—” A slight hesitation interrupted the flow of Grace’s words before she willingly finished. “—worry about you when you’re not with me.”
They looked at each other, both surprised by the admission.
And then the teen blinked rapidly and looked away. “Okay. Thanks. Bye,” she said and quickly went out the door.
