The Hate U Give

by Angie Thomas

  My slippers scuff against the concrete, sounding like brooms sweeping the floor. Daddy looks around the truck. “There go my baby.”

  I hand him and Uncle Carlos a plate and get a kiss to the cheek from Daddy in return. “You sleep okay?” he asks.

  “Kinda.”

  Uncle Carlos moves his pistol from the space between them and pats the empty spot. “Keep us company for a bit.”

  I hop up next to them. We unwrap the plates that have enough biscuits, bacon, and eggs for a few people.

  “I think this one’s yours, Maverick,” Uncle Carlos says. “It’s got turkey bacon.”

  “Thanks, man,” Daddy says, and they exchange plates.

  I shake hot sauce on my eggs and pass Daddy the bottle. Uncle Carlos holds his hand out for it too.

  Daddy smirks and passes it down. “I would’ve thought you were too refined for some hot sauce on your eggs.”

  “You do realize this is the house I grew up in, right?” He covers his eggs completely in hot sauce, sets the bottle down, and licks his fingers for the sauce that got on them. “Don’t tell Pam I ate all of this though. She’s always on me about watching my sodium.”

  “I won’t tell if you won’t tell,” Daddy says. They bump fists to seal the deal.

  I woke up on another planet or in an alternate reality. Something. “Y’all cool all of a sudden?”

  “We talked,” Daddy says. “It’s all good.”

  “Yep,” says Uncle Carlos. “Some things are more important than others.”

  I want details, but I won’t get them. If they’re good though, I’m good. And honestly? It’s about damn time.

  “Since you and Aunt Pam are here, where’s DeVante?” I ask Uncle Carlos.

  “At home for once and not playing video games with your li’l boyfriend.”

  “Why does Chris always have to be ‘li’l’ to you?” I ask. “He’s not little.”

  “You better be talking about his height,” says Daddy.

  “Amen,” Uncle Carlos adds, and they fist-bump again.

  So they’ve found common complaining ground—Chris. Figures.

  Our street is quiet for the most part this morning. It usually is. The drama always comes from people who don’t live here. Two houses down, Mrs. Lynn and Ms. Carol talk in Mrs. Lynn’s yard. Probably gossiping. Can’t tell either one of them anything if you don’t want it spread around Garden Heights like a cold. Mrs. Pearl works in her flower bed across the street with a little help from Fo’ty Ounce. Everybody calls him that ’cause he always asks for money to buy a “Fo’ty ounce from the licka sto’ real quick.” His rusty shopping cart with all of his belongings is in Mrs. Pearl’s driveway, a big bag of mulch on the bottom of it. Apparently he has a green thumb. He laughs at something Mrs. Pearl says, and people two streets over probably hear that guffaw of his.

  “Can’t believe that fool’s alive,” Uncle Carlos says. “Would’ve thought he drank himself to death by now.”

  “Who? Fo’ty Ounce?” I ask.

  “Yeah! He was around when I was a kid.”

  “Nah, he ain’t going nowhere,” says Daddy. “He claims the liquor keeps him alive.”

  “Does Mrs. Rooks live around the corner?” Uncle Carlos asks.

  “Yep,” I say. “And she still makes the best red velvet cakes you ever had in your life.”

  “Wow. I told Pam I have yet to taste a red velvet cake as good as Mrs. Rooks’s. What about um . . .” He snaps his fingers. “The man who fixed cars. Lived at the corner.”

  “Mr. Washington,” says Daddy. “Still kicking it and still does better work than any automotive shop around. Got his son helping him too.”

  “Li’l John?” Uncle Carlos asks. “The one that played basketball but got on that stuff?”

  “Yep,” says Daddy. “He been clean for a minute now.”

  “Man.” Uncle Carlos pushes his red eggs around his plate. “I almost miss living here sometimes.”

  I watch Fo’ty Ounce help Mrs. Pearl. People around here don’t have much, but they help each other out as best they can. It’s this strange, dysfunctional-as-hell family, but it’s still a family. More than I realized until recently.

  “Starr!” Nana calls from the front door. People two streets over probably hear her like they heard Fo’ty Ounce. “Your momma said hurry up. You gotta get ready. Hey, Pearl!”

