The Hate U Give(28)

The.

Actual.

Fuck?

The world surges forward without me. I hold the ball and stare at Hailey as she jogs away, blue-streaked hair bouncing behind her.

I can’t believe she said . . . She couldn’t have. No way.

The ball falls out my hands. I walk off the court. I’m breathing hard, and my eyes burn.

The smell of postgame funk lingers in the girls’ locker room. It’s my place of solace when we lose a game, where I can cry or cuss if I want.

I pace from one side of the lockers to the other.

Hailey and Maya rush in, out of breath. “What’s up with you?” Hailey asks.

“Me?” I say, my voice bouncing off the lockers. “What the hell was that comment?”

“Lighten up! It was only game talk.”

“A fried chicken joke was only game talk? Really?” I ask.

“It’s fried chicken day!” she says. “You and Maya were just joking about it. What are you trying to say?”

I keep pacing.

Her eyes widen. “Oh my God. You think I was being racist?”

I look at her. “You made a fried chicken comment to the only black girl in the room. What do you think?”

“Ho-ly shit, Starr! Seriously? After everything we’ve been through, you think I’m a racist? Really?”

“You can say something racist and not be a racist!”

“Is something else going on, Starr?” Maya says.

“Why does everyone keep asking me that?” I snap.

“Because you’re acting so weird lately!” Hailey snaps back. She looks at me and asks, “Does this have something to do with the police shooting that drug dealer in your neighborhood?”

“Wh-what?”

“I heard about it on the news,” she says. “And I know you’re into that sort of thing now—”

That sort of thing? What the fuck is “that sort of thing”?

“And then they said the drug dealer’s name was Khalil,” she says, and exchanges a look with Maya.

“We’ve wanted to ask if it was the Khalil who used to come to your birthday parties,” Maya adds. “We didn’t know how, though.”

The drug dealer. That’s how they see him. It doesn’t matter that he’s suspected of doing it. “Drug dealer” is louder than “suspected” ever will be.

If it’s revealed that I was in the car, what will that make me? The thug ghetto girl with the drug dealer? What will my teachers think about me? My friends? The whole fucking world, possibly?

“I—”

I close my eyes. Khalil stares at the sky.

“Mind your business, Starr,” he says.

I swallow and whisper, “I don’t know that Khalil.”

It’s a betrayal worse than dating a white boy. I fucking deny him, damn near erasing every laugh we shared, every hug, every tear, every second we spent together. A million “I’m sorry”s sound in my head, and I hope they reach Khalil wherever he is, yet they’ll never be enough.

But I had to do it. I had to.

“Then what is it?” Hailey asks. “Is this, like, Natasha’s anniversary or something?”

I stare at the ceiling and blink fast to keep from bawling. Besides my brothers and the teachers, Hailey and Maya are the only people at Williamson who know about Natasha. I don’t want all the pity.

“Mom’s anniversary was a few weeks ago,” Hailey says. “I was in a shitty mood for days. I understand if you’re upset, but to accuse me of being racist, Starr? How can you even?”

I blink faster. God, I’m pushing her away, Chris away. Hell, do I deserve them? I don’t talk about Natasha, and I just flat-out denied Khalil. I could’ve been the one killed instead of them. I don’t have the decency to keep their memories alive, yet I’m supposed to be their best friend.

I cover my mouth. It doesn’t stop the sob. It’s loud and echoes off the walls. One follows it, and another and another. Maya and Hailey rub my back and shoulders.

Coach Meyers rushes in. “Carter—”

Hailey looks at her and says, “Natasha.”

Coach nods heavily. “Carter, go see Ms. Lawrence.”

What? No. She’s sending me to the school shrink? All the teachers know about poor Starr who saw her friend die when she was ten. I used to bust out crying all the time, and that was always their go-to line—see Ms. Lawrence. I wipe my eyes. “Coach, I’m okay—”

“No, you’re not.” She pulls a hall pass from her pocket and holds it toward me. “Go talk to her. It’ll help you feel better.”

No it won’t, but I know what will.

I take the pass, grab my backpack out my locker, and go back into the gym. My classmates follow me with their eyes as I hurry toward the doors. Chris calls out for me. I speed up.

They probably heard me crying. Great. What’s worse than being the Angry Black Girl? The Weak Black Girl.

By the time I get to the main office, I’ve dried my eyes and my face completely.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Carter,” Dr. Davis, the headmaster, says. He’s leaving as I’m going in and doesn’t wait for my response. Does he know all the students by name, or just the ones who are black like him? I hate that I think about stuff like that now.