The Hate U Give

by Angie Thomas

I get in the car away from their pity and rest my head against the window, feeling like shit.

  Momma parks in front of the store, and Daddy pulls up behind us. He gets out his truck and comes to Momma’s side of the car. She rolls her window down.

  “I’m going to the school,” she tells him. “They need to know what’s going on. Can she stay with you?”

  “Yeah, that’s fine. She can rest in the office.”

  Another thing puking and crying gets you—people talk about you like you’re not there and make plans for you. Poor Thing apparently can’t hear.

  “You sure?” Momma asks him. “Or do I need to take her to Carlos?”

  Daddy sighs. “Lisa—”

  “Maverick, I don’t give a flying monkey’s ass what your problem is, just be there for your daughter. Please?”

  Daddy moves to my side of the car and opens the door. “Come here, baby.”

  I climb out, blubbering like a little kid who skinned her knee. Daddy pulls me into his chest, rubbing my back and kissing my hair. Momma drives off.

  “I’m sorry, baby,” he says.

  The crying, the puking don’t mean anything anymore. My daddy’s got me.

  We go in the store. Daddy turns on the lights but keeps the closed sign in the window. He goes to his office for a second, then comes back to me and holds my chin.

  “Open your mouth,” he says. I open it, and his face scrunches up. “Ill. We gotta get you a whole bottle of mouthwash. ’Bout to raise the dead with that breath.”

  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.”

  PART 2

  FIVE WEEKS AFTER IT

  SIXTEEN

  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 A
SAP.

  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.