The Hate U Give (13 page)

“I became a King Lord when I was twelve. Shit, that was the only way to survive. Somebody was always coming at me ’cause of my pops, but if I was a King Lord I had folks to watch my back. Kinging became my life. I was down to die for it, say the word.”

He glances at me. “Then I became a daddy, and I realized that King Lord shit wasn’t worth dying for. I wanted out. But you know how the game work, it ain’t as easy as saying you done. King was the crown and he was my boy, but he couldn’t let me out like that. I was making good money too, and it was honestly hard to consider walking away from it.”

“Yeah, King says you one of the best d-boys he ever knew,” DeVante says.

Daddy shrugs. “I got it from my pops. But really I was only good ’cause I never got caught. One day, me and King took a trip to do a pickup, and we got busted. Cops wanted to know who the weapons belonged to. King had two strikes, and that charge would’ve meant life. I didn’t have a record, so I took the charge and got a few years and probation. Loyal like a motha.

“Those were the hardest three years of my life. Growing up I was pissed at my daddy for going to prison and leaving me.
And there I was, in the same prison as him, missing out on my babies’ lives.”

DeVante’s eyebrows meet. “You were in prison with your pops?”

Daddy nods. “All my life, people made him sound like a real king, you know what I’m saying? A legend. But he was a weak old man, regretting the time he missed with me. Realest thing he ever told me was, ‘Don’t repeat my mistakes.’” Daddy looks at me again. “And I was doing that. I missed first days of school, all that. Had my baby wanting to call somebody else daddy ’cause I wasn’t there.”

I look away. He knows how close Uncle Carlos and I became.

“I was officially done with the King Lord shit, drug shit, all of it,” Daddy says. “And since I took that charge, King agreed to let me out. It made those three years worth it.”

DeVante’s eyes dim like they do when he talks about his brother. “You had to go to prison to get out?”

“I’m the exception, not the rule,” Daddy says. “When people say it’s for life, it’s for life. You gotta be willing to die in it or die for it. You want out?”

“I don’t wanna go to prison.”

“He didn’t ask you that,” I say. “He asked if you wanted out.”

DeVante is quiet for a long time. He looks up at Daddy and says, “I just wanna be alive, man.”

Daddy strokes his goatee. He sighs. “A’ight. I’ll help you. But I promise, you go back to slinging or banging, you’ll wish King would’ve got you when I’m done. You go to school?”

“Yeah.”

“What your grades look like?” Daddy asks.

He shrugs.

“What the hell is this?” Daddy imitates DeVante’s shrug. “You know what grades you get, so what kind?”

“I mean, I get As and Bs and shit,” DeVante says. “I ain’t dumb.”

“A’ight, good. We gon’ make sure you stay in school too.”

“Man, I can’t go back to Garden High,” DeVante says. “All them King Lords up in there. You know that’s a death wish, right?”

“I ain’t say you was going there. We’ll figure something out. In the meantime you can work here in the store. You been staying home at night?”

“Nah. King got his boys watching for me over there.”

“Of course he do,” Daddy mumbles. “We’ll figure something out with that too. Starr, show him how to do the price stickers.”

“You’re really hiring him, just like that?” I ask.

“Whose store is this, Starr?”

“Yours, but—”

“’Nuff said. Show him how to do the price stickers.”

DeVante snickers. I wanna punch him in his throat.

“C’mon,” I mumble.

We sit crossed-legged in the chip aisle. Daddy locks the front door and goes back in his office. I grab a jumbo bag of Hot Cheetos and slap a ninety-nine-cent sticker on them.

“You supposed to show me how to do it,” DeVante says.

“I am showing you. Watch.”

I grab another bag. He leans real close over my shoulder. Too close. Breathing in my ear and shit. I move my head and look at him. “Do you mind?”

“What’s your problem with me?” he asks. “You caught an attitude yesterday, soon as I walked up. I ain’t did nothing to you.”

I put a sticker on some Doritos. “No, but you did it to Denasia. And Kenya. And who knows how many other girls in Garden Heights.”

“Hold up, I ain’t do nothing to Kenya.”

