Fast Girls

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