The Hate U Give(49)

Papers are scattered all on the office floor. Daddy’s hunched over his desk, his back moving up and down with each heavy breath.

He pounds the desk. “Fuck!”

Daddy once told me there’s a rage passed down to every black man from his ancestors, born the moment they couldn’t stop the slave masters from hurting their families. Daddy also said there’s nothing more dangerous than when that rage is activated.

“Let it out, son,” Mr. Lewis tells him.

“Fuck them pigs, man,” Tim says. “They only did that shit ’cause they know ’bout Starr.”

Wait. What?

Daddy glances over his shoulder. His eyes are puffy and wet, like he’s been crying. “The hell you talking ’bout, Tim?”

“One of the homeboys saw you, Lisa, and your baby girl getting out an ambulance at the crime scene that night,” Tim says. “Word spread around the neighborhood, and folks think she’s the witness they been talking ’bout on the news.”

Oh.

Shit.

“Starr, go ring Kenya up,” Daddy says. “Vante, finish them floors.”

I head for the cash register, passing Seven and Sekani.

The neighborhood knows.

I ring Kenya up, my stomach knotted the whole time. If the neighborhood knows, it won’t be long until people outside of Garden Heights know. And then what?

“You rang that up twice,” Kenya says.

“Huh?”

“The milk. You rang it up twice, Starr.”

“Oh.”

I cancel one of the milks and put the carton into a bag. Kenya’s probably cooking for herself and Lyric tonight. She does that sometimes. I ring up the rest of her stuff, take her money, and hand her the change.

She stares at me a second, then says, “Were you really the one with him?”

My throat is thick. “Does it matter?”

“Yeah, it matters. Why you keeping quiet ’bout it? Like you hiding or something.”

“Don’t say it that way.”

“But it is that way. Right?”

I sigh. “Kenya, stop. You don’t understand, all right?”

Kenya folds her arms. “What’s to understand?”

“A lot!” I don’t mean to yell, but damn. “I can’t go around telling people that shit.”

“Why not?”

“Because! You ain’t see what the cops just did to my dad ’cause they know I’m the witness.”

“So you gon’ let the police stop you from speaking out for Khalil? I thought you cared about him way more than that.”

“I do.” I care more than she may ever know. “I already talked to the cops, Kenya. Nothing happened. What else am I supposed to do?”

“Go on TV or something, I don’t know,” she says. “Tell everybody what really happened that night. They’re not even giving his side of the story. You’re letting them trash-talk him—”

“Excuse— How the hell am I letting them do anything?”

“You hear all the stuff they’re saying ’bout him on the news, calling him a thug and stuff, and you know that ain’t Khalil. I bet if he was one of your private school friends, you’d be all on TV, defending him and shit.”

“Are you for real?”

“Hell yeah,” she says. “You dropped him for them bougie-ass kids, and you know it. You probably would’ve dropped me if I didn’t come around ’cause of my brother.”

“That’s not true!”

“You sure?”

I’m not.

Kenya shakes her head. “Fucked-up part about this? The Khalil I know would’ve jumped on TV in a hot second and told everybody what happened that night if it meant defending you. And you can’t do the same for him.”

It’s a verbal slap. The worst kind too, because it’s the truth.

Kenya gets her bags. “I’m just saying, Starr. If I could change what happens at my house with my momma and daddy, I would. Here you are, with a chance to help change what happens in our whole neighborhood, and you staying quiet. Like a coward.”

Kenya leaves. Tim and Mr. Lewis aren’t far behind her. Tim gives me the black power fist on his way out. I don’t deserve it though.

I head to Daddy’s office. Seven’s standing in the doorway, and Daddy’s sitting on his desk. Sekani’s next to him, nodding along to whatever Daddy’s saying but looking sad. Reminds me of the time Daddy and Momma had the talk with me. Guess Daddy decided not to wait until Sekani’s twelve.

Daddy sees me. “Sev, go cover the cash register. Take Sekani with you. ’Bout time he learned.”

“Aww, man,” Sekani groans. Don’t blame him. The more you learn to do at the store, the more you’re expected to do at the store.

Daddy pats the now-empty spot beside him on the desk. I hop up on it. His office has just enough space for the desk and a file cabinet. Framed photographs crowd the walls, like the one of him and Momma at the courthouse the day they got married, her belly (a.k.a. me) big and round; pictures of me and my brothers as babies, and this one picture from about seven years ago when my parents took the three of us to the mall for one of those J. C. Penney family portraits. They dressed alike in baseball jerseys, baggy jeans, and Timberlands. Tacky.