by Angie Thomas
“We are! God, lighten up, Starr,” she says. “I thought you’d be all over this, considering your obsession on Tumblr lately.”
“You know what?” I say, one second from really going off. “Leave me alone. Have fun in your little protest.”
I wanna fight every person I pass, Floyd Mayweather style. They’re so damn excited about getting a day off. Khalil’s in a grave. He can’t get a day off from that shit. I live it every single day too.
In class I toss my backpack on the floor and throw myself into my seat. When Hailey and Maya come in, I give them a stank-eye and silently dare them to say shit to me.
I’m breaking all of my Williamson Starr rules with zero fucks to give.
Chris gets there before the bell rings, headphones draped around his neck. He comes down my aisle and squeezes my nose, going, “Honk, honk,” because for some reason it’s hilarious to him. Usually I laugh and swat at him, but today . . . Yeah, I’m not in the mood. I just swat. Kinda hard too.
He goes, “Ow,” and gives his hand a quick shake. “What’s wrong with you?”
I don’t respond. If I open my mouth, I’ll explode.
He crouches beside my desk and shakes my thigh. “Starr? You okay?”
Our teacher, balding, stumpy Mr. Warren, clears his throat. “Mr. Bryant, my class is not the Love Connection. Please have a seat.”
Chris slides into the desk next to mine. “What’s wrong with her?” he whispers to Hailey.
She plays dumb and says, “Dunno.”
Mr. Warren tells us to take out our MacBooks and begins the lesson on British literature. Not even five minutes in, someone says, “Justice for Khalil.”
“Justice for Khalil,” the others chant. “Justice for Khalil.”
Mr. Warren tells them to stop, but they get louder and pound their fists on the desks.
I wanna puke and scream and cry.
My classmates stampede toward the door. Maya’s the last one out. She glances back at me then at Hailey who motions her to come on. Maya follows her out.
I think I’m done following Hailey.
In the hall, chants for Khalil go off like sirens. Unlike Hailey, some of them may not care that he was a drug dealer. They might be almost as upset as I am. But since I know why Remy started this protest, I stay in my seat.
Chris does too for some reason. His desk scrapes the floor as it scoots closer to mine until they touch. He brushes my tears with his thumb.
“You knew him, didn’t you?” he says.
I nod.
“Oh,” says Mr. Warren. “I am so sorry, Starr. You don’t have to—you can call your parents, you know?”
I wipe my face. The last thing I want is Momma making a fuss because I can’t handle all this. Worse, I don’t wanna be unable to handle it. “Can you continue with the lesson, sir?” I ask. “The distraction would be nice.”
He smiles sadly and does as I ask.
For the rest of the day, sometimes Chris and I are the only ones in our classes. Sometimes one or two other people join us. People go out of their way to tell me they think Khalil’s death is bullshit, but that Remy’s reason for protesting is bullshit too. I mean, this sophomore girl comes up to me in the hall and explains that she supports the cause but decided to go back to class after she heard why they were really protesting.
They act like I’m the official representative of the black race and they owe me an explanation. I think I understand though. If I sit out a protest, I’m making a statement, but if they sit out a protest, they look racist.
At lunch, Chris and I head to our table near the vending machines. Jess with her perfect pixie cut is the only one there, eating cheese fries and reading her phone.
“Hey?” I ask more than say. I’m surprised she’s here.
“S’up?” She nods. “Have a seat. As you can see, there’s plenty of room.”
I sit beside her, and Chris sits on the other side of me. Jess and I have played basketball together for three years, and she’s put her head on my shoulder for two of them, but I’m ashamed to admit I don’t know much about her. I do know she’s a senior, her parents are attorneys, and she works at a bookstore. I didn’t know that she’d skip the protest.
I guess I’m staring at her hard, because she says, “I don’t use dead people to get out of class.”
If I wasn’t straight I would totally date her for saying that. This time I rest my head on her shoulder.
She pats my hair and says, “White people do stupid shit sometimes.”
Jess is white.
Seven and Layla join us with their trays. Seven holds his fist out to me. I bump it.
