Fast Girls

by Elise Hooper

Genres: Biographical; World War II; Sports

Synopsis

“Fast Girls is a compelling, thrilling look at what it takes to be a female Olympian in pre-war America...Brava to Elise Hooper for bringing these inspiring heroines to the wide audience they so richly deserve.”—Tara Conklin, New York Times bestselling author of The Last Romantics and The House Girl

Acclaimed author Elise Hooper explores the gripping, real life history of female athletes, members of the first integrated women’s Olympic team, and their journeys to the 1936 summer games in Berlin, Nazi Germany. Perfect for readers who love untold stories of amazing women, such as The Only Woman in the Room, Hidden Figures, and The Lost Girls of Paris.

In the 1928 Olympics, Chicago’s Betty Robinson competes as a member of the first-ever women’s delegation in track and field. Destined for further glory, she returns home feted as America’s Golden Girl until a nearly-fatal airplane crash threatens to end everything.

Outside of Boston, Louise Stokes, one of the few black girls in her town, sees competing as an opportunity to overcome the limitations placed on her. Eager to prove that she has what it takes to be a champion, she risks everything to join the Olympic team.

From Missouri, Helen Stephens, awkward, tomboyish, and poor, is considered an outcast by her schoolmates, but she dreams of escaping the hardships of her farm life through athletic success. Her aspirations appear impossible until a chance encounter changes her life.

These three athletes will join with others to defy society’s expectations of what women can achieve. As tensions bring the United States and Europe closer and closer to the brink of war, Betty, Louise, and Helen must fight for the chance to compete as the fastest women in the world amidst the pomp and pageantry of the Nazi-sponsored 1936 Olympics in Berlin. 

Release date: July 7, 2020

Publisher: William Morrow Paperbacks

Print pages: 512

Sample

Historical Note

During the 1920s and ’30s, “athletics” referred to track and field events, but given that this word has expanded over the years to include many different types of sporting events, the modern label of “track and field” is used throughout this novel.

All newspaper stories, letters, telegrams, and memos in this book have been created by the author and reflect the language and attitudes used to describe women athletes during their era.

 

Part 1July 1928–December 1929

 

1.

July 1928

New York City

BEFORE THEY LEFT THE PRINCE GEORGE HOTEL, BETTY’S mother warned her to be careful aboard the steamship and avoid the girls from California. Apparently they were a loose set, something to do with year-round sun and mild temperatures softening one’s moral fiber. Up until that point Betty had only been half listening, but now she perked to attention. A roommate from some glamorous-sounding location like Santa Monica or Santa Barbara—wouldn’t that be a lark? With a series of decisive clicks, Betty fastened the latches closed on her suitcase and started for the door. Maybe if she was lucky, some of those objectionable girls from California would be her cabinmates aboard the S.S. President Roosevelt.

Minutes later, Betty and her mother, Mrs. Robinson, sat in the back of a taxicab on their way to Pier 86. A heat wave had been pressing over New York City for a week, and Betty fanned herself while her mother fussed with their taxicab driver over the best route to take. Traffic clogged the street and newspaperboys hawked their wares, bobbing from one stopped vehicle to the next. Their driver bought one and rested it against the steering wheel, studying the headlines.

“Are you sure this is the fastest way?” Betty’s mother huffed.

“Ma’am, if there was a faster one, we’d be taking it, I promise. Now pray to the Virgin Mary that my engine doesn’t overheat.” He crossed himself.

As if on cue, the automobile shuddered and her mother inhaled sharply. “Pray all you want, but my daughter simply cannot be late. She’s on the Olympic team set to depart for Amsterdam at noon.”

“That so?” He turned around to inspect Betty.

“Please, sir, keep your eyes on the road,” her mother said.

“But we’re not moving.”

Her mother folded her arms across her chest. “So I noticed.”

“I didn’t realize there were lady Olympians.”

“This is the first year women will be competing in running events,” her mother said, and though she still sounded annoyed with the man, the unmistakable pride in her voice made Betty sit straighter.

“Running doesn’t seem like a very ladylike business. Aren’t you worried she’ll become a bit manly if she keeps this up?” he asked, squinting at her from under the rim of his porkpie hat. “I could see encouraging rowing. Builds up the chest, you know.” He smirked.

“What an absurd notion, and anyway, she’s not running the marathon or undertaking anything too dangerous. She’s a sprinter.”

