Episode 006

Introducing Mercy Anne, our beautiful female lead, and Cindy Hernandez, her stunning protege

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Chapter 4

Mercy balanced packs of streamers, silly string, and fake blood in one hand, and a grocery bag full of apples, diet coke, and Doritos in the other. Beads of sweat framed her forehead like dew and had just started to wick up into her cinnamon-colored hair. The extra layer she’d thrown on in the interest of professionalism only intensified the inland heat, and by the time she made it up the second flight of stairs, her lean arms burned with exertion.

She backed through the gymnasium style metal doors right on the verge of disaster. “I could use a hand here,” she called out.

In another setting, any man worth the breath to call himself one, would have greeted her in the parking lot, escorted her inside, and carried in the supplies for her. Later there might be candlelight, bubble baths, and daiquiris...but that was before Mercy became a volunteer at High Hopes Teen Center. Funny how twelve years, a sweater vest, and a masters degree will dampen your doability. 

“Hello? Big strong men? I’m dropping the soda!"

God forbid she pull them away from their iPods and Gameboys and internet surfing for five minutes.

“Hey, it’s your party. I guess we could just call the whole thing off and send everyone home...”

That got them moving. Most of these kids came from families where home was a trailer with roosting chickens under the skirting; a strung-out mom in a ratty bath robe, yelling at them to go buy her some cigarettes when there wasn’t even food in the kitchen. The remainder came from broken homes with manicured lawns and birthday present Beamers in the driveway (because mom’s Mercedes is in the garage); ordered around from activity to activity by Ivy League-educated parents who’d somehow removed the corncob from their butt long enough to reproduce, but not long enough to teach them about love and acceptance.

“Thank you, Pedro.”

“You’re welcome, Miss Mercy.”

Mercy set down the supplies and surveyed the rec room. Half of what she’d asked them to do when she left for the store were finished. Not too shabby, all things considered. At least they hadn’t set anything on fire. After all, they were kids: raging hormones, insecurities, and easily distracted—definitely in need of some Ritalin in a few cases. Still, she was surprised Cindy hadn’t made sure all of it was finished. She could usually count on her protégé to be more conscientious.

“Has anyone seen Cindy?”

“End-Times,” someone blurted into their palm with a mock sneeze. What a bunch of comedians, this group.

“OK, Mr. Subliminal, you know I don’t like name calling.” Truth be told, however, she liked Henry Whitmore less than the spot-on nickname the kids had given him. Her heart hurt, as if she’d just inhaled an ice cube down the wrong pipe.

“She’s with Henry?”

Theresa peered over her Seventeen magazine, “yeah, they’re in your office. They’ve been in there quite awhile.”

“Quite a while,” Holly added, giving Mercy a knowing wink.

“I want this room party-ready in ten minutes, that means streamers up in the corners, chairs folded and up against the wall, and sodas on ice,” Mercy said, and then went to find Cindy. This time they sprang into action.

Mercy wasn’t in the habit of giving dating advice. To each, their own, as far as she was concerned.

But Cindy was different. Cindy was far more than someone she mentored, she was practically her little sister. Not that they looked alike: Cindy with her waist-length ink-black hair and tiny hummingbird bones—her dark chocolate eyes, and mocha-frappuccino skin—an Aztec princess transported through the ages in a spaghetti string halter top and blue jeans time machine. But looks aside—blood aside—they were family in all of the ways that mattered.

End Times, she said to herself, walking quietly in her Hushpuppy flats. What with all his “Revelation” this, “Rapture” that—fire and brimstone from a man who drove a Volkswagen van and considered black dress socks with canvas Chuck Taylor’s high fashion.

She wasn’t going to knock. It was her office.

She torqued the knob and half kicked, half pushed the door wide open, flicking on the light switch a millisecond later, and—

—immediately wished she hadn’t.

Henry jerked ramrod straight in Mercy’s desk chair, eyes wide. Then a second later, realized his hand was still burrowing beneath Cindy’s black silk panties, even after she’d pulled her skirt back down from around her waist. Two seconds passed in silence and finally he remembered his hand on her genitals, the same hand he used to distribute communion wafers on Sunday.

He looked shocked, like: oh, how did that get there, and then without meeting Mercy’s eyes, promptly sat on both of his hands.

This must be what a hot flash feels like.

“Mercy! Have you ever heard of knocking!”

