Concrete Rose (The Hate U Give, #0)(39)

He turn around, frowning. “That’s not exactly how you address your boss.”

Okay, that was too cool. “My bad, my bad. I’m surprised you not at the store.”

“Decided to let my nephew handle things there so I could come spend time with my bride.”

The way his eyes twinkle, they spent time together a’ight. I hope Seven was asleep. Can’t have my baby exposed to old folks’ sex.

Why I say that? Wait, did I say it, or did I think it? Why my thoughts so damn loud? Did somebody put a microphone in my head? How they get it in there?

“Son!” Mr. Wyatt says.

“Huh?”

He fold his arms. “You been smoking that reefer?”

I snort. “Who the hell call it reefer, yo?”

I definitely said that out loud.

“The name is irrelevant,” he says. “It’s obvious you’ve been smoking. I smell it on you.”

I sniff under my shirt. I don’t smell nothing. “You tryna say I stank?”

His lips get real thin. “Boy. This is strike number two.”

“Aww, Mr. Wyatt! C’mon! I ain’t high.”

“And I’m James Brown.”

“You ain’t got enough hair for that.”

Shit, I said that out loud, too.

Mr. Wyatt pick up a hoe and hold it toward me. “Get to work. When I’m done with you, you’ll wish you never looked at reefer.”

Three hours later, Mr. Wyatt done almost killed me.

First, I unloaded big bags of mulch and garden soil from his truck. Around ten of each. I had to carry them heavy things one by one from the driveway to the backyard. Then he made me pull weeds in this new section he wanna start. Next, I used the hoe to break up the dirt and poured garden soil over that. He want me to start planting now. I’m tryna catch my breath.

He sip a lemonade on the stone bench. “Hurry up, son. That garlic won’t put itself in the ground.”

I could fall over, that’s how tired I am. “Mr. Wyatt, just a few minutes, please?”

“No, sir. Time is money, money is time, and you wasting mine. Hey, that rhymed. Think I can be a rapper? A hip-hop, a hippity-hop—ain’t that how y’all do it?”

If he don’t take his Dr. Seuss behind on somewhere. “Can I have some water?”

Mr. Wyatt sip his lemonade. “Mm! Refreshing. What you need water for?”

“I’m thirsty!”

“No, you’re not. That’s the reefer talking.”

“Man,” I groan. Every few minutes, he find a way to bring it up. “I’m not high no more! I’m thirsty. I need a break.”

“Nah now, apparently all you need is reefer. You were bold enough to show up to work high. You must’ve thought you needed it.”

“I wanted to get Dre outta my head, a’ight!”

I ain’t mean to snap, but it’s enough to shut Mr. Wyatt up.

He set his glass down and pat the spot beside him. “Come here, son.”

I drop the hoe and go over there. As hard as this concrete bench is, it feel like the best thing ever.

“You wanted to get your cousin off of your mind, and you thought drugs were the best way to do that?” Mr. Wyatt asks.

“Not drugs, Mr. Wyatt. Weed.”

“Which is considered a drug, son,” he says. “It may not be harmful like the others, but it’s illegal, and you’re only seventeen. You don’t need to be getting high.”

I fold my arms on top of my lap. “I told you, I was tryna get Dre outta my head.”

“Why?”

I look at him. “Why would I wanna think ’bout that? That was my brother, and I saw him with a bullet—” I shake my head. “I can’t think on that.”

“Why?”

“You a therapist or something?”

“Why?” he repeats.

“’Cause I gotta keep it pushing! I can’t sit around crying over Dre. I gotta be a man.”

Mr. Wyatt don’t say anything for a real long time.

He sighs. “Son, one of the biggest lies ever told is that Black men don’t feel emotions. Guess it’s easier to not see us as human when you think we’re heartless. Fact of the matter is, we feel things. Hurt, pain, sadness, all of it. We got a right to show them feelings as much as anybody else.”

I stare at the ground, legs shaking like they ready to bolt me outta here. It ain’t possible to run from all the things swirling inside of me. I been trying to since the day Dre died, and I ain’t got nowhere.

Mr. Wyatt grab the back of my neck, strong enough to tell me he got me but gentle enough to almost be a hug.

“Let it out,” he says.

This sound come outta me, and I don’t know if I’m screaming or crying. I pull my shirt over my mouth, but that don’t muffle the sobs. It only catch my tears.

Mr. Wyatt wrap his arms around me. He hold me tight, as if he know I’m breaking and he tryna keep me together.

“It’s okay, son,” he says.

No, it ain’t. As long as my cousin is dead, it never will be.





Fourteen


At Friday night football games, it don’t matter if you rep gray or green. Only the school colors matter.