Concrete Rose (The Hate U Give, #0)(38)

I pinch that space between my eyes. He should’ve said that ’bout dying. I couldn’t go, so he shouldn’t have gone.

“The point is, part of me gon’ always see you like that, Mav,” Shawn says. “Now that Dre gone, he’d want me to look out for you. He didn’t want you selling weed. You think he’d want you to murder somebody, even for him?”

As pissed as I am . . . “No.”

“Exactly. Instead, he’d want you to look out for your family, take care of your son, be on top of your school shit. Now do I think you could kill somebody? Fa’sho. Killing easy. It’s living after the fact that’s hard, if you live. Them GDs may come after you quick, and Mrs. Carter could be burying you next week. You wanna put your family through another funeral?”

The thought of Ma crying over me make me feel sick. “No.”

“Then let me and the other big homies handle this one,” Shawn says. “And real talk, what I look like passing this off to you when Dre was my best friend and I’m the crown? I need to take care of this one.”

“Everybody in the set already think I’m soft, Shawn.”

“So?” he says. “Forget what them fools think. You gotta live for you and Dre now, you feel me? You can do everything he didn’t get a chance to do.”

I never thought of that.

“Raise your son. Be the best father you can be,” Shawn says. “That’s how you honor Dre. A’ight?” He hold his fist over.

I bump it. “A’ight.”

He take another sip of his slushy. “Good. Why the hell you not in school?”

“Me and Ant almost got into it,” I say. “He said Dre deserved to die, Shawn. Now I know that fool did it. Y’all gotta get him ASAP.”

“Any idiot can talk shit, Mav. This don’t prove anything.”

“I guess. The way he said it though—”

“He probably a li’l asshole,” Shawn says. “We’ll look into it. In the meantime, don’t let him get under your skin. Stay your ass in school. How things going over there anyway? Rico, Junie, and them holding it down?”

I shift in my seat, remembering all the stuff they said at lunch. “Yeah, they fine.”

“And your boy King? He good?”

“Yep. What you getting into?”

“I’m looking for Red. I paid him to get me a big-screen. I haven’t seen that fool for over a week now.”

“You may not get that TV. Red always scamming folks. He gave me some fake Jordans.”

“He bet’ not be stupid enough to scam me.” Shawn reach past me and pop open his glove compartment. His gun inside along with a li’l something-something, rolled and ready.

Shawn light and smoke the blunt with one hand and drive with the other. That’s some next-level multitasking. He take a hit.

“Goddamn! This that good shit,” he says, all choked up. He hold it toward me. “Sound like you need to chill out. Nothing wrong with a li’l weed.”

I’ve only smoked weed like twice in my whole life. King used to clown me ’cause he’d get high and I wouldn’t join in. I wanted to sell weed, not smoke it.

Shawn’s blunt got me thinking of the couple of times I did get high. I would be so far gone that nothing bothered me. No stress, no worries, no pain. I ain’t felt nothing but pain since Dre died.

I grab the blunt from Shawn, and I take a hit.

Time go by slow, but then it’s fast. One second I’m in Shawn’s Benz, watching the Garden pass by. The next, it’s time for me to go to work. Time is funny, man. Life is funny. We all on this huge planet tryna figure shit out. What if the planet already got it figured out? What if the whole point is for us to not figure it out? What if God playing with us like . . . like dolls? Some diverse-ass Barbies.

Deep shit.

I’m good. I ain’t smoke that much. I’m just chill as hell. A’ight, I’m a li’l blazed.

Shawn drop me off at Mr. Wyatt’s house. He a good dude, yo. Real good dude. We rode around the neighborhood, searching for Red’s scamming ass. That ain’t a good dude. That’s the opposite of a good dude. Not like Ant. Ant the worst kinda dude.

Mr. Wyatt got a list of stuff from me to do in the garden today. He won’t be here till later. Told me I could get the list from his wife. I climb the porch steps—damn, it’s a lot of steps—and ring the doorbell.

Mrs. Wyatt answer with Seven in her arms. My son. Yo, I got a son. Life is wild, man. A year from now he gon’ be talking. Talking! My li’l big man. Or is it my big li’l man? Shit, I don’t know.

“Hey, man!” I hold my hands out for him.

Mrs. Wyatt pull him closer. She looking at me funny. “Clarence is waiting for you in the back.”

What the what? It’s like three thirty. He should be at the store. Aw, hell. What if he realize I’m high? Play it cool, Mav. Play it cool.

“Oh, a’ight. I’m gon’ go on back.” I point my thumb behind me. “Wait, not that way. That way.” I point behind her. “Yeah.”

“All right,” she says, kinda slow.

I go down all them steps—for real, why they got so many?—and go through the back gate. Mr. Wyatt over in the root-vegetable section, where he had me plant turnips and carrots not too long ago. I gotta play it cool, like a ice cube. Or Ice Cube the rapper. Even better. “Ayo, Mr. Wyatt!”