The Hate U Give(57)

Chris is behind him in his white Williamson polo and khaki shorts. He has on the red-and-black Jordan Twelves that MJ wore when he had the flu during the ’97 finals. Shoot, that makes Chris finer for some reason. Or I have a Jordan fetish.

“Hi.” He smiles without showing teeth.

“Hi.” I smile too.

I forget that Daddy is here and that I potentially have a big-ass problem on my hands. That only lasts about ten seconds though because Daddy asks, “Who you?”

Chris extends his hand to Daddy. “Christopher, sir. Nice to meet you.”

Daddy gives him a twice-over. “You know my daughter or something?”

“Yeah.” Chris stretches it kinda long and looks at me. “We both go to Williamson?”

I nod. Good answer.

Daddy folds his arms. “Well, do you or don’t you? You sound a li’l unsure ’bout that.”

Momma gives Chris a quick hug. All the while Daddy mean-mugs the hell outta him. “How are you doing, sweetie?” she asks.

“I’m fine. I didn’t mean to interrupt anything. I saw your car, and Starr wasn’t at school today, so I wanted to check on her.”

“It’s fine,” says Momma. “Tell your mom and dad I said hello. How are they?”

“Hold up,” Daddy says. “Y’all act like this dude been around a minute.” Daddy turns to me. “Why ain’t I never heard ’bout him?”

It’s gonna take a hell of a lotta boldness to put myself out there for Khalil. Like “I once told my militant black daddy about my white boyfriend” kinda boldness. If I can’t stand up to my dad about Chris, how can I stand up for Khalil?

Daddy always tells me to never bite my tongue for anyone. That includes him.

So I say it. “He’s my boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend?” Daddy repeats.

“Yeah, her boyfriend!” Nana pipes up again from wherever she is. “Hey, Chris baby.”

Chris glances around, all confused. “Uh, hey, Ms. Montgomery.”

Nana was the first to find out about Chris, thanks to her master snooping skills. She told me, “Go ’head, get your swirl on, baby,” then proceeded to tell me about all of her swirling adventures, which I didn’t need to know.

“The hell, Starr?” Daddy says. “You dating a white boy?”

“Maverick!” Momma snaps.

“Calm down, Maverick,” Uncle Carlos says. “He’s a good kid, and he treats her well. That’s all that matters, isn’t it?”

“You knew?” Daddy says. He looks at me, and I don’t know if that’s anger or hurt in his eyes. “He knew, and I didn’t?”

This happens when you have two dads. One of them’s bound to get hurt, and you’re bound to feel like shit because of it.

“Let’s go outside,” Momma says tightly. “Now.”

Daddy glares at Chris and follows Momma to the patio. The doors have thick glass, but I still hear her go off on him.

“C’mon, DeVante,” Uncle Carlos says. “Gonna show you the basement and the laundry room.”

DeVante sizes Chris up. “Boyfriend,” he says with a slight laugh, and looks at me. “I should’ve known you’d have a white boy.”

He leaves with Uncle Carlos. What the hell that’s supposed to mean?

“Sorry,” I tell Chris. “My dad shouldn’t have gone off like that.”

“It could’ve been worse. He could’ve killed me.”

True. I motion him to sit at the counter while I get us some drinks.

“Who was that guy with your uncle?” he asks.

Aunt Pam ain’t got one soda up in here. Juice, water, and sparkling water. I bet Nana has a stash of Sprite and Coke in her room though. “DeVante,” I say, grabbing two apple juice boxes. “He got caught up in some King Lord stuff, and Daddy brought him to live with Uncle Carlos.”

“Why was he looking at me like that?”

“Get over it, Maverick. He’s white!” Momma shouts on the patio. “White, white, white!”

Chris blushes. And blushes, and blushes, and blushes.

I hand him a juice box. “That’s why DeVante was looking at you that way. You’re white.”

“Okay?” he asks more than says. “Is this one of those black things I won’t understand?”

“Okay, babe, real talk? If you were somebody else I’d side-eye the shit out of you for calling it that.”

“Calling it what? A black thing?”

“Yeah.”

“But isn’t that what it is?”

“Not really,” I say. “It’s not like this kinda stuff is exclusive to black people, you know? The reasoning may be different, but that’s about it. Your parents don’t have a problem with us dating?”

“I wouldn’t call it a problem,” Chris says, “but we did talk about it.”

“So it’s not just a black thing then, huh?”

“Point made.”

We sit at the counter, and I listen to his play-by-play of school today. Nobody walked out because the police were there, waiting for any drama.

“Hailey and Maya asked about you,” he says. “I told them you were sick.”