The Hate U Give (18 page)

I laugh with tears in my eyes. Like I said, Daddy’s talented that way.

He wipes my face with his hands, which are rough as sandpaper, but I’m used to them. He frames my face. I smile. “There go my baby,” he says. “You’ll be a’ight.”

I feel normal enough to say, “Now I’m your baby? You haven’t been acting like it.”

“Don’t start!” He goes down the medicine aisle. “Sounding like your momma.”

“I’m just saying. You’ve been extra salty today.”

He returns with a bottle of Listerine. “Here. Before you kill my produce with your breath.”

“Like you killed those eggs this morning?”

“Ay, those were blackened eggs. Y’all don’t know ’bout that.”

“
Nobody
knows ’bout that.”

A couple of rinses in the restroom transform my mouth from a swamp of puke residue to normal. Daddy waits on the wooden bench at the front of the store. Our older customers who can’t walk much usually sit there as Daddy, Seven, or I get their groceries for them.

Daddy pats the spot next to him.

I sit. “You’re gonna open back up soon?”

“In a li’l bit. What you see in that white boy?”

Damn. I wasn’t expecting him to go right into it. “Besides the fact he’s adorable—” I say, and Daddy makes a gagging sound, “he’s smart, funny, and he cares about me. A lot.”

“You got a problem with black boys?”

“No. I’ve had black boyfriends.” Three of them. One in fourth grade, although that doesn’t really count, and two in middle school, which don’t count either ’cause nobody knows shit about a relationship in middle school. Or about anything really.

“What?” he says. “I ain’t know ’bout them.”

“Because I knew you’d act crazy. Put a hit on them or something.”

“You know, that ain’t a bad idea.”

“Daddy!” I smack his arm as he cracks up.

“Did Carlos know ’bout them?” he asks.

“No. He would’ve ran background checks on them or arrested them. Not cool.”

“So why you tell him ’bout the white boy?”

“I didn’t tell him,” I say. “He found out. Chris lives down the street from him, so it was harder to hide. And let’s be real here, Daddy. I’ve heard the stuff you’ve said about interracial couples. I didn’t want you talking about me and Chris like that.”

“Chris,” he mocks. “What kinda plain-ass name is that?”

He’s so petty. “Since you wanna ask me questions, do you have a problem with white people?”

“Not really.”

“
Not really
?”

“Ay, I’m being honest. My thing is, girls usually date boys who are like their daddies, and I ain’t gon’ lie, when I saw that white—Chris,” he corrects, and I smile. “I got worried. Thought I turned you against black men or didn’t set a good example of a black man. I couldn’t handle that.”

I rest my head on his shoulder. “Nah, Daddy. You haven’t set a good example of what a black man should be. You’ve set a good example of what a
man
should be. Duh!”

“Duh,” he mocks, and kisses the top of my head. “My baby.”

A gray BMW comes to a sudden stop in front of the store.

Daddy nudges me off the bench. “C’mon.”

He pulls me to his office and shoves me in. I catch a glimpse
of King getting out the BMW before Daddy closes the door in my face.

Hands shaking, I crack open the door.

Daddy stands guard in the entrance of the store. His hand drifts to his waist. His piece.

Three other King Lords hop out the BMW, but Daddy calls out, “Nah. If you wanna talk, we do this alone.”

King nods at his boys. They wait beside the car.

Daddy steps aside, and King lumbers in. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I don’t know if Daddy stands a chance against King. Daddy isn’t skinny or short, but compared to King, who’s pure muscle at six feet, he looks tiny. It’s damn near blasphemous to think like that though.

“Where he at?” King asks.

“Where who at?”

“You know who. Vante.”

“How I’m supposed to know?” Daddy says.

“He was working here, wasn’t he?”

“For a day or two, yeah. I ain’t seen him today.”

King paces and points his cigar at Daddy. Sweat glistens on the rolls of fat on the back of his head. “You lying.”

“Why I gotta lie, King?”

“All the shit I did for you,” King says, “and this how you repay me? Where he at, Big Mav?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where he at?” King yells.

“I said I don’t know! He asked me for a couple hundred dollars the other day. I told him he had to work for it. So he did. I had some mercy and paid it all up front like a dumbass. He was supposed to come in today and didn’t. End of story.”

“Why he need money from you when he stole five Gs from me?”

“Hell if I know,” Daddy says.

