Concrete Rose (The Hate U Give, #0)(22)

My pager vibrate in my back pocket. I take it out, and King’s number pop up on the screen, followed by three digits—227. That’s our code for Yo, I’m outside.

When King was a student, the two of us used to sneak off on the first day. It ain’t like nothing important happens—teachers spend most of the time telling us what we gon’ do the rest of the year. We’d hit up the mall for a couple of hours.

Guess he wanna keep the tradition going even though he expelled. Forget the mall, I wanna sleep. I could crash at King’s crib for a while, and maybe that’ll energize me enough for work later. That sound way better than going to class.

Getting outta here might be tricky. Ms. Brown the school secretary always watch the doors like a hawk. Today she distracted as Mr. Clark the security guard talk to her. They can’t stop smiling. I don’t know what that’s about and don’t care. Long as they don’t notice me, I’m good, and they don’t. At first.

“Hey!” Clark yells.

I run for it. Clark’s feet thump behind me. Everybody know he slow as hell.

I shove the doors open. King sit on the hood of his silver Crown Victoria in front of the school. He see me, and then he see Clark.

“Oh shit!” he says.

King jump in the car, turn the engine on, and throw open the passenger door. I haul tail across the schoolyard. Clark huff and puff behind me.

“Got me sweating like this on the first day,” Clark says. “Get your butt back here!”

The second I’m close to the car, I throw myself in. “Go, go, go!”

King peel off. I look back, and Clark bent over on the sidewalk, gasping for air. I think he throw me a middle finger. I don’t care. I’m outta there.





Eight


At Garden High, King is a legend. If he walked in the building right now, people would act like he Jesus.

Unfortunately, he can’t walk into the school. He not allowed on the grounds.

See, King used to be on the football team. He was probably the best defensive end that Garden High ever saw. Problem was he hated his coach. To be honest, everybody hated Coach Stevens. Dude was a straight-up redneck. He didn’t throw around the N-word, nah. It was other stuff, like having a Confederate flag on his truck, calling it “heritage.” Heritage my ass.

One day last year he told King to wash his car before practice. King told Coach Stevens he wasn’t his slave. Coach looked him dead in the face and said, “You are whatever the hell I say you are, boy.”

King beat the mess outta him.

I swear I ain’t seen nothing like it. King threw blows like Tyson. He got expelled and sent to juvie. Coach Stevens never came back, and now none of us have to deal with his redneck ass. King forever a hero for that.

He crack up as he drive farther from the school. “Clark still can’t catch nobody, huh?”

“Hell nah, never. What’s up? I haven’t seen you in a minute.”

“You know how it is,” King says. “These streets keep me busy. Had to scoop you up so we chill like we usually do on the first day of school.”

“Straight up? I just wanna crash at your crib, dawg. I’m tired as hell.”

“What? You trippin’! We gotta hit the mall. You know how we do.”

“I don’t got it in me, King. I need to rest up before I go to work in a couple of hours.”

“Work? What kinda work you doing?”

“Dre convinced me to take a job with Mr. Wyatt,” I say. “I’ll be helping him in his store and with his garden.”

“Hold on. You walked away from our side hustle to go make pennies for that old man? You may as well work for the police!”

The Wyatts were King’s last foster family right before he went to juvie. He always said they were too strict with him.

I shrug. “It’s Mr. Wyatt or Mickey D’s. I gotta provide for my son somehow.”

The car get real quiet. The only sound is the DJ on the radio.

“Everything good with the side hustle?” I ask.

“Yep.”

“No problems from Shawn and them?”

“Nah,” King says.

Neither of us say anything else for a while. Some Master P joint start on the radio. King’s speakers thump it hard.

“You got them new subwoofers installed?” I ask.

“Yep.”

“Damn. They sound real nice.”

“Fa’sho.”

These short answers, the sudden vibe in the car . . . this not us at all. We were cool till I mentioned my son. “We good, man? If the baby stuff bothers you—”

“Goddamn, Mav! How many times I gotta tell you it’s all good? Trust me, I’m glad I don’t gotta change diapers no more.” He laughs. “How Li’l King doing anyway?”

“He fine except he won’t let me rest. I’m tryna figure out a new name for him.”

King look over at me. “What for?”

“You really gotta ask? It don’t make sense for him to have your name when he my son.”

“I’m your boy. He can be named after me.”

“C’mon, man. Considering the situation, don’t you think that would be weird?”

King don’t respond.

I sigh. “I don’t mean nothing by it—”