“If you say so,” said the driver, cracking his knuckles. Clearly, he was enjoying rankling her mother, and Betty hid her glee by turning to gaze at the throngs of people on the sidewalks. Heat rippled in the air above the pavement.

“Here we are,” the driver said, nosing his taxicab into a line of vehicles at the edge of the road. Band music floated over the crowd. When he opened the door, Betty paused on the running board, tenting her hand to study the S.S. President Roosevelt in the distance.

Red, white, and blue bunting decorated the ship’s decks, and its brass railings gleamed to a high shine, but it looked awfully small, its proportions unbalanced, especially when compared with the majestic vessels gracing neighboring piers. It appeared Betty’s journey was to begin with a steamship better suited to pleasure cruising in New York Harbor than the far more serious task of transporting America’s Olympic team across the Atlantic.

Betty reached for the U.S. Olympic Team pass dangling around her neck and wrapped her fingers around it, taking comfort in the solidity

of the thick card stock. None of this was a dream. Only several months earlier, the boys’ track team coach spotted her sprinting for the train, and now here she was in New York City, a member of the inaugural women’s track and field team bound for the Amsterdam Olympics. A flutter of anticipation surged through her.

“Never thought I’d live to see the day when lady runners would compete in the Olympics,” the driver muttered, shaking his head as he fetched Betty’s suitcase from the trunk of the taxicab. He straightened and searched their surroundings. “Now, where’s a porter who can take this?”

Betty reached for the luggage, but the man shook his head. “Aww, miss, you’re a wee thing. Let’s put a porter to work.”

“I can do it.”

“Impatient, are you?” He shrugged and placed it in front of her.

Betty leaned into the vehicle where her mother sat. “Well, this is it, Mother. So long. I’ll be sure to write.” They embraced. When Betty pried herself free from her mother, her voile blouse stuck to her damp back.

“Make us all proud, dear.”

“I will. Look for me in the newspapers,” she said, winking.

Mother shook her head, but Betty detected a softening in her expression. Mother had always been a staunch believer that a woman’s name should appear in the papers only when she married and when she died, but since Betty’s success had begun on the track, she seemed to have loosened her position.

Betty turned back to the crowd, lifted her suitcase, and stifled a groan. It was heavier than expected, but there was no way she would ask for help. She gritted her teeth and took a step past the driver.

“Best of luck to you, miss,” he said.

She could barely stifle her delight. “I think you’ll need it more than me. You’re the one staying behind with my mother.”

THE TIDAL PULL of the crowd pushed Betty toward the gangway, where she handed her suitcase to a liveried steward, and there was a moment when she glanced back to consider all that she was leaving behind. Her country, her family, everything that was familiar. But the moment was brief, because she hungered for the adventure of something new.

She pushed toward the plank and found General MacArthur at the top greeting everyone individually. The previous evening, at a meeting in the hotel’s ballroom for the athletes and their families, he had been stern, but now when she reached him, he grinned. “Ah, Miss Robinson, the fastest girl in the Midwest. Ready to serve your country?”

His transformation from fearless leader to something akin to more of a garrulous uncle made her uneasy, like the uncomfortable feeling of overfamiliarity that comes from hearing someone use the lavatory or seeing the dark cloud of a man’s chest hair through his shirt.

She forced a smile.

“Good, good. You’ll find your chaperone in there and she has your cabin assignment

We’ve got you bunking with two other midwesterners. Chicago and St. Louis, I believe. You’ll feel right at home.”

St. Louis? What about those Californians? She hid her disappointment by thanking him in a cheerful voice and marched into a dizzying tumult of porters shouting directions and athletes gawking at the rails and calling out to the spectators lining the wharf below. Never before had she seen such a spectacle.

“Betty, dear, is that you?” Mrs. Allen, the track team chaperone, jostled through the crowd, huffing loudly as she fanned at herself with a sheaf of paper. “Do you have your cabin number?”

“Yes,” Betty said, raising her pass. “How in the world does General MacArthur manage to remember everyone’s room assignments?”

“Follow me,” Mrs. Allen called over her shoulder as she waddled along the narrow corridor. “Oh, that General MacArthur, bless his heart. He appears to have a soft spot for the younger athletes. Now, how old are you again?”

“Sixteen.”

