The Hate U Give

by Angie Thomas

  “Two dollars, Daddy,” Sekani says.

  When Momma hangs up, I say, “It wouldn’t kill me to miss one day of school. I don’t wanna be there if they try that protest mess again.” I wouldn’t be surprised if Remy tried to get a whole week off because of Khalil. “I need two days, that’s all.” Momma raises her brows. “Okay, one and a half. Please?”

  She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “We’ll see. But not a word of this to your brothers, you hear me?”

  Basically, she said yes without saying yes outright. I can deal with that.

  Pastor Eldridge once preached that “Faith isn’t just believing but taking steps toward that belief.” So when my alarm goes off Tuesday morning, by faith I don’t get up, believing that Momma won’t make me go to school.

  And to quote Pastor Eldridge, hallelujah, God shows up and shows out. Momma doesn’t make me get up. I stay in bed, listening as everybody else gets ready for the day. Sekani makes it his business to tell Momma I’m not up yet.

  “Don’t worry about her,” she says. “Worry about yourself.”

  The TV in the den blares some morning news show, and Momma hums around the house. When Khalil and One-Fifteen are mentioned, the volume lowers a whole lot and doesn’t go back up until a political story comes on.

  My phone buzzes under my pillow. I take it out and look. Kenya finally texted me back about my new Tumblr. She would make me wait hours for a response, and her comment is short as hell:

  It’s aight

  I roll my eyes. That’s about as close as I’m gonna get to a compliment from her. I text back.

  I love you too

  Her response?

  I know ☺

  She’s so petty. Part of me wonders though if she didn’t respond last night ’cause of drama at her house. Daddy said King’s still beating Iesha up. Sometimes he hits Kenya and Lyric too. Kenya’s not the type to talk about it like that, so I ask:

  Everything okay?

  The usual, she writes back.

  Short, but it says enough. There isn’t much I can do, so I just remind her:

  I’m here if you need me

  Her response?

  You better be

  See? Petty.

  Here’s the messed-up part about missing school: you wonder what you would be doing if you went. At eight, I figure Chris and I would just be getting to history since it’s our first class on Tuesdays. I send him a quick text.

  Won’t be at school today.

  Two minutes later, he replies.

  Are you sick? Need me to kiss it and make it better? Wink wink

  He seriously typed “wink wink” instead of two wink emojis. I’ll admit, I smile. I write back:

  What if I’m contagious?

  He says:

  Doesn’t matter. I’ll kiss you anywhere. Wink wink.

  I reply:

  Is that another line?

  He responds in less than a minute.

  It’s whatever you want it to be. Love you Fresh Princess.

  Pause. That “L” word completely catches me off guard, like a player from the other team stealing the ball right as you’re about to make a layup. It takes all of your momentum and you spend a week wondering how that steal slipped up on you.

  Yeah. Chris saying “love you” is like that, except I can’t waste a week wondering about it. By not answering, I’m answering, if that makes sense. The shot clock is winding down, and I need to say something.

  But what?

  By not saying “I” before “love you,” he’s making it more casual. Seriously, “love you” and “I love you” are different. Same team, different players. “Love you” isn’t as forward or aggressive as “I love you.” “Love you” can slip up on you, sure, but it doesn’t make an in-your-face slam dunk. More like a nice jump shot.

  Two minutes pass. I need to say something.

  Love you too.

  It’s as foreign as a Spanish word I haven’t learned yet, but funny enough it comes pretty easily.

  I get a wink emoji in return.

  Just Us for Justice occupies the old Taco Bell on Magnolia Avenue, between the car wash and the cash advance place. Daddy used to take me and Seven to that Taco Bell every Friday and get us ninety-nine-cent tacos, cinnamon twists, and a soda to share. This was right after he got out of prison, when he didn’t have a lot of money. He usually watched us eat. Sometimes he asked the manager, one of Momma’s girlfriends, to keep an eye on us, and he went to the cash advance place next door. When I got older and discovered that presents don’t just “show up,” I realized Daddy always went over there around our birthdays and Christmas.

  Momma rings the doorbell at Just Us, and Ms. Ofrah lets us in.

  “Sorry about that,” she says, locking the door. “It’s just me here today.”

