The Hate U Give

by Angie Thomas

  “Yeah,” Seven says.

  Daddy hooks his arm around Seven’s neck and pulls him closer. Daddy kisses his temple. “I love you. And I always got your back.”

  After lunch we gather in the living room, join hands, and bow our heads.

  “Black Jesus, thank you for this blessing,” Daddy says. “Even when we weren’t so crazy about the idea of moving—”

  Momma clears her throat.

  “Okay, when I wasn’t so crazy about the idea of moving,” Daddy corrects, “you worked things out. Thank you for Lisa’s new job. Please help her and continue to be with her when she does extra shifts at the clinic. Help Sekani with his end-of-the-year tests. And thank you, Lord, for helping Seven do something I didn’t, get a high school diploma. Guide him as he chooses a college and let him know you’re protecting Kenya and Lyric.

  “Now, Lord, tomorrow is a big day for my baby girl as she goes before this grand jury. Please give her peace and courage. As much as I wanna ask you to work this case out a certain way, I know you already got a plan. I ask for some mercy, God. That’s all. Mercy for Garden Heights, for Khalil’s family, for Starr. Help all of us through this. In your precious name—”

  “Wait,” Momma says.

  I peek out with one eye. Daddy does too. Momma never, ever interrupts prayer.

  “Uh, baby,” says Daddy, “I was finishing up.”

  “I have something to add. Lord, bless my mom, and thank you that she went into her retirement fund and gave us the money for the down payment. Help us turn the basement into a suite so she can stay here sometimes.”

  “No, Lord,” Daddy says.

  “Yes, Lord,” says Momma.

  “No, Lord.”

  “Yes.”

  “No, amen!”

  We get home in time to catch a playoffs game.

  Basketball season equals war in our house. I’m a LeBron fan through and through. Miami, Cleveland, it doesn’t matter. I ride with him. Daddy hasn’t jumped off the Lakers ship yet, but he likes LeBron. Seven’s all about the Spurs. Momma’s an “anybody but LeBron” hater, and Sekani is a “whoever is winning” fan.

  It’s Cleveland versus Chicago tonight. The battle lines are drawn—me and Daddy versus Seven and Momma. Seven jumps on that “anybody but LeBron” bandwagon of hateration too.

  I change into my LeBron jersey. Every time I don’t wear it, his team loses. Seriously, I’m not even lying. I can’t wash it either. Momma washed my last jersey right before Finals, and Miami lost to the Spurs. I think she did it on purpose.

  I take my lucky spot in the den in front of the sectional. Seven comes in and steps over me, putting his big bare foot near my face. I smack it away. “Get your crusty foot outta my face.”

  “We’ll see who’s joking later. Ready for a butt whooping?”

  “You mean am I ready to give one? Yep!”

  Momma peeks around the doorway. “Munch, you want some ice cream?”

  I gape at her. She knows I don’t eat dairy products during games. Dairy gives me gas, and gas is bad luck.

  She grins. “How about a sundae? Sprinkles, strawberry syrup, whipped cream.”

  I cover my ears. “La-la-la-la-la, go away, LeBron hater. La-la-la-la-la.”

  Like I said, basketball season equals war, and my family has the dirtiest tactics.

  Momma returns with a big bowl, shoveling ice cream into her mouth. She sits on the sectional and lowers her bowl into my face. “You sure you don’t want some, Munch? It’s your favorite too. Cake batter. So good!”

  Be strong, I tell myself, but damn, that ice cream looks good. Strawberry syrup glistens on it and a big dollop of whipped cream sits pretty on top. I close my eyes. “I want a championship more.”

  “Well, you aren’t getting that, so you may as well enjoy some ice cream.”

  “Ha!” Seven goes.

  “What’s all this smack up in here?” Daddy asks.

  He takes the recliner on the sectional, his lucky spot. Sekani scurries in and sits behind me, propping his bare feet on my shoulders. I don’t mind. They haven’t matured and funkified yet.

  “I was offering Munch some of my sundae,” Momma says. “You want some, baby?”

  “Heck, nah. You know I don’t eat dairy during games.”

  See? It’s serious.

  “You and Seven may as well get ready for this butt whooping Cleveland ’bout to give y’all,” says Daddy. “I mean, it ain’t gon’ be a Kobe butt whooping, but it’s gon’ be a good one.”

