The Tennis Bully Humiliated the New Black Girl — Then One Move Silenced the Court

The first person at Westbridge High to realize Jada Monroe knew how to fall was not a tennis coach.

It was the athletic trainer.

Three days after Jada transferred into the school, a freshman lost control of a medicine ball during preseason conditioning. The twenty-pound ball struck a bench, rolled under Jada’s left foot, and sent her backward toward the gym floor.

Most people would have thrown out their hands.

Jada tucked her chin.

Turned one shoulder.

Hit the floor diagonally and rolled smoothly back onto her feet before the medicine ball had stopped moving.

Athletic trainer Devin Shaw stared at her.

“You do gymnastics?”

“No.”

“Wrestling?”

Jada picked up the ball.

“No.”

Shaw narrowed his eyes.

“You didn’t learn that playing tennis.”

Jada smiled.

“My mom hates emergency rooms.”

It was technically an answer.

It explained almost nothing.

And that was exactly how Jada wanted her first semester at Westbridge to begin.

Quietly.

At seventeen, she was already tired of introductions.

Her family had moved four times in nine years because her mother worked for the Army. New neighborhoods, new schools, new grocery stores, new people asking the same questions about where she was “really from.”

This time, Jada wanted normal.

Her father, Isaiah Monroe, had laughed when she told him that.

“You understand normal people don’t announce that they intend to be normal.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

He was a civil engineer who worked mostly from home and therefore handled school forms, dentist appointments, grocery lists, forgotten lunches, and almost everything requiring a parent who could answer a phone before five.

Most people at Westbridge learned his name first.

Jada preferred it that way.

Her mother was simply listed on forms as Celeste Monroe — U.S. Army.

No rank.

No biography.

No reason for anybody at school to care.

Jada had insisted on that.

Her mother had agreed with one condition.

“Normal does not mean making yourself smaller.”

“I know.”

“You say that very quickly.”

“Because you’ve said it six hundred times.”

“Then retention should be excellent.”

Jada rolled her eyes.

Celeste smiled.

Conversation over.

Westbridge High sat twenty miles outside Richmond, surrounded by subdivisions with stone entrance signs, grocery stores built to resemble barns, and athletic complexes nicer than some small colleges.

The school had strong soccer, lacrosse, swimming, and tennis programs.

Girls’ varsity tennis had made the regional semifinal four years in a row.

The face of that program was Claire Donnelly.

Claire was seventeen.

White.

Brown hair usually pulled into a low ponytail.

Five-foot-seven, lean, disciplined, and ranked among the strongest high-school singles players in the district.

She wore the navy Westbridge tracksuit so often that even teachers who had never spoken to her knew she played tennis.

Claire was not merely good.

She had spent years being told the team belonged to her.

Her mother ran the booster club.

Her father donated money toward resurfacing two of the school courts.

Her older sister had been Westbridge tennis captain six years earlier.

Claire had started varsity as a freshman.

By senior year, younger players carried her bag without being asked.

She did not order them to.

That was what made the hierarchy harder to challenge.

Everybody already knew where they belonged.

Then Jada arrived.

She had no interest in changing anyone’s hierarchy.

She simply wanted to play.

Coach Elena Ramirez watched her for fifteen minutes at tryouts before walking closer to the baseline.

“Where did you play before this?”

“Colorado.”

“What school?”

“Fort Carson Ridge.”

“You play USTA?”

“Used to.”

“Ranking?”

“Not anymore.”

Ramirez studied her.

Jada’s game was unusual for a seventeen-year-old.

Not flashy.

Compact.

Her footwork was almost unnaturally balanced, and she recovered toward center faster than players who hit much harder.

She did not overpower the ball.

She redirected pace.

Against impatient opponents, it was infuriating.

Ramirez fed another ball.

Jada took it early and drove it deep into the opposite corner.

“Again.”

She did.

The coach smiled.

Claire did not.

She was standing beside the fence with teammate Brooke Hensley, watching.

“Transfer girl?”

Brooke nodded.

“Apparently.”

“She any good?”

Brooke watched another rally.

“Looks like.”

Claire crossed her arms.

Jada missed the next forehand.

Claire smiled.

“Not that good.”

Tryouts ended at five-thirty.

The roster went up the following afternoon.

Claire remained number one singles.

No surprise.

Senior Madeline Cho held number two.

Jada was listed at number three.

That was the surprise.

Two returning players dropped lower.

One cried in the bathroom.

Claire stared at the list until Brooke nudged her.

“She’s not taking your spot.”

“I know.”

“You look like she took your house.”

Claire laughed.

“I’m fine.”

Then she pointed toward Jada’s name.

“She’s been here four days.”

“Coach saw something.”

“Coach likes projects.”

Brooke shrugged.

Jada was standing twenty feet away talking to Ramirez.

Claire watched.

“What?”

Brooke asked.

“Nothing.”

It was the first time Claire used that word around Jada.

It would not be the last.

Jada’s first official practice began with introductions.

Most girls already knew each other.

Ramirez made Jada stand near the net.

“This is Jada Monroe. Senior transfer. Strong baseliner, excellent movement, and apparently the only person here who can remember to bring two water bottles.”

Several girls laughed.

Jada lifted one hand.

“Hydration is my personality.”

That helped.

Even Claire smiled.

For approximately nine minutes, everything felt normal.

Then they started conditioning.

Ramirez paired Jada with freshman Emma Keene for lateral sprint drills.

Jada finished first.

Claire was standing near the fence.

“Track team’s next field over.”

Jada glanced toward her.

“What?”

Claire smiled.

“Nothing.”

Jada continued.

Later, during cross-court drills, Jada chased down a ball everyone assumed was gone.

Claire said loudly:

“Okay, we get it. Athletic.”

A couple girls laughed.

Jada returned to the baseline.

Ramirez blew her whistle.

“Again.”

Claire’s comments were small enough to sound harmless.

That was why Jada ignored them.

She had been the new Black girl before.

There was always somebody who wanted to understand her through categories before learning her.

Fast.

Athletic.

Strong.

Confident.

Intimidating.