  Mrs. Pearl shields her eyes and looks our way. “Hey, Adele! Haven’t seen you in a while. You all right?”

  “Hanging in there, girl. You got that flowerbed looking good! I’m coming by later to get some of that Birds of Paradise.”

  “All right.”

  “You not gon’ say hey to me, Adele?” Fo’ty Ounce asks. When he talks, it jumbled together like one long word.

  “Hell nah, you old fool,” Nana says. The door slams behind her.

  Daddy, Uncle Carlos, and I crack up.

  The Cedar Grove King Lords trail us in two cars, and Uncle Carlos drives me and my parents. One of his off-duty buddies occupies the passenger’s seat. Nana and Aunt Pam trail us too.

  All these people though, and none of them can go in the grand jury room with me.

  It takes fifteen minutes to get to downtown from Garden Heights. There’s always construction work going on for some new building. Garden Heights has dope boys on corners, but downtown people in business suits wait for crossing lights to change. I wonder if they ever hear the gunshots and shit in my neighborhood.

  We turn onto the street where the courthouse is, and I have one of those weird déjà-vu moments. I’m three, and Uncle Carlos drives Momma, Seven, and me to the courthouse. Momma cries the entire drive, and I wish Daddy were here because he can always get her to stop crying. Seven and I hold Momma’s hands as we walk into a courtroom. Some cops bring Daddy out in an orange jumpsuit. He can’t hug us because he’s handcuffed. I tell him I like his jumpsuit; orange is one of my favorite colors. But he looks at me real seriously, and says, “Don’t you ever wear this, you hear me?”

  All I remember after that is the judge saying something, Momma sobbing, and Daddy telling us he loves us as the cops haul him off. For three years I hated the courthouse because it took Daddy from us.

  I’m not thrilled to see it now. News vans and trucks are across the street from the courthouse, and police barricades separate them from everybody else. I now know why people call it a “media circus.” It seriously looks like the circus is setting up in town.

  Two traffic lanes separate the courthouse from the media frenzy, but I swear they’re a world away. Hundreds of people quietly kneel on the courthouse lawn. Men and women in clerical collars stand at the front of the crowd, their heads bowed.

  To avoid the clowns and their cameras, Uncle Carlos turns onto the street alongside the courthouse. We go in through the back door. Goon and another King Lord join us. They flank me and don’t hesitate to let security check them for weapons.

  Another security guard leads us through the courthouse. The farther we go, the fewer people we pass in the halls. Ms. Ofrah waits beside a door with a brass plate that says Grand Jury Room.

  She hugs me and asks, “Ready?”

  For once I am. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’ll be out here the whole time,” she says. “If you need to ask me something, you have that right.” She looks at my entourage. “I’m sorry, but only Starr’s parents are allowed to watch in the TV room.”

  Uncle Carlos and Aunt Pam hug me. Nana pats my shoulder as she shakes her head. Goon and his boy give me quick nods and leave with them.

  Momma’s eyes brim with tears. She pulls me into a tight hug, and it’s at that moment, of all the moments, that I realize I’ve gotten an inch or two taller than she is. She plants kisses all over my face and hugs me again. “I’m proud of you, baby. You are so brave.”

  That word. I hate it. “No, I’m not.”

  “Yeah, you are.” She pulls back and pushes a strand of hair away from my face. I can’t explain the look in her ey
es, but it knows me better than I know myself. It wraps me up and warms me from the inside out. “Brave doesn’t mean you’re not scared, Starr,” she says. “It means you go on even though you’re scared. And you’re doing that.”

  She leans up slightly on her tiptoes and kisses my forehead as if that makes it true. For me it kinda does.

  Daddy wraps his arms around both of us. “You got this, baby girl.”

  The door to the grand jury room creaks open, and the DA, Ms. Monroe, looks out. “We’re ready if you are.”

  I walk into the grand jury room alone, but somehow my parents are with me.

  The room has wood-paneled walls and no windows. About twenty or so men and women occupy a U-shaped table. Some of them are black, some of them aren’t. Their eyes follow us as Ms. Monroe leads me to a table in front of them with a mic on it.