  “Amen!” I say. Except the Kobe part.

  “Boy, bye,” Momma tells him. “You’re always picking sorry teams. First the Lakers—”

  “Ay, a three-peat ain’t a sorry team, baby. And I don’t always pick sorry teams.” He grins. “I picked your team, didn’t I?”

  Momma rolls her eyes, but she’s grinning too, and I hate to admit it but they’re kinda cute right now. “Yeah,” she says, “that’s the only time you picked right.”

  “Uh-huh,” Daddy says. “See, your momma played for Saint Mary’s basketball team, and they had a game against Garden High, my school.”

  “And we whooped their butts too,” Momma says, licking ice cream off her spoon. “Them li’l girls ain’t have anything on us. I’m just saying.”

  “Anyway, I’m there to watch some of the homeboys play after the girls’ game,” Daddy says, looking at Momma. This is so adorable, I can’t stand it. “I got there early and saw the finest girl ever, and she was playing her ass off on the court.”

  “Tell them what you did,” says Momma, although we know.

  “Ay, I was trying to—”

  “Nah, nah, tell them what you did,” she says.

  “I tried to get your attention.”

  “Uh-uh!” Momma says, getting up. She hands me her bowl and stands in front of the TV. “You were like this on the sideline,” she says, and she kinda leans to the side, holding her crotch and licking her lips. We crack up. I can so see Daddy doing that too.

  “During the middle of a game!” she says. “Standing there looking like a pervert, just watching me.”

  “But you noticed me,” Daddy says. “Right?”

  “’Cause you looked like a fool! Then, during halftime, I’m on the bench, and he’s behind me, talking about”—she deepens her voice—“‘Ay! Ay, shorty. What’s your name? You know you looking good out there. Can I get your number?’”

  “Dang, Pops, you didn’t have any game,” Seven says.

  “I had game!” Daddy argues.

  “Did you get her number that night though?” Seven says.

  “I mean, I was working on it—”

  “Did you get her number?” I repeat Seven’s question.

  “Nah,” he admits, and we’re hollering laughing. “Man, whatever. Hate all y’all want. I eventually did something right.”

  “Yeah,” Momma admits, running her fingers through my hair. “You did.”

  By the second quarter of Cleveland versus Chicago, we’re yelling and shouting at the TV. When LeBron steals the ball, I jump up, and bam! He dunks it.

  “In yo’ face!” I yell at Momma and Seven. “In yo’ face!”

  Daddy gives me a high five and claps. “That’s what I’m talking ’bout!”

  Momma and Seven roll their eyes.

  I sit in my “game time” position—knees pulled in, right arm draped over my head and holding my left ear, and my left thumb in my mouth. Don’t hate. It works. Cleveland’s offense and defense is on point. “Let’s go, Cavs!”

  Glass shatters. Then, pop, pop, pop, pop. Gunshots.

  “Get down!” Daddy yells.

  I’m already down. Sekani comes down next to me, then Momma on top of us, and she wraps her arms around us. Daddy’s feet thud toward the front of the house and the hinges on the front door squeak as it swings open. Tires screech off.

  “Mothaf—” Gunshots cut Daddy off.

  My heart stops. For a split second, I visit a world without my dad, and it doesn�
��t seem like much of a world at all.

  But his footsteps rush back in. “Y’all a’ight?”

  The weight on top of me lifts. Momma says she’s okay, and Sekani says he is too. Seven echoes them.

  Daddy’s holding his Glock. “I shot at them fools,” he says between heavy breaths. “I think I hit a tire. Ain’t never seen that car before.”

  “Did they shoot in the house?” Momma asks.

  “Yeah, a couple shots through the front window,” he says. “They threw something too. Landed in the living room.”

  I head for the front.

  “Starr! Get back here!” Momma calls.

  I’m too curious and too hardheaded. Glass shards glisten all over Momma’s good sofa. A brick sits in the middle of the floor.

  Momma calls Uncle Carlos. He gets to our house in half an hour.

  Daddy hasn’t stopped pacing the den, and he hasn’t put his Glock down. Seven takes Sekani to bed. Momma has her arm around me on the sectional and won’t let go.