“You asked for her number, didn’t you? Even though you’re with Denasia.”

“I’m not with Denasia. I just danced with her at that party,” he says. “She the one who wanted to act like she was my girlfriend and got mad ’cause I was talking to Kenya. If I wouldn’t have been dealing with them, I could’ve—” He swallows. “I could’ve helped Dalvin. By the time I got to him, he was on the floor, bleeding. All I could do was hold him.”

I see myself sitting in a pool of blood too. “And try to tell him it would be okay, even though you knew—”

“There was no chance in hell it would be.”

We go quiet.

I get one of those weird déjà-vu moments though. I see myself sitting cross-legged like I am now, but I’m showing Khalil how to do the price stickers.

We couldn’t help Khalil with his situation before he died. Maybe we can help DeVante.

I hand him a bag of Hot Fries. “I’m only gonna explain how to use this price gun one time, and you better pay attention.”

He grins. “My attention’s all yours, li’l momma.”

Later, when I’m supposed to be asleep, my mom tells my dad in the hallway, “So he’s hiding from King, and you think he should hide here?”

DeVante. Apparently, Daddy couldn’t “figure it out” and decided that DeVante should stay with us. Daddy dropped the two of us off a couple of hours ago before heading back to the store to protect it from the rioters. He just got back. He said our house is the one place King won’t look for DeVante.

“I had to do something,” Daddy says.

“I understand that, and I know you think this is your do-over with Khalil—”

“It ain’t like that.”

“Yeah, it is,” she says softly. “I get it, baby. I have a ton of regrets regarding Khalil myself. But this? This is dangerous for our family.”

“It’s just for now. DeVante can’t stay in Garden Heights. This neighborhood ain’t good for him.”

“Wait. It’s not good for him, but it’s fine for our kids?”

“C’mon, Lisa. It’s late. I’m not trying to hear this right now. I been at that store all night.”

“And I’ve been up all night, worried about you! Worried about my babies being in this neighborhood.”

“They fine! They ain’t involved in none of that banging shit.”

Momma scoffs. “Yeah, so fine that I have to drive almost an hour to get them to a decent school. And God forbid Sekani wants to play outside. I gotta drive to my brother’s house, where I don’t have to worry about him getting shot like his sister’s best friend did.”

It’s messed up that she could mean either Khalil or Natasha.

“A’ight, let’s say we move,” Daddy said. “Then what? We just like all the other sellouts who leave and turn their backs on the neighborhood. We can change stuff around here, but instead we run? That’s what you wanna teach our kids?”

“I want my kids to enjoy life! I get it, Maverick, you wanna help your people out. I do too. That’s why I bust my butt every day at that clinic. But moving out of the neighborhood won’t mean you’re not real and it won’t mean you can’t help this community. You need to figure out what’s more important, your family or Garden Heights. I’ve already made my choice.”

“What you saying?”

“I’m saying I’ll do what I gotta do for my babies.”

There are footsteps, then a door closes.

I stay up most of the night, wondering what that means for them. Us. Okay, yeah, they’ve talked about moving before, but they weren’t arguing about it like this until after Khalil died.

If they break up, it’ll be one more thing One-Fifteen takes from me.

Monday morning, I know something is up when I first step into Williamson. Folks are quiet as hell. Well, whispering really, in little huddles in the halls and the atrium like they’re discussing plays during a basketball game.

Hailey and Maya find me before I find them. “Did you get the text?” Hailey asks.

That’s the first thing she says. No hey or anything. I still don’t have my phone, so I’m like, “What text?”

She shows me hers. There’s a big group text with about a hundred names on it. Hailey’s older brother, Remy, sent out the first message.

Protesting today @ 1st period.

Then curly-haired, dimpled Luke replied:

Hell yeah. Free day. I’m game.

And Remy came back with:

That’s the point, dumbass.

It’s like somebody hit a pause button on my heart. “They’re protesting for Khalil?”

“Yeah,” Hailey says, all giddy and shit. “Perfect timing too. I so did not study for that English exam. This is, like, the first time Remy actually came up with a good idea to get out of class. I mean, it’s kinda messed up that we’re protesting a
drug dealer’s
death, but—”

All my Williamson rules go out the door, and Starr from Garden Heights shows up. “What the fuck that got to do with it?”

