“You okay?” It was Cheryl. While North had won the game despite Mercedes, the bus ride back had been silent. Mercedes was surprised by Cheryl’s call the next morning. “Mercedes, talk to me.” Mercedes said nothing until Cheryl pressed hard, just like she did on defense.
“No, I’m not all right.” The contents of Mercedes’s broken heart, nervous mind, and wounded spirit spilled out.
Cheryl kept quiet until Mercedes heard words she’d never heard from a teammate. Words she’d said to others, yet that no one but Jade had said to her before. “Mercedes, it’s okay. Don’t cry.”
Mercedes took a deep breath like she was trying to pull the tears back into her eyes. “It’s too much,” Mercedes said.
“If there’s anything we can do,” Cheryl offered. Mercedes mumbled and hung up the phone just as she heard the back door open. There stood her parents, sweating even in December.
“What are you doing?” They should have been at the hospital.
Her parents looked at each other, but not at Mercedes. Her mom held a bucket in one hand and a brush in the other; her dad held two brushes. Her mom emptied the bucket into the sink, then filled it with water. Her dad washed his hands under steaming water and bubbling soap. Mercedes walked toward the sink and saw the white surface turn scarlet as her father cleaned off his hands.
Mercedes followed them back outside. Her dad slammed the door. It was good that Lincoln was at Grandma Bee’s house, she thought, so he could avoid all the anger. Her parents walked with slumped shoulders toward the garage where the word “SNITCH” had been spray-painted in red letters two feet high on the garage door. A word stronger than muscle, soap, and water.
Mercedes had her why. Callie’s shooting wasn’t random; it was revenge.