Amazed By Her Grace, Book I

By Janet Walker

First book of the Amazed by her Grace series (Books must be read in order):

In this three-book novel, former Olympic track-and-field gold medalist Grace Gresham-Nelson amazes others with her startling and neat beauty, fierce devotion to rules and order, and ability to remain both popular and famously unknowable at the prestigious, all-girl Beck Academy in Atlanta, where Grace is a nationally successful athletic director.

But when she meets the new student Tracy Sullivan, a gifted basketball player from an area housing project, Grace is so amazed by the teen’s athletic ability that the woman’s famous wall of privacy begins to crumble...leaving woman and teen open to a scandal neither could have foreseen.

In this first volume, the reader sees the colorful world of Beck first through the eyes of the transplanted student Tracy and then from the perspective of the private teacher Grace.
Reader, get this volume first! Books in the series must be read in sequential order -- book 1, 2, 3 -- to follow the plot.

This version of the novel should replace any earlier downloads you may have acquired of the story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Janet Walker
• Release date: Dec 12, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301032488

Janet Walker

Janet Walker, author of the three-book literary novel Amazed by her Grace, the stage play Desire of Ovid's Mother, and the trash-fic novel My Brother's Wife: An Old-School Soap (which she wrote under a pseudonym), walked away from a life of journalism and academic pursuits in order to concentrate on writing and selling her fiction.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

1965. Sao Paulo, Brazil

Sweat—copious and warm—dripped from his face and fell onto hers. Much originated in his scalp, emerging from pores as an army of quivering transparency, advancing through the thick growth of coiled hair shafts along meandering trails of wetness, intent on reaching the hair’s border. More sweat popped out of the pale brown skin of his forehead and lay in wait against the broad surface as a band of glistening beads. Some rolled without deterrence into the corners of his eyes. He didn’t wipe away the moisture but merely blinked from its sting and gazed at her with eyes that reminded her of the lifeless fish she found on the shore near their home. The perspiration slid down the extended bridge of his nose and momentarily clung to its tip, gathering streams of force until it became a lucid fat drop heavy enough to dislodge and splatter against her face. And it did so, again and again, flung to earth by the persistent rocking of his body. Often a drop hit her lips and slipped into her mouth, becoming a hot watery salty form of him that made her frown and gag. But she didn’t complain—she tried never to complain. Not about the sweat. Because she knew that complaints angered him and could make him change positions and use, instead, her mouth. And much more unbearable for her than the dripping sweat, much more, was his thing in her mouth, spongy and hard, perspiring and damp, its tip wet with a creamy distaste; a frightful intrusion into her throat, rude, foreign, swollen, that always made her believe she would die from lack of air. In the beginning, he would deposit the fullness of the discharge on her tongue, but she would vomit, so he began withdrawing to squeeze it onto her belly. He expected her to touch it with her fingers—to like having it spread across her body. But she could not make him understand that she was not like the ladies he showed her in all those movies, the naked ladies who licked it from their fingers and acted like they thought it was good—to her it bore too great a resemblance to the thick beige mucous little Pedro Grossos had ejected from his nostrils when he sneezed at Mass one day. Maybe when she was older she would like it, but now it made her ill. Made her mouth icky and her stomach quivery so that she could not eat for a whole day, sometimes two. Maybe when she was older she would be able to make him happy, but now he said she needed to grow up, that she was acting like a child. Such reproof always confused her, because she was only eight, and she thought that meant she was still a child.

Part I

TRACY

Two weeks. Fall, 1990. Atlanta, Georgia

Chapter One

AMAZED FOR THE VERY FIRST TIME

Hey. Hey, you. What school you from?

The teenage girl’s voice was scratchy and urgent, playful and curious.

Tracy Sullivan, seated on the top row of the bleachers with head bowed, heard the voice but thought it was questioning someone else, so she ignored the inquiries and kept studying and fingering the new spiral notebook on her lap. It was a handsome, heavy notebook with sturdy copper-colored wire binding, divisions for five subjects, and 200 pages of clean lined paper. Aunt Madge had bought it when they went shopping for the new school year, and owning it made Tracy feel purposeful and prepared—like a student. Like perhaps she could venture into a school year and make an A, for a change.

Hey, the hoarse voice pecked again. Girl. You from here? You from Atlanna?