“If I find out you lying—”

“You ain’t gotta worry ’bout that. Got too many problems of my own.”

“Oh, yeah. I know ’bout your problems,” King says, a laugh bubbling from him. “I heard Starr-Starr the witness they been talking ’bout on the news. Hope she know to keep her mouth shut when she supposed to.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“These cases always interesting,” King says. “They dig for information. Shit, they try to find out more ’bout the person who died than the person who shot them. Make it seem like a good thing they got killed. They already saying Khalil sold drugs. That could mean problems for anybody who may have been involved in his hustle. So people gotta be careful when they talking to the DA. Wouldn’t want them to be in danger ’cause they ran their mouth.”

“Nah,” Daddy says. “The folks who were involved in the hustle need to be careful ’bout what they say or even think ’bout doing.”

There are several agonizing seconds of Daddy and King staring each other down. Daddy’s hand is at his waist like it’s glued there.

King leaves, pushing the door hard enough to nearly break the hinges, the bell clanging wildly. He gets in his BMW. His minions follow, and he peels out, leaving the truth behind.

He’s gonna mess me up if I rat on him.

Daddy sinks onto the old people’s bench. His shoulders slump, and he takes a deep breath.

We close early and pick up dinner from Reuben’s.

During the short drive home, I notice every car behind us, especially if it’s gray.

“I won’t let him do anything to you,” Daddy says.

I know. But still.

Momma’s beating the hell out of some steaks when we get home. First the skillet and now red meat. Nothing in the kitchen is safe.

Daddy holds up the bags for her to see. “I got dinner, baby.”

It doesn’t stop her from beating the steaks.

We all sit around the kitchen table, but it’s the quietest dinner in Carter family history. My parents aren’t talking. Seven’s not talking. I’m definitely not talking. Or eating. Between the disaster at the DA’s office and King, my ribs and baked beans look disgusting. Sekani can’t sit still, like he’s itching to give every detail of his day. I guess he can tell nobody’s in the mood.
Brickz chomps and slobbers over some ribs in his corner.

Afterward, Momma collects our plates and silverware. “All right, guys, finish your homework. And don’t worry, Starr. Your teachers gave me yours.”

Why would I worry about that? “Thanks.”

She starts to pick up Daddy’s plate, but he touches her arm. “Nah. I got it.”

He takes all of the plates from her, dumps them in the sink, and turns the water on.

“Maverick, you don’t have to do that.”

He squirts way too much dishwashing liquid in the sink. He always does. “It’s cool. What time you gotta be at the clinic in the morning?”

“I’ll be off again tomorrow. I have a job interview.”

Daddy turns around. “Another one?”

Another
one?

“Yeah. Markham Memorial again.”

“That’s where Aunt Pam works,” I say.

“Yeah. Her dad is on the board and recommended me. It’s the Pediatrics Nursing Manager. This is my second interview for it actually. They want some of the higher-ups to interview me this time.”

“Baby, that’s amazing,” Daddy says. “That means you’re close to getting it, huh?”

“Hopefully,” she says. “Pam thinks it’s as good as mine.”

“Why didn’t you guys tell us?” Seven asks.

“’Cause it’s none of y’all business,” Daddy says.

“And we didn’t want to get your hopes up,” Momma adds. “It’s a competitive position.”

“How much does it pay?” Seven’s rude self asks.

“More than what I make at the clinic. Six figures.”

“Six?” Seven and I say.

“Momma’s gonna be a millionaire!” Sekani shouts.

I swear he doesn’t know anything. “Six figures is the hundred thousands, Sekani,” I say.

“Oh. It’s still a lot.”

“What time is your interview?” Daddy asks.

“Eleven.”

“Okay, good.” He turns around and wipes a plate. “We can look at some houses before you go to it.”

Momma’s hand goes across her chest, and she steps back. “What?”

He looks at me, then at her. “I’m getting us outta Garden Heights, baby. You got my word.”

The idea is as crazy as a four-point shot. Living somewhere other than Garden Heights? Yeah, right. I’d never believe it if it wasn’t Daddy saying it. Daddy never says something unless he means it. King’s threat must’ve really got to him.

He scrubs the skillet that Momma stabbed this morning.

She takes it from him, sets it down, and grabs his hand. “Don’t worry about that.”

“I told you it’s cool. I can get the dishes.”

