The Hate U Give

by Angie Thomas

  My two worlds just collided. Surprisingly, everything’s all right.

  The song changes to “Wobble.” Momma runs over and pulls me up. “C’mon, Munch.”

  I can’t dig my feet in the grass fast enough. “Mommy, no!”

  “Hush, girl. C’mon. Y’all too!” she hollers back to my friends.

  Everybody lines up on the grassy area that’s become the makeshift dance floor. Momma pulls me to the front row. “Show ’em how it’s done, baby,” she says. “Show ’em how it’s done!”

  I stay still on purpose. Dictator or not, she’s not gonna make me dance. Kenya and Maya egg her on in egging me on. Never thought they’d team up against me.

  Shoot, before I know it, I’m wobbling. I have duck lips too, so you know I’m feeling it.

  I talk Chris through the steps, and he keeps up. I love him for trying. Nana joins in, doing a shoulder shimmy that’s not the Wobble, but I doubt she cares.

  The “Cupid Shuffle” comes on, and my family leads everybody else on the front row. Sometimes we forget which way is right and which is left, and we laugh way too hard at ourselves. Embarrassing dancing and dysfunction aside, my family’s not so bad.

  After all that wobbling and shuffling, my stomach begs for some food. I leave everybody else doing the “Bikers Shuffle,” which is a whole new level of shuffling, and most of our party guests are lost as hell.

  Aluminum serving trays crowd the kitchen counter. I stack a plate with some ribs, wings, and corn on the cob. I scoop a nice amount of baked beans on there somehow. No potato salad. That’s the devil’s food. All that mayonnaise. I don’t care if Momma made it, I’m not touching that mess.

  I refuse to eat outside, too many bugs that could get on my food. I plop down at the dining room table, and I’m about to go in on my plate.

  But the damn phone rings.

  Everybody else is outside, leaving me to answer. I shove a chicken wing in my mouth. “Hello?” I chomp in the other person’s ear. Rude? Definitely. Am I starving? Hell yeah.

  “Hi, this is the front security gate. Iesha Robinson is asking to visit your residence.”

  I stop chewing. Iesha was MIA at Seven’s graduation, which she was invited to, so why did she show up to the party she wasn’t invited to? How did she even find out about it? Seven didn’t tell her, and Kenya swore she wouldn’t. She lied and told her momma and daddy she was hanging with some other friends today.

  I take the phone outside to Daddy because, shit, I don’t know what to do. I go out at a good time too. He’s trying—and failing—to Nae-Nae. I have to call him a second time for him to stop that atrocity and come over.

  He grins. “You ain’t know your daddy had it in him, did you?”

  “I still don’t. Here.” I hand him the phone. “That’s neighborhood security. Iesha’s at the security gate.”

  His grin disappears. He plugs one ear and puts the phone to the other. “Hello?”

  The security guard talks for a moment. Daddy motions Seven to the patio. “Hold on.” He covers the receiver. “Your momma at the gate. She wanna see you.”

  Seven’s eyebrows knit together. “How did she know we’re here?”

  “Your grandma’s with her. Didn’t you invite her?”

  “Yeah, but not Iesha.”

  “Look, man, if you want her to come back for a li’l bit, it’s cool,” Daddy says. “I’ll make DeVante go inside so she won’t see him. What you wanna do?”

  “Pops, can you tell her—”

  “Nah, man. That’s your momma. You handle that.”

  Seven bites his lip for a moment. He sighs through his nose. “All right.”

  Iesha pulls up out front. I follow Seven, Kenya, and my parents to the driveway. Seven always has my back. I figure he needs me to have his too.

  Seven tells Kenya to stay back with us and goes toward Iesha’s pink BMW.

  Lyric jumps out the car. “Sevvie!” She runs to him, the ball-shaped ponytail holders on her hair bouncing. I hated wearing those things. All it takes is one hitting you between your eyes and you’re done. Lyric launches into Seven’s arms, and he swings her around.

  I can’t lie, I always get a little jealous when I see Seven with his other sisters. It doesn’t make sense, I know. But they share a momma, and it makes things different between them. It’s like they have a stronger bond or something.

  But there’s no way in hell I’d trade Momma for Iesha. Nope.

