Concrete Rose (The Hate U Give, #0)(28)

I wring water outta my shirt. “Forget you.”

Dre bend down and pick up something glistening in the grass. His watch fell off at some point. “Damn, got my shit scratched up.”

I look at it. There’s a little scrape on the glass of the face. “That’s what you get, asshole. Why you not over on Magnolia?”

“Aw, I can go over there any Friday. I figured I’d chill with you and itty-bitty cuz.”

“Damn, man. I can’t tonight. I got laundry and homework.”

“Can’t you do that this weekend? I got us a pizza from Sal’s, and I got that new Lawless CD that drop next week.”

“Yooo!” I say, into my fist. “How you get that?”

Lawless this rapper from the east side. He raw as hell. Can hit you with some real shit and give you them club bangers. Word is he roll with Garden Disciples, as most dudes on the east do. A lot of King Lords don’t mess with him ’cause of that. Ay, if you the bomb, you the bomb. Me and Dre will listen to you.

“I put a new sound system in his ride,” Dre says. “He paid me and gave me his new shit early. So you down or what?”

I do need a break.

Separating light onesies from dark onesies or that new Lawless?

History report or pizza?

Laundry and homework can wait. That pizza can’t. “Hell yeah, I’m down.”

We use some of Ma’s good towels to dry off. She gon’ kill us, but that’s all I could find that was clean.

I check on Seven real quick. He finally knocked out. I take the baby monitor with me in case he wake up.

Me and Dre hop in his Beamer and let the windows down. Dre put the Lawless CD in. When that first track hit, I nod along.

“Goddamn! This tight.”

“Yep,” Dre says. “Law on the come up for real.”

Dre set the pizza box on the dashboard. I ate not long ago—Mrs. Wyatt sent me home with gumbo—but I can never turn down pizza. I pop the box open. It’s got ham, cheese, and—

“Pineapple? What the hell?”

Dre pick up a slice. “It’s called Hawaiian pizza. This shit the bomb, I’m telling you.”

I pick the pineapples off mine. “Fruit don’t belong on pizza, Dre. Can you eat anything normal?”

I swear, he always eating weird stuff. Ketchup on popcorn, potato chips on peanut butter sandwiches. Just nasty.

“Not my fault you got simple taste buds,” he says. “I got Keisha to eat it, and her picky ass love it.”

“Keisha not that picky. She marrying you, ain’t she?”

He push the side of my head. “Whoever get your behind ain’t got no taste at all.”

“Man, I doubt I’ll get a girl anytime soon. You see how I did Lisa.” All these weeks later, and that one still sting. “I messed up, Dre.”

He squeeze my shoulder. “You’ll be a’ight. Learn from it and do better next time. Focus on Seven and on school for now.”

“I don’t got much choice. Lisa won’t have shit to do with me; King, Junie, and Rico don’t come around. When I ain’t at school or work, I’m stuck at home. Shit is whack, Dre. Feel like I ain’t me no more.”

“That’s what defined you?” Dre ask.

“I didn’t mean it like that. I just miss the way it used to—”

“What y’all doing?” somebody shout.

Me and Dre jump.

“Tony, what the hell?” Dre yell.

Bus Stop Tony lean in through Dre’s window with a toothless grin. “I scare y’all?”

“You can’t be sneaking up on folks!” I say.

“If your heart racing, it’s working!” he says.

Tony a crackhead, ain’t no getting around it. He sleep at a bus stop near Magnolia, so we call him Bus Stop Tony. Anybody sit there and he’ll raise hell. Don’t nobody wanna sit there no way. It smell like piss.

“What y’all doing?” He stretch his neck, looking all in the car. “That’s some Hawaiian pizza? I love me some Hawaiian pizza. Pineapples make it good!”

Dre got the same tastes as a crackhead.

“You ate today?” Dre ask.

“Nope! You hear my stomach growling, don’t you?”

Dre laughs. “Nah, I guessed. Here.” He hand Tony the box. “You can have the rest.”

“Bless ya, brotha! You got some drink to wash this down?”

I know damn well . . . “Hold up. He was nice enough to give you the pizza. How you gon’ ask him for a drink, Tony?”

“Close mouth don’t get fed and thirst don’t get quenched!”

Dre shake his head. “Go on, Tony.”

Tony huff off down the street, talking ’bout, “Stingy asses!”

“That fool,” I mumble. Suddenly, Seven cry on the baby monitor. “Shit! He probably need his diaper changed.”

“Hope he don’t poop on you this time,” Dre says.

“You not the only one. Ay, let me whoop that butt on Mortal Kombat a couple of times.”

Dre turn off his ignition. “Fool, you wish. I’ll be there in a minute. I need to call Keisha and tell her good night.”

Tell her good night? What? “Dawg. You whipped.”