“Forget the dishes.”

And she pulls him to their bedroom and closes the door.

Suddenly, their TV blares real loud, and Jodeci sings over it from the stereo. If that woman ends up with a fetus in her uterus, I will be completely done.
Done
.

“Ill, man,” Seven says, knowing the deal too. “They’re too old for that.”

“Too old for what?” Sekani asks.

“Nothing,” Seven and I say together.

“You think Daddy meant that though?” I ask Seven. “We’re moving?”

He twists one of his dreads at the root. I don’t think he realizes he’s doing it. “Sounds like y’all are. Especially if Ma gets this job.”

“
Y’all
?” I say. “You’re not staying in Garden Heights.”

“I mean, I’ll visit, but I can’t leave my momma and my sisters, Starr. You know that.”

“Your momma put you out,” Sekani says “Where else you gonna go, stupid?”

“Who you calling stupid?” Seven sticks his hand under his armpit, then rubs it in Sekani’s face. The one time he did it to me I was nine. He got a busted lip, and I got a whooping.

“You’re not gonna be at your momma’s house anyway,” I say. “You’re going away to college, hallelujah, thank Black Jesus.”

Seven raises his brows. “You want an armpit hand too? And
I’m going to Central Community so I can stay at my momma’s house and watch out for my sisters.”

That stings. A little. I’m his sister too, not just them.
“House,”
I repeat. “You never call it home.”

“Yeah, I do,” he says.

“No, you don’t.”

“Yeah.”

“Shut the hell up.” I end that argument.

“Ooh!” Sekani holds his hand out. “Gimme my dollar!”

“Hell no,” I say. “That shit doesn’t work with me.”

“Three dollars!”

“Okay, fine. I’ll give you a three-dollar bill.”

“I’ve never seen a three-dollar bill,” he says.

“Exactly. And you’ll never see my three dollars.”

Ms. Ofrah arranged for me to do an interview with one of the national news programs today—exactly a week before I testify before the grand jury next Monday.

It’s around six o’clock when the limo that the news program sent arrives. My family’s coming with me. I doubt my brothers will be interviewed, but Seven wants to support me. Sekani claims he does too, but really he’s hoping he’ll get “discovered” somehow with all those cameras around.

My parents told him about everything. As much as he gets on my nerves, it was sweet when he gave me a handmade card that said “Sorry.” Until I opened it. There was drawing of me crying over Khalil, and I had devil horns. Sekani said he wanted it to be “real.” Little asshole.

We all head out to the limo. Some neighbors watch curiously from their porches and yards. Momma made all of us, including
Daddy, dress up like we’re going to Christ Temple—not quite Easter formal but not “diverse church” casual. She says we’re not gonna have the news people thinking we’re “hood rats.”

So as we’re walking to the car, she’s all, “When we get there, don’t touch anything and only speak when somebody speaks to you. It’s ‘yes, ma’am’ and ‘yes, sir,’ or ‘no, ma’am’ and ‘no, sir.’ Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the three of us say.

“All right now, Starr,” one of our neighbors calls out. I get that just about every day in the neighborhood now. Word’s spreading around the Garden that I’m the witness. “All right now” is more than a greeting. It’s a simple way people let me know they got my back.

The best part though? It’s never “All right now, Big Mav’s daughter who works in the store.” It’s always Starr.

We leave in the limo. I drum my fingers on my knee as I watch the neighborhood pass by. I’ve talked to detectives and the DA, and next week I’ll talk to the grand jury. I’ve talked about that night so much I can repeat it back in my sleep. But the whole world will see this.

My phone vibrates in my blazer pocket. A couple of texts from Chris.

My mom wants to know what color your prom dress is.

Something about the tailor needs to know ASAP.

Oh, shit. The Junior-Senior Prom is Saturday. I haven’t
bought a dress. With all this Khalil stuff, I’m not sure I wanna go. Momma said I need to get my mind off things. I said no. She gave me “the look.”

So I’m going to the damn prom. This dictatorship she’s on? Not cool. I text Chris back.

Uh . . . light blue?

He responds:

You don’t have a dress yet?

I’ve got plenty of time
, I write back.
Just been busy
.

It’s true. Ms. Ofrah prepared me for this interview every day after school. Some days we finished early, and I helped out around Just Us for Justice. Answered phones, passed out flyers, anything they needed me to do. Sometimes I listened in on their staff meetings as they discussed police reform ideas and the importance of telling the community to protest not riot.