“Sixteen, my goodness. Well, you’re hardly the youngest. There are a few other high-school-age track and field girls and some swimmers and divers too. I believe little Eleanor Holm is fourteen and Olive Hasenfus can’t be much more than that. Good heavens, isn’t this heat wave dreadful? The New York Post is reporting that six people died yesterday, poor souls. I hope it goes away when we get out onto open water.” With her silk stockings and tightly fitting lilac-colored serge suit, it was easy to see why the woman had a steady stream of sweat rolling down her temples. She stopped by a door and checked her list. “Let’s see . . . yes, here we are. This is your cabin. It will be tight. I’m afraid we were supposed to be on a different ship, but it suffered a recent fire. So now everyone’s jammed aboard this one. All three hundred and fifty of us, dear me.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“Yes, well, you’re going to have to be very careful and alert. We’re packed in here like sardines. You could get knocked over by gymnasts flipping on their mats on the C Deck, stabbed by the fencers or punched by the boxers on the Sun Deck, shot by the men competing in the modern pentathlon on the rear back deck, or kicked by the horses galloping on the treadmills set on the D Deck. I make it all sound positively lethal, but keep a lookout and you’ll be fine. Just wait until tomorrow when you try the track installed on the Promenade Deck. We’ve told the athletes doing field events that they are not to throw javelins and discuses while we’re out at sea. Too risky. The cyclists are only permitted to ride their bikes during certain times, but I’m sure they’ll be whizzing around without any respect for the rest of us.” She leaned over and said in a conspiratorial tone, “They can be a bit superior, but if you ask me,

 they look rather absurd on their little contraptions. And just wait until the boat starts rolling while they’re speeding around. Mark my words, it will knock them down a few pegs.” She gave a breathy giggle. “Now, General MacArthur plans to have a meeting up on the Promenade Deck once we’ve pushed offshore, and he will explain the assigned practice times. Just keep a cool head, follow directions, and everything will go smoothly.”

Betty’s mind reeled. Stabbed? Shot? Kicked? What exactly had she signed up for? But then she looked at the matronly figure of Mrs. Allen buttoned up in her department store ensemble, topped with her carefully constructed beauty-salon coiffure. She didn’t appear to be the type who would live too dangerously.

Mrs. Allen cleared her throat. “I can tell you’re a good one. Everyone’s been so skeptical of the girl runners. You know all of this talk about being morally objectionable? Well, it’s ridiculous. And what of those girl swimmers and divers? Now, they’re the ones who need to be watched closely. Between the two of us, it seems that prancing around in those little bathing costumes gives them airs. Why, they’re just counting the days until they land film deals. In the meantime, they think they can get away with murder. Oh goodness, their chaperone”—she clucked—“that poor woman is going to have her hands full.” A blast of the ship’s horn made them both jump and Mrs. Allen placed her palm on her chest. “Mercy me, I need to get back up to the gangway to find some of the other girls and make sure they know where they’re going.” She frowned. “You’re a quiet thing, but you can introduce yourself to the girls in your cabin, right? Can you do that?”

Betty nodded. “Yes, everything will be grand.”

“There you go,” Mrs. Allen said over her shoulder as she hustled herself back toward the stairs.

Betty inhaled and gave a little knock on the cabin door before entering. Two young women lounged on a pair of bunks; one had her head hidden behind a copy of Photoplay. A third empty bunk hung above the other two, its height clearly designating it as the least desirable of the set.

“Sorry, kid. This isn’t the nursery. Keep moving down the hall,” one of the women said, folding an arm behind her neck and stretching her lanky legs out on the thin wool blanket beneath her.

From the narrow space between the bunks, Betty looked back and forth at her cabinmates. She had a sister in her late twenties back at home, Jean, and Betty had always been relegated to being the baby of the family. No more. She dropped her suitcase. “I’m Betty Robinson, your other roommate.”

The second woman put down her magazine as she pushed herself into a sitting position and extended a hand toward Betty. “Don’t pay any attention to Dee. She’s deluded into thinking she’s a riot, poor thing. Hey, don’t I know you from home? You’re from Chicago, isn’t that right?”

Betty studied the woman. She appeared forthright and plain, her smile genuine.

“Yes, I’ve been training with the Illinois Women’s Athletic Club.”

“I’m on the South Side of the city and getting to the IWAC is a pain in the neck for me, so my boyfriend trains me. My name’s Caroline Hale and”—she pointed to the other woman—“that’s Dee Boeckmann. You’re another sprinter, right?”

