The Hate U Give(30)

Silence.

“Are you really friends with that cop?” I ask.

“I wouldn’t say friends, no. Colleagues.”

“But you’re on a first-name basis, right?”

“Yes,” he says.

I stare at my cup. Uncle Carlos was my first dad in some ways. Daddy went to prison around the time I realized that “Mommy” and “Daddy” weren’t just names, but they meant something. I talked to Daddy on the phone every week, but he didn’t want me and Seven to ever set foot in a prison, so I didn’t see him.

I saw Uncle Carlos though. He fulfilled the role and then some. Once I asked if I could call him Daddy. He said no, because I already had one, but being my uncle was the best thing he could ever be. Ever since, “Uncle” has meant almost as much as “Daddy.”

My uncle. On a first-name basis with that cop.

“Baby girl, I don’t know what to say.” His voice is gruff. “I wish I could—I’m sorry this happened. I am.”

“Why haven’t they arrested him?”

“Cases like this are difficult.”

“It’s not that difficult,” I say. “He killed Khalil.”

“I know, I know,” he says, and wipes his face. “I know.”

“Would you have killed him?”

He looks at me. “Starr—I can’t answer that.”

“Yeah, you can.”

“No, I can’t. I’d like to think I wouldn’t have, but it’s hard to say unless you’re in that situation, feeling what that officer is feeling—”

“He pointed his gun at me,” I blurt out.

“What?”

My eyes prickle like crazy. “While we were waiting on help to show up,” I say, my words wobbling. “He kept it on me until somebody else got there. Like I was a threat. I wasn’t the one with the gun.”

Uncle Carlos stares at me for the longest time.

“Baby girl.” He reaches for my hand. He squeezes it and moves to my side of the table. His arm goes around me, and I bury my face in his rib cage, tears and snot wetting his shirt.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He kisses my hair with each apology. “But I know that’s not enough.”





EIGHT


Funerals aren’t for dead people. They’re for the living.

I doubt Khalil cares what songs are sung or what the preacher says about him. He’s in a casket. Nothing can change that.

My family and I leave thirty minutes before the funeral starts, but the parking lot at Christ Temple Church is already full. Some kids from Khalil’s school stand around in “RIP Khalil” T-shirts with his face on them. A guy tried to sell some to us yesterday, but Momma said we weren’t wearing them today—T-shirts are for the streets, not for church.

So here we are, getting out the car in our dresses and suits. My parents hold hands and walk in front of me and my brothers. We used to go to Christ Temple when I was younger, but Momma got tired of how people here act like their shit don’t stank, and now we go to this “diverse” church in Riverton Hills. Way too many people go there, and praise and worship is led by a white guy on guitar. Oh, and service lasts less than an hour.

Going back in Christ Temple is like when you go back to your old elementary school after you’ve been to high school. When you were younger it seemed big, but when you go back you realize how small it is. People fill up the tiny foyer. It has cranberry-colored carpet and two burgundy high-back chairs. One time Momma brought me out here because I was acting up. She made me sit in one of those chairs and told me not to move until service was over. I didn’t. A painting of the pastor hung above the chairs, and I could’ve sworn he was watching me. All these years later and they still have that creepy painting up.

There’s a line to sign a book for Khalil’s family and another line to go into the sanctuary. To see him.

I catch a glimpse of the white casket at the front of the sanctuary, but I can’t make myself try to see more than that. I’ll see him eventually, but—I don’t know. I wanna wait until I don’t have any other choice.

Pastor Eldridge greets people in the doorway of the sanctuary. He’s wearing a long white robe with gold crosses on it. He smiles at everyone. I don’t know why they made him look so creepy in that painting. He’s not creepy at all.

Momma glances back at me, Seven, and Sekani, like she’s making sure we look nice, then she and Daddy go up to Pastor Eldridge. “Morning, Pastor,” she says.

“Lisa! So good to see you.” He kisses her cheek and shakes Daddy’s hand. “Maverick, good to see you as well. We miss y’all around here.”

“I bet y’all do,” Daddy mumbles. Another reason we left Christ Temple: Daddy doesn’t like that they take up so many offerings. But he doesn’t even go to our diverse church.

“And these must be the children,” Pastor Eldridge says. He shakes Seven’s and Sekani’s hands and kisses my cheek. I feel more of his bristly mustache than anything. “Y’all sure have grown since I last saw you. I remember when the little one was an itty-bitty thing wrapped up in a blanket. How’s your momma doing, Lisa?”

“She’s good. She misses coming here, but the drive is a little long for her.”