  “Oh,” Momma says. “Where are your colleagues?”

  “Some of them are at Garden Heights High doing a roundtable discussion. Others are leading a march on Carnation where Khalil was murdered.”

  It’s weird to hear somebody say “Khalil was murdered” as easily as Ms. Ofrah does. She doesn’t bite her tongue or hesitate.

  Short-walled cubicles take up most of the restaurant. They have almost as many posters as Seven has, but the kind Daddy would love, like Malcolm X standing next to a window holding a rifle, Huey Newton in prison with his fist up for black power, and photographs of the Black Panthers at rallies and giving breakfast to kids.

  Ms. Ofrah leads us to her cubicle next to the drive-through window. It’s kinda funny too ’cause she has a Taco Bell cup on her desk. “Thank you so much for coming,” she says. “I was so happy when you called, Mrs. Carter.”

  “Please, call me Lisa. How long have you all been in this space?”

  “Almost two years now. And if you’re wondering, yes, we do get the occasional prankster who pulls up to the window and tells me they want a chalupa.”

  We laugh. The doorbell rings up front.

  “That’s probably my husband,” Momma says. “He was on his way.”

  Ms. Ofrah leaves, and soon Daddy’s voice echoes through the office as he follows her back. He grabs a third chair from another cubicle and sets it halfway in Ms. Ofrah’s office and halfway in the hall. That’s how small her cubicle is.

  “Sorry I’m late. Had to get DeVante situated with Mr. Lewis.”

  “Mr. Lewis?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Since I’m here, I asked him to let DeVante help around the shop. Mr. Lewis needs somebody to look out for his dumb behind. Snitching on live TV.”

  “You’re talking about the gentleman who did the interview about the King Lords?” Ms. Ofrah asks.

  “Yeah, him,” says Daddy. “He owns the barbershop next to my store.”

  “Oh, wow. That interview definitely has people talking. Last I checked it had almost a million views online.”

  I knew it. Mr. Lewis has become a meme.

  “It takes a lot of guts to be as upfront as he is. I meant what I said at Khalil’s funeral, Starr. It was very brave of you to talk to the police.”

  “I don’t feel brave.” With Malcolm X watching me on her wall, I can’t lie. “I’m not running my mouth on TV like Mr. Lewis.”

  “And that’s okay,” Ms. Ofrah says. “It seemed Mr. Lewis impulsively spoke out in anger and frustration. In a case like Khalil’s, I would much rather that you spoke out in a more deliberate and planned way.” She looks at Momma. “You said the DA called yesterday?”

  “Yes. They’d like to meet with Starr tomorrow.”

  “Makes sense. The case was turned over to their office, and they’re preparing to take it to a grand jury.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask.

  “A jury will decide if charges should be brought against Officer Cruise.”

  “And Starr will have to testify to the grand jury,” Daddy says.

  Ms. Ofrah nods. “It’s a bit different from a normal trial. There won’t be a judge or a defense attorney present, and th
e DA will ask Starr questions.”

  “But what if I can’t answer them all?”

  “What do you mean?” Ms. Ofrah says.

  “I—the gun in the car stuff. On the news they said there may have been a gun in the car, like that changes everything. I honestly don’t know if there was.”

  Ms. Ofrah opens a folder that’s on her desk, takes a piece of paper out, and pushes it toward me. It’s a photograph of Khalil’s black hairbrush, the one he used in the car.

  “That’s the so-called gun,” Ms. Ofrah explains. “Officer Cruise claims he saw it in the car door, and he assumed Khalil was reaching for it. The handle was thick enough, black enough, for him to assume it was a gun.”

  “And Khalil was black enough,” Daddy adds.

  A hairbrush.

  Khalil died over a fucking hairbrush.

  Ms. Ofrah slips the photograph back in the folder. “It’ll be interesting to see how his father addresses it in his interview tonight.”

  Hold up. “Interview?” I ask.

  Momma shifts a little in her chair. “Um . . . the officer’s father has a television interview that’s airing tonight.”

  I glance from her to Daddy. “And nobody told me?”

  “’Cause it ain’t worth talking about, baby,” Daddy says.