“Yes, I’m running the hundred.”

“Trying to be the fastest women in the world, huh?” Dee asked with an air of self-importance. “I heard that Elta Cartwright is a real speed devil. Didn’t she win the trials? And then there are those Canadians—what are they calling them? The Matchless Six? Sounds like you two have your work cut out for you.”

Caroline flashed her palm at Dee to stop her. “Cripes, quit giving us such a hard time and loosen up. This is supposed to be fun, remember?” And with that, she raised a lipstick and traced it carefully around her mouth before plucking a battered pack of Lucky Strikes from her pocketbook lying on the edge of her bunk. “Want one?” she asked, holding it out.

Betty had never smoked before, but she was on the adventure of a lifetime, so why not? She slid one from the packet and leaned in for Caroline to light it. The smoke burned her throat as she inhaled and she coughed, but it felt sophisticated to hold a cigarette aloft. She took another drag. Thankfully, the second try went down smoothly.

Dee frowned. “Couldn’t you two do that outside? I’m feeling a little seasick.”

“Already? We haven’t even shoved off from the dock yet. Don’t be such a killjoy.” Caroline swung her legs to the floor and balanced her cigarette between two long fingers as she stood, grinning. “But that’s not such a bad idea. What do you say, Betty, want to go out to the deck and see what kind of trouble we can get into? If we’re lucky, maybe Johnny Weissmuller will be out there in his swim trunks. Did you see the pool? It’s barely bigger than a piss pot.”

“There’s a pool?” Betty asked.

“Sure, how do you think the swimmers keep up their training?” Caroline said.

“Say, why are you so interested in Johnny Weissmuller? Don’t you have a boyfriend?” Dee asked.

“Sure, but that doesn’t mean I can’t look. There’s no ring on my finger yet.” She winked at Betty, exhaled a long plume of smoke, and held the door open. “All right, well, that settles it. Put down your bag, Betty. Let’s take a tour of this place. If we’re lucky, the fellas will already be training with their shirts off. Let’s have some laughs. We’ve earned them! For God’s sake, you know what I did to raise a little spending cash for this trip?”

“What?” Betty asked.

“I jumped out of a plane.”

“On purpose?”

“Yep, I was paid twenty-five dollars to parachute out of a plane.”

Dee snorted. “What on earth were you thinking?”

Caroline rolled her eyes. “I was thinking about making an easy twenty-five dollars,

what do you think? I needed it. I’m the youngest of eleven kids, so it’s not as if I could ask my parents for money. They’re strapped.”

“What did your fella think?” Betty asked.

“Oh, he thought it was nuts, but he’s figured out that discouraging me is the best way to encourage me to do something, so he stayed quiet.”

Betty laughed.

Caroline ran her fingers through her messy bob of dark hair. She seemed to offer fun even if she wasn’t from California. Betty pinched some color into her cheeks before sashaying toward the door. “So, Dee, you’re staying behind to memorize the Olympic oath?”

Caroline giggled.

“No, wait,” Dee said, scrambling to her feet. “I’m coming too. The fresh air will do me some good.”

There would be plenty of time to unpack later.

 

2.

A few months earlier

Thornton Township High School

15001 S. Broadway

Harvey, Illinois

February 27, 1928

Mr. and Mrs. Harold Robinson

3 East 138th Street

Riverdale, Illinois

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Harold Robinson,

This communication is intended to clear up a misunderstanding. Coach Price has brought it to my attention that he believes your daughter possesses exceptional athletic abilities. After seeing Betty run for the train last week, her speed impressed him and he invited her to train with the boys’ track team. While I applaud Coach Price’s initiative and enthusiasm, I must set the record straight on school policy: Betty cannot train with the boys’ track team. In fact, the Illinois State Athletic Association prohibits interscholastic competition for girls in track and field events for good reason; it is well documented that women cannot be subjected to the same mental and physical strains that men can withstand.

Upon reviewing Betty’s academic record, I daresay she appears to have stellar grades and commendations from all of her teachers, which leads me to believe that her future lies in the direction of more wholesome and virtuous pursuits. Thornton Township High School offers many wonderful opportunities to develop the intellect and extracurricular interests of its female students. As John Locke once said, “Education begins the gentleman, but reading, good company and reflection must finish him.” Here at Thornton Township High School we are certainly not narrow-minded enough to believe this sentiment extends only to gentlemen, but also gentlewomen. Betty is off to a fine start in life. She is a conscientious student and keeps good company, but she must have time for reflection to ready herself for her future role as wife, mother, and citizen. It is important not to overburden this developing young feminine mind with the distractions of sport and competition.

