The Hate U Give(38)

I scratch behind his ears. “Clumsy dog.”

I would take him with us, but they don’t allow pits in Uncle Carlos’s neighborhood. He settles on my bed and watches me pack. I only really need my swimsuit and some sandals, but Momma could decide to stay out there the whole weekend because of the riots. I pack a couple of outfits and get my school backpack. I throw each backpack over a shoulder. “C’mon, Brickz.”

He follows me to his spot in the backyard, and I hook him up to his chain. While I refill Brickz’s food and water bowls, Daddy crouches beside his roses and examines the petals. He waters them like he’s supposed to, but for some reason they’re dry looking.

“C’mon, now,” he tells them. “Y’all gotta do better than this.”

Momma and Sekani wait for me in her Camry. I end up in the passenger’s seat. It’s childish, but I don’t wanna sit this close to her right now. Unfortunately it’s either sit next to her or next to Sir-Farts-a-Lot Sekani. I’m staring straight ahead, and out the corner of my eye I see her looking at me. She makes this sound like she’s about to speak, but her words decide to come out as a sigh.

Good. I don’t wanna talk to her either. I’m being petty as hell and don’t even care.

We head for the freeway, passing the Cedar Grove projects, where we used to live. We get to Magnolia Avenue, the busiest street in Garden Heights, where most of the businesses are located. Usually on Saturday mornings, guys around the neighborhood have their cars on display, cruising up and down the street and racing each other.

Today the street’s blocked off. A crowd marches down the middle of it. They’re holding signs and posters of Khalil’s face and are chanting, “Justice for Khalil!”

I should be out there with them, but I can’t join that march, knowing I’m one of the reasons they’re protesting.

“You know none of this is your fault, right?” Momma asks.

How in the world did she do that? “I know.”

“I mean it, baby. It’s not. You did everything right.”

“But sometimes right’s not good enough, huh?”

She takes my hand, and despite my annoyance I let her. It’s the closest thing I get to an answer for a while.

Saturday morning traffic on the freeway moves smoothly compared to weekday traffic. Sekani puts his headphones on and plays with his tablet. Some nineties R&B songs play on the radio, and Momma sings along under her breath. When she really gets into it, she attempts all kinds of runs and goes, “Yes, girl! Yes!”

Out of nowhere she says, “You weren’t breathing when you were born.”

My first time hearing that. “For real?”

“Uh-huh. I was eighteen when I had you. Still a baby myself, but I thought I was grown. Wouldn’t admit to anybody that I was scared to death. Your nana thought there was no way in hell I could be a good parent. Not wild Lisa.

“I was determined to prove her wrong. I stopped drinking and smoking, went to all of my appointments, ate right, took my vitamins, the whole nine. Shoot, I even played Mozart on some headphones and put them on my belly. We see what good that was. You didn’t finish a month of piano lessons.”

I laugh. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Like I was saying, I did everything right. I remember being in that delivery room, and when they pulled you out, I waited for you to cry. But you didn’t. Everybody ran around, and your father and I kept asking what was wrong. Finally the nurse said you weren’t breathing.

“I freaked out. Your daddy couldn’t calm me down. He was barely calm himself. After the longest minute of my life, you cried. I think I cried harder than you though. I knew I did something wrong. But one of the nurses took my hand”—Momma grabs my hand again—“looked me in the eye, and said, ‘Sometimes you can do everything right and things will still go wrong. The key is to never stop doing right.’”

She holds my hand the rest of the drive.

I used to think the sun shone brighter out here in Uncle Carlos’s neighborhood, but today it really does—there’s no smoke lingering, and the air is fresher. All the houses have two stories. Kids play on the sidewalks and in the big yards. There are lemonade stands, garage sales, and lots of joggers. Even with all that going on, it’s real quiet.

We pass Maya’s house, a few streets over from Uncle Carlos’s. I would text her and see if I could come over, but, you know, I don’t have my phone.

“You can’t visit your li’l friend today,” Momma says, reading my mind once a-freaking-gain. “You’re grounded.”

My mouth flies wide open.

“But she can come over to Carlos’s and see you.”

She glances at me out the corner of her eye with a half smile. This is supposed to be the moment I hug her and thank her and tell her she’s the best.

Not happening. I say, “Cool. Whatever,” and sit back.

She busts out laughing. “You are so stubborn!”

“No, I’m not!”

“Yes, you are,” she says. “Just like your father.”

Soon as we pull into Uncle Carlos’s driveway, Sekani jumps out. Our cousin Daniel waves at him from down the sidewalk with some other boys, and they’re all on their bikes.

“Later, Momma,” Sekani says. He runs past Uncle Carlos, who’s coming out the garage, and grabs his bike. Sekani got it for Christmas, but he keeps it at Uncle Carlos’s house because Momma’s not about to let him ride around Garden Heights. He pedals down the driveway.