I asked Dr. Davis if Just Us could have a roundtable discussion at Williamson like they do at Garden High. He said he didn’t see the need.

Chris replies to my prom text:

Okay, if you say so

Btw Vante says sup.

About to kill him on Madden

He needs to stop calling me Bieber tho

After all that “white boy trying to be black” shit DeVante said about Chris, lately he’s at Chris’s house more than I am. Chris invited him over to play Madden, and all of a sudden
they’re “bros.” According to DeVante, Chris’s massive video game collection makes up for his whiteness.

I told DeVante he’s a video game thot. He told me to shut up. We’re cool like that though.

We arrive at a fancy hotel downtown. A white guy in a hoodie waits under the awning leading up to the door. He has a clipboard under his arm and a Starbucks cup in his hand.

Still, he somehow manages to open the limo door and shake our hands when we get out. “John, the producer. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He shakes my hand a second time. “And let me guess, you’re Starr.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you so much for having the bravery to do this.”

There’s that word again. Bravery. Brave peoples’ legs don’t shake. Brave people don’t feel like puking. Brave people sure don’t have to remind themselves how to breathe if they think about that night too hard. If bravery is a medical condition, everybody’s misdiagnosed me.

John leads us through all of these twists and turns, and I’m so glad I’m wearing flats. He can’t stop talking about how important the interview is and how much they wanna get the truth out there. He’s not exactly adding to my “bravery.”

He takes us to the hotel courtyard, where some camera operators and other show people are setting up. In the middle of the chaos, the interviewer, Diane Carey, is getting her makeup done.

It’s weird seeing her in the flesh and not as a bunch of pixels on TV. When I was younger, every single time I spent the night at Nana’s house she made me sleep in one of her long-ass nightgowns, say my bedtime prayers for at least five minutes, and watch Diane Carey’s news report so I could be “knowledgeable of the world.”

“Hi!” Mrs. Carey’s face lights up when she sees us. She comes over, and I gotta give the makeup lady props ’cause she follows her and keeps working like a pro. Mrs. Carey shakes our hands. “Diane. So nice to meet you all. And you must be Starr,” she says to me. “Don’t be nervous. This will simply be a conversation between the two of us.”

The whole time she talks, some guy snaps photos of us. Yeah, this will be a normal conversation.

“Starr, we were thinking we could get shots of you and Diane walking and talking around the courtyard,” John says. “Then we’ll go up to the suite and do the conversations between you and Diane; you, Diane, and Ms. Ofrah; and finally you and your parents. After that, we’ll be all set.”

One of the production people mics me up as John gives me a rundown of this walk and talk thing. “It’s only a transitional shot,” he says. “Simple stuff.”

Simple my ass. The first time, I practically power-walk. The second time, I walk like I’m in a funeral processional and can’t answer Mrs. Carey’s questions. I never realized walking and talking required so much coordination.

Once we get that right, we take an elevator to the top floor. John leads us to a huge suite—seriously, it looks like a penthouse—overlooking downtown. About a dozen people are setting up cameras and lighting. Ms. Ofrah’s there in one of her Khalil shirts and a skirt. John says they’re ready for me.

I sit in the loveseat across from Mrs. Carey. I’ve never been able to cross my legs, for whatever reason, so that’s out the question. They check my mic, and Mrs. Carey tells me to relax. Soon, the cameras are rolling.

“Millions of people around the world have heard the name Khalil Harris,” she says, “and they’ve developed their own ideas of who he was. Who was he to you?”

More than he may have ever realized.
“One of my best friends,” I say. “We knew each other since we were babies. If he were here, he’d point out that he was five months, two weeks, and three days older than me.” We both chuckle at that. “But that’s who Khalil is—was.”

Damn. It hurts to correct myself.

“He was a jokester. Even when things were hard, he’d somehow find some light in it. And he . . .” My voice cracks.

I know it’s corny, but I think he’s here. His nosy ass would show up to make sure I say the right things. Probably calling me his number one fan or some annoying title that only Khalil can think of.

I miss that boy.

“He had a big heart,” I say. “I know that some people call
him a thug, but if you knew him, you’d know that wasn’t the case at all. I’m not saying he was an angel or anything, but he wasn’t a bad person. He was a . . .” I shrug. “He was a kid.”