Sincerely,

Principal Umbaugh

From the Legal Offices of Lee, Maginnis & Finnell

MEMORANDUM

March 5, 1928

Dear Mr. Harold Robinson,

After your meeting with Principal Umbaugh yesterday in which you insisted upon indulging your daughter’s interest in training with the boys’ track team, Thornton Public School District disavows any responsibility for Elizabeth “Betty” Robinson’s participation in activities not befitting a female student. Enclosed is a waiver for you to sign that declares Elizabeth is competing independently and entirely at her own risk.

Sincerely,

Mr. V. L. Maginnis, Esq.

 

THE CHICAGO EVENING STANDARD

June 3, 1928

Sporting Corner News

Soldier Field—In only her second sanctioned race, Elizabeth “Betty” Robinson of Riverdale finished first place, beating national champion Helen Filkey at the Central American Athletic Union meet by running the 100-meter sprint in 12 seconds flat, an unofficial new world record. Due to high winds above acceptable levels, the new time will not stand, but it was enough to earn the emerging track star an all-expenses-paid invitation to compete in the Olympic trials in Newark, New Jersey, next month. For the first time in history, women will be competing in several track and field events at the Ninth Olympiad in Amsterdam, and we wish young Betty all the luck in the world as she competes to win a spot to represent the U.S. of A.!

---

The Western Union Telegraph Company

Received at Newark, NJ 1928 Jul 6 1:26 PM

CONGRATULATIONS ON QUALIFYING FOR OLYMPIC TEAM. YOUR FRIENDS AT THORNTON HIGH ALWAYS BELIEVED IN YOU. GOOD LUCK IN AMSTERDAM! PRINCIPAL UMBAUGH.

 

3.

July 1928

Fulton, Missouri

HELEN PLINKED OUT A FEW NOTES ON THE FAMILY’S UPRIGHT Wurlitzer. The woolly needlepointed piano seat scratched at the backs of her thighs. Her mind was supposed to be on Chopin, but instead she glanced out the window longingly before placing her fingers on the yellowed keys of the piano and wiggling herself into sitting straight. The sooner she was done practicing, the sooner she could get outside to play. She hit a C note and listened to it reverberate off the walls of the faded parlor. If only she could play a melody that swelled dramatically, fanned the still air, moved things around a bit—wouldn’t that be grand?

She tried a chord. Nothing changed. If anything, the twang of the slightly out-of-tune piano just made everything feel flatter, hotter, more oppressive.

Every minute Ma made her sit in front of the piano reaffirmed the futility of harboring dreams of her musical talents. Even at ten years old, Helen understood the likelihood that she would ever become a virtuoso musician felt as far-fetched to her as owning an elephant as a pet. It simply wasn’t going to happen.

Helen stopped playing and tilted her head, straining to listen for sounds of Ma working in the kitchen. Nothing. The only sound came from the parlor’s window, where Doogie’s nails were clicking against the wooden planks of the porch. Helen crept to the screen door without making a sound and peeked outside. Sure enough, the dog lay in her usual spot next to the wooden rocker, paws jerking as she ran in her sleep. Helen opened the door and tiptoed across the porch. Doogie’s bloodshot eyes flickered open, and without raising her head, she watched Helen from under half-opened lids.

Helen’s gaze swept the area, looking for action, a game, something of interest. A lone shingle lay near the stairs. She reached for it and, without thinking—it was too hot for thinking—stuck it into her mouth, clenching it between her teeth. Though she kept her tongue away from the splintery surface, the taste of dust and the powdery grit of dried-out wood filled the insides of her mouth. She shook her head back and forth and barked, trying to get a reaction from Doogie.

Nothing.

The creature only furrowed her furry brow in puzzlement. It wasn’t until Helen bent over and clapped her hands and stamped her feet that Doogie’s tail started to wag. The dog rose and stretched from her haunches, extending her back legs one at a time. As she watched Helen’s antics, the rhythm of her wagging tail increased.

