Fast Girls

by Elise Hooper

  The sweet scent of floor polish and the itchy smell of chalk dust hovered in the air around her. Surrounding her was the low tone of men’s voices and shadowy figures visible through the frosted-glass windows. She slowed to read the name placards outside of each door. She found Coach Hill’s office, took a deep breath to quell the nerves roiling her stomach, and knocked.

  “Come in,” a gruff voice called.

  She pushed the door open and found a man with rumpled graying hair sitting back in his chair reviewing a pile of typewritten pages set on the desk in front of him. “Yes?” he asked without looking up.

  “Coach Hill, I’m Elizabeth Robinson, a new student.”

  He glanced at her sharply and then pointed at the empty chair facing his desk. “I know who you are.”

  “You do?”

  “You think I don’t read the papers?”

  “No, that’s not what I meant.” This was not how she wanted this conversation to go. She took the seat he offered, taking a moment to settle her purse on her lap and gather herself. “I just transferred here.”

  “I see.” He sounded bored. “I’m sure this isn’t merely a social call. What can I do for you, Miss Robinson?”

  “I’m interested in continuing my training and want to defend my title at the Los Angeles Olympic Games.”

  “You’ve been running for the IWAC, isn’t that right?”

  She nodded.

  “Then why are you here talking with me? That club has a good coaching staff.”

  “Yes, they do.” Betty spun her diamond ring around her finger. “It’s just that I want to work harder.”

  She expected him to laugh at her, but he remained expressionless. “Harder, huh? Didn’t you set a world record in the hundred? You’ve got a gold medal already. A silver in the relay too, right?”

  Betty’s mouth felt dry. Her tongue seemed to stick to the roof of her mouth. “I recently lost a race. I came in second at the National AAU Championships back in July.”

  “If I recall the newspaper reports, it was a close finish. Could have gone either way. I’m sure you’ll be just fine for the Olympic team when the time comes.” He dropped his gaze back to his papers as if dismissing her, but she didn’t budge.

  “It’s just that I felt like something was missing in Dallas. Some motivation.” She paused. Coach Hill raised his gaze and squinted at her as if refocusing. She had his attention now. “After Amsterdam the IOC announced it was planning to ban women from future Olympics, and I worked like the devil with my teammates to have us reinstated, but the refusal disappointed me more than I was willing to admit. If I’m honest, my motivation suffered. I slacked off on my training.”

  “That’s understandable.”

  “Well, the IOC met last spring and reinstated us, so now I want to be ready to race in Los Angeles. You have a record of getting terrific results from your racers. Let me train with you. I really want this. Please.”

  He sat back. “I’m sure a girl like you has options for all kinds of pursuits.”

  A girl like you. She hated having her ambitions dismissed by people who thought they knew everything about her. She gritted her teeth, but kept her face earnest. “I want to show everyone that I’m better than ever.”

  “You’d be the only lady here. What do you think about that?”

  “I can handle it.”

  “I don’t doubt it. But I don’t want you to distract my fellas either. They’re serious about racing and my job is to coach them. There’s nothing in my contract about coaching women.”

  “I understand. I won’t do anything to get in the way of your job.”

  “And I don’t want you flitting about looking for a husband on my team.”

  “Sir, with all due respect, do you really think if I was in the market for a husband I’d spend my time running? I can’t think of a better way to scare most men off.”

  Coach Hill barked with laughter. “Fine. Based on everything I’ve read, you’re a talented runner. Now it’s time to add some discipline to your routines and start some healthy habits, like eating correctly and sleeping enough every night. If I decide to work with you, I’d put you on a diet of specific foods and give you a sleep log. And no smoking. If I take you on, you’ll have to follow my directions. Are you ready to give up some fun in exchange for running better?”

  Betty squared her shoulders. This was the opportunity she wanted, and though she hated begging, she would do it. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

  “Fine, you can start training with my team, but if it’s not working out, I reserve the right to stop our arrangement at any time.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And another thing. No dating my boys. Do you understand? Look elsewhere for that kind of entertainment.”

