Mercedes Morgan’s shot exploded like a bullet: fast, accurate, and painful to her enemy.
“Three!” the point guard, Cheryl, yelled in delight. The other starters of the Birmingham North Wildcats team—Halle, Toni, and A.J.—followed with slaps and bumps.
Mercedes didn’t acknowledge her teammates, the shot, or the score. To do so meant removing her “don’t mess with me” game face, letting down her guard, and rejoicing about something small. It was three points. The first of many she figured she’d score in her senior year.
Back on defense, Mercedes kept her left arm outstretched in front, waiting for her chance to swat the ball from the Hoover guard. The Hoover guard cut left, but Mercedes hung tight. She closed off all good options and forced a bad pass. The other team would score, that was a given, but Mercedes didn’t want any to come from her zone. She owned it like gangs owned blocks back in her old neighborhood.
Before the second quarter, Coach Johnson told the other players to feed Mercedes the ball. “She’s hotter than Alabama in August,” Coach said.
As Mercedes walked toward the locker at the end of the half, she took inventory of the sparsely populated bleachers. Jade? Yes! Mom? Yes, always. Dad? No, working, also always. Little brother, Lincoln? Yes, but not happy about it. Big sister, Callie? Never.
Mercedes knew where Callie would be, but she tried to block the image like she rejected shots. Callie never sat in the stands. She stood on a corner in their old neighborhood. There Callie dealt in danger, always on guard, not knowing when her number would come up. Not if, Mercedes thought, but when.