Helen turned and ran down the stairs, hoping Doogie would chase her. With each step, the creases behind her knees felt slippery with sweat, but she wanted to run, feel the air move around her, no matter how hot it was. She wanted escape, action, and freedom from tedium.

She aimed for the front gate. When she was running as fast as she could, she turned and found Doogie loping along beside her. At that moment, Helen’s foot caught on something. Maybe it was one of Bobbie Lee’s toy trucks, or a gardening trowel of Ma’s, or maybe just one of her big feet got in the way—she never figured it out.

But she flew.

She sailed over the flat ground and marveled at the surrounding stillness. The dusty brown yard. The fields stretching beyond the fence. The silent barn. And then she landed with a whoomph!

Pain screamed through her chin, lips, and neck. Everything burned. With the wind knocked out of her, she simply lay in the cloud of dust, lungs straining, eyes tearing from the pain, mind reeling. Doogie’s snout poked her cheek, her breath snuffling hot against Helen’s face. A gurgling sound came from her own throat. She tasted copper in her mouth. She wanted to cough, but something blocked her throat and a bib of blood appeared to be blooming over her pale yellow cotton work shirt. Doogie barked, quick staccato

sounds that made the hair on Helen’s arms stand at attention. She tried to pull the shingle from her mouth, but it hurt too much and, defeated, she dropped her hands back to the ground.

From behind her, the screen door banged open. Ma screamed. Bobbie Lee’s high voice whimpered. A stampede of feet. The toes of Pa’s scuffed work boots appeared and a towel was pressed into her neck. Voices rose and fell, but what were they saying? She stopped trying to understand. Her throat burned as if consumed by flames. She closed her eyes and faded from her surroundings.

From far away, Doogie continued to bark.

WHITE SHEETS, WHITE walls. An unnatural, sterile sense of blankness surrounded Helen. She couldn’t move her head.

“Helen,” Ma’s voice said gently from somewhere beside her. “We’re at the hospital. You’ve had an accident. Don’t try to talk.”

She tried to swallow but it felt like trying to jam a boulder down her throat. She gagged, unable to breathe. Her eyes watered.

“There, there,” Ma murmured, but Helen couldn’t see her. She wanted to move, adjust herself from the overwhelming sense of stiffness, but she couldn’t. She wanted to look around, but she couldn’t. Her eyes now watered from frustration, not just pain.

“Bertie, is she awake?”

“Yes,” Ma answered.

“Aha, here she is.” A man’s voice hovered farther away, low and calm, and then a round face with glasses and gray hair bobbed into her vision. Dr. McCubbin. “Helen, we need to stop meeting like this.” Cold hands cupped her cheeks, lifted up her eyelids, prodded her chest. “Your broken wrist mended a lot more easily than this will, but sit tight. I’ve performed a small procedure that will leave you feeling tired for a spell. In fact, you’re going to need a quiet summer. Lots of rest and no talking. You’ve punctured an important part of your throat and it’s going to need time to heal properly.”

The doctor disappeared from Helen’s line of vision. The white wall returned. Her mother’s voice drifted past her, along with the doctor’s. She closed her eyes and slid into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

 

4.

July 1928

Malden, Massachusetts

LOUISE’S HEART HAMMERED. THE GROUND SPED PAST and gravel pinged off her shins, but she didn’t let up.

When her basketball teammates had led her to the railroad tracks and pointed down the long straightaway, she almost hadn’t believed them. This was where the track club trained? She had been running along these tracks for as long as she could remember and knew this section like the palm of her hand. With a shrug, Louise set off in a pack with the others, not wanting to shoot to the front right away, especially since she was one of the youngest girls out there. She’d be fifteen in the fall and attend the high school. At this point, it was best to fit in, get a read on the different girls. Only after they were done warming up and Coach Quain had explained the interval workout did she allow her gait to lengthen. She rocketed to the front, savoring the feeling of letting loose. When she ran, her thoughts faded and the burn of exertion took over. It hurt, but that was part of running’s draw, hitting the delicate balance between pain and release. It was a relief, a reprieve from thinking too much. From remembering.

When she reached the railroad tie with a splash of red paint on its end, she slowed, turned, and dashed back to where Coach Quain waited, stopwatch in hand. The other girls trailed behind her, their faces splotchy and strained with exertion.

Louise was fast.

For as long as she could remember she had run everywhere.

When most people walked, she ran.