  Seven keeps Lyric on his hip and hugs his grandma with one arm.

  Iesha gets out. A bob haircut has replaced her down-to-the-ass Indian import. She doesn’t even try to tug her hot-pink dress down that obviously rode up her thighs during the drive. Or maybe it didn’t ride up and that’s where it always was.

  Nope. Wouldn’t trade Momma for anything.

  “So you gon’ have a party and not invite me, Seven?” Iesha asks. “A birthday party at that? I’m the one who gave birth to your ass!”

  Seven glances around. At least one of Uncle Carlos’s neighbors is looking. “Not now.”

  “Oh, hell yes now. I had to find out from my momma because my own son couldn’t be bothered to invite me.” She sets her sharp glare on Kenya. “And this li’l fast thang lied to me about it! I oughta whoop your ass.”

  Kenya flinches like Iesha already hit her. “Momma—”

  “Don’t blame Kenya,” says Seven, setting Lyric down. “I asked her not to tell you, Iesha.”

  “Iesha?” she echoes, all in his face. “Who the hell you think you talking to like that?”

  What happens next is like when you shake a soda can real hard. From the outside, you can’t tell anything is going on. But then you open it, and it explodes.

  “This is why I didn’t invite you!” Seven shouts. “This! Right now! You don’t know how to act!”

  “Oh, so you ashamed of me, Seven?”

  “You’re fucking right I’m ashamed of you!”

  “Whoa!” Daddy says. Stepping between them, he puts his hand on Seven’s chest. “Seven, calm down.”

  “Nah, Pops! Let me tell her how I didn’t invite her because I didn’t wanna explain to my friends that my stepmom isn’t my mom like they think. Or how I never once corrected anybody at Williamson who made the assumption. Hell, it wasn’t like she ever came to any of my stuff, so why bother? You couldn’t even show up to my graduation yesterday!”

  “Seven,” Kenya pleads. “Stop.”

  “No, Kenya!” he says, his sights square on their momma. “I’ll tell her how I didn’t think she gave a damn about my birthday, ’cause guess what? She never has! ‘You didn’t invite me, you didn’t invite me,’” he mocks. “Hell no, I didn’t. And why the fuck should I?”

  Iesha blinks several times and says in a voice like broken glass, “After all I’ve done for you.”

  “All you’ve done for me? What? Putting me out the house? Choosing a man over me every single chance you got? Remember when I tried to stop King from whooping your ass, Iesha? Who did you get mad at?”

  “Seven,” Daddy says.

  “Me! You got mad at me! Said I made him leave. That’s what you call ‘doing’ for me? That woman right there”—he stretches his arm toward Momma—“did everything you were supposed to and then some. How dare you stand there and take credit for it. All I ever did was love you.” His voice cracks. “That’s it. And you couldn’t even give that back to me.”

  The music has stopped, and heads peek over the backyard fence.

  Layla approaches him. She hooks her arm through his. He allows her to take him inside. Iesha turns on her heels and starts for her car.

  “Iesha, wait,” Daddy says.

  “Nothing to wait for.” She throws her door open. “You happy, Maverick? You and that trick you married finally turned my son against me. Can’t wait till King fuck y’all up for letting that girl snitch on him on TV.”

  My stomach clenches.

  “Tell him try it if he wants and see what happens!” says Daddy.
r />   It’s one thing to hear gossip that somebody plans to “fuck you up,” but it’s a whole different thing to hear it from somebody who would actually know.

  But I can’t worry about King right now. I have to go to my brother.

  Kenya’s at my side. We find him on the bottom of the staircase. He sobs like a baby. Layla rests her head on his shoulder.

  Seeing him cry like that . . . I wanna cry. “Seven?”

  He looks up with red, puffy eyes that I’ve never seen on my brother before.

  Momma comes in. Layla gets up, and Momma takes her spot on the steps.

  “Come here, baby,” she says, and they somehow hug.

  Daddy touches my shoulder and Kenya’s. “Go outside, y’all.”

  Kenya’s face is scrunched up like she’s gonna cry. I grab her arm and take her to the kitchen. She sits at the counter and buries her face in her hands. I climb onto the stool and don’t say anything. Sometimes it’s not necessary.