  I look at Ms. Ofrah. “So his dad can give his son’s side to the whole world, and I can’t give mine and Khalil’s? He’s gonna have everybody thinking One-Fifteen’s the victim.”

  “Not necessarily,” Ms. Ofrah says. “Sometimes these kinds of things backfire. And at the end of the day, the court of public opinion has no say in this. The grand jury does. If they see enough evidence, which they should, Officer Cruise will be charged and tried.”

  “If,” I repeat.

  A wave of awkward silence rolls in. One-Fifteen’s father is his voice, but I’m Khalil’s. The only way people will know his side of the story is if I speak out.

  I look out the drive-through window at the car wash next door. Water cascades from a hose, making rainbows against the sunlight like it did six years ago, right before bullets took Natasha.

  I turn to Ms. Ofrah. “When I was ten, I saw my other best friend get murdered in a drive-by.”

  Funny how murdered comes out easily now.

  “Oh.” Ms. Ofrah sinks back. “I didn’t— I’m so sorry, Starr.”

  I stare at my fingers and fumble with them. Tears well in my eyes. “I’ve tried to forget it, but I remember everything. The shots, the look on Natasha’s face. They never caught the person who did it. I guess it didn’t matter enough. But it did matter. She mattered.” I look at Ms. Ofrah, but I can barely see her for all the tears. “And I want everyone to know that Khalil mattered too.”

  Ms. Ofrah blinks. A lot. “Absolutely. I—” She clears her throat. “I would like to represent you, Starr. Pro bono, in fact.”

  Momma nods, and she’s teary-eyed too.

  “I’ll do whatever I can to make sure you’re heard, Starr. Because just like Khalil and Natasha mattered, you matter and your voice matters. I can start by trying to get you a television interview.” She looks at my parents. “If you’re okay with that.”

  “As long as they don’t reveal her identity, yeah,” Daddy says.

  “That shouldn’t be a problem,” she says. “We will absolutely make sure her privacy is protected.”

  A quiet buzzing comes from Daddy’s way. He takes out his phone and answers. The person on the other end shouts something, but I can’t make it out. “Ay, calm down, Vante. Say that again?” The response makes Daddy stand up. “I’m coming. You call nine-one-one?”

  “What’s wrong?” Momma says.

  He motions for us to follow him. “Stay with him, a’ight? We on the way.”

  THIRTEEN

  Mr. Lewis’s left eye is swollen shut and blood drips onto his shirt from a slash on his cheek, but he refuses to go to the hospital.

  Daddy’s office has become an examining room, and Momma tends to Mr. Lewis with Daddy’s help. I lean against the doorway and watch. DeVante stands even farther back in the store.

  “It took five of ’em to take me down,” Mr. Lewis says. “Five of ’em! Against one li’l ol’ man. Ain’t that something?”

  “It’s really something that you’re alive,” I say. Snitches get stitches doesn’t apply to King Lords. More like snitches get graves.

  Momma tilts Mr. Lewis’s head to look at the cut on his cheek. “She’s right. You’re real lucky, Mr. Lewis. Don’t even need stitches.”

  “King himself gave me that one,” he says. “He ain’t come in till them other ones got me down. Ol’ punk ass, looking like a black Michelin Man.”

  I snort.

  “This ain’t funny,” Daddy says. “I told you they was gon’ come after you.”

  “And I told you I ain’t scared! If this the worst they could do, they ain’t did nothing!”

  “Nah, this ain’t the worst,” says Daddy. “They could’ve killed you!”

  “I ain’t the one they want dead!” He stretches his fat finger my way, but he looks beyond me at DeVante. “That’s the one you need to worry ’bout! I made him hide before they came in, but King said he know you helping that boy, and he gon’ kill him if he find him.”

  DeVante backs away, his eyes wide.

  I swear, in like two seconds Daddy grabs DeVante by his neck and slams him against the freezer. “What the hell you do?”

  DeVante kicks and squirms and tries to pull Daddy’s hands from his neck.

  “Daddy, stop!”

  “Shut up!” His glare never leaves DeVante. “I brought you in my house, and you ain’t been honest ’bout why you hiding? King wouldn’t want you dead unless you did something, so what you do?”

  “Mav-rick!” Momma breaks his name down real good. “Let him go. He can’t explain anything with you choking him.”

