Concrete Rose (The Hate U Give, #0)(27)

I miss it. Except the gunshot part, of course. I don’t get to chill with my friends no more. Dre the only one who come over. The rest of them not tryna watch me take care of a baby, and I’m too busy to go out. Got me feeling less and less like a King Lord.

I guess this my life now. “I wish I could, King. Ma at work, and I gotta be here with Seven.”

“Goddamn! I don’t know why I keep asking. Can’t you hire a babysitter? You got Mrs. Wyatt right next door.”

“She keep him during the week, King. I can’t afford to have her keep him no more than that.”

“Maybe if you didn’t let Dre punk you outta making money, you could,” he says.

“I told you, I—”

“Do you, Mav,” he says. “You wanna waste away in that house, fine. Holla at you later.”

He hang up.

I set the phone down and put my face in my hands. He act like I don’t hang out with him and the homies on purpose. I didn’t choose none of this. Trust, I’d give anything to get out this house.

Seven watch me instead of the TV, almost as if he sense something not right. Now I feel guilty as hell.

“Daddy a’ight, man,” I say, and pick him up. I could use a break from laundry, and he need tummy time. It’s basically where I lay him on his stomach on a blanket. The more he lift his head, the more strength he’ll get in his neck. This parenting book said that’s real important.

I put Seven on the blanket and get on my hands and knees. “Hey, man.” I smile. “Hey.”

Seven roll over onto his back, laughing. It don’t take much to entertain him. Pops claim I was the same way.

We haven’t had a chance to take Seven to meet him yet. It’s a three-hour drive one way, and that’s a lot with a baby. I mailed Pops some pictures, and he called a day or two later, talking ’bout how much Li’l Man look like me.

I play with Seven on the floor for a while. Eventually he whine and rub his eyes. That’s that sleepiness kicking in. Soon as I pick him up, he start crying. He know I’m taking him to bed.

“Ay, stop that,” I say. “Sleep a good thing. Trust, I wish I could go to sleep now.”

He not hearing me. He cry into my shoulder. He cry the whole time I put him in his pajamas. I stick his pacifier in his mouth; he stop.

I put him in the crib and turn on his mobile. It’s got planets and stars on it. “Fussing for nothing.” I kiss his forehead. “Night, man. I love you.”

I can’t be in here when he tryna fall asleep. He’ll watch me and stay awake. I take a shower and change for bed. When I peek back in, Seven looking at his mobile all wide-eyed.

This boy. I don’t know why he fighting sleep. I go to the living room and plop down on the couch. The pile of laundry and my homework wait for me on the coffee table.

Shit, man. Never thought I’d be spending my Fridays this way. Nights like this used to be the perfect time to invite Lisa over. We’d watch some movies—a’ight, we fool around while some movies played—and eventually head to my room to do the damn thing.

I definitely miss that. I handle things myself, but it’s hard, no pun intended. Considering how sex put me in this predicament, I probably need a break.

Still. If me and Lisa were together . . .

I can’t think on that. I gotta get this laundry done. I put Seven in his last clean outfit, but damn if my bed ain’t calling me.

“C’mon, Mav,” I mumble. “Push through.”

Just when I make myself pick up one of Seven’s onesies, the doorbell ring.

“Shit!” I hiss. Last thing I need is for somebody to disturb Seven. Who the hell coming over this time of night anyway? I peek out the front window.

Dre’s car out front. He not.

I open the door. “Dre?”

Nothing. There’s a Super Soaker on the porch, one of the bigger ones that you gotta pump water into. Dre love collecting them things.

I go down the steps. “Dre, where you at?”

Nothing.

I pick up the Super Soaker. It’s full of water. “Why would he—”

Water blast me in my face.

“Say hello to my little friend!” Dre says, like he Scarface.

He got a big-ass Super Soaker, the kind with the water tank you wear on your back. He spray the hell outta me. Got my shorts and my tank top soaking wet.

“What the hell, dawg?” I yell. “You play too much!”

“Ain’t nobody playing, cuz! This is war!”

He spray me again. He never should’ve left this Super Soaker for me. I spray him dead in his face. We soon got a full-out water-gun war in my front yard. My Super Soaker don’t hold nearly as much as his. I end up grabbing the hose.

Dre put his hands up. “A’ight! A’ight! I surrender!”

“You what?” I spray his face again.

He try to block it with his hands. “I surrender! Stop!”

“Drop your shit first!”

“A’ight, a’ight!” He toss his water gun.

I turn off the hose. “Goddamn,” I say, looking at my clothes. I’m soaked from head to toe. “I just got out the shower.”

“Now you real clean,” Dre says. “Probably need to wash them dusty cornrows anyway.”