A connection occurred in Tracy Sullivan’s brain: The insistent questions were meant for her. She lifted her head and met eyes with the owner of the voice—a girl, standing two rows down, who was facing backward on the bleachers to peer up at Tracy. Tracy noticed the girl’s childish appearance and wondered if she had misunderstood Beck Academy’s policy of age segregation. In Beck Orientation class this morning, she thought she had learned that the academy kept its four divisions of students strictly separated from one another in classes. While the students mingled during assemblies and other special occasions, it was against the rules for a student from a lower division to share classes with older students. But the short girl who now stood on the bleachers as Tracy’s inquisitor, with her skinny arms and undeveloped torso, yellow T-shirt and grungy high-top sneakers, and fuchsia overalls with drooping shoulder strap, looked like a seventh-grader. The girl’s eyes trembled with mischief, like a playful little boy’s, and a halo of dusty-looking soft curly brown hair framed her small face. She was the color of fresh peanut butter, her eyes innocent and large, her irises the hue of apple jelly. But the feature Tracy found most startling was a beige blemish, a glaring almond-colored splotch on the brown skin of the girl’s face, an egregious patch of smooth skin the size of a child’s palm, centered on the left cheek bone and invading the area around the left eye as if the result of a slowly advancing fungus. Tracy had never seen anything like it.

Um, was you talking to me? Tracy asked hesitantly.

"No, duh, I’m talkin’ to the girl behind you," the little blemished girl retorted.

Tracy cast a quick look behind her, and then just as quickly felt foolish. The only thing at her back was the painted cinder-block wall of the brand-new Beck gymnasium. She glanced about furtively at the strangers who were her new classmates to see if any had noticed what she had done. None seemed to. There were about twenty girls, Tracy guessed, and for some reason they had clustered on one end of the stand of bleachers, as if they had prior knowledge that this is where they were supposed to sit in gym class. Therefore, Tracy, when she entered the gym, had ignored the expanse of empty bleacher space and joined them. Now she sat in the right rear of the group, perched on the top row, for she had found that the summit of bleachers usually offered escape from embarrassing scrutiny. Usually. At the moment, six or seven girls seated nearby had turned and were now staring up at her, waiting for her response to the splotch-eyed girl’s question. You from here? You from Atlanna? A wave of warmth crawled beneath the skin on Tracy’s face and left it moist. A similar wave pushed sprinkles of perspiration to the surface of her palms. Absently, she wiped her hands on the thighs of her oversized jeans and stammered, Uh, wh-what you asked me?

Tracy could see it, the sudden expression on Splotch Eye’s face. It clearly said: I’m dealing with an idiot. In response, the prepubescent girl spoke slowly and muted the consonants of her words as if she had a speech impediment. At the same time, she twisted her fingers in mock sign-language symbols.

I - thed - where - ah - you - from?

Good-natured giggles rippled through the girls observing Splotch Eye’s mockery. The warmth beneath Tracy’s skin shimmered hot, and pounding began in her ears. She tried to smile with the other girls but for a moment was catatonic. Not only was she the center of attention in a group of strangers, and not only were they demanding that she speak to them—one of them was also asking the question, the one Tracy had feared would be asked of her all day. Splotch Eye and now about fifteen girls were waiting for a response. The rest of the students remained involved in buzzing eddies of animated chatter, unaware of the expectant silence that prevailed around Tracy Sullivan.

"You from Atlanna?" Splotch Eye repeated, her voice rising in a pitch of impatience.

Tracy’s tongue awoke. Um, yeah.

What school?

Tracy almost whispered the answer. Haines.

The silence around Tracy’s feet became a wave of murmuring, one that rolled through the sea of listeners and spread through the entire group of girls, repetitions of the word Haines tumbling along the surface of their speech like flotsam.

The girl with the facial splotch lifted a brow in surprise and regarded Tracy as if she were a spy. "Haines? What you doin’ here?"

Murmuring continued, but some of the other girls heard Splotch Eye’s new question and again stared expectantly up at Tracy.

Tracy gazed at the beige splotch, confused, trying to figure out the easiest way to answer the question. She finally heard herself say, Um, I-I came to live with my aunt.

Where she stay? Splotch Eye asked. In MacDonald Park?

Tracy nodded. Yop.

Oh, Splotch Eye said and regarded Tracy with new curiosity. You tall, she observed. You on scholarship?

On scholarship? Tracy did not understand the question.

