The Hate U Give(55)

THIRTEEN


Mr. Lewis’s left eye is swollen shut and blood drips onto his shirt from a slash on his cheek, but he refuses to go to the hospital.

Daddy’s office has become an examining room, and Momma tends to Mr. Lewis with Daddy’s help. I lean against the doorway and watch. DeVante stands even farther back in the store.

“It took five of ’em to take me down,” Mr. Lewis says. “Five of ’em! Against one li’l ol’ man. Ain’t that something?”

“It’s really something that you’re alive,” I say. Snitches get stitches doesn’t apply to King Lords. More like snitches get graves.

Momma tilts Mr. Lewis’s head to look at the cut on his cheek. “She’s right. You’re real lucky, Mr. Lewis. Don’t even need stitches.”

“King himself gave me that one,” he says. “He ain’t come in till them other ones got me down. Ol’ punk ass, looking like a black Michelin Man.”

I snort.

“This ain’t funny,” Daddy says. “I told you they was gon’ come after you.”

“And I told you I ain’t scared! If this the worst they could do, they ain’t did nothing!”

“Nah, this ain’t the worst,” says Daddy. “They could’ve killed you!”

“I ain’t the one they want dead!” He stretches his fat finger my way, but he looks beyond me at DeVante. “That’s the one you need to worry ’bout! I made him hide before they came in, but King said he know you helping that boy, and he gon’ kill him if he find him.”

DeVante backs away, his eyes wide.

I swear, in like two seconds Daddy grabs DeVante by his neck and slams him against the freezer. “What the hell you do?”

DeVante kicks and squirms and tries to pull Daddy’s hands from his neck.

“Daddy, stop!”

“Shut up!” His glare never leaves DeVante. “I brought you in my house, and you ain’t been honest ’bout why you hiding? King wouldn’t want you dead unless you did something, so what you do?”

“Mav-rick!” Momma breaks his name down real good. “Let him go. He can’t explain anything with you choking him.”

Daddy releases, and DeVante bends over, gasping for air. “Don’t be putting your hands on me!” he says.

“Or what?” Daddy taunts. “Start talking.”

“Man, look, it ain’t a big deal. King tripping.”

Is he for real? “What did you do?” I ask.

DeVante slides onto the floor and tries to catch his breath. He blinks real fast for several seconds. His face scrunches up. Suddenly he’s bawling like a baby.

I don’t know anything else to do, so I sit in front of him. When Khalil would cry like that because his momma was messed up, I’d lift his head.

I lift DeVante’s. “It’s okay,” I say.

That always worked with Khalil. It works with DeVante too. He stops crying as hard and says, “I stole ’bout five Gs from King.”

“Dammit!” Daddy groans. “What the hell, man?”

“I had to get my family outta here! I was gonna handle the dudes that killed Dalvin, and shit, all that would do was make some GDs come after me. I was a dead man walking, straight up. I didn’t want my momma and my sisters caught up in that. So I got them some bus tickets and got them outta town.”

“That’s why we can’t get your momma on the phone,” Momma realizes.

Tears fall around his lips. “She didn’t want me coming anyway. Said I’d get them killed. Put me out the house before they left.” He looks at Daddy. “Big Mav, I’m sorry. I should’ve told you the other day. I did change my mind ’bout killing them dudes though, but now King wants me dead. Please don’t take me to him. I’ll do anything. Please?”

“He bet’ not!” Mr. Lewis limps out Daddy’s office. “You help that boy, Maverick!”

Daddy stares at the ceiling like he could cuss God out.

“Daddy,” I plead.

“A’ight! C’mon, Vante.”

“Big Mav,” he whimpers, “I’m sorry, please—”

“I’m not taking you to King, but we gotta get you outta here. Now.”

Forty minutes later, Momma and I pull up behind Daddy and DeVante in Uncle Carlos’s driveway.

I’m surprised Daddy knows how to get here. He never comes out here with us. Ne-ver. Holidays, birthdays, none of that. I guess he doesn’t wanna deal with Nana and her mouth.

Momma and I get out her car as Daddy and DeVante get out the truck.

“This is where you’re bringing him?” Momma says. “My brother’s house?”

“Yeah,” Daddy says, like it’s no big deal.

Uncle Carlos comes from the garage, wiping oil off his hands with one of Aunt Pam’s good towels. He shouldn’t be home. It’s the middle of a workday, and he never takes sick days. He stops wiping his hands, but the knuckles on one of them are still dark.

DeVante squints against the sunlight and looks around like we brought him to another planet. “Damn, Big Mav. Where we at?”

“Where are we?” Uncle Carlos corrects, and offers his hand. “Carlos. You must be DeVante.”