Mercy didn’t answer, at a loss as to exactly how she should respond. She was far from a prude, and Cindy far from a child, but ever since her up-and-down battle with brain cancer, Mercy had to fight the incessant urge to mother everyone. Especially Cindy.

Henry started to say something that might have been an apology.

That cut through her shock. “Shut up, End Times.”

He did shut up, and Cindy’s jaw fell almost as fast her skirt had.

A trio of snickers ensued from outside in the hall and Cindy went from slow burn to absolutely smoldering.

Dammit! Mercy said under her breath. “Get back to work or no pizza,” she said. The hecklers traipsed back to the rec-room.

She took a deep breath trying to keep her composure. It wasn’t working. And she felt sick to her stomach; butterflies of anger and embarrassment dueling in her gut, almost like the chemo treatment would make her feel tomorrow morning. She hoped—despite this confrontation—that Cindy would still be willing to take care of her after the appointment.

Henry stepped toward her and extended his hand to her shoulder in an effort to placate her.

“Don’t touch me!” Mercy said a she swatted it away.

“Maybe I should go,” Henry said, smirking at Mercy through bulbous eyes.

“I’m coming with you,” Cindy said, but Mercy grabbed her arm.

“We need to talk. And you promised to help out tonight. Glare at me all you want,” Mercy said, “but you’ve got a job to do here.” Mercy pulled the door closed again and Cindy seemed to relent.

She’s come so far... And yet, she thought, there was still much of the street in Cindy—her rebellious: screw you, because everyone else screws me, attitude.

“Cindy, What kind of example is this to the kids out there who look up to you?”

“No, they look up to you Mercy.”

“You’re wrong Cindy. You’re one of them, they see how far you’ve come, and it gives them faith.”

“Spare me the lecture. I’m sorry, OK? Not all of us can be ‘Miss-pure-as-the-driven-snow,’ Mercy!”

Ouch. “You think I’m some kind of prude? Cindy, look, it’s not what you were doing that disappoints me—it’s where you’re doing it.” In truth, Mercy was more concerned with the who part of the equation, but she couldn’t tell Cindy that. “You think those kids don’t know what’s going on in here?”

Cindy’s eyes went almost completely liquid; one jolt and the dam would burst. She nodded. She nodded, lower lip quivering.

“Come here,” Mercy said, and she hugged her best reason for getting out of bed on those days the cancer wanted her to stay under the covers.

La Jollan socialites who made donations to the center would often quiz her on why someone who attended Northwestern would want to surround themselves with gang members, and the children of cleaning ladies. Just one life turned around is worth it, she’d say, Cindy’s drug-free and feisty smile warming her heart like stained-glass-filtered sun. One Cindy was worth a dozen gang bangers who never changed.

“It’s OK, it’s OK.”

Cindy sobbed into her shoulder, shaking, weeping with her whole body. But then, in typical Cindy fashion, it was over just as abruptly as it started. She stepped away, blew her nose into a tissue, and crossed her arms again in defiance.

“Why you gotta call him that? Why you gotta mock him? He’s a good Christian man. I thought you’d be proud of me for dating someone more mature.”

Mercy was used to Cindy’s turn-on-a-dime mood swings. She stayed calm—tried not to sound like a nagging mother hen. “Maturity isn’t measured in years, Cindy—although he is old enough to be your father!”

“So!”

“Cindy, he might as well be a pedophile! He’s what, forty-two? And as for his faith, I think it’s a sham. Like his sermons: a diversion.”

But on this last point, Mercy knew her argument was getting shaky. After all, Cindy had met Henry at one of those rock ‘n roll style mega-revivals. He’d been one of the featured speakers. And it had been Mercy who urged Cindy to go to the event in the first place. Ever since, Cindy had been completely enamored with Henry.

“How can you say that?”

“Come on, a ‘pastor’ was just fondling you in my office! What do you mean: ‘how can I say that?’ That’s not normal, Cindy. Believe me—and yes—despite my conspicuous lack of a life outside this center—I would know.”

Cindy loosened up a little, and sat down. “You’re wrong about his faith, Mercy. Henry is devout. He’s been on TV for God’s sake.”

Or for his wallet’s sake, Mercy thought but didn’t say. It was time to take a different tack. She understood the sway an authority figure could hold over a young woman. In college she once fell madly in lust with her philosophy TA. The guy was a total dork out of the classroom, but he was so passionate about the material, he was able to keep an entire classroom of undergrads from falling asleep. Something about the attention people paid him made his pony-tailed, oxford shirt and sandals getup imminently sexy.