Their mouths open into perfectly shaped
O
’s. “Like, I mean . . . if he was a drug dealer,” Hailey says, “that explains why . . .”

“He got killed even though he wasn’t doing shit? So it’s cool he got killed? But I thought you were protesting it?”

“We are! God, lighten up, Starr,” she says. “I thought you’d be all over this, considering your obsession on Tumblr lately.”

“You know what?” I say, one second from
really
going off. “Leave me alone. Have fun in your little protest.”

I wanna fight every person I pass, Floyd Mayweather style. They’re so damn excited about getting a day off. Khalil’s in a grave. He can’t get a day off from that shit. I live it every single day too.

In class I toss my backpack on the floor and throw myself
into my seat. When Hailey and Maya come in, I give them a stank-eye and silently dare them to say shit to me.

I’m breaking all of my Williamson Starr rules with zero fucks to give.

Chris gets there before the bell rings, headphones draped around his neck. He comes down my aisle and squeezes my nose, going, “Honk, honk,” because for some reason it’s hilarious to him. Usually I laugh and swat at him, but today . . . Yeah, I’m not in the mood. I just swat. Kinda hard too.

He goes, “Ow,” and gives his hand a quick shake. “What’s wrong with you?”

I don’t respond. If I open my mouth, I’ll explode.

He crouches beside my desk and shakes my thigh. “Starr? You okay?”

Our teacher, balding, stumpy Mr. Warren, clears his throat. “Mr. Bryant, my class is not the
Love Connection
. Please have a seat.”

Chris slides into the desk next to mine. “What’s wrong with her?” he whispers to Hailey.

She plays dumb and says, “Dunno.”

Mr. Warren tells us to take out our MacBooks and begins the lesson on British literature. Not even five minutes in, someone says, “Justice for Khalil.”

“Justice for Khalil,” the others chant. “Justice for Khalil.”

Mr. Warren tells them to stop, but they get louder and pound their fists on the desks.

I wanna puke and scream and cry.

My classmates stampede toward the door. Maya’s the last one out. She glances back at me then at Hailey who motions her to come on. Maya follows her out.

I think I’m done following Hailey.

In the hall, chants for Khalil go off like sirens. Unlike Hailey, some of them may not care that he was a drug dealer. They might be almost as upset as I am. But since I know
why
Remy started this protest, I stay in my seat.

Chris does too for some reason. His desk scrapes the floor as it scoots closer to mine until they touch. He brushes my tears with his thumb.

“You knew him, didn’t you?” he says.

I nod.

“Oh,” says Mr. Warren. “I am so sorry, Starr. You don’t have to—you can call your parents, you know?”

I wipe my face. The last thing I want is Momma making a fuss because I can’t handle all this. Worse, I don’t wanna be unable to handle it. “Can you continue with the lesson, sir?” I ask. “The distraction would be nice.”

He smiles sadly and does as I ask.

For the rest of the day, sometimes Chris and I are the only ones in our classes. Sometimes one or two other people join us. People go out of their way to tell me they think Khalil’s death is bullshit, but that Remy’s reason for protesting is bullshit too. I mean, this sophomore girl comes up to me in the hall and
explains that she supports the cause but decided to go back to class after she heard why they were really protesting.

They act like I’m the official representative of the black race and they owe me an explanation. I think I understand though. If I sit out a protest, I’m making a statement, but if they sit out a protest, they look racist.

At lunch, Chris and I head to our table near the vending machines. Jess with her perfect pixie cut is the only one there, eating cheese fries and reading her phone.

“Hey?” I ask more than say. I’m surprised she’s here.

“S’up?” She nods. “Have a seat. As you can see, there’s plenty of room.”

I sit beside her, and Chris sits on the other side of me. Jess and I have played basketball together for three years, and she’s put her head on my shoulder for two of them, but I’m ashamed to admit I don’t know much about her. I do know she’s a senior, her parents are attorneys, and she works at a bookstore. I didn’t know that she’d skip the protest.

