The Hate U Give(54)

“Yeah, him,” says Daddy. “He owns the barbershop next to my store.”

“Oh, wow. That interview definitely has people talking. Last I checked it had almost a million views online.”

I knew it. Mr. Lewis has become a meme.

“It takes a lot of guts to be as upfront as he is. I meant what I said at Khalil’s funeral, Starr. It was very brave of you to talk to the police.”

“I don’t feel brave.” With Malcolm X watching me on her wall, I can’t lie. “I’m not running my mouth on TV like Mr. Lewis.”

“And that’s okay,” Ms. Ofrah says. “It seemed Mr. Lewis impulsively spoke out in anger and frustration. In a case like Khalil’s, I would much rather that you spoke out in a more deliberate and planned way.” She looks at Momma. “You said the DA called yesterday?”

“Yes. They’d like to meet with Starr tomorrow.”

“Makes sense. The case was turned over to their office, and they’re preparing to take it to a grand jury.”

“What does that mean?” I ask.

“A jury will decide if charges should be brought against Officer Cruise.”

“And Starr will have to testify to the grand jury,” Daddy says.

Ms. Ofrah nods. “It’s a bit different from a normal trial. There won’t be a judge or a defense attorney present, and the DA will ask Starr questions.”

“But what if I can’t answer them all?”

“What do you mean?” Ms. Ofrah says.

“I—the gun in the car stuff. On the news they said there may have been a gun in the car, like that changes everything. I honestly don’t know if there was.”

Ms. Ofrah opens a folder that’s on her desk, takes a piece of paper out, and pushes it toward me. It’s a photograph of Khalil’s black hairbrush, the one he used in the car.

“That’s the so-called gun,” Ms. Ofrah explains. “Officer Cruise claims he saw it in the car door, and he assumed Khalil was reaching for it. The handle was thick enough, black enough, for him to assume it was a gun.”

“And Khalil was black enough,” Daddy adds.

A hairbrush.

Khalil died over a fucking hairbrush.

Ms. Ofrah slips the photograph back in the folder. “It’ll be interesting to see how his father addresses it in his interview tonight.”

Hold up. “Interview?” I ask.

Momma shifts a little in her chair. “Um . . . the officer’s father has a television interview that’s airing tonight.”

I glance from her to Daddy. “And nobody told me?”

“’Cause it ain’t worth talking about, baby,” Daddy says.

I look at Ms. Ofrah. “So his dad can give his son’s side to the whole world, and I can’t give mine and Khalil’s? He’s gonna have everybody thinking One-Fifteen’s the victim.”

“Not necessarily,” Ms. Ofrah says. “Sometimes these kinds of things backfire. And at the end of the day, the court of public opinion has no say in this. The grand jury does. If they see enough evidence, which they should, Officer Cruise will be charged and tried.”

“If,” I repeat.

A wave of awkward silence rolls in. One-Fifteen’s father is his voice, but I’m Khalil’s. The only way people will know his side of the story is if I speak out.

I look out the drive-through window at the car wash next door. Water cascades from a hose, making rainbows against the sunlight like it did six years ago, right before bullets took Natasha.

I turn to Ms. Ofrah. “When I was ten, I saw my other best friend get murdered in a drive-by.”

Funny how murdered comes out easily now.

“Oh.” Ms. Ofrah sinks back. “I didn’t— I’m so sorry, Starr.”

I stare at my fingers and fumble with them. Tears well in my eyes. “I’ve tried to forget it, but I remember everything. The shots, the look on Natasha’s face. They never caught the person who did it. I guess it didn’t matter enough. But it did matter. She mattered.” I look at Ms. Ofrah, but I can barely see her for all the tears. “And I want everyone to know that Khalil mattered too.”

Ms. Ofrah blinks. A lot. “Absolutely. I—” She clears her throat. “I would like to represent you, Starr. Pro bono, in fact.”

Momma nods, and she’s teary-eyed too.

“I’ll do whatever I can to make sure you’re heard, Starr. Because just like Khalil and Natasha mattered, you matter and your voice matters. I can start by trying to get you a television interview.” She looks at my parents. “If you’re okay with that.”

“As long as they don’t reveal her identity, yeah,” Daddy says.

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” she says. “We will absolutely make sure her privacy is protected.”

A quiet buzzing comes from Daddy’s way. He takes out his phone and answers. The person on the other end shouts something, but I can’t make it out. “Ay, calm down, Vante. Say that again?” The response makes Daddy stand up. “I’m coming. You call nine-one-one?”

“What’s wrong?” Momma says.

He motions for us to follow him. “Stay with him, a’ight? We on the way.”