  Daddy releases, and DeVante bends over, gasping for air. “Don’t be putting your hands on me!” he says.

  “Or what?” Daddy taunts. “Start talking.”

  “Man, look, it ain’t a big deal. King tripping.”

  Is he for real? “What did you do?” I ask.

  DeVante slides onto the floor and tries to catch his breath. He blinks real fast for several seconds. His face scrunches up. Suddenly he’s bawling like a baby.

  I don’t know anything else to do, so I sit in front of him. When Khalil would cry like that because his momma was messed up, I’d lift his head.

  I lift DeVante’s. “It’s okay,” I say.

  That always worked with Khalil. It works with DeVante too. He stops crying as hard and says, “I stole ’bout five Gs from King.”

  “Dammit!” Daddy groans. “What the hell, man?”

  “I had to get my family outta here! I was gonna handle the dudes that killed Dalvin, and shit, all that would do was make some GDs come after me. I was a dead man walking, straight up. I didn’t want my momma and my sisters caught up in that. So I got them some bus tickets and got them outta town.”

  “That’s why we can’t get your momma on the phone,” Momma realizes.

  Tears fall around his lips. “She didn’t want me coming anyway. Said I’d get them killed. Put me out the house before they left.” He looks at Daddy. “Big Mav, I’m sorry. I should’ve told you the other day. I did change my mind ’bout killing them dudes though, but now King wants me dead. Please don’t take me to him. I’ll do anything. Please?”

  “He bet’ not!” Mr. Lewis limps out Daddy’s office. “You help that boy, Maverick!”

  Daddy stares at the ceiling like he could cuss God out.

  “Daddy,” I plead.

  “A’ight! C’mon, Vante.”

  “Big Mav,” he whimpers, “I’m sorry, please—”

  “I’m not taking you to King, but we gotta get you outta here. Now.”

  Forty minutes later, Momma and I pull up behind Daddy and DeVante in Uncle Carlos’s driveway.

  I’m surprised Daddy know
s how to get here. He never comes out here with us. Ne-ver. Holidays, birthdays, none of that. I guess he doesn’t wanna deal with Nana and her mouth.

  Momma and I get out her car as Daddy and DeVante get out the truck.

  “This is where you’re bringing him?” Momma says. “My brother’s house?”

  “Yeah,” Daddy says, like it’s no big deal.

  Uncle Carlos comes from the garage, wiping oil off his hands with one of Aunt Pam’s good towels. He shouldn’t be home. It’s the middle of a workday, and he never takes sick days. He stops wiping his hands, but the knuckles on one of them are still dark.

  DeVante squints against the sunlight and looks around like we brought him to another planet. “Damn, Big Mav. Where we at?”

  “Where are we?” Uncle Carlos corrects, and offers his hand. “Carlos. You must be DeVante.”

  DeVante stares at his hand. No manners at all. “How you know my name?”

  Uncle Carlos awkwardly lets his hand fall to his side. “Maverick told me about you. We’ve discussed getting you out here.”

  “Oh!” Momma says with a hollow laugh. “Maverick’s discussed getting him out here.” She narrows her eyes at Daddy. “I’m surprised you even knew how to get out here, Maverick.”

  Daddy’s nostrils flare. “We’ll talk later.”

  “C’mon,” Uncle Carlos says. “I’ll show you your room.”

  DeVante stares at the house, his eyes all big. “What you do to get a house like this?”

  “Dang, you’re nosy,” I say.

  Uncle Carlos chuckles. “It’s okay, Starr. My wife’s a surgeon, and I’m a detective.”

  DeVante stops dead. He turns on Daddy. “What the fuck, man? You brought me to a cop?”

  “Watch your mouth,” Daddy says. “And I brought you to somebody who actually wanna help you.”

  “A cop though? If the homies find out, they gon’ think I’m snitching.”

  “They’re not your homies if you gotta hide from them,” I say. “Plus Uncle Carlos wouldn’t ask you to snitch.”

  “She’s right,” says Uncle Carlos. “Maverick’s really serious about getting you out of Garden Heights.”

  Momma scoffs. Loudly.

  “When he told us the situation, we wanted to help,” Uncle Carlos goes on. “And it sounds like you need our help.”