  Some of our neighbors checked in, like Mrs. Pearl and Ms. Jones. Mr. Charles from next door rushed over, holding his own piece. None of them saw who did it.

  Doesn’t matter who did it. It was clearly a message for me.

  I have this sick feeling like I got when I ate ice cream and played in hot weather too long when I was younger. Ms. Rosalie said the heat “boiled” my stomach and that something cool would settle it. Nothing cool can settle this.

  “Did you call the police?” Uncle Carlos asks.

  “Hell nah!” says Daddy. “How I know it wasn’t them?”

  “Maverick, you still should’ve called,” Uncle Carlos says. “This needs to be recorded, and they can send someone to guard the house.”

  “Oh, I got somebody to guard the house. Don’t worry about that. It definitely ain’t gon’ be no crooked pig who may have been behind this.”

  “King Lords could’ve done this!” says Uncle Carlos. “Didn’t you say King made a veiled threat against Starr because of her interview?”

  “I’m not going tomorrow,” I say, but I have a better chance of being heard at a Drake concert.

  “It ain’t no damn coincidence that somebody’s trying to scare us the night before she testifies to the grand jury,” Daddy says. “That’s some shit your buddies would do.”

  “You’d be surprised at how many of us want justice in this case,” says Uncle Carlos. “But of course, classic Maverick. Every cop is automatically a bad cop.”

  “I’m not going tomorrow,” I repeat.

  “I ain’t say every cop is a bad cop, but I ain’t gon’ stand here like a fool, thinking that some of them don’t do dirty shit. Hell, they made me lay face-down on the sidewalk. And for what? ’Cause they could!”

  “It could’ve been either one of them,” Momma says. “Trying to figure out who did it will get us nowhere. The main thing is making sure Starr is safe tomorrow—”

  “I said I’m not going!” I shout.

  They finally hear me. My stomach holds a roiling boil. “Yeah, it could’ve been King Lords, but what if it was the cops?” I look at Daddy and remember that moment weeks ago in front of the store. “I thought they were gonna kill you,” I croak. “Because of me.”

  He kneels in front of me and sits the Glock beside my feet. He lifts my chin. “Point one of the Ten-Point Program. Say it.”

  My brothers and I learned to recite the Black Panthers’ Ten-Point Program the same way other kids learn the Pledge of Allegiance.

  “‘We want freedom,’” I say. “‘We want the power to determine the destiny of our black and oppressed communities.’”

  “Say it again.”

  “‘We want freedom. We want the power to determine the destiny of our black and oppressed communities.’”

  “Point seven.”

  “‘We want an immediate end to police brutality,’” I say, “‘and the murder of black people, other people of color, and oppressed people.’”

  “Again.”

  “‘We want an immediate end to police brutality and the murder of black people, other people of color, and oppressed people.’”

  “And what did Brother Malcolm say is our objective?”

  Seven and I could recite Malcolm X quotes by the time we were thirteen. Sekani hasn’t gotten there yet.

  “‘Complete freedom, justice, and equality,’” I say, “‘by any means necessary.’”

  “Again.”

  “‘Complete freedom, justice, and equality, by any means necessary.’”

  “So why you gon’ be quiet?” Daddy asks.

  Because the Ten-Point Program didn’t work for the Panthers. Huey Newton died a crackhead, and the government crushed the Panthers one by one. By any means necessary didn’t keep Brother Malcolm from dying, possibly at the hands of his own people. Intentions always look better on paper than in reality. The reality is, I may not make it to the courthouse in the morning.

  Two loud knocks at the front door startle us.

  Daddy straightens up, grabs his Glock, and leaves to answer. He says what’s up to somebody, and there’s a sound like palms slapping. Then a male voice says, “You know we got you, Big Mav.”

  Daddy returns with some tall, wide-shouldered guys dressed in gray and black. It’s a lighter gray than what King and his folks wear. It takes a hood-trained eye to notice it and understand. This is a different set of King Lords.

  “This is Goon.” Daddy points to the shortest one, in front with the ponytails. “Him and his boys gon’ provide security for us tonight and tomorrow.”

  Uncle Carlos folds his arms and gives the King Lords a hard look. “You asked King Lords to guard the house when King Lords may have put us in this position?”

