I CALLED BREE AS I was standing in the bleachers by the track at Howard University between Nana Mama and my son Damon, who had just regaled us with the story of his ride in the private jet. Ali was sitting behind us, absorbed in a book.
Bree’s face appeared on my phone.
“Still want to watch?” I said, seeing that she was in a store of some kind.
“Definitely,” Bree said. “Is she getting ready?”
I glanced at the track. Jannie was doing a few loose practice starts out of her blocks, which were in lane three on a stagger of six.
“She is ready,” I said.
Damon leaned over. “She was in the zone when we got here.”
“Hi, Damon!” Bree called.
“Good to see you! Wish you were here!”
“Next best thing.”
Ali set his book aside, grabbed my wrist, and pulled the phone down so Bree could see his face. “I think she’s going to blow people’s doors in, Bree,” Ali said. “Where are you?”
“A store in New York,” she said. “Let me talk to your dad again.”
I raised the phone to my face. “Shopping?”
She grinned a little naughtily. “I am. On an expense account. For a black-tie affair.”
“Well, la-di-da,” I said, and laughed. “You and Damon!”
“I know, right? Do you want to see the dress?”
“Sure.”
Bree looked away. “Marjorie, can you bring the dress over so my husband can take a look?”
She turned the camera and I saw a slight, pretty blonde come toward the lens carrying one of the most beautiful dresses I had ever seen.
“Wowzah,” I said.
“Wowzah if I can fit into it,” Bree said.
“You absolutely will,” Marjorie said, sounding insistent.
Nana Mama pulled on my left sleeve. “Jannie’s getting ready to go.”
“C’mon, sis,” Damon said. “Show ’em how.”
Out on the track, the official was calling the girls to race. This was an invitation-only event, which meant the competition would be fierce. Indeed, four girls in the field were already committed on scholarship to Division 1 NCAA programs. Only Jannie and a young woman from Richmond had not yet completed their dance cards.
“What’s happening?” Bree asked.
“Sorry,” I said and I aimed the phone camera at the track. “Can you see?”
“Now I can,” Bree said. “And Marjorie says turn your phone sideways so we can see in full screen.”
I complied. Looking around at the people getting to their feet, I saw eight or nine coaches I recognized from past recruiting visits. Shortly after we’d arrived today, several of them had come up to me, including the coaches from the Universities of Oregon and Texas. I had to tell them that I honestly had no idea where Jannie would decide to go to school.
“On your marks,” the official called out.
The athletes went to their blocks, some appearing confident and some who struck me as tense. Several of them glanced at Jannie, who settled into her blocks, loose, ignoring them and everything else but the lane before her.
“Set.”
My daughter coiled like a big cat about to spring.
The starting gun cracked.
Jannie burst out of the blocks low and charging, her hands open and slicing upward like blades. Twenty yards out, she began to lift her torso inch by inch with each stride. Her legs and arms were chopping as she ran the first curve. But by the time Jannie exited the turn, her shoulders and head were nearly upright, and her stride and arm pumps had become longer, easier.
As the athletes came down the backstretch, battling the stagger, the two women to Jannie’s inside were falling off the pace. But a young woman committed to Syracuse University was way out to Jannie’s right in lane six and looking strong.
In lane five, and also running well, was a girl pledged to the University of Florida. The uncommitted athlete from Richmond was in lane four.
“Why’s Jannie so far behind?” my grandmother asked.
Damon said, “They’re fighting the stagger, Nana. We won’t see where she really is in the race until they come out of the second turn.”
Ali said, “That’s when she’ll kick in the afterburners.”
As the four athletes still in contention entered the far turn, I made sure the camera was still on them. Then I noticed that the coaches below us were all on their feet, watching the race and taking quick glances at their stopwatches.
I could see now that Jannie was gaining on the girl from Richmond, who was running hard herself. So were the athletes committed to Florida and Syracuse. Then my daughter did something I’d seen her do multiple times but that was still breathtaking to witness. Midway through the final turn, Jannie tapped into some God-given reservoir of energy and athleticism deep within herself.
She hit another gear.
Her stride lengthened, causing her to bound more than run as she finished the curve and blew past the girl committed to Syracuse. In the far outside lane, the young lady set to attend Florida was flying. So was the girl from Richmond. They were all neck and neck entering the homestretch.
The crowd in the stands roared louder when Jannie hit yet another gear and swiftly opened up a ten-and then twenty-yard margin before blazing through the finish leaning forward. The high-schooler from Richmond finished second and the Florida-bound recruit a winded third.
Jannie took her foot off the gas, slowed to a jog, and turned.
The Florida athlete appeared astonished. The Richmond girl had her arms overhead. The coaches were going wild.
But my focus was on Jannie. One of the track officials had run out and was saying something to her. My daughter looked at the man incredulously before she fell to the track, sobbing.
CHAPTER 25
“WHAT IN GOD’S NAME just happened?” Nana Mama demanded.
“Did they disqualify her, Dad?” Damon said.
Ali cried, “No, she was in her lane!”
“I thought so too. I’ll go see,” I said, my stomach souring as I tried to get down through the crowd in the stands and onto the track.
Disqualified? She’s going to be heartbroken.
I passed the women’s coach from the University of Texas, who slapped me on the back and said, “How does that one feel, Dr. Cross?”
I thought that was an odd thing to say, and I turned to look at her. “That Jannie was disqualified?”
“Disqualified?” the coach said, and she threw her head back and laughed. “She wasn’t disqualified! Jannie just ran fifty point seventy-four!”
“That’s good, I think,” I said, relieved.
“Good? Your daughter just tied the national high-school record in the four-hundred, Dr. Cross!”
My jaw dropped. “What? No.”
The coach had tears in her eyes before I did. “Yes! And I know I told you she should be a heptathlete, but I would be absolutely honored if she came to Texas to run the four-hundred for the Longhorns.”
“Not if she comes northwest to the land of Nike,” said the coach from the University of Oregon, a long, lanky guy who was now standing beside the Texas coach.
Several other coaches I recognized were all looking at me for hope.
I wiped away my tears, threw up my hands. “Your guess is as good as mine!”