  After a few minutes, she says, “I’m sorry my daddy’s mad at you.”

  This is the most awkward situation ever—my friend’s dad possibly wants to kill me. “Not your fault,” I mumble.

  “I understand why my brother didn’t invite my momma, but . . .” Her voice cracks. “She going through a lot, Starr. With him.” Kenya wipes her face on her arm. “I wish she’d leave him.”

  “Maybe she afraid to?” I say. “Look at me. I was afraid to speak out for Khalil, and you went off on me about it.”

  “I didn’t go off.”

  “Yeah, you did.”

  “Trust me, no, I didn’t. You’ll know when I go off on you.”

  “Anyway! I know it’s not the same, but . . .” Good Lord, I never thought I’d say this. “I think I understand Iesha. It’s hard to stand up for yourself sometimes. She may need that push too.”

  “So you want me to go off on her? I can’t believe you think I went off on you. Sensitive ass.”

  My mouth flies open. “You know what? I’m gonna let that slide. Nah, I ain’t say you need to go off on her, that would be stupid. Just . . .” I sigh. “I don’t know.”

  “I don’t either.”

  We go silent.

  Kenya wipes her face again. “I’m good.” She gets up. “I’m good.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes! Stop asking me that. C’mon, let’s go back out there and stop them from talking about my brother, ’cause you know they’re talking.”

  She heads for the door, but I say, “Our brother.”

  Kenya turns around. “What?”

  “Our brother. He’s mine too.”

  I didn’t say it in a mean way or even with an attitude, I swear. She doesn’t respond. Not even an “okay.” Not that I expected her to suddenly go, “Of course, he’s our brother, I’m extremely sorry for acting like he wasn’t yours too.” I hoped for something though.

  Kenya goes outside.

  Seven and Iesha unknowingly hit the pause button on the party. The music’s off, and Seven’s friends stand around, talking in hushed tones.

  Chris and Maya walk up to me. “Is Seven okay?” Maya asks.

  “Who turned the music off?” I ask. Chris shrugs.

  I pick up Daddy’s iPod from the patio table, our DJ for the afternoon that’s hooked up to the sound system. Scrolling through the playlist, I find this Kendrick Lamar song Seven played for me one day, right after Khalil died. Kendrick raps about how everything will be all right. Seven said it’s for both of us.

  I hit play and hope he hears it. It’s for Kenya too.

  Midway through the song, Seven and Layla come back out. His eyes are puffy and pink but dry. He smiles at me a little and gives a quick nod. I return it.

  Momma leads Daddy outside. They’re both wearing cone-shaped birthday hats, and Daddy carries a huge sheet cake with candles lit on top of it.

  “Happy birthday to ya!” they sing, and Momma does this not-as-embarrassing shoulder bounce. “Happy birthday to ya! Happy birth-day!”

  Seven smiles from ear to ear. I turn the music down.

  Daddy sets the cake on the patio table, and everybody crowds around it and Seven. Our family, Kenya, DeVante, and Layla—basically, all the black people—sing the Stevie Wonder version of “Happy Birthday.” Maya seems to know it. A lot of Seven’s friends look lost. Chris does too. These cultural differences are crazy sometimes.

  Nana takes the song way too far and hits notes that don’t need to be hit. Momma tells her, “The candles are about to go out, Momma!”

  She’s so damn dramatic.

  Seven leans down to blow the candles out, but Daddy says, “Wait! Man, you know you don’t blow no candles out till I say something.”

  “Aww, Pops!”

  “He can’t tell you what to do, Seven,” Sekani chirps. “You’re grown now!”

  Daddy shoots Sekani an up-and-down look. “Boy—” He turns to Seven. “I’m proud of you, man. Like I told you, I never got a diploma. A lot of young brothers don’t get theirs. And where we come from, a lot of them don’t make it to eighteen. Some do make it, but they’re messed up by the time they get there. Not you though. You’re going places, no doubt. I always knew that.

  “See, I believe in giving my kids names that mean something. Sekani, that means merriment and joy.”

  I snort. Sekani side-eyes me.

  “I named your sister Starr because she was my light in the darkness. Seven, that’s a holy number. The number of perfection. I ain’t saying you’re perfect, nobody is, but you’re the perfect gift God gave me. I love you, man. Happy birthday and congratulations.”

