Have Mercy (Have a Life #1) Read Online Free PDF

mushrooms.  “None of this is organic,” she said.  “I’ll take to you the farmers’ market out in Berks County when we have some time.” Then we were in the water aisle and grabbed two gallons of distilled water—Milltown water is polluted, she said, mercury from the old mills, not to mention the dentist offices which dump the stuff unhindered down the drain—then the soup aisle, two cans of broth, a box of brown rice, and a small bottle of olive oil.  Kirby seemed to be looking for something as we continued on our pilgrimage.  Wegmans was a beehive mess.  They were re-designing the layout of the whole store: carts of inventory blockading the aisles, blue shirted employees huddling with supervisors in gold shirts, drop ceiling panels missing, the kind of chaos that comes when something that’s been fixed in place for a long time is being uprooted.  We stopped beside a scaffold in the detergent aisle.
                  “This is good,” Kirby said.  She plucked the salmon from the cart, looked left and right, tore the price tag off, balled it up and dropped it on the floor then shoved the salmon into the hand muff on the front of her sweatshirt.  “Sometimes it’s pretty cold when the season starts,” she explained.  “Let’s walk to the end checkout counter.  I know the cashier there.  Stop staring, breath and smile and nod your head like I just told you a joke.  Hi, Tawana.”
                  “Hello Cap,” the six foot tall black checkout girl answered.
                  “Meet my friend, Mercy O’Reilly.  She’s a composer just like you. Tawana composed our fight song,” Kirby explained.  “Not the official one. The one we sing on the field where the coaches can’t hear us.”
                  Kirby reached over the counter and put her arms around Tawana’s neck.
                  Urethane will shatter glass
                  We always win, you bet your ass
                  Watch us do our victory dance
                  Run while you’ve still got a chance
     
                  They sing-songed, did an elaborate handshake and bumped heads. 
                  A couple of bald guys in line behind us laughed.  One was wearing a Milltown letter jacket—Springsteen’s Glory Days come to life—“How’s it looking for next year Kirby?” he asked.               
                  “The best again, sir.”
                  “Can I bet money on it?”
                  “All the juniors are coming back.”
                  “You play sports, Mercy?” Tawana asked as she bagged our goods. 
                  Do mind games count?  I tried to say, but nothing came out.
                  “She’s recovering from a spring flu,” Kirby said.  She paid for the food—the food she decided to pay for that is—with two rolls of quarters and we walked along the line of checkout counters where someone in every checkout line seemed to know her.  Apparently Kirby, unlike me, was already famous.  I was so scared the security guard was going to stop us, I was beet red and waterfalls of sweat were running off my pits and all that was keeping me from fainting was that I had to pee really badly.  Kirby stopped in front of the manager’s counter—where another security guard was looking suspiciously at Kirby’s stomach—and put her palm on my forehead.  “May I have a couple pieces of Kleenex, miss,” she asked the manager who handed her a wad of tissues.  She walked slowly to the exit and she pulled the back of my shirt when it was obvious I wanted to break into a run. 
                  I looked at her from the corner of my eyes on the way home, totally intimidated.  You know
    when you think you’re really cool and you’re all puffed up about yourself because you just know you won’t