  “No dating your athletes. Got it.”

  “You say that now, but this deal includes my welcoming committee out there, Bill Riel. No dating Bill or any of them.”

  Bill was on the track team? She glanced to the door, flustered, but quickly straightened. How had Coach Hill known about their conversation?

  “Of course, sir, none of them. I’m here to run.”

  One of Coach Hill’s nostrils flared as if he caught a whiff of uncertainty in the air, but he nodded. “If you want to start with the indoor season, be here on Monday. There’s no women’s locker room, but there are a couple of changing rooms on the ground floor. You can use those.”

  BETTY SPENT FALL training with the men’s track team and racing during the indoor season. Under Coach Hill’s rigorous coaching, her times improved, and she built confidence. He urged her to try longer distances, so she added the 220-yard dash to her repertoire and experienced promising results. Through it all, she found the men on the track team to be friendly and supportive. And competitive.

  One afternoon as she worked on starts, she stumbled as she rose and Ned Martin, a sophomore on the team, called out, “Hey, Robinson, don’t trip and break your ankle. You won’t beat Stella Walsh hobbling around on one foot.”

  She laughed and put her hand on her hip. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Ned. Now don’t trip over that ego of yours when you head home tonight for an exciting evening of backgammon with your mother.”

  They all chuckled at the ribbing, and even Coach Hill cracked a smile as he headed over to the high-jump area. Betty ran a couple more laps around the indoor track, dividing the distances into varying levels of effort as Coach Hill had advised. When she began her cool-down, Bill caught up with her and ran at her side. Outside the gymnasium’s windows, the light faded into a deep, velvety blue.

  “I hear you’re planning to race at the next Olympics,” he said.

  “I hope to, yes.”

  “So that’ll mean you’re a two-time Olympian.”

  “First I need to qualify again, remember?”

  “I’m pretty sure you’ll be heading to California and going to fancy Hollywood parties next summer while all of us chumps are trying to cool off in Lake Michigan.”

  She laughed. The two ran the straightaway, their breathing the only sound between them. Since she’d met Bill on her first day, he always offered compliments on her races and made small talk while they practiced.

  “Say, I’ve worked up an appetite,” he said. “Would you have any interest in going out for dinner after this?”

  “I can’t. When I joined this team, I promised Coach I wouldn’t socialize with any of his runners, and I intend to stick to my word.”

  “Socialize? Who said anything about that? We don’t have to talk. We can just eat.”

  “Sorry, I can’t. I’m lucky to be here at all. The last thing I want to do is rock the boat.”

  “Lucky to be here? You’re the one with an Olympic medal. You’re the most accomplished runner out here! What’s Coach thinking?”

  “His job is to coach the men, not me. There’s no women’s track team, so he’s just taken me on to be helpful.”

  “But how about if we don’t tell anyone? Aft
er all, it’s just one meal.”

  They had stopped running and were stretching a short distance from the rest of the group. Betty spotted Coach Hill in the entryway of the gymnasium talking to a staff member.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, “but I can’t. I don’t dare risk it.”

  Bill’s gaze followed Betty’s and he too watched Coach Hill, exasperation furrowing his brow. “What a ridiculous deal. Well, I’ll tell you what, I’m not giving up easily. Coach Hill always says I’m single-minded in my pursuit of victory, and now the challenge is on.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yep, mark my words.”

  “I’m pretty stubborn too, and I refuse to lose my spot here, so I don’t know what to tell you. Good luck,” she said. And she strode out of the gym, trying to keep from looking pleased.

  15.

  January 1932

  Fulton, Missouri

  HELEN SLIPPED THROUGH THE CLASSROOM DOOR AND took her seat for algebra. Instead of Principal Newbolt’s dour face at the front of the room, Miss Schultz, the music teacher, stood behind his desk. “Good afternoon, everyone,” she said. “Principal Newbolt has an important meeting so I’m here today. We’ll start off with returning your recent tests and then work on corrections.”

