“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? After 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.”