The Hate U Give(29)

His secretary, Mrs. Lindsey, greets me with a smile and asks how she can assist me.

“I need to call someone to come get me,” I say. “I don’t feel good.”

I call Uncle Carlos. My parents would ask too many questions. A limb has to be missing for them to take me out of school. I only have to tell Uncle Carlos that I have cramps, and he’ll pick me up.

Feminine problems. The key to ending an Uncle Carlos interrogation.

Luckily he’s on lunch break. He signs me out, and I hold my stomach for added effect. As we leave he asks if I want some fro-yo. I say yeah, and a short while later we’re going into a shop that’s walking distance from Williamson. It’s in a brand-new mini mall that should be called Hipster Heaven, full of stores you’d never find in Garden Heights. On one side of the fro-yo place, there’s Indie Urban Style and on the other side, Dapper Dog, where you can buy outfits for your dog. Clothes. For a dog. What kinda fool would I be, dressing Brickz in a linen shirt and jeans?

On a serious tip—white people are crazy for their dogs.

We fill our cups with yogurt. At the toppings bar, Uncle Carlos breaks out into his fro-yo rap. “I’m getting fro-yo, yo. Fro-yo, yo, yo.”

He loves his fro-yo. It’s kinda adorable. We take a booth in a corner that’s got a lime-green table and hot-pink seats. You know, typical fro-yo decor.

Uncle Carlos looks over into my cup. “Did you seriously ruin perfectly good fro-yo with Cap’n Crunch?”

“You can’t talk,” I say. “Oreos, Uncle Carlos? Really? And they’re not even the Golden Oreos, which are by far the superior Oreos. You got the regular ones. Ill.”

He devours a spoonful and says, “You’re weird.”

“You’re weird.”

“So cramps, huh?” he says.

Shit. I almost forgot about that. I hold my stomach and groan. “Yeah. They’re real bad today.”

I know who won’t win an Oscar anytime soon. Uncle Carlos gives me his hard detective stare. I groan again; this one sounds a little more believable. He raises his eyebrows.

His phone rings in his jacket pocket. He sticks another spoonful of fro-yo in his mouth and checks it. “It’s your mom calling me back,” he says around the spoon. He holds the phone with his cheek and shoulder. “Hey, Lisa. You get my message?”

Shit.

“She’s not feeling good,” Uncle Carlos says. “She’s got, you know, feminine problems.”

Her response is loud but muffled. Shit, shit.

Uncle Carlos holds the nape of his neck and slowly releases a long, deep breath. He turns into a little boy when Momma raises her voice at him, and he’s supposed to be the oldest.

“Okay, okay. I hear you,” he says. “Here, you talk to her.”

Shit, shit, shit.

He passes me the piece of dynamite formerly known as his phone. There’s an explosion of questioning as soon as I say, “Hello?”

“Cramps, Starr? Really?” she says.

“They’re bad, Mommy,” I whine, lying my butt off.

“Girl, please. I went to class in labor with you,” she says. “I pay too much money for you to go to Williamson so you can leave because of cramps.”

I almost point out that I get a scholarship too, but nah. She’d become the first person in history to hit someone through a phone.

“Did something happen?” she asks.

“No.”

“Is it Khalil?” she asks.

I sigh. This time tomorrow I’ll be staring at him in a coffin.

“Starr?” she says.

“Nothing happened.”

Ms. Felicia calls for her in the background. “Look, I gotta go,” she says. “Carlos will take you home. Lock the door, stay inside, and don’t let anybody in, you hear me?”

Those aren’t zombie survival tips. Just normal instructions for latchkey kids in Garden Heights. “I can’t let Seven and Sekani in? Great.”

“Oh, somebody’s trying to be funny. Now I know you ain’t feeling bad. We’ll talk later. I love you. Mwah!”

It takes a lot of nerve to go off on somebody, call them out, and tell them you love them within a span of five minutes. I tell her I love her too and pass Uncle Carlos his phone.

“All right, baby girl,” he says. “Spill it.”

I stuff some fro-yo in my mouth. It’s melting already. “Like I said. Cramps.”

“I’m not buying that, and let’s be clear about something: you only get one ‘Uncle Carlos, get me out of school’ card per school year, and you’re using it right now.”

“You got me in December, remember?” For cramps also. I didn’t lie about those. They were a bitch that day.

“All right, one per calendar year,” he clarifies. I smile. “But you gotta give me a little more to work with. So talk.”

I push Cap’n Crunch around my fro-yo. “Khalil’s funeral is tomorrow.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know if I should go.”

“What? Why?”

“Because,” I say. “I hadn’t seen him in months before the party.”

“You still should go,” he says. “You’ll regret it if you don’t. I thought about going. Not sure if that’s a good idea, considering.”