The Unraveling of Mercy Louis by Keija Parssinen

though.
    From my place near the front of the room, I turn around, scan for Annie. The look on her face tells me that she’s as shocked by this news as I am. It’s late for a Purity Ball—Annie just turned seventeen. And there’s the issue of her reputation. We’re taught that it’s never too late to commit to abstinence, but I wonder if Annie can uphold the promise, or if she even wants to make it.
    Maw Maw takes my hand across the pew. “Finally, that girl’s going to raise herself up to your level,” she says.

    I smile. Even though the idea of a ball for Annie is odd, I’m relieved, glad, even. For years, I’ve loved someone who continues to damn herself. Do you know what that does to a heart? Only look into Maw Maw’s ruined face to know for sure. As we make to leave the church, I see Annie at the cookie table. I wave and start to approach, but she scowls, then turns her back to me and moves to the end of the table. From the way she stands there—arms crossed, jaw set—I can feel the fury burning off her in little waves, smudging her hard edges. I can’t tell if she’s angry with me or the world, but I know that she needs space, so I turn toward the door. Outside, the sound of a distant chain saw, a plane passing far overhead. I wonder how I can convince Annie to wear the white gown and accept the ring, and, most of all, to keep the promise she’ll make before God and the town.

    THAT NIGHT I can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see Charmaine. Sometimes it’s the lonesome woman from the photo, and sometimes it’s the woman from Maw Maw’s stories, the one who keeps bad company and has scars that crater the skin around her mouth like the surface of the moon. To clear the images away, I visualize my free-throw ritual: place right foot slightly ahead of left, line up right elbow directly above knee, bounce ball twice, hard, backspin it once, cock wrist and balance ball off the palm, just under nose, then arc, release, follow through. Swish. And again. Swish. Again. Again. Again.
    My alarm clock glows eleven o’clock when I hear Maw Maw clearing her throat in the hall. It’s miles past her bedtime. Perhaps a vision has jolted her from sleep. The night’s silence delivers sounds from the hall so clear, I don’t need to move to know what she’s doing: dialing the phone, which sits in the hall halfway between her room and mine. Quietly, I slide to the door, butt down, feet wide in my best defensive crouch to avoid creaking the boards. I could stay like this for hours, my quads volcanic rock, alive with burn inside.
    I listen at the crack of the door.

    â€œI’m not going to let her play,” she whispers. Pause. “I got a bad feeling, gut-deep, is why.” Pause. I realize she means basketball, and that she must be talking to Coach, and my stomach drops somewhere between my haunches. “What with this baby, I think it’s best to keep the girl close, I keep seeing girls falling . . .” Pause. “Don’t you patronize me, you know my visions are a gift from the Lord.” Pause. “She goes where I say she goes.” Pause. “Hmph. Obviously concerned you enough to wait a week to tell me.” Pause. “No, I don’t think twice about it. That’s why it’s called faith, not doubt, Jodi. Starting to regret ever getting you involved, though.” Pause. “You don’t know that, only the Lord can know how it would’ve gone.” Pause. “You’re bluffing, you’d never . . .” Pause. “Fine, but only because I’m a woman of my word.”
    The soft click of the receiver returned to its place. The shuffling of slippered feet. The thunk of a door closing. Back in bed, sheets cool against tingling thighs, I wonder if Maw Maw would really forbid me to play.
    Through the empty stretch of deep night, I don’t sleep a lick, instead reading