"You play basketball?" Splotch Eye asked impatiently, and again her expression revealed she thought she had stumbled upon an idiot.

More heads turned—increased attention. Tracy’s cheeks hummed with blood. N-No, she answered.

Oh, Splotch Eye said disappointedly. "You look like you play ball. And then, with renewed inquisitiveness: What grade you in?"

Tenth, Tracy replied. The answer felt foreign and good on her tongue, for today was the first day of her life as a sophomore.

You the first Haines person I know to come to Beck, commented Splotch Eye.

Tracy didn’t know how to respond to the remark, so she pinched her lips in a conciliatory smile and bowed her head, hoping the gesture would put an end to the awful interrogation. It did. The bleachers hummed with new topics of conversation and when she glanced up, Tracy saw that the splotch-eyed girl was facing forward, interrogating someone else about something else. (You got science? What teacher you got? What period you take ’im?)

Tracy exhaled with relief, felt throbbing in the artery of her neck, and realized her eyes were stinging and moist. Her body always reacted strangely to close attention from others, which is why she had lied to Splotch Eye a moment ago. She did play basketball, but she didn’t play for a school team, and she knew that was what Splotch Eye was asking. But rather than admit that she played ball at all—and therefore subject herself to being asked why, with her height, she hadn’t played for Haines—Tracy had given the answer she hoped would put an end to Splotch Eye’s questioning. Now she blinked to clear her vision, pressed her shoulder blades against the wall behind her, and rested her head against the firm surface. The wall was cool and smooth against the back of her head. Soothing. And a swift look around the gym told her that the cinder blocks at her back were painted a glossy creamy tan. Just the right color, she thought, for a school that called its students the Lady Lions. But not the right color, she concluded, for a school everybody else called the Oreos. At least, that’s what the people in Area Place called Beck and its brother school, Langston. Oreos. Black people who were white on the inside. And for the students at the girls’ academy, Tracy and her Area Place friends had a special designation: Beckoreos. And now, here she was, in the midst of them.

It was sixth period, the last class of the day, and Tracy reflected on what she had observed of the Beckoreos since that morning. Up close, they were different, just as they had always seemed from afar. For one thing, many of them were pretty girls, Tracy decided, or at least clean-looking girls, with unflawed hands and bright teeth and clear complexions, like people who lived on water and lettuce and never scraped knees or snagged skin on nails. Many—though not the majority, as she had expected—were light-skinned blacks. But she noticed that even the darker ones, even the few truly dark ones, spoke and moved as if they were light. It had fascinated Tracy all day to hear leap from dark heads the same odd turns of phrase she had always heard white girls use on TV. "You’re kidding me! was a favorite exclamation, while Get outta here! was another. And so began sentences, while and like appeared somewhere in the middle. Gross! was a form of disapproval, bummer! expressed disappointment, and wonderful! and terrific!" were congratulatory rewards. Yes—aliens compared to the people in Tracy’s old school and neighborhood, as if the two worlds were on different planets instead of in adjacent school systems. The girls from Haines middle and high schools, the Area Place Project girls of Tracy’s neighborhood, sported the greasy, blemished, scarred brown skin caused by stress and unhealthy foods, petroleum jelly and harsh winter weather, clawing bullies and the belts of unhappy parents. And in Area Place and at Haines, clear articulation and politeness in conversation took a back seat to domination and attention-getting. There was always so much wrong with your life that your main goal when talking with others was getting your point across, and the people in Tracy’s world did that with speech she suddenly realized would sound horribly out of place in the Beck-MacDonald Park world with its happy and proper-talking blacks. Out my face, niggah. She a bitch. Mu’fuckas be trippin’. Tracy heard the expressions in her head and decided that, yep, they would be inappropriate in this place. This realization heightened the loneliness she had felt all day and depressed her, although she wasn’t sure why. But rather than give it more thought, she did what she often did when she felt out of place or couldn’t figure out something: She sighed, closed her eyes, and pretended she had on earphones and was listening to the smooth jazzy songs of the British musical group Sade. The imaginary music made her smile inside not only because Sade, the fair-skinned Nigerian woman after whom the group was named, was Tracy’s favorite singer but also because she suddenly realized that people in Area Place and McDonald Park liked Sade—and so maybe, Tracy hoped, this meant the two worlds weren’t so different, after all.