“Sev-en,” Jess says, and they fist-bump too. I had no idea they were cool like that. “I take it we’re protesting the ‘Get Out of Class’ protest?”
“Yep,” Seven says. “Protesting the ‘Get Out of Class’ protest.”
Seven and I get Sekani after school, and he won’t shut up about the news cameras he saw from his classroom window, because he’s Sekani and he came into this world looking for a camera. I have too many selfies of him on my phone giving the “light skin face,” his eyes squinted and eyebrows raised.
“Are y’all gonna be on the news?” he asks.
“Nah,” says Seven. “Don’t need to be.”
We could go home, lock the door, and fight over the TV like we always do, or we could help Daddy at the store. We go to the store.
Daddy stands in the doorway, watching a reporter and camera operator set up in front of Mr. Lewis’s shop. Of course, when Sekani sees the camera, he says, “Ooh, I wanna be on TV!”
“Shut up,” I say. “No you don’t.”
“Yes, I do. You don’t know what I want!”
The car stops, and Sekani pushes my seat forward, sending my chin into the dashboard as he jumps out. “Daddy, I wanna be on TV!”
I rub my chin. His hyper butt is gonna kill me one day.
Daddy holds Sekani by the shoulders. “Calm down, man. You not gon’ be on TV.”
“What’s going on?” Seven asks when we get out.
“Some cops got jumped around the corner,” Daddy says, one arm around Sekani’s chest to keep him still.
“Jumped?” I say.
“Yeah. They pulled them out their patrol car and stomped them. Gray Boys.”
The code name for King Lords. Damn.
“I heard what happened at y’all school,” Daddy says. “Everything cool?”
“Yeah.” I give the easy answer. “We’re good.”
Mr. Lewis adjusts his clothes and runs a hand over his Afro. The reporter says something, and he lets out a belly-jiggling laugh.
“What this fool ’bout to say?” Daddy wonders.
“We go live in five,” says the camera operator, and all I can think is, Please don’t put Mr. Lewis on live TV. “Four, three, two, one.”
“That’s right, Joe,” the reporter says. “I’m here with Mr. Cedric Lewis Jr., who witnessed the incident involving the officers today. Can you tell us what you saw, Mr. Lewis?”
“He ain’t witness nothing,” Daddy tells us. “Was in his shop the whole time. I told him what happened!”
“I sholl can,” Mr. Lewis says. “Them boys pulled those officers out their car. They weren’t doing nothing either. Just sitting there and got beat like dogs. Ridiculous! You hear me? Re-damn-diculous!”
Somebody’s gonna turn Mr. Lewis into a meme. He’s making a fool out of himself and doesn’t even know it.
“Do you think that it was retaliation for the Khalil Harris case?” the reporter asks.
“I sholl do! Which is stupid. These thugs been terrorizing Garden Heights for years, how they gon’ get mad now? What, ’cause they didn’t kill him themselves? The president and all’a them searching for terrorists, but I’ll name one right now they can come get.”
“Don’t do it, Mr. Lewis,” Daddy prays. “Don’t do it.”
Of course, he does. “His name King, and he live right here in Gard
en Heights. Probably the biggest drug dealer in the city. He over that King Lords gang. Come get him if you wanna get somebody. Wasn’t nobody but his boys who did that to them cops anyway. We sick of this! Somebody march ’bout that!”
Daddy covers Sekani’s ears. Every cuss word that follows equals a dollar in Sekani’s jar if he hears it. “Shit,” Daddy hisses. “Shit, shit, shit. This motha—”
“He snitched,” says Seven.
“On live TV,” I add.
Daddy keeps saying, “Shit, shit, shit.”
“Do you think that the curfew the mayor announced today will prevent incidents like this?” the reporter asks Mr. Lewis.
I look at Daddy. “What curfew?”
He takes his hands off Sekani’s ears. “Every business in Garden Heights gotta close by nine. And nobody can be in the streets after ten. Lights out, like in prison.”
“So you’ll be home tonight, Daddy?” Sekani asks.
