The Hate U Give(31)

I side-eye the hell—excuse me, heck; we’re in church—out of her. Nana stopped coming to Christ Temple because of some incident between her and Mother Wilson over Deacon Rankin. It ended with Nana storming off from the church picnic, banana pudding in hand. That’s all I know though.

“We understand,” says Pastor Eldridge. “Let her know we’re praying for her.” He looks at me with an expression I know too well—pity. “Ms. Rosalie told me you were with Khalil when this happened. I am so sorry you had to witness it.”

“Thank you.” It’s weird saying that, like I’m stealing sympathy from Khalil’s family.

Momma grabs my hand. “We’re gonna find some seats. Nice talking to you, Pastor.”

Daddy wraps his arm around me, and the three of us walk into the sanctuary together.

My legs tremble and a wave of nausea hits me, and we aren’t even at the front of the viewing line yet. People go up to the casket in twos, so I can’t see Khalil at all.

Soon there are six people in front of us. Four. Two. I keep my eyes closed the whole time with the last two. Then it’s our turn.

My parents lead me up. “Baby, open your eyes,” Momma says.

I do. It looks more like a mannequin than Khalil in the casket. His skin is darker and his lips are pinker than they should be, because of the makeup. Khalil would’ve had a fit if he knew they put that on him. He’s wearing a white suit and a gold cross pendant.

The real Khalil had dimples. This mannequin version of him doesn’t.

Momma brushes tears from her eyes. Daddy shakes his head. Seven and Sekani stare.

That’s not Khalil, I tell myself. Like it wasn’t Natasha.

Natasha’s mannequin wore a white dress with pink and yellow flowers all over it. It had on makeup too. Momma had told me, “See, she looks asleep,” but when I squeezed her hand, her eyes never opened.

Daddy carried me out the sanctuary as I screamed for her to wake up.

We move so the next set of people can look at Khalil’s mannequin. An usher is about to direct us to some seats, but this lady with natural twists gestures toward the front row of the friends’ side, right in front of her. No clue who she is, but she must be somebody if she’s giving orders like that. And she must know something about me if she thinks my family deserves the front row.

We take our seats, and I focus on the flowers instead. There’s a big heart made out of red and white roses, a “K” made out of calla lilies, and an arrangement of flowers in orange and green, his favorite colors.

When I run out of flowers, I look at the funeral program. It’s full of pictures of Khalil, from the time he was a curly-haired baby up until a few weeks ago with friends I don’t recognize. There are pictures of me and him from years ago and one with us and Natasha. All three of us smile, trying to look gangster with our peace signs. The Hood Trio, tighter than the inside of Voldemort’s nose. Now I’m the only one left.

I close the program.

“Let us stand.” Pastor Eldridge’s voice echoes throughout the sanctuary. The organist starts playing, and everyone stands.

“And Jesus said, ‘Do not let your hearts be troubled,’” he says, coming down the aisle. “‘You believe in God, believe also in me.’”

Ms. Rosalie marches behind him. Cameron walks alongside her, gripping her hand. Tears stain his chubby cheeks. He’s only nine, a year older than Sekani. Had one of those bullets hit me, that could’ve been my little brother crying like that.

Khalil’s aunt Tammy holds Ms. Rosalie’s other hand. Ms. Brenda is wailing behind them, wearing a black dress that once belonged to Momma. Her hair has been combed into a ponytail. Two guys, I think they’re Khalil’s cousins, hold her up. It’s easier to look at the casket.

“‘My Father’s house has many rooms; if that were not so, would I have told you that I am going there to prepare a place for you?’” Pastor Eldridge says. “‘And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am.’”

At Natasha’s funeral, her momma passed out when she saw her in the casket. Somehow Khalil’s momma and grandma don’t.

“I wanna make one thing clear today,” Pastor Eldridge says once everyone is seated. “No matter the circumstances, this is a homegoing celebration. Weeping may endure for a night, but how many of you know that JOY—!” He doesn’t even finish and people shout.

The choir sings upbeat songs, and almost everyone claps and praises Jesus. Momma sings along and waves her hands. Khalil’s grandma and auntie clap and sing too. A praise break even starts, and people run around the sanctuary and do the “Holy Ghost Two-Step,” as Seven and I call it, their feet moving like James Brown and their bent arms flapping like chicken wings.

But if Khalil’s not celebrating, how the hell can they? And why praise Jesus, since he let Khalil get shot in the first place?

I put my face in my hands, hoping to drown out the drums, the horns, the shouting. This shit doesn’t make any sense.

After all that praising, some of Khalil’s classmates—the ones who were in the parking lot in the T-shirts—make a presentation. They give his family the cap and gown Khalil would’ve worn in a few months and cry as they tell funny stories I’d never heard. Yet I’m the one in the front row on the friends’ side. I’m such a fucking phony.