  Helen fidgeted in her seat as Miss Schultz’s heels clicked up and down the aisles between the desks while she handed back quizzes. The most recent one had been a disaster. When Helen had looked at the quiz’s long column of equations, the numbers had appeared to swim. Her palms had sweated. She had abandoned several problems and guessed the answers on many others. When her test slid across her desk, Helen lifted it with trembling hands. Sure enough, a red F and See me were emblazoned on the top in Principal Newbolt’s angry scrawl. Her heart sank. Grimacing, she pushed the test into her notebook and sank into her seat, regretting that Miss Schultz had seen her lousy grade.

  “Sit up straight,” Miss Schultz whispered to Helen, but apparently it was loud enough for nearby classmates to hear.

  “Hey, Stephens, ya falling asleep?” a reedy voice called out. Isham Holland. Every day brought a fresh insult from the scrawny boy who sat two rows behind her. Name calling, taunts, spitballs, water on her seat. Math had become insufferable. Usually Ish hid his harassment from the strict rule of Principal Newbolt, but with their usual teacher gone, a current of insubordination eddied through the room.

  Grinding her teeth together, Helen unfolded from her slouch and let her head rise, spine straighten.

  “Whoa, now none of us can see from back here. You’re too big. It’s like you’re Popeye.” Sniggering. “Yeah, that’s it. Popeye!”

  Giggles erupted. Whispers of Popeye, Popeye, Popeye surrounded her.

  “Dry up, Ish,” she said through gritted teeth.

  “From now on, everyone should call you Popeye,” he crowed. “It’s perfect!”

  Before she had time to think, Helen reached across Maxine Dulcey’s desk and grabbed the pink eraser next to her pencil, whipped around, and threw it at Ish. The eraser hit him square on the forehead and bounced away, landing somewhere on the floor nearby.

  “Owww.” He rubbed at the angry red welt already rising on his pale freckled face. Laughter drowned the room. He scowled. Now everyone was laughing at him.

  Miss Schultz spun around. “What’s going on?”

  “Popeye’s distracting us from working on our corrections,” Ish said with a smirk.

  “Mr. Holland, that’s not how you speak about a lady,” Miss Schultz said.

  “Popeye ain’t no lady,” Ish said loudly enough for everyone to hear. Helen winced.

  “You’re treading on thin ice, young man.” Miss Schultz glared at him. “In this classroom, we call students by their given names.”

  Ish raised his eyebrows in defiance. “Bet she doesn’t mind.”

  Helen could feel her classmates studying her. Underneath the faded cotton of her shirt, sweat dripped down her sides, but she plastered a grin across her face and forced out a laugh.

  “I yam what I yam,” Helen said, imitating the cartoon sailor character’s distinctive voice. She felt the tone of the laughter shift from jeering to amusement, the tension slacken. She savored the sense of leading the entertainment, not being on the wrong side of it.

  Miss Schultz rested her hands on her hips. “Enough. Gladys, Martha, Martie, and George, please head to the board and demonstrate the corrections for questions one through four. Now.”

  The room filled with the rustling of paper and several students moved from their desks to the blackboard. The moment had passed and Helen had survived. She sighed and brushed her hair from her face as she opened her notebook and glared at her test. She had no idea where to begin fixing her mistakes.

  WHEN THE BELL rang to signal the end of class, everyone jumped to their feet to push through the scrum and move toward the hallway for their next class, but Miss Schultz signaled for Helen to remain behind. While waiting for the room to clear, Helen closed her notebook slowly and rubbed her clammy hands down her denim-clad legs. Once everyone else was gone, Miss Schultz approached Helen and leaned against the desk next to her, crossing one silk-stockinged leg over the other.

  “Why on earth did you play along with Ish?”

  “Maybe if everyone thinks I’m funny, it will all go away,” Helen answered in a small voice.

  “Boys like Ish Holland do not go away.”

  Helen stared at scuff marks on the floor.

  “In the staff room yesterday, Miss Morris was saying you’re one of the top students in her English class. You’re bright. You have a great deal of potential if you can stay focused on your schoolwork.”