I guess I’m staring at her hard, because she says, “I don’t use dead people to get out of class.”

If I wasn’t straight I would totally date her for saying that. This time I rest my head on her shoulder.

She pats my hair and says, “White people do stupid shit sometimes.”

Jess is white.

Seven and Layla join us with their trays. Seven holds his fist
out to me. I bump it.

“Sev-en,” Jess says, and they fist-bump too. I had no idea they were cool like that. “I take it we’re protesting the ‘Get Out of Class’ protest?”

“Yep,” Seven says. “Protesting the ‘Get Out of Class’ protest.”

Seven and I get Sekani after school, and he won’t shut up about the news cameras he saw from his classroom window, because he’s Sekani and he came into this world looking for a camera. I have too many selfies of him on my phone giving the “light skin face,” his eyes squinted and eyebrows raised.

“Are y’all gonna be on the news?” he asks.

“Nah,” says Seven. “Don’t need to be.”

We could go home, lock the door, and fight over the TV like we always do, or we could help Daddy at the store. We go to the store.

Daddy stands in the doorway, watching a reporter and camera operator set up in front of Mr. Lewis’s shop. Of course, when Sekani sees the camera, he says, “Ooh, I wanna be on TV!”

“Shut up,” I say. “No you don’t.”

“Yes, I do. You don’t know what I want!”

The car stops, and Sekani pushes my seat forward, sending my chin into the dashboard as he jumps out. “Daddy, I wanna be on TV!”

I rub my chin. His hyper butt is gonna kill me one day.

Daddy holds Sekani by the shoulders. “Calm down, man. You not gon’ be on TV.”

“What’s going on?” Seven asks when we get out.

“Some cops got jumped around the corner,” Daddy says, one arm around Sekani’s chest to keep him still.

“Jumped?” I say.

“Yeah. They pulled them out their patrol car and stomped them. Gray Boys.”

The code name for King Lords. Damn.

“I heard what happened at y’all school,” Daddy says. “Everything cool?”

“Yeah.” I give the easy answer. “We’re good.”

Mr. Lewis adjusts his clothes and runs a hand over his Afro. The reporter says something, and he lets out a belly-jiggling laugh.

“What this fool ’bout to say?” Daddy wonders.

“We go live in five,” says the camera operator, and all I can think is,
Please don’t put Mr. Lewis on live TV
. “Four, three, two, one.”

“That’s right, Joe,” the reporter says. “I’m here with Mr. Cedric Lewis Jr., who witnessed the incident involving the officers today. Can you tell us what you saw, Mr. Lewis?”

“He ain’t witness nothing,” Daddy tells us. “Was in his shop the whole time. I told him what happened!”

“I sholl can,” Mr. Lewis says. “Them boys pulled those
officers out their car. They weren’t doing nothing either. Just sitting there and got beat like dogs. Ridiculous! You hear me? Re-damn-diculous!”

Somebody’s gonna turn Mr. Lewis into a meme. He’s making a fool out of himself and doesn’t even know it.

“Do you think that it was retaliation for the Khalil Harris case?” the reporter asks.

“I sholl do! Which is stupid. These thugs been terrorizing Garden Heights for years, how they gon’ get mad now? What, ’cause they didn’t kill him themselves? The president and all’a them searching for terrorists, but I’ll name one right now they can come get.”

“Don’t do it, Mr. Lewis,” Daddy prays. “Don’t do it.”

Of course, he does. “His name King, and he live right here in Garden Heights. Probably the biggest drug dealer in the city. He over that King Lords gang. Come get him if you wanna get somebody. Wasn’t nobody but his boys who did that to them cops anyway. We sick of this! Somebody march ’bout that!”

Daddy covers Sekani’s ears. Every cuss word that follows equals a dollar in Sekani’s jar if he hears it. “Shit,” Daddy hisses. “Shit, shit, shit. This motha—”

“He snitched,” says Seven.

“On live TV,” I add.

Daddy keeps saying, “Shit, shit, shit.”