  One of Ms. Monroe’s colleagues swears me in, and I promise on the Bible to tell the truth. I silently promise it to Khalil too.

  Ms. Monroe says from the back of the room, “Could you please introduce yourself to the grand jurors?”

  I scoot closer to the mic and clear my throat. “My name—” My small voice sounds like a five-year-old’s. I sit up straight and try again. “My name is Starr Carter. I’m sixteen years old.”

  “The mic is only recording you, not projecting your voice,” Ms. Monroe says. “As we have our conversation, we need you to speak loud enough for everyone to hear, okay?”

  “Yes—” My lips brush the mic. Too close. I move back and try again. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good. You came here on your own free will, is that correct?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You have an attorney, Ms. April Ofrah, correct?” she says.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You understand you have the right to consult with her, correct?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You understand you’re not the focus of any criminal charges, correct?”

  Bullshit. Khalil and I have been on trial since he died. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Today, we want to hear in your own words what happened to Khalil Harris, okay?”

  I look at the jurors, unable to read their faces and tell if they really want to hear my words. Hopefully they do. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Now, since we have that understanding, let’s talk about Khalil. You were friends with him, right?”

  I nod, but Ms. Monroe says, “Please give a verbal response.”

  I lean toward the mic and say, “Yes, ma’am.”

  Shit. I forgot the jurors can’t hear me on it and it’s only for recording. It doesn’t make any sense that I’m so nervous.

  “How long did you know Khalil?”

  The same story, all over again. I become a robot who repeats how I knew Khalil since I was three, how we grew up together, the kind of person he was.

  When I finish, Ms. Monroe says, “Okay. We’re going to discuss the night of the shooting in detail. Are you okay with that?”

  The un-brave part of me, which feels like most of me, shouts no. It wants to crawl up in a corner and act as if none of this ever happened. But all those people outside are praying for me. My parents are watching me. Khalil needs me.

  I straighten up and allow the tiny brave part of me to speak. “Yes, ma’am.”

  PART 3

  EIGHT WEEKS AFTER IT

  TWENTY

  Three hours. That’s how long I was in the grand jury room. Ms. Monroe asked me all kinds of questions. What angle was Khalil at when he was shot? Where did he pull his license and registration from? How did Officer Cruise remove him from the car? Did Officer Cruise seem angry? What did he say?

  She wanted every single detail. I gave her as much as I could.

  It’s been over two weeks since I talked to the grand jury, and now we’re waiting for their decision, which is similar to waiting for a meteor to hit. You know it’s coming, you’re just not exactly sure when and where it’ll hit, and there ain’t shit you can do in the meantime but keep living.

  So we’re living.

  The sun is out today, but the rain fell in sheets as soon as we pulled into the parking lot of Williamson. When it rains like that while the sun’s out, Nana says the devil is beating his wife. Plus, it’s Friday the thirteenth, a.k.a. the devil’s day, according to Nana. She’s probably holed up in the house like it’s doomsday.

  Seven and I dash from the car into the school. The atrium’s busy as usual with people talking to their little cliques or playing around. The school year’s almost over, so everybody’s goof-off levels are at their highest, and white-kid goofing off is a category of its own. I’m sorry, but it is. Yesterday a sophomore rode down the stairs in the janitor’s garbage can. His dumb ass got suspension and a concussion. Stupid.

  I wiggle my toes. The one day I wear Chucks it decides to rain. They’re miraculously dry.

  “You’re good?” Seven asks, and I doubt it’s about the rain. He’s been way more protective lately, ever since we got word that King’s still pissed I dry snitched. I heard Uncle Carlos tell Daddy it gave the cops another reason to watch King closely.

  Unless King threw the brick, he hasn’t done anything. Yet. So Seven’s always on guard, even all the way out here at Williamson.

  “Yeah,” I tell him. “I’m good.”

  “All right.”

  He gives me dap and goes off to his locker.

  I head for mine. Hailey and Maya are talking at Maya’s locker nearby. Actually, Maya’s doing most of the talking. Hailey’s got her arms folded and rolls her eyes a lot. She sees me down the hall and gets this smug expression.

