The Hate U Give(100)

“Yeah.”

“If the officers react, run straight to it. Got it?”

“But what—”

She takes me to the patrol car and motions at her colleague. The lady climbs off and hands Ms. Ofrah the bullhorn. Ms. Ofrah passes it over to me.

“Use your weapon,” she says.

Another one of her coworkers lifts me and sets me on top of the cop car.

About ten feet away there’s a shrine for Khalil in the middle of the street; lit candles, teddy bears, framed pictures, and balloons. It separates the protestors from a cluster of officers in riot gear. It’s not nearly as many cops as it was on Magnolia, but still . . . they’re cops.

I turn toward the crowd. They watch me expectantly.

The bullhorn is as heavy as a gun. Ironic since Ms. Ofrah said to use my weapon. I have the hardest time lifting it. Shit, I have no idea what to say. I put it near my mouth and press the button.

“My—” It makes a loud, earsplitting noise.

“Don’t be scared!” somebody in the crowd yells. “Speak!”

“You need to exit the street immediately,” the cop says.

You know what? Fuck it.

“My name is Starr. I’m the one who saw what happened to Khalil,” I say into the bullhorn. “And it wasn’t right.”

I get a bunch of “yeahs” and “amens” from the crowd.

“We weren’t doing anything wrong. Not only did Officer Cruise assume we were up to no good, he assumed we were criminals. Well, Officer Cruise is the criminal.”

The crowd cheers and claps. Ms. Ofrah says, “Speak!”

That amps me up.

I turn to the cops. “I’m sick of this! Just like y’all think all of us are bad because of some people, we think the same about y’all. Until you give us a reason to think otherwise, we’ll keep protesting.”

More cheers, and I can’t lie, it eggs me on. Forget trigger happy—speaker happy is more my thing.

“Everybody wants to talk about how Khalil died,” I say. “But this isn’t about how Khalil died. It’s about the fact that he lived. His life mattered. Khalil lived!” I look at the cops again. “You hear me? Khalil lived!”

“You have until the count of three to disperse,” the officer on the loudspeaker says.

“Khalil lived!” we chant.

“One.”

“Khalil lived!”

“Two.”

“Khalil lived!”

“Three.”

“Khalil lived!”

The can of tear gas sails toward us from the cops. It lands beside the patrol car.

I jump off and pick up the can. Smoke whizzes out the end of it. Any second it’ll combust.

I scream at the top of my lungs, hoping Khalil hears me, and chuck it back at the cops. It explodes and consumes them in a cloud of tear gas.

All hell breaks loose.

The cops stampede over Khalil’s shrine, and the crowd runs. Someone grabs my arm. Ms. Ofrah.

“Go to the bus!” she says.

I get about halfway there when Chris and Seven catch me.

“C’mon!” Seven says, and they pull me with them.

I try to tell them about the bus, but explosions go off and thick white smoke engulfs us. My nose and throat burn as if I swallowed fire. My eyes feel like flames lick them.

Something whizzes overhead, then an explosion goes off in front of us. More smoke.

“DeVante!” Chris croaks, looking around. “DeVante!”

We find him leaning against a flickering streetlight. He coughs and heaves. Seven lets me go and grabs him by the arm.

“Shit, man! My eyes! I can’t breathe.”

We run. Chris grips my hand as tight as I grip his. There are screams and loud pops in every direction. Can’t see a thing for the smoke, not even the Just Us bus.

“I can’t run. My side!” DeVante says. “Shit!”

“C’mon, man,” Seven says, pulling him. “Keep going!”

Bright lights barrel down the street through the smoke. A gray pickup truck on oversized wheels. It stops beside us, the window rolls down, and my heart stops, waiting for the gun to come pointing out, courtesy of a King Lord.

But Goon, the Cedar Grove King Lord with the ponytails, looks at us from the driver’s seat, a gray bandana over his nose and mouth. “Get in the back!” he says.

Two guys and a girl around our age, wearing white bandanas on their faces, help us into the back of the truck. It’s an open invitation and other people climb in, like this white man in a shirt and tie and a Latino holding a camera on his shoulder. The white man looks oddly familiar. Goon drives off.

DeVante lies in the bed of the truck. He holds his eyes and rolls in agony. “Shit, man! Shit!”

“Bri, get him some milk,” Goon says through the back window.

Milk?

“We’re out, Unc,” says the girl in the bandana.

“Fuck!” Goon hisses. “Hold on, Vante.”

Tears and snot drip down my face. My eyes are damn near numb from burning.

The truck slows down. “Get li’l homie,” Goon says.

The two guys in the bandanas grab some kid on the street by his arms and lift him into the truck. The kid looks around thirteen. His shirt is covered in soot, and he coughs and heaves.