“Do you think that the curfew the mayor announced today will prevent incidents like this?” the reporter asks Mr. Lewis.

I look at Daddy. “What curfew?”

He takes his hands off Sekani’s ears. “Every business in Garden Heights gotta close by nine. And nobody can be in the streets after ten. Lights out, like in prison.”

“So you’ll be home tonight, Daddy?” Sekani asks.

Daddy smiles and pulls him closer. “Yeah, man. After you do your homework, I can show you a thang or two on Madden.”

The reporter wraps up her interview. Daddy waits until she and the camera operator leave and then goes over to Mr. Lewis. “You crazy?” he asks.

“What? ’Cause I told the truth?” Mr. Lewis says.

“Man, you can’t be going on live TV, snitching like that. You a dead man walking, you know that, right?”

“I ain’t scared of that nigga!” Mr. Lewis says real loud, for everybody to hear. “You scared of him?”

“Nah, but I know how the game work.”

“I’m too old for games! You oughta be too!”

“Mr. Lewis, listen—”

“Nah, you listen here, boy. I fought a war, came back, and fought one here. See this?” He lifts up his pants leg, revealing a plaid sock over a prosthetic. “Lost it in the war. This right here.” He lifts his shirt to his underarm. There’s a thin pink scar stretching from his back to his swollen belly. “Got it after some white boys cut me ’cause I drank from their fountain.” He lets his shirt fall down. “I done faced a whole lot worse than some so-called King. Ain’t nothing he can do but kill me, and if that’s
how I gotta go for speaking the truth, that’s how I gotta go.”

“You don’t get it,” Daddy says.

“Yeah I do. Hell, I get you. Walking around here, claiming you ain’t a gangster no more, claiming you trying to change stuff, but still following all’a that ‘don’t snitch’ mess. And you teaching them kids the same thing, ain’t you? King still controlling your dumb ass, and you too stupid to realize it.”

“Stupid? How you gon’ call me stupid when you the one snitching on live TV!”

A familiar
whoop-whoop
sound alarms us.

Oh God.

The patrol car with flashing lights cruises down the street. It stops next to Daddy and Mr. Lewis.

Two officers get out. One black, one white. Their hands linger too close to the guns at their waists.

No, no, no.

“We got a problem here?” the black one asks, looking squarely at Daddy. He’s bald just like Daddy, but older, taller, bigger.

“No, sir, officer,” Daddy says. His hands that were once in his jeans pockets are visible at his sides.

“You sure about that?” the younger white one asks. “It didn’t seem that way to us.”

“We were just talking, officers,” Mr. Lewis says, much softer than he was minutes ago. His hands are at his sides too. His parents must’ve had the talk with him when he was twelve.

“To me it looks like this young man was harassing you, sir,” the black one says, still looking at Daddy. He hasn’t looked at Mr. Lewis yet. I wonder if it’s because Mr. Lewis isn’t wearing an NWA T-shirt. Or because there aren’t tattoos all on his arms. Or because he’s not wearing somewhat baggy jeans and a backwards cap.

“You got some ID on you?” the black cop asks Daddy.

“Sir, I was about to go back to my store—”

“I said do you have some ID on you?”

My hands shake. Breakfast, lunch, and everything else churns in my stomach, ready to come back up my throat. They’re gonna take Daddy from me.

“What’s going on?”

I turn around. Tim, Mr. Reuben’s nephew, walks over to us. People have stopped on the sidewalk across the street.

“I’m gonna reach for my ID,” Daddy says. “It’s in my back pocket. A’ight?”

“Daddy—” I say.

Daddy keeps his eyes on the officer. “Y’all, go in the store, a’ight? It’s okay.”

We don’t move though.

Daddy’s hand slowly goes to his back pocket, and I look from his hands to theirs, watching to see if they’re gonna make a move for their guns.

Daddy removes his wallet, the leather one I bought him for Father’s Day with his initials embossed on it. He shows it to them.

“See? My ID is in here.”

His voice has never sounded so small.

The black officer takes the wallet and opens it. “Oh,” he says.
“Maverick Carter.”

He exchanges a look with his partner.

Both of them look at me.

My heart stops.