She nods. “He was a kid.”

“He was a kid.”

“What do you think about people who focus on the not-so-good aspect of him?” she asks. “The fact that he may have sold drugs?”

Ms. Ofrah once said that this is how I fight, with my voice.

So I fight.

“I hate it,” I say. “If people knew why he sold drugs, they wouldn’t talk about him that way.”

Mrs. Carey sits up a little. “Why did he sell them?”

I glance at Ms. Ofrah, and she shakes her head. During all our prep meetings, she advised me not to go into details about Khalil selling drugs. She said the public doesn’t have to know about that.

But then I look at the camera, suddenly aware that millions of people will watch this in a few days. King may be one of them. Although his threat is loud in my head, it’s not nearly as loud as what Kenya said that day in the store.

Khalil would defend me. I should defend him.

So I gear up to throw a punch.

“Khalil’s mom is a drug addict,” I tell Mrs. Carey. “Anybody who knew him knew how much that bothered him and how much he hated drugs. He only sold them to help her out of
a situation with the biggest drug dealer and gang leader in the neighborhood.”

Ms. Ofrah noticeably sighs. My parents have wide eyes.

It’s dry snitching, but it’s snitching. Anybody who knows anything about Garden Heights will know exactly who I’m talking about. Hell, if they watch Mr. Lewis’s interview they can figure it out.

But hey, since King wants to go around the neighborhood lying and saying Khalil repped his set, I can let the world know Khalil was forced to sell drugs for him. “His mom’s life was in danger,” I say. “That’s the only reason he’d ever do something like that. And he wasn’t a gang member—”

“He wasn’t?”

“No, ma’am. He never wanted to fall into that type of life. But I guess—” I think about DeVante for some reason. “I don’t understand how everyone can make it seem like it’s okay he got killed if he was a drug dealer and a gangbanger.”

A hook straight to the jaw.

“The media?” she asks.

“Yes, ma’am. It seems like they always talk about what he may have said, what he may have done, what he may not have done. I didn’t know a dead person could be charged in his own murder, you know?”

The moment I say it, I know it’s my jab to the mouth.

Mrs. Carey asks for my account of that night. I can’t go into a lot of details—Ms. Ofrah told me not to—but I tell her we did
everything One-Fifteen asked and never once cussed at him like his father claims. I tell her how afraid I was, how Khalil was so concerned about me that he opened the door and asked if I was okay.

“So he didn’t make a threat on Officer Cruise’s life?” she questions.

“No, ma’am. His exact words were, ‘Starr, are you okay?’ That was the last thing he said, and—”

I’m ugly crying, describing the moment when the shots rang out and Khalil looked at me for the last time; how I held him in the street and saw his eyes gloss over. I tell her One-Fifteen pointed his gun at me.

“He pointed his gun at you?” she asks.

“Yes, ma’am. He kept it on me until the other officers arrived.”

Behind the cameras, Momma puts her hand over her mouth. Fury sparks in Daddy’s eyes. Ms. Ofrah looks stunned.

It’s another jab.

See, I only told Uncle Carlos that part.

Mrs. Carey gives me Kleenex and a moment to get myself together. “Has this situation made you fearful of cops?” she eventually asks.

“I don’t know,” I say truthfully. “My uncle’s a cop. I know not all cops are bad. And they risk their lives, you know? I’m always scared for my uncle. But I’m tired of them assuming. Especially when it comes to black people.”

“You wish that more cops wouldn’t make assumptions about black people?” she clarifies.

“Right. This all happened because
he
”—I can’t say his name—“assumed that we were up to no good. Because we’re black and because of where we live. We were just two kids, minding our business, you know? His assumption killed Khalil. It could’ve killed me.”

A kick straight to the ribs.

“If Officer Cruise were sitting here,” Mrs. Carey says, “what would you say to him?”

I blink several times. My mouth waters, but I swallow. No way I’m gonna let myself cry or throw up from thinking about that man.

If he were sitting here, I don’t have enough Black Jesus in me to tell him I forgive him. Instead I’d probably punch him. Straight up.

But Ms. Ofrah says this interview is the way I fight. When you fight, you put yourself out there, not caring who you hurt or if you’ll get hurt.

So I throw one more blow, right at One-Fifteen.

“I’d ask him if he wished he shot me too.”