  “Perfect,” she says when I get closer. “The liar is here.”

  “Excuse me?” It’s way too early for this bullshit.

  “Why don’t you tell Maya how you flat-out lied to us?”

  “What?”

  Hailey hands me two pictures. One is Khalil’s thugshot, as Daddy calls it. One of the pictures they’ve shown on the news. Hailey printed it off the internet. Khalil wears a smirk, gripping a handful of money and throwing up a sideways peace sign.

  The other picture, he’s twelve. I know because I’m twelve in it too. It’s my birthday party at this laser tag place downtown. Khalil’s on one side of me, shoveling strawberry cake into his mouth, and Hailey’s on my other side, grinning for the camera along with me.

  “I thought he looked familiar,” Hailey says as smugly as she looks. “He is the Khalil you knew. Isn’t he?”

  I stare at the two Khalils. The pictures only show so much. For some people, the thugshot makes him look just like that—a thug. But I see somebody who was happy to finally have some money in his hand, damn where it came from. And the birthday picture? I remember how Khalil ate so much cake and pizza he got sick. His grandma hadn’t gotten paid yet, and food was limited in their house.

  I knew the whole Khalil. That’s who I’ve been speaking up for. I shouldn’t deny any part of him. Not even at Williamson.

  I hand the pictures back to Hailey. “Yeah, I knew him. So what?”

  “Don’t you think you owe us an explanation?” she says. “You owe me an apology too.”

  “Um, what?”

  “You’ve basically picked fights with me because you were upset about what happened to him,” she says. “You even accused me of being racist.”

  “But you have said and done some racist stuff. So . . .” Maya shrugs. “Whether Starr lied or not doesn’t make it okay.”

  Minority alliance activated.

  “So, since I unfollowed her Tumblr because I didn’t wanna see any more pictures of that mutilated kid on my dashboard—”

  “His name was Emmett Till,” says Maya.

  “Whatever. So because I didn’t want to see that disgusting shit, I’m racist?”

  “No,” Maya says. “What you said about it was racist. And your Thanksgiving joke was definitely racist.”

  “Oh my God, you’re still upset about that?” Hailey says. �
�That was so long ago!”

  “Doesn’t make it okay,” I say. “And you can’t even apologize for it.”

  “I’m not apologizing because it was only a joke!” she shouts. “It doesn’t make me a racist. I’m not letting you guys guilt trip me like this. What’s next? You want me to apologize because my ancestors were slave masters or something stupid?”

  “Bitch—” I take a deep breath. Way too many people are watching. I cannot go angry black girl on her. “Your joke was hurtful,” I say, as calmly as I can. “If you give a damn about Maya, you’d apologize and at least try to see why it hurt her.”

  “It’s not my fault she can’t get over a joke from freaking freshman year! Just like it’s not my fault you can’t get over what happened to Khalil.”

  “So I’m supposed to ‘get over’ the fact he was murdered?”

  “Yes, get over it! He was probably gonna end up dead anyway.”

  “Are you serious?” Maya says.

  “He was a drug dealer and a gangbanger,” Hailey says. “Somebody was gonna kill him eventually.”

  “Get over it?” I repeat.

  She folds her arms and does this little neck movement. “Um, yeah? Isn’t that what I said? The cop probably did everyone a favor. One less drug dealer on the—”

  I move Maya out the way and slam my fist against the side of Hailey’s face. It hurts, but damn it feels good.

  Hailey holds her cheek, her eyes wide and her mouth open for several seconds.

  “Bitch!” she shrieks. She goes straight for my hair like girls usually do, but my ponytail is real. She’s not pulling it out.

  I hit at Hailey with my fists, and she slaps and claws me upside my head. I push her off, and she hits the floor. Her skirt goes up, and her pink drawers are out for everybody to see. Laughter erupts around us. Some people have their phones out.

  I’m no longer Williamson Starr or even Garden Heights Starr. I’m pissed.

  I kick and hit at Hailey, cuss words flying out my mouth. People gather around us, chanting “Fight! Fight!” and one fool even shouts, “World Star!”

  Shit. I’m gonna end up on that ratchet site.