Mercy grasped Cindy’s hand. “Look. It doesn’t matter. Even if Henry volunteered as a candy striper in the burn unit, I’d still think you could do much better.”

“Oh yeah? Better like who?” Cindy said.

“Come with me,” Mercy said.

#

When Mercy had passed the basketball court on her way in with the party favors, she’d let her eyes linger on the scenery a second or two longer than what might be considered appropriate. Lately she’d been suppressing any sensual urges she felt, not wanting to risk falling for someone she’d only hurt if the cancer finally won. But there were days (and this was one of them) when she fantasized of illicit encounters far too spontaneous and abrupt to worry about the ‘L’ word mucking things up. Only their tender age and her sense of responsibility kept them safe from a janitor-closet quickie when she felt like this.

So Mercy knew, even before she walked outside with Cindy, that there were three or four boys worth a date. Or a spanking, she suppressed behind a mischievous grin. Still, she wasn’t prepared for the new boy who’d joined the game in her absence.

Something pinched the back of her arm. “Ouch!” It was Cindy.

“Can you please be any more obvious? We’re supposed to be ‘examples,’ remember?”

“Uh-huh,” Mercy said.

“Mercy! Geez. Take a freakin’ picture, it’ll last longer.”

Mercy tore her eyes off the golden haired, chest-o-licious boy who could not only dunk, but dunked with authority.

“If that young man doesn’t prove our God is a loving God, then tell me, what does?” Mercy asked.

“OK. So he’s hot. But even if I went out with him—and he hasn’t asked—I’m sure I’d just be his flavor of the week. Look at him: he’s gotta be a playa’. He could have any hottie he wants—and I’m sure he does.

“I don’t want a fling Mercy. I won’t something serious. Long term.”

“You’ve got time, Cindy. It isn’t a race. You’re twenty-years-old. What’s it going to hurt to date a little?”

“I don’t want to date. I want a family… So does Henry.”

Mercy flinched and hoped Cindy didn’t notice. Three count. Breathe. 3-2-1. If she wasn’t careful—wasn’t nonchalant—she’d lose her. The easy thing would be to shut her down. To nip this premature nesting instinct in her tight little tush. But with Cindy, she knew from long experience, you had to hear her out. You had to go along with what she was expressing and help her explore where those paths might lead. Only later, when your patience earned you her trust, would she consider any advice.

“You know Cindy, there’s actually a lot of guys your age that secretly dream of starting a family. It’s not something they brag about with their friends, but if you got them to open up, they’d tell you.”

“I’ve never met any,” Cindy said.

“Well you’re about to. Hey shirts!” Mercy yelled, “I see you could use some help on defense. Got room for Cindy? She says she’ll shut down the phenom in the red shorts who’s been schooling you all so bad.”

The action stopped so fast you would think someone yelled ‘cut’ on a film set. Mercy knew from plenty of overheard conversations, that the boys who frequented High Hopes found Cindy almost unattainably hot. Prime masturbatory material, in their words. Crude, but true.

Cindy stomped her foot and elbowed Mercy in the ribs. “Mercy! What are you doing?”

“See boys? She’s chomping at the bit!”

Golden Boy grinned over at them. “Shut me down, huh? You might have better luck stealing my heart than the ball, but I’d love to see you try.”

“Go get ‘em Cindy.”

Golden Boy bounce passed the ball over in Cindy’s direction. She didn’t really have a choice but to catch it, or it would have nailed her right in the chin.

“But I need to help you with the party, and then put my costume together.”

Mercy put her hands on Cindy’s shoulders and pushed her toward the boys who were now drooling more than sweating. They’d ask, how high? the next time she needed them to jump for her.

“You can come as a star crossed lover. I’ll handle the rest of the preparations. Go. Have fun.”

Cindy spun the ball on the tip of her index finger and started to back peddle toward the court. “Fine. I’ll have a little fun. But don’t expect me to forget about Henry just because a few boys flirt with me. We’re a lot more serious than you realize, Mercy.” With that, Cindy dribbled her way over to center court.

I’ll pray for you, Mercy thought, but she said nothing. She watched Cindy just long enough see how she looked with Golden Boy…like premarital sex waiting to happen. Oh well. Cindy had gone from prostituting herself for drug money, to a pretty darn good assistant youth counselor, completely clean and sober for three years and running. God took things like that into account, Mercy was sure of it. And besides, she thought, how you can repent if you never sin?