But then there was the accident with her sister and running changed. It became less about having fun and more about testing herself. She needed to be fast. She had memories, painful ones, that reminded her she would never be fast enough to save what was important.

When her basketball teammates encouraged her to go to Coach Quain, the man who sponsored the Onteora Track Club, she wasn’t sure she could do it, yet a curious longing in her wouldn’t let up. Could a stopwatch tell her something she didn’t already know?

Suddenly, the earth seemed to quake. The five o’clock train from the city roared past. She blinked her eyes to keep from getting dizzy as it clattered along beside her, a streak of glistening metal, smoke, and moving parts. Pale faces pressed to the windows, a few grinning and waving. Not until it rounded the bend and disappeared did its import sink in.

Five o’clock.

She needed to get home. Emily could be left in charge only for so long. Louise summoned a final burst of effort and Coach Quain blurred as she sprinted past him and then slowed.

He whistled, looking at his stopwatch. “Now, look at that. You’re the speediest girl I’ve ever seen.”

Pride stirred in her chest.

“You don’t even look winded,” he marveled, appraising her up and down.

In truth, she felt exhausted but had no intention of revealing how hard she had been working. The other girls ran past, their eyes glassy with fatigue, sweaty hair plastered to their foreheads. The exposed skin on their bare legs and arms looked pale, mottled, and vulnerable to the blazing-hot sun, but the darkness of Louise’s skin hid the sizzle of blood coursing through her veins. In a town full of fair-skinned Irish, Louise was from one of the few black families, but Coach Quain didn’t appear to give the color of her skin a second thought.

“I hope you’ll join us. With your natural ability, think how fast you’ll get with a little training and coaching. What do you say?”

“Thank you, sir, but I need to talk to my parents.”

“You do that. We’ll be back out here tomorrow. Same time, same place. You’re

young, and I wouldn’t put you in any big meets until next year, although some time trials later this summer season might be useful. Could be good training for a girl with so much potential like you.” He held The Boston Globe out in front of him and pointed to a page. “Did you know girls are running in the Olympics this year? All the way over in Europe? Who knows? Maybe one day this could be you.”

Louise nodded as she jogged away, but she had no idea what he was talking about. Girls racing in Europe? She veered off the railroad tracks and loped along the sidewalk past modest brick houses lining the streets. Figures visible in the windows went about their evening routines. Dinner dishes clattered. Cooking smells wafted along the evening air. Fried onions. Roasted chicken. Freshly baked bread. Her stomach rumbled in response. When Louise reached her family’s dark shingled house, she cut across the lawn, took the porch steps two at a time, pushed the front door open.

“Louise, that you?” Emily’s voice called from the back of the house.

Louise glided down the hallway, past closed doors, and entered the kitchen to find her sisters—Emily, Julia, and Agnes—and brother standing around the kitchen table. Emily and Julia both held books in their hands while grass stains covered Junior’s trousers.

“I’m here, I’m here. Sorry, it went later than I expected. Let me wash up and I’ll be in to start dinner. Junior, go clean up. Girls, set the table, please.”

“Did you make the team?” Junior asked, his wide dark eyes shining in anticipation.

“Yes.” She paused in the door of the washroom. “But now don’t you go saying anything about it to Mama yet. Understand?”

“When you gonna ask ’em?” Julia asked.

“Not sure.” A sense of guilt eclipsed the triumph that had fueled her run home. How could she fit running on a track team into all of her responsibilities?

Moments later, she was back in the kitchen assembling plates of cold roasted chicken from the icebox and making a potato salad. The sound of the front door wheezing open caused all of their heads to swivel toward the hallway entrance. Mama and Papa were home.

“How are you all?” Mama asked, working her way around the table, kissing the tops of everyone’s heads. Louise breathed in her mother’s smell of laundry soap. It was Tuesday, washing day over at Mrs. Grandaway’s house, where Mama worked as a domestic. She would be extra tired from wrestling with the wringer all afternoon.

After Mama and Papa retired to their room to change out of their uniforms, homework was set aside, Julia set the table for dinner, and then they all sat and clasped hands, heads bowed.

“Thank you, Lord, for this fine meal and for granting us another day to live in your good grace.” Papa looked around the table. “Anyone want

 to add anything?”

“Lord, thank you for making me the best pitcher in Malden.” From under his long fringe of dark eyelashes, lashes that Mama always lamented were wasted on a boy, ...