The Hate U Give(23)

“I can’t. My baby ain’t here.”

“Yes, you can. You have Cameron, and he needs you. Your momma needs you.”

Khalil needed you, I wanna say. He waited for you and cried for you. But where were you? You don’t get to cry now. Nuh-uh. It’s too late.

But she keeps crying. Rocking and crying.

“Tammy and I can get you some help, Bren,” Momma says. “But you gotta really want it this time.”

“I don’t wanna live like this no more.”

“I know.” Momma waves Ms. Felicia over and hands Ms. Felicia her phone. “Look through my contacts and find Tammy Harris’s number. Call and tell her that her sister is here. Bren, when was the last time you ate?”

“I don’t know. I don’t—my baby.”

Momma straightens up and rubs Ms. Brenda’s shoulder. “I’m gonna get you some food.”

I follow Momma back. She walks kinda fast but passes the food and goes to the counter. She leans on it with her back to me and bows her head, not saying a word.

Everything I wanted to say in the waiting room comes bubbling out. “How come she gets to be upset? She wasn’t there for Khalil. You know how many times he cried about her? Birthdays, Christmas, all that. Why does she get to cry now?”

“Starr, please.”

“She hasn’t acted like a mom to him! Now all of a sudden, he’s her baby? It’s bullshit!”

Momma smacks the counter, and I jump. “Shut up!” she screams. She turns around, tears streaking her face. “That wasn’t some li’l friend of hers. That was her son, you hear me? Her son!” Her voice cracks. “She carried that boy, birthed that boy. And you have no right to judge her.”

I have cotton-mouth. “I—”

Momma closes her eyes. She massages her forehead. “I’m sorry. Fix her a plate, baby, okay? Fix her a plate.”

I do and put a little extra of everything on it. I take it to Ms. Brenda. She mumbles what sounds like “thank you” as she takes it.

When she looks at me through the red haze, Khalil’s eyes stare back at me, and I realize my mom’s right. Ms. Brenda is Khalil’s momma. Regardless.





SIX


My mom and I arrive at the police station at four thirty on the dot.

A handful of cops talk on phones, type on computers, or stand around. Normal stuff, like on Law & Order, but my breath catches. I count: One. Two. Three. Four. I lose count around twelve because the guns in their holsters are all I can see.

All of them. Two of us.

Momma squeezes my hand. “Breathe.”

I didn’t realize I had grabbed hers.

I take a deep breath and another, and she nods with each one, saying, “That’s it. You’re okay. We’re okay.”

Uncle Carlos comes over, and he and Momma lead me to his desk, where I sit down. I feel eyes on me from all around. The grip tightens around my lungs. Uncle Carlos hands me a sweating bottle of water. Momma puts it up to my lips.

I take slow sips and look around Uncle Carlos’s desk to avoid the curious eyes of the officers. He has almost as many pictures of me and Sekani on display as he has of his own kids.

“I’m taking her home,” Momma tells him. “I’m not putting her through this today. She’s not ready.”

“I understand, but she has to talk to them at some point, Lisa. She’s a vital part of this investigation.”

Momma sighs. “Carlos—”

“I get it,” he says, in a noticeably lower voice. “Believe me, I do. Unfortunately, if we want this investigation done right, she has to talk to them. If not today, then another day.”

Another day of waiting and wondering what’s gonna happen.

I can’t go through that.

“I wanna do it today,” I mumble. “I wanna get it over with.”

They look at me, like they just remembered I’m here.

Uncle Carlos kneels in front of me. “Are you sure, baby girl?”

I nod before I lose my nerve.

“All right,” Momma says. “But I’m going with her.”

“That’s totally fine,” Uncle Carlos says.

“I don’t care if it’s not fine.” She looks at me. “She’s not doing this alone.”

Those words feel as good as any hug I’ve ever gotten.

Uncle Carlos keeps an arm around me and leads us to a small room that has nothing in it but a table and some chairs. An unseen air conditioner hums loudly, blasting freezing air into the room.

“All right,” Uncle Carlos says. “I’ll be outside, okay?”

“Okay,” I say.

He kisses my forehead with his usual two pecks. Momma takes my hand, and her tight squeeze tells me what she doesn’t say out loud—I got your back.

We sit at the table. She’s still holding my hand when the two detectives come in—a young white guy with slick black hair and a Latina with lines around her mouth and a spiky haircut. Both of them wear guns on their waists.

Keep your hands visible.

No sudden moves.

Only speak when spoken to.

“Hi, Starr and Mrs. Carter,” the woman says, holding out her hand. “I’m Detective Gomez, and this is my partner, Detective Wilkes.”