A bolt of sound suddenly vibrated through the gymnasium’s stone wall—the protracted tone of an electric bell, which sent a disruptive rhythm through Tracy’s back and startled her. She camouflaged her fright by calmly pulling away from the wall and casually looking around the gym, as if surveying the presence of the others. That’s when she noticed it—the hush that fell over the girls on the bleachers. Tracy was fascinated. Back at L. Carlton Haines, it took more than a bell to get students to calm down and shut up—shouting and threats were often needed. And in her earlier classes at Beck today, it had taken teachers’ stern orders to gain quiet in some classrooms after the tardy bell. But now, without the presence of any teacher, the bell alone had quieted the girls in the gym. Only a few continued to speak, in whispers.

Tracy marveled at this turn of events—and then suddenly saw all of the girls, in one accord, turn their heads to the right. Tracy was seconds late in following their gaze and seeing what they saw.

A woman wearing a vivid white warm-up suit and equally white sneakers had emerged from the locker-room area and was striding onto the gym floor to stand before the bleachers. She had radiant brown skin, a powerful stare, eyebrows that slanted angrily, and soft-looking curly dark hair that stroked her shoulders as she walked. Physically petite and sturdy, she seemed to brim with suppressed energy and moved easily on legs the strength of which was evident even in her roomy sweat pants. In one hand she swung a walking stick—dark and sleek, of handsome polished wood—and on the front of her dazzling white top was a startling ice-blue configuration that Tracy recognized as the Atlanta Majestics logo. Tracy stared at the mountainous logo, breathless. This was Jazz Nelson’s wife!

The woman halted in front of the bleachers and faced the seated girls, staring at them expectantly, waiting. The hesitation puzzled Tracy Sullivan—what was the woman waiting for?—and then suddenly Tracy knew. A complete, solid, breathless silence had overcome her classmates, a silence deeper than the one that prevailed moments before, and that is why the woman had waited. Tracy stared at her classmates. The overly confident Beckoreos—the nobody-can-tell-us-what-to-do-because-we’re-from-MacDonald Park Beckoreos—were actually afraid of someone. And that someone, Tracy could see, was the beautiful woman in white now standing before them.

Mrs. Jazz Nelson planted the tip of her walking stick on the floor between her feet and steadied it with her palm. Even from her spot high on the bleachers, Tracy could see that the woman’s fingernails were tapered and glossy—the hands of a pretty woman. Mrs. Jazz Nelson observed the group a moment more and then spoke.

"I’m sure most of you know who I am, but for those of you who have spent most of your lives on Mars, let me introduce myself. They call me Miss Grace. That’s fine, but my real name is Mrs. Gresham-Nelson. And that’s Gresham-Nelson with a hyphen."

The woman paused, looking at the girls.

Tracy stared back, amazed. Mrs. Jazz Nelson employed a precise enunciation that reminded Tracy of news ladies on TV. There was an arresting quality to the voice, an odd mix of calmness and strength that made the woman’s words resound in the spacious gymnasium and bounce off the high ceiling before descending upon the students’ heads—so that it seemed to Tracy that the voice had originated in some unseen location high above.

"Now I know that some of you who are juniors and seniors presume to interact on a first-name basis with your teachers, but that will not be the case with me. You are never ever to address me as Grace. That is a privilege I reserve for those who are my peers, and that would not be any of you. The relationship we share is that of instructor and students—nothing more. You are here because over the summer we decided to upgrade this course from an elective to one you must take in order to graduate. I am here because I enjoy teaching it. I am very serious about the subject of fitness, and I conduct this class in a manner that reflects that seriousness. So if you choose to address me, bear in mind that the only way I will allow you to call me Grace is if you precede it with Miss or Ms., whichever pronunciation you prefer. And remember that I will not respond to Mrs. Nelson. You will either call me Mrs. Gresham-Nelson, or else Miss Grace. And I prefer Miss Grace. Does anyone have a problem with that?"

Silence.

Tracy was astounded. She had never met anyone like Jazz Nelson’s wife! Had never known someone so absolutely unafraid to tell people what she wanted them to know.

The woman continued.

This is not a traditional P.E. class—we don’t play ball in here. This is Full-Body Workout One, and we perform aerobic exercises and light weight training. It is not an easy course—I don’t intend for it to be. But if you do what I say this semester, I guarantee you will be in better shape at the end than you were when you walked in here.

Again, she paused, and again, silence reigned.