  “They don’t mess with King,” Daddy says. “They Cedar Grove King Lords.”

  Shit, they may as well be GDs then. Sets make all the difference in gangbanging, not colors. The Cedar Grove King Lords have been beefing with King’s set, the West Side King Lords, for a while now.

  “You need us to fall back, Big Mav?” Goon asks.

  “Nah, don’t worry about him,” Daddy says. “Y’all do what y’all came to do.”

  “Nothing but a thang,” Goon says, and gives Daddy dap. Him and his boys head back outside.

  “Are you serious right now?” Uncle Carlos yells. “You really think gangbangers can provide adequate security?”

  “They strapped, ain’t they?” Daddy says.

  “Ridiculous!” Uncle Carlos looks at Momma. “Look, I’ll go with you to the courthouse tomorrow as long as they aren’t coming too.”

  “Punk ass,” Daddy says. “Can’t even protect your niece ’cause you scared of what it’ll look like to your fellow cops if you’re working with gangbangers.”

  “Oh, you wanna go there, Maverick?” Uncle Carlos says.

  “Carlos, calm down.”

  “No, Lisa. I wanna make sure I got this right. Does he mean the same niece I took care of while he was locked up? Huh? The one I took to her first day of school because he took a charge for his so-called boy? The one I held when she cried for her daddy?”

  He’s loud, and Momma stands in front of him to keep him from Daddy.

  “You can call me as many names as you want, Maverick, but don’t you ever say I don’t care about my niece and nephews! Yeah, that’s right, nephews! Seven too. When you were locked up—”

  “Carlos,” Momma says.

  “No, he needs to hear this. When you were locked up, I helped Lisa every time your sorry-ass baby momma dropped Seven off on her for weeks at a time. Me! I bought clothes, food, provided shelter. My Uncle Tom ass! Hell no, I don’t wanna work with criminals, but don’t you ever insinuate I don’t care about any of those kids!”

  Daddy’s mouth makes a line. He’s silent.

  Uncle Carlos snatches his keys off the coffee table, gives my forehead two pecks, and leaves. The front door slams shut.

  NINETEEN

  The smell of hickory bacon an
d the sound of way too many voices wake me up.

  I blink to soothe my eyes from the assault my neon-blue walls are giving them. It takes me a few minutes lying here to remember it’s grand jury day.

  Time to see if I’ll fail Khalil or not.

  I put my feet in my slippers and head toward the unfamiliar voices. Seven and Sekani are at school by now, plus their voices aren’t that deep. I should be worried about some unknown dudes seeing me in my pajamas, but that’s the beauty of sleeping in tanks and basketball shorts. They won’t see much.

  The kitchen’s standing-room-only. Guys in black slacks, white shirts, and ties are at the table or standing against the wall, shoveling food in their mouths. They have tattoos on their faces and hands. A couple of them give me quick nods and mumble “S’up” through mouths full of food.

  The Cedar Grove King Lords. Damn, they clean up nicely.

  Momma and Aunt Pam work the stove as skillets full of bacon and eggs sizzle, blue flames dancing beneath them. Nana pours juice and coffee and runs her mouth.

  Momma barely looks over her shoulder and says, “Morning, Munch. Your plate’s in the microwave. Come get these biscuits out for me, please.”

  She and Aunt Pam move to the ends of the stove, stirring the eggs and turning the bacon. I grab a towel and open the oven. The aroma of buttery biscuits and a heat wave hit me head-on. I pick the pan up with the towel, and that thing is still too hot to hold for long.

  “Over here, li’l momma,” Goon says at the table.

  I’m glad to put it down. Not even two minutes after I set it on the table, every last biscuit is gone. Goddamn. I grab my paper towel–covered plate from the microwave before the King Lords inhale it too.

  “Starr, get those other plates for your dad and your uncle,” Aunt Pam says. “Take them outside, please.”

  Uncle Carlos is here? I tell Aunt Pam, “Yes, ma’am,” stack their plates on top of mine, grab the hot sauce and some forks, and leave as Nana starts one of her “back in my theater days” stories.

  Outside, the sunlight’s so bright it makes the paint on my walls seem dim. I squint and look around for Daddy or Uncle Carlos. The hatch on Daddy’s Tahoe is up, and they’re sitting on the back of it.