The Hate U Give(48)

“To me it looks like this young man was harassing you, sir,” the black one says, still looking at Daddy. He hasn’t looked at Mr. Lewis yet. I wonder if it’s because Mr. Lewis isn’t wearing an NWA T-shirt. Or because there aren’t tattoos all on his arms. Or because he’s not wearing somewhat baggy jeans and a backwards cap.

“You got some ID on you?” the black cop asks Daddy.

“Sir, I was about to go back to my store—”

“I said do you have some ID on you?”

My hands shake. Breakfast, lunch, and everything else churns in my stomach, ready to come back up my throat. They’re gonna take Daddy from me.

“What’s going on?”

I turn around. Tim, Mr. Reuben’s nephew, walks over to us. People have stopped on the sidewalk across the street.

“I’m gonna reach for my ID,” Daddy says. “It’s in my back pocket. A’ight?”

“Daddy—” I say.

Daddy keeps his eyes on the officer. “Y’all, go in the store, a’ight? It’s okay.”

We don’t move though.

Daddy’s hand slowly goes to his back pocket, and I look from his hands to theirs, watching to see if they’re gonna make a move for their guns.

Daddy removes his wallet, the leather one I bought him for Father’s Day with his initials embossed on it. He shows it to them.

“See? My ID is in here.”

His voice has never sounded so small.

The black officer takes the wallet and opens it. “Oh,” he says. “Maverick Carter.”

He exchanges a look with his partner.

Both of them look at me.

My heart stops.

They’ve realized I’m the witness.

There must be a file that lists my parents’ names on it. Or the detectives blabbed, and now everyone at the station knows our names. Or they could’ve gotten it from Uncle Carlos somehow. I don’t know how it happened, but it happened. And if something happens to Daddy . . .

The black officer looks at him. “Get on the ground, hands behind your back.”

“But—”

“On the ground, face-down!” he yells. “Now!”

Daddy looks at us. His expression apologizes for the fact that we have to see this.

He gets down on one knee and lowers himself to the ground, face-down. His hands go behind his back, and his fingers interlock.

Where’s that camera operator now? Why can’t this be on the news?

“Now, wait a minute, Officer,” Mr. Lewis says. “Me and him were just talking.”

“Sir, go inside,” the white cop tells him.

“But he didn’t do anything!” Seven says.

“Boy, go inside!” the black cop says.

“No! That’s my father, and—”

“Seven!” Daddy yells.

Even though he’s lying on the concrete, there’s enough authority in his voice to make Seven shut up.

The black officer checks Daddy while his partner glances around at all of the onlookers. There’s quite a few of us now. Ms. Yvette and a couple of her clients stand in her doorway, towels around the clients’ shoulders. A car has stopped in the street.

“Everyone, go about your own business,” the white one says.

“No, sir,” says Tim. “This is our business.”

The black cop keeps his knee on Daddy’s back as he searches him. He pats him down once, twice, three times, just like One-Fifteen did Khalil. Nothing.

“Larry,” the white cop says.

The black one, who must be Larry, looks up at him, then at all the people who have gathered around.

Larry takes his knee off Daddy’s back and stands. “Get up,” he says.

Slowly, Daddy gets to his feet.

Larry glances at me. Bile pools in my mouth. He turns to Daddy and says, “I’m keeping an eye on you, boy. Remember that.”

Daddy’s jaw looks rock hard.

The cops drive off. The car that had stopped in the street leaves, and all of the onlookers go on about their business. One person hollers out, “It’s all right, Maverick.”

Daddy looks at the sky and blinks the way I do when I don’t wanna cry. He clenches and unclenches his hands.

Mr. Lewis touches his back. “C’mon, son.”

He guides Daddy our way, but they pass us and go into the store. Tim follows them.

“Why did they do Daddy like that?” Sekani asks softly. He looks at me and Seven with tears in his eyes.

Seven wraps an arm around him. “I don’t know, man.”

I know.

I go in the store.

DeVante leans against a broom near the cash register, wearing one of those ugly green aprons Daddy tries to make me and Seven wear when we work in the store.

There’s a pang in my chest. Khalil wore one too.

DeVante’s talking to Kenya as she holds a basket full of groceries. When the bell on the door clangs behind me, both of them look my way.

“Yo, what happened?” DeVante asks.

“Was that the cops outside?” says Kenya.

From here I see Mr. Lewis and Tim standing in the doorway of Daddy’s office. He must be in there.

“Yeah,” I answer Kenya, heading toward the back. Kenya and DeVante follow me, asking about fifty million questions that I don’t have time to answer.