  Helen’s shoulders sagged. This was the best advice Miss Schultz could give? Didn’t she know that the importance of school had nothing to do with the books they read, the algebra equations they solved, or the dates they memorized? Helen was sick to death of falling asleep imagining the funny things she could have said in class to make her classmates laugh. She was sick of pretending she didn’t notice the way girls wrinkled their noses when they saw what she was wearing. School was about fitting in, plain and simple, and she was sorely lacking whatever was needed to accomplish this very skill that most of her classmates appeared to take for granted. She gestured at her worn brown work boots and dungarees. “I’ve got size twelve feet and am roughly a foot taller than all of the other girls. And then there’s this godawful mark over my eye. I fit in like a cow in a henhouse.”

  Miss Schultz’s expression softened in sympathy. She reached out and smoothed Helen’s hair. “You have a lovely complexion and enviably high cheekbones. Your hair is thick and it’s a pretty color.” She examined Helen a moment longer before dropping her hands. “Move to the back of the room where no one will see us if they pass in the hallway.”

  She then hurried toward the door and closed it before moving to Principal Newbolt’s desk, where she pulled open the top drawer, bent over, and rummaged through it. Without looking up, she called out, “Why are you still sitting there? Go on, hurry up.”

  Helen tucked her notebook against her chest and scurried to a seat in the back row. Miss Schultz straightened, a pair of scissors held aloft, and grabbed at her pocketbook resting on Principal Newbolt’s desk chair.

  “Wait—” Helen shrank as her teacher headed toward her.

  “Trust me,” Miss Schultz said, pressing her hand on Helen’s shoulder to hold her in place. “Now don’t move an inch.”

  Helen closed her eyes and grimaced. Snip, snip, snap. Whispers of hair tickled Helen’s face. She held her breath. What was going on?

  After a couple more clips of the shears, Helen sensed a pause and cracked an eye open. Miss Schultz stood back, her head cocked, assessing her handiwork. From her pocketbook, she pulled out a compact and clicked it open. Helen leaned in and flicked her finger across the mirror, dusting the thin layer of powder from its surface to see her reflection better. A fringe of hair ran along the side of her forehead, covering
her birthmark.

  “Bangs?”

  “Yes, they soften things a little. Give a sense of style, don’t you think?”

  Amazed, Helen nodded. Finally the purple splotch marring her forehead no longer resembled an ugly target, front and center on her face.

  “See? You don’t have to do anything fancy that will cost money. Just put a little effort into yourself each morning.”

  “Thank you. But how do you know to do this kind of stuff? I feel like there’s a world out there filled with”—she paused—“information, like what to wear, how to do your hair, and all of that kind of stuff, but I don’t know how to figure it out.”

  Miss Schultz studied her. “Sometimes mothers can help with this, sometimes friends share advice, and lots of girls study magazines like Photoplay or Cosmopolitan to see what’s fashionable and get ideas. But really, you need to just pay attention, experiment.”

  “The girls at my boardinghouse spend all evening looking at those magazines while I’m usually doing homework.”

  “Maybe you could ask one of the girls to borrow one of their magazines.” Miss Schultz gave her a mischievous smile. “Make sure you’re still keeping up with homework, but I think a little leisure time wouldn’t kill you.”

  Helen smiled back at her teacher. Already she felt lighter, freer. Even hopeful.

  16.

  February 1932

  Malden, Massachusetts

  LOUISE PEERED IN THE WINDOW OF HER CHEMISTRY teacher’s door, and when she saw Mr. Callahan sitting at his desk, she knocked. Annoyance crossed his face, yet he waved her in as he studied the papers in front of him and said, “I moved my waste bin from its usual spot.”

  She slowed as he pushed the bin toward her, her face heating with humiliation, but she moved around it. “Sir, I need to speak with you about my latest test.”

  “Huh, so you’re not one of the custodians? It’s hard to tell you all apart,” he grumbled, moving his wastebasket to the other side of his desk. He then pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up his long beak of a nose, before focusing on her anew. “And you are?”