Daddy smiles and pulls him closer. “Yeah, man. After you do your homework, I can show you a thang or two on Madden.”
The reporter wraps up her interview. Daddy waits until she and the camera operator leave and then goes over to Mr. Lewis. “You crazy?” he asks.
“What? ’Cause I told the truth?” Mr. Lewis says.
“Man, you can’t be going on live TV, snitching like that. You a dead man walking, you know that, right?”
“I ain’t scared of that nigga!” Mr. Lewis says real loud, for everybody to hear. “You scared of him?”
“Nah, but I know how the game work.”
“I’m too old for games! You oughta be too!”
“Mr. Lewis, listen—”
“Nah, you listen here, boy. I fought a war, came back, and fought one here. See this?” He lifts up his pants leg, revealing a plaid sock over a prosthetic. “Lost it in the war. This right here.” He lifts his shirt to his underarm. There’s a thin pink scar stretching from his back to his swollen belly. “Got it after some white boys cut me ’cause I drank from their fountain.” He lets his shirt fall down. “I done faced a whole lot worse than some so-called King. Ain’t nothing he can do but kill me, and if that’s how I gotta go for speaking the truth, that’s how I gotta go.”
“You don’t get it,” Daddy says.
“Yeah I do. Hell, I get you. Walking around here, claiming you ain’t a gangster no more, claiming you trying to change stuff, but still following all’a that ‘don’t snitch’ mess. And you teaching them kids the same thing, ain’t you? King still controlling your dumb ass, and you too stupid to realize it.”
“Stupid? How you gon’ call me stupid when you the one snitching on live TV!”
A familiar whoop-whoop sound alarms us.
Oh God.
The patrol car with flashing lights cruises down the street. It stops next to Daddy and Mr. Lewis.
Two officers get out. One black, one white. Their hands linger too close to the guns at their waists.
No, no, no.
“We got a problem here?” the black one asks, looking squarely at Daddy. He’s bald just like Daddy, but older, taller, bigger.
“No, sir, officer,” Daddy says. His hands that were once in his jeans pockets are visible at his sides.
“You sure about that?” the younger white one asks. “It didn’t seem that way to us.”
“We were just talking, officers,” Mr. Lewis says, much softer than he was minutes ago. His hands are at his sides too. His parents must’ve had the talk with him when he was twelve.
“To me it looks like this young man was harassing you, sir,” the black one says, still looking at Daddy. He hasn’t looked at Mr. Lewis yet. I wonder if it’s because Mr. Lewis isn’t wearing an NWA T-shirt. Or because there aren’t tattoos all on his arms. Or because he’s not wearing somewhat baggy jeans and a backwards cap.
“You got some ID on you?” the black cop asks Daddy.
“Sir, I was about to go back to my store—”
“I said do you have some ID on you?”
My hands shake. Breakfast, lunch, and everything else churns in my stomach, ready to come back up my throat. They’re gonna take Daddy from me.
“What’s going on?”
I turn around. Tim, Mr. Reuben’s nephew, walks over to us. People have stopped on the sidewalk across the street.
“I’m gonna reach for my ID,” Daddy says. “It’s in my back pocket. A’ight?”
“Daddy—” I say.
Daddy keeps his eyes on the officer. “Y’all, go in the store, a’ight? It’s okay.”
We don’t move though.
Daddy’s hand slowly goes to his back pocket, and I look from his hands to theirs, watching to see if they’re gonna make a move for their guns.
Daddy removes his wallet, the leather one I bought him for Father’s Day with his initials embossed on it. He shows it to them.
“See? My ID is in here.”
His voice has never sounded so small.
The black officer takes the wallet and opens it. “Oh,” he says. “Maverick Carter.”
He exchanges a look with his partner.
Both of them look at me.
My heart stops.
They’ve realized I’m the witness.
There must be a file that lists my parents’ names on it. Or the detectives blabbed, and now everyone at the station knows our names. Or they could’ve gotten it from Uncle Carlos somehow. I don’t know how it happened, but it happened. And if something happens to Daddy . . .
The black officer looks at him. “Get on the ground, hands behind your back.”
