Tracy walked to one of the changing stalls and disappeared behind the opaque glass door. Inside, she sighed with relief. No more staring eyes. No more questions. She undid her belt buckle and unzipped her khaki pants. In every class today, a teacher and at least one student had asked why she had a black eye and newly split lip—some assumed she had been in a car accident. Warm with embarrassment, she had managed to repeat what Aunt Madge told her to say. Some girls mugged me when I went to the store for my mother. Her answer received gasps and expressions of shock—Wow! A mugging!—and then the inevitable question: Where did that happen? Her face had grown warmer then—Aunt Madge hadn’t prepared her for that question—and each time, she lowered her head and muttered, “In my old neighborhood.” And then, when pressed: “Area Place.” And right away, each time, the sympathy turned into a curious, “Oh,” while the eyes said, Oh—the projects. Well, no wonder.
The tardy bell rang.
“All right, now!” someone, maybe tall Toni, urged playfully. “Step it up, step it up! Y’all got ten minutes!”
Tracy hurriedly reached down and pulled off her loafers, then slid off her slacks. She had felt self-conscious all day because of her face—not just because of her wounds but also because of the makeup. Aunt Madge, a Mary Kay representative, had applied a brown cream and then something powdery to cover the purplish bruise on her cheek. Tracy had hated the application, not only because she had never worn makeup before and wearing it made her feel clownish, but also because she hadn’t wanted Aunt Madge’s fingers touching her face. Not this morning. She was still mad at her aunt for talking to Jinya Daggett on yesterday—for creating a problem Tracy found frightening even to ponder.
But now, she pondered another problem, one that had worried her all day. Miz Grace. And tryouts. The P.E. shorts were on now, and Tracy undid the buttons of her burgundy shirtwaist. Dent and Pat, whom she had seen in the corridor before third period, said that they had never known Miz Grace to make an exception for someone who missed a day of tryouts. And little Wanda Carver a few moments ago had confirmed the same thing. They all seemed to know what they were talking about, and all day long, Tracy’s stomach had wrinkled so much with worry that she had not eaten lunch. But there was no way she could miss the chance to play basketball for Miz Grace—for Jazz Nelson’s wife. Besides, Miz Grace herself had asked her to try out, and didn’t that mean anything? Tracy thought about Friday, when Miz Grace summoned her after class. The woman had been serious about her offer—even more serious about her rule. You’ve got to attend all three days in order to be considered for the team. The P.E. shirt was on now, and Tracy sat on the stall bench to pull on her sneakers. Yes—Miz Grace was serious, but would she make an exception this time? If Aunt Madge had phoned the school this morning, as she had promised to do, then by now Miz Grace knew why Tracy had missed tryouts. And shouldn’t that make a difference? Tracy stood, ready. She picked up the clothes she had shed, walked back to her locker, placed her belongings inside, and took a deep breath. It was time.