The Hate U Give(51)
Daddy watches whatever she’s doing on the computer, feeding her a grape every time he eats one. She’s probably uploading the latest family snapshots on Facebook for our out-of-town relatives. With everything that’s going on, what can she say? “Sekani saw cops harass his daddy, but he’s doing so well in school. #ProudMom.” Or, “Starr saw her best friend die, keep her in your prayers, but my baby made the honor roll again. #Blessed.” Or even, “Tanks are rolling by outside, but Seven’s been accepted into six colleges so far. #HeIsGoingPlaces.”
I go to my room. Both my old and new laptops are on my desk, which is a mess. There’s a huge pair of Daddy’s Jordans next to my old laptop. The yellowed bottoms of the sneakers face the lamp, and a layer of Saran Wrap protects my concoction of detergent and toothpaste that’ll eventually clean them. Watching yellowed soles turn icy again is as satisfying as squeezing a blackhead and getting all the gunk out. Ah-maz-ing.
According to the lie I told Daddy, my homework is supposed to be done, but I’ve been on a “Tumblr break,” a.k.a. I haven’t started my homework and have spent the last two hours on Tumblr. I started a new blog—The Khalil I Know. It doesn’t have my name on it, just pictures of Khalil. In the first one he’s thirteen with an Afro. Uncle Carlos took us to a ranch so we could “get a taste of country life,” and Khalil’s looking side-eyed at a horse that’s beside him. I remember him saying, “If this thing makes a wrong move, I’m running!”
On Tumblr, I captioned the picture: “The Khalil I know was afraid of animals.” I tagged it with his name. One person liked it and reblogged it. Then another and another.
That made me post more pictures, like one of us in a bathtub when we were four. You can’t see our private parts because of all the suds, and I’m looking away from the camera. Ms. Rosalie’s sitting on the side of the tub, beaming at us, and Khalil’s beaming right back at her. I wrote, “The Khalil I know loved bubble baths almost as much as he loved his grandma.”
In just two hours, hundreds of people have liked and reblogged the pictures. I know it’s not the same as getting on the news like Kenya said, but I hope it helps. It’s helping me at least.
Other people posted about Khalil, uploaded artwork of him, posted pictures of him that they show on the news. I think I’ve reblogged every single one.
Funny though: somebody posted a video clip of Tupac from back in the day. Okay, so every video clip of Tupac is from back in the day. He’s got a little kid on his lap and is wearing a backwards snapback that would be fly now. He explains Thug Life like Khalil said he did—The Hate U Give Little Infants Fucks Everybody. ’Pac spells out “Fucks” because that kid is looking dead in his face. When Khalil told me what it meant I kinda understood it. I really understand it now.
I grab my old laptop when my phone buzzes on my desk. Momma returned it earlier—hallelujah, thank you, Black Jesus. She said it’s only in case there’s another situation at school. I got it back though, don’t really care why. I’m hoping it’s a text from Kenya. I sent her the link to my new Tumblr earlier. Thought she’d like to see it since she kinda pushed me to do it.
But it’s Chris. He took note from Seven with his all-caps texts: OMG!
THIS FRESH PRINCE EPISODE
WILL’S DAD DIDN’T TAKE HIM WITH HIM
THE ASSHOLE CAME BACK AND LEFT HIM AGAIN
NOW HE’S HAVING A BREAKDOWN WITH UNCLE PHIL
MY EYES ARE SWEATING
Understandable. That’s seriously the saddest episode ever. I text Chris back: Sorry :(. And your eyes aren’t sweating. You’re crying, babe.
He replies:
LIES!
I say:
You ain’t gotta lie, Craig. You ain’t gotta lie.
He responds:
DID YOU REALLY USE A LINE FROM FRIDAY ON ME???
So watching nineties movies is kinda our thing too. I text back: Yep ;)
He replies:
BYE, FELICIA!
I take the laptop to Seven’s room, phone in hand in case Chris has another Fresh Prince breakdown. Some reggae chants meet me in the hall, followed by Kendrick Lamar rapping about being a hypocrite. Seven sits on the side of the lower bunk, an open computer tower at his feet. With his head down, his dreads hang loosely and make a curtain in front of his face. DeVante sits cross-legged on the floor. His Afro bobs to the song.
A zombie version of Steve Jobs watches them from a poster on the wall along with all these superheroes and Star Wars characters. There’s a Slytherin comforter on the bottom bunk that I swear I’ll steal one day. Seven and I are reverse HP fans—we liked the movies first, then the books. I got Khalil and Natasha hooked on them too. Momma found the first movie for a dollar at a thrift store back when we lived in the Cedar Grove projects. Seven and I said we were Slytherins since almost all Slytherins were rich. When you’re a kid in a one-bedroom in the projects, rich is the best thing anybody can be.
Seven removes a silver box from the computer and examines it. “It’s not even that old.”
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Big D asked me to fix his computer. It needs some new DVD drives. He burnt his out making all them bootlegs.”
My brother is the unofficial Garden Heights tech guy. Old ladies, hustlers, and everybody in between pay him to fix their computers and phones. He makes good money like that too.