“But—”
“On the ground, face-down!” he yells. “Now!”
Daddy looks at us. His expression apologizes for the fact that we have to see this.
He gets down on one knee and lowers himself to the ground, face-down. His hands go behind his back, and his fingers interlock.
Where’s that camera operator now? Why can’t this be on the news?
“Now, wait a minute, Officer,” Mr. Lewis says. “Me and him were just talking.”
“Sir, go inside,” the white cop tells him.
“But he didn’t do anything!” Seven says.
“Boy, go inside!” the black cop says.
“No! That’s my father, and—”
“Seven!” Daddy yells.
Even though he’s lying on the concrete, there’s enough authority in his voice to make Seven shut up.
The black officer checks Daddy while his partner glances around at all of the onlookers. There’s quite a few of us now. Ms. Yvette and a couple of her clients stand in her doorway, towels around the clients’ shoulders. A car has stopped in the street.
“Everyone, go about your own business,” the white one says.
“No, sir,” says Tim. “This is our business.”
The black cop keeps his knee on Daddy’s back as he searches him. He pats him down once, twice, three times, just like One-Fifteen did Khalil. Nothing.
“Larry,” the white cop says.
The black one, who must be Larry, looks up at him, then at all the people who have gathered around.
Larry takes his knee off Daddy’s back and stands. “Get up,” he says.
Slowly, Daddy gets to his feet.
Larry glances at me. Bile pools in my mouth. He turns to Daddy and says, “I’m keeping an eye on you, boy. Remember that.”
Daddy’s jaw looks rock hard.
The cops drive off. The car that had stopped in the street leaves, and all of the onlookers go on about their business. One person hollers out, “It’s all right, Maverick.”
Daddy looks at the sky and blinks the way I do when I don’t wanna cry. He clenches and unclenches his hands.
Mr. Lewis touches his back. “C’mon, son.”
He guides Daddy our way, but they pass us and go into the store. Tim follows them.
“Why did they do Daddy like that?” Sekani asks softly. He looks at me and Seven with tears in his eyes.
Seven w
raps an arm around him. “I don’t know, man.”
I know.
I go in the store.
DeVante leans against a broom near the cash register, wearing one of those ugly green aprons Daddy tries to make me and Seven wear when we work in the store.
There’s a pang in my chest. Khalil wore one too.
DeVante’s talking to Kenya as she holds a basket full of groceries. When the bell on the door clangs behind me, both of them look my way.
“Yo, what happened?” DeVante asks.
“Was that the cops outside?” says Kenya.
From here I see Mr. Lewis and Tim standing in the doorway of Daddy’s office. He must be in there.
“Yeah,” I answer Kenya, heading toward the back. Kenya and DeVante follow me, asking about fifty million questions that I don’t have time to answer.
Papers are scattered all on the office floor. Daddy’s hunched over his desk, his back moving up and down with each heavy breath.
He pounds the desk. “Fuck!”
Daddy once told me there’s a rage passed down to every black man from his ancestors, born the moment they couldn’t stop the slave masters from hurting their families. Daddy also said there’s nothing more dangerous than when that rage is activated.
“Let it out, son,” Mr. Lewis tells him.
“Fuck them pigs, man,” Tim says. “They only did that shit ’cause they know ’bout Starr.”
Wait. What?
Daddy glances over his shoulder. His eyes are puffy and wet, like he’s been crying. “The hell you talking ’bout, Tim?”
“One of the homeboys saw you, Lisa, and your baby girl getting out an ambulance at the crime scene that night,” Tim says. “Word spread around the neighborhood, and folks think she’s the witness they been talking ’bout on the news.”
Oh.
Shit.
“Starr, go ring Kenya up,” Daddy says. “Vante, finish them floors.”
I head for the cash register, passing Seven and Sekani.
The neighborhood knows.
I ring Kenya up, my stomach knotted the whole time. If the neighborhood knows, it won’t be long until people outside of Garden Heights know. And then what?
“You rang that up twice,” Kenya says.
“Huh?”
“The milk. You rang it up twice, Starr.”