  Daddy affectionately clasps Seven’s neck. Seven grins wider. “Love you too, Pops.”

  The cake is one of Mrs. Rooks’s red velvets. Everybody goes on and on about how good it is. Uncle Carlos pigs out on at least three slices. There’s more dancing, laughing. All in all, it’s a good day.

  Good days don’t last forever though.

  PART 5

  THIRTEEN WEEKS AFTER IT—THE DECISION

  TWENTY-TWO

  In our new neighborhood I can simply tell my parents “I’m going for a walk” and leave.

  We just got off the phone with Ms. Ofrah, who said the grand jury will announce their decision in a few hours. She claims only the grand jurors know the decision, but I’ve got a sinking feeling I know it. It’s always the decision.

  I stick my hands in the pockets of my sleeveless hoodie. Some kids race past on bikes and scooters. Nearly knock me over. Doubt they’re worried about the grand jury’s decision. They aren’t hurrying inside like the kids back home are probably doing.

  Home.

  We started moving into our new house this past weekend. Five days later, this place doesn’t feel like home yet. It could be all the unpacked boxes or the street names I don’t know. And it’s almost too quiet. No Fo’ty Ounce and his creaky cart or Mrs. Pearl hollering a greeting from across the street.

  I need normal.

  I text Chris. Less than ten minutes later, he picks me up in his dad’s Benz.

  The Bryants live in the only house on their street that has a separate house attached to it for a butler. Mr. Bryant owns eight cars, mostly antiques, and a garage to store them all.

  Chris parks in one of the two empty spots.

  “Your parents gone?” I ask.

  “Yep. Date night at the country club.”

  Most of Chris’s house looks too fancy to live in. Statues, oil paintings, chandeliers. A museum more than a home. Chris’s suite on the third floor is more normal looking. There’s a leather couch in his room, right in front of the flat-screen TV and video game systems. His floor is painted to look like a half basketball court, and he can play on an actual hoop on his wall.

  His California King–size bed has been made, a rare sight. I never knew there was anything larger than a king-size bed before I met him. I pull my Timbs off and grab the remote from his nightstand. As I throw myself onto his bed, I flick the TV on.

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bsp; Chris steps out his Chucks and sits at his desk, where a drum pad, a keyboard, and turntables are hooked up to a Mac. “Check this out,” he says, and plays a beat.

  I prop myself up on my elbows and nod along. It’s got an old-school feel to it, like something Dre and Snoop would’ve used back in the day. “Nice.”

  “Thanks. I think I need to take some of that bass out though.” He turns around and gets to work.

  I pick at a loose thread on his comforter. “Do you think they’re gonna charge him?”

  “Do you?”

  “No.”

  Chris spins his chair back around. My eyes are watery, and I lie on my side. He climbs in next to me so we’re facing each other.

  Chris presses his forehead against mine. “I’m sorry.”

  “You didn’t do anything.”

  “But I feel like I should apologize on behalf of white people everywhere.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “But I want to.”

  Lying in his California King–size bed in his suite in his gigantic house, I realize the truth. I mean, it’s been there all along, but in this moment lights flash around it. “We shouldn’t be together,” I say.

  “Why not?”

  “My old house in Garden Heights could fit in your house.”

  “So?”

  “My dad was a gangbanger.”

  “My dad gambles.”

  “I grew up in the projects.”

  “I grew up with a roof over my head too.”

  I sigh and start to turn my back to him.

  He holds my shoulder so I won’t. “Don’t let this stuff get in your head again, Starr.”

  “You ever notice how people look at us?”

  “What people?”

  “People,” I say. “It takes them a second to realize we’re a couple.”

  “Who gives a fuck?”

  “Me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you should be with Hailey.”

  He recoils. “Why the hell would I do that?”

  “Not Hailey. But you know. Blond. Rich. White.”

  “I prefer: Beautiful. Amazing. Starr.”

  He doesn’t get it, but I don’t wanna talk about it anymore. I wanna get so caught up in him that the grand jury’s decision isn’t even a thing. I kiss his lips, which always have and always will be perfect. He kisses me back, and soon we’re making out like it’s the only thing we know how to do.