The Hate U Give(36)

Seven makes a T with his hands. He pants harder than I do, and I’m the one who used to have asthma. “Time out. Water break.”

I wipe my forehead with my arm. The sun glares on the court already. “How about we call it?”

“Hell no. I got some game in me. I gotta get my angles right.”

“Angles? This is ball, Seven. Not selfies.”

“Ay, yo!” some boy calls.

We turn around, and my breath catches. “Shit.”

There are two of them. They look thirteen, fourteen years old and are wearing green Celtics jerseys. Garden Disciples, no doubt. They cross the courts, coming straight for us.

The tallest one steps to Seven. “Nigga, you Kinging?”

I can’t even take this fool seriously. His voice squeaks. Daddy says there’s a trick to telling OGs from Young Gs, besides their age. OGs don’t start stuff, they finish it. Young Gs always start stuff.

“Nah, I’m neutral,” Seven says.

“Ain’t King your daddy?” the shorter one asks.

“Hell, no. He just messing with my momma.”

“It don’t even matter.” The tall one flicks out a pocket knife. “Hand your shit over. Sneakers, phones, everything.”

Rule of the Garden—if it doesn’t involve you, it doesn’t have shit to do with you. Period. The King Lords in the Escalade see everything going down. Since we don’t claim their set, we don’t exist.

But the boy on the merry-go-round runs over and pushes the GDs back. He lifts up his shirt, flashing his piece. “We got a problem?”

They back up. “Yeah, we got a problem,” the shorter one says.

“You sure? Last time I checked, Rose Park was King territory.” He looks toward the Escalade. The King Lords inside nod at us, a simple way of asking if things are cool. We nod back.

“A’ight,” the tall GD says. “We got you.”

The GDs leave the same way they came.

The younger King Lord slaps palms with Seven. “You straight, bruh?” he asks.

“Yeah. Good looking out, Vante.”

I can’t lie, he’s kinda cute. Hey, just ’cause I have a boyfriend doesn’t mean I can’t look, and as much as Chris drools over Nicki Minaj, Beyoncé, and Amber Rose, I dare him to get mad at me for looking.

On a side note—my boyfriend clearly has a type.

This Vante guy’s around my age, a little taller, with a big Afro puff and the faint signs of a mustache. He has some nice lips too. Real plump and soft.

I’ve looked at them too long. He licks them and smiles. “I had to make sure you and li’l momma were okay.”

And that ruins it. Don’t call me by a nickname if you don’t know me. “Yeah, we’re fine,” I say.

“Them GDs helped you out anyway,” he tells Seven. “She was killing you out here.”

“Man, shut up,” Seven says. “This is my sister, Starr.”

“Oh yeah,” the guy says. “You the one who work up in Big Mav’s store, ain’t you?”

Like I said, I get that all. The. Time. “Yep. That’s me.”

“Starr, this is DeVante,” Seven says. “He’s one of King’s boys.”

“DeVante?” So this is the dude Kenya fought over.

“Yeah, that’s me.” He looks at me from head to toe and licks his lips again. “You heard ’bout me or something?”

All that lip licking. Not cute. “Yeah, I’ve heard about you. And you may wanna get some Chapstick if your lips that dry, since you’re licking them so much.”

“Damn, it’s like that?”

“What she means is thanks for helping us out,” Seven says, even though that’s not what I meant. “We appreciate it.”

“It’s all good. Them fools running around here ’cause the riots happening on their side. It’s too hot for them over there.”

“What you doing in the park this early anyway?” Seven asks.

He shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs. “Posted up. You know how it go.”

He’s a d-boy. Damn, Kenya really knows how to pick them. Anytime drug-dealing gangbangers are your type, you’ve got some serious issues. Well, King is her daddy.

“I heard about your brother,” Seven says. “I’m sorry, man. Dalvin was a cool dude.”

DeVante kicks at a pebble on the court. “Thanks. Mom’s taking it real hard. That’s why I’m here. Had to get out the house.”

Dalvin? DeVante? I tilt my head. “Your momma named y’all after them dudes from that old group Jodeci?” I only know because my parents love them some Jodeci.

“Yeah, so?”

“It was just a question. You don’t have to have an attitude.”

A white Tahoe screeches to a stop on the other side of the fence. Daddy’s Tahoe.

His window rolls down. He’s in a wifebeater and pillow marks zigzag across his face. I pray he doesn’t get out because knowing Daddy his legs are ashy and he’s wearing Nike flip-flops with socks. “What the hell y’all thinking, leaving the house without telling nobody?” he yells.

The King Lords across the street bust out laughing. DeVante coughs into his fist like he wants to laugh too. Seven and I look at everything but Daddy.