The woman began pacing before the bleachers, swinging the walking stick at her side, using its tapered end to tap the waxed wooden slats of the gym floor. Tracy recalled images from TV and thought the gym teacher looked like a feminine Army drill sergeant lecturing recruits.

Now. Who can tell me what P.E. stands for?

There was more silence in the room—hesitance because, Tracy noted, no one seemed to trust even her basic knowledge in the presence of this woman.

Not the obvious answer, the woman continued, "not ‘physical education.’ In a class like this, one that will demand more of you mentally and physically than is required in a regular course, what else might P and E stand for?"

Silence. And then a voice jabbed the stillness.

Yo, Miz Grace, P.E. only stand for one thing: Public Enemy, baby!

All heads swung in the direction of a girl who sat on the bottommost row of the bleachers. Tracy, from her perch on top, had a clear view of the girl who had spoken. In fact, she had noticed the girl earlier, for in a population of slender Beck students with relaxed perms, painted lips, and form-flattering designer clothes, this particular squat girl wore a manly fade haircut and an oversized boys’ shorts ensemble, and her lips stood out pale and clean against the unadorned complexion of her face. To make the Public Enemy remark, the girl had gesticulated playfully and emphatically with her hands, and shrugged her shoulders in boyish fashion. She had obviously expected her classmates to vocally support her humor—they all knew Public Enemy was a controversial musical rap group—but her response was so glaringly inappropriate for the occasion that none of the other students laughed, and a soft voice near Tracy criticized, "No, she did not say that."

Tracy looked again at Jazz Nelson’s wife. The woman was staring at the boyish girl with a look that requested clarification.

I beg your pardon?

The boyish girl gestured with fingers that looked stubby and clean—no long nails, no polish—and on her wrist a man’s gold watch glinted in the ceiling lights of the gymnasium. Public Enemy—you know, Miz Grace. The rap group.

To Tracy, there seemed to pass over the teacher’s face a vague hint of a grim emotion—displeasure, or something like it—but the woman remained courteous. Yes. I think I’ve heard of them. She turned her attention to all the students. "Would someone like to offer a serious response to my question? And please—no references to entertainers who earn a living by denigrating women."

Oh, now, there she go, declared the boyish girl, flinging her hands upward in mock resignation. It ain’t even about that, Miz Grace, the girl defended. The music ain’t even about that.

Now there was a hint of a smile on the woman’s face. "What is it about, Vanessa Highton?"

Before the squared haircut could respond, others injected.

Killing police.

Beating women.

Misogyny!

A chorus of murmuring agreement sounded among the Beckoreos. In the midst of it, the boyish girl’s voice was discordant.

Nah, nah, y’all don’t know what y’all talkin’ about!

Please give Miss Highton your respect, the teacher said, and let her speak.

The room silenced.

"First of all, y’all confusin’ P.E. with NWA. But since you brought it up, all the gangsta boys doin’ is talkin’ about life on the streets. It might not be pretty, but it’s what they go through. I know—I’m from L.A. They just keepin’ it real. Somethin’ Beck don’t know nothin’ about."

"Why does that lifestyle appeal to you, Vanessa? the woman asked politely. Didn’t you grow up in Brentwood?"

Murmurs of laughter undulated through the girls. The woman glanced with disapproval at the laughter. Silence, she ordered softly, and there was silence.

The boyish girl darkened with embarrassment. "That don’t mean I don’t know what’s goin’ on, Miz Grace—I got family in Comp and Crenshaw. And these girls can laugh if they want to. I don’t expect them to get it. Buncha fake bourgie bitches, anyway," she added under her breath.

An audible gasp went up from the class. Tracy Sullivan gaped. From orientation class she knew that saying the word bitch at Beck was a crime punishable by immediate suspension and even expulsion. Tracy watched Mrs. Jazz Nelson’s face for a reaction. Upon hearing the bitches, the woman had blinked once in surprise and regarded the outspoken teenager with a stare that was at first fascinated, and then black and brilliant and challenging. Tracy scanned the other students. Many had turned, mouths set in silent ohs, to look at the boyish girl as if they thought she had lost her mind. The rest watched the woman, to see what she would do next.

Come here, Vanessa. Please, the teacher ordered.

The girl rose. There was no sound in the room as she walked to the teacher’s table-desk and stood. Tracy could see the expression on the girl’s face, a mix of defiance and uncertainty.

"What