Mrs. Richardson held up a light blue tea-length dress and nodded. “Well done, Mary Lou. This will do nicely on her.”
The women handed over the new clothes and turned their backs so Helen could dress, but after only a minute Helen mumbled, “Um, Mrs. Moore, how does this thing go on?”
Mrs. Moore spun around to see Helen holding the girdle, confounded. “Oh heavens, I envy the fact that you’ve made it this far without knowing how to wear one of these.” She helped her into it while Mrs. Richardson unrolled a pair of silk stockings before offering them the light blue dress. When they were done, the women tugged Helen out from behind the privacy screen and pointed to the full-length mirror.
“Well, what do you think?” Mrs. Moore asked.
Mrs. Richardson held her hand to her heart. “Mercy me, it’s a miracle.”
Helen hardly recognized the young woman reflected back at her. Her dreaded birthmark? Covered up. New bangs and a dash of pancake makeup had done the trick. Frizzy hair? Gone, tamed and styled into graceful shiny waves. Even the color had improved with shimmery golden streaks running through it. Her gaze traveled down the mirror to the dress. Elegant pearl buttons ran down its bodice. She swayed from side to side, holding out the A-line skirt, admiring how the filmy fabric swished and swirled. Even her nails looked shiny, trimmed, buffed, and polished.
And her feet. Lord, her feet. Her vision blurred with tears as she took in the pumps. She’d given up any dreams of wearing stylish shoes long ago.
She straightened, for the first time proud of her height. She’d never imagined she could look like this. Not after all of Pa’s hurtful comments over the years. Even after yesterday’s victory, he couldn’t bring himself to say he was proud of her. When she’d arrived downstairs that morning, he’d been standing in the doorway to the kitchen, arms folded across his chest.
“Heard you had a lucky race yesterday,” he said.
Lucky? She almost laughed. She was tempted to describe how reporters had crowded her after the race, wanting to know how it felt to beat a renowned champion, and how the town was preparing a parade in her honor, but she took in his sour expression, weatherworn skin, and stooped shoulders. How diminished he was. She almost felt sorry for him. Almost. Instead, she kept her face neutral. Her success on the track was because of her hard work. Luck hadn’t played a part of it and neither had he. Why give him a piece of her accomplishment? Or the opportunity to cut her down again? She was tired of how he took out his life’s disappointments on her.
“I’m the fastest woman in the world,” she said. And before he had time to react, she turned to Ma’s and Mrs. Moore’s beaming expressions and walked out the front door to go to the beauty salon.
As she took in her physical transformation in Mrs. Richardson’s mirror, she realized she had a choice with how she dealt with Pa. From now on, she would engage with him as little as possible. Frank Stephens would no longer hold any power over her.
“Oh, honey, I’m so glad you’re happy,” Mrs. Moore said. “You look like a film star. I’ll drive you home. We’ll be able to knock your mother over with a feather when she sees you.”
Mrs. Richardson blinked away tears. “You are my finest work yet, dear. But before you go anywhere, let me put on the final touch.”
She hurried away, rummaged through a cabinet in the back of the shop, and returned holding out a small gold tube. “You must wear lipstick. This cherry red will be perfect. Now pout for me.”
Helen raised her eyebrows at Mrs. Moore, who nodded, urging her on. Helen pouted her lips as Mrs. Richardson traced the lipstick over them.
“Now look,” she said, handing Helen a blotting paper and miming how to use it. “Doesn’t that shade look marvelous?”
Two other women having their hair done had wandered over to take in the spectacle. “She’s a vision,” one cooed.
Mrs. Richardson stepped back, crossed her arms, tilted her head, and appraised her handiwork. “Good,” she announced, nodding. “But if you ever want to do something about your brows, stop by and I can help.”
“My eyebrows?” Helen asked, frowning at herself in the mirror.
“I think she’s had enough change for one day,” Mrs. Moore said, helping Helen shuffle out of the shop in her new pumps. “See you ladies at the parade on Monday.”
On the drive back to the Stephens farm, Mrs. Moore told Helen all about the reporters who had swarmed their house that morning, even trampling the tulips lining the sides of the walk. Helen half listened, running her fingers along the soft fabric of her dress. She’d never owned something so silky before. She then twisted her ankles this way and that, so she could admire the heels and the sophistication they gave her long legs. It had barely been twenty-four hours since she had run the race and already her life felt transformed.
Once home, Helen found Ma perched on a chair in the front parlor talking to a man. At the sight of Helen, both sprang to their feet. Helen took a few unsteady steps forward, conscious of the smart click of her heels on the floor.
“This here is Dwayne Goodwin from The St. Louis Register,” Ma said.
The man shoved his hand out and took Helen’s. “Your mama was gracious enough to offer an appointment with you later today, but I said, ‘No, ma’am, no chance my editor is going to let that fly,’ so I’ve been sitting here waiting for you.”
As he spoke, Helen couldn’t lift her gaze from the sight of her own hand in his. She couldn’t quite believe those glamorous fingernails clasped in his ink-stained hand were hers. “Well, here I am. What can I do for you?”
“I caught up with Stella Walsh last night to ask her for her reaction and she said your win was a fluke and she doesn’t think you can beat her again. Now, what do you make of that?”
“I think she better use a dictionary to look up what fluke means. Can you take a picture of my face so she can get a good long look at it in your newspaper? ’Cause she’s not going to see it again in a long time. When we’re on the track, all she’ll see is my backside.” Helen watched the reporter’s face split open with delight as he scribbled down her remarks in his notebook. Seeing that he was getting a kick out of her, she added, “I also hope she likes the taste of cinder because she’s going to be eating it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner if she chases after me.”
“Woo-whee, our readers are going to love this. When do you two plan to face off again?”
“I’m ready any time. She can name the day.”
“Terrific,” said the reporter, tipping the brim of his cap at her and making his way to the door.
“You know where to find me for more,” Helen said, watching as the man pushed his way out the door.
After he had left, Ma wagged her finger at Helen. “No more of that, you hear? I won’t have my daughter sounding so boastful.”
Helen gave a sheepish glance at Mrs. Moore. The night before, when she had said, “Stella who?” to the reporters, Coach Moore had whisked her away from the crowd.
“Helen, if we’re to continue working together, you must be an honorable sportswoman at all times. I will not tolerate any incivilities,” he’d said.
“To be fair, they threw me off with her real name. You know, the Polish version?”