The Hate U Give(61)

I look at TV. A singing competition, a reality show, One-Fifteen, a celebrity dance—wait.

“Back up, back up,” I tell Maya.

She flicks through the channels, and when he appears again, I say, “Right there!”

I’ve pictured his face so much. Actually seeing it again is different. My memory is pretty spot-on—a thin, jagged scar above his lip, bursts of freckles that cover his face and neck.

My stomach churns and my skin crawls, and I wanna get away from One-Fifteen. My instinct doesn’t care that it’s a photograph being shown on TV. A silver cross pendant hangs from his neck, like he’s saying Jesus endorses what he did. We must believe in a different Jesus.

What looks like an older version of him appears on the screen, but this man doesn’t have the scar on his lip, and there are more wrinkles on his neck than freckles. He has white hair, although there’s still some streaks of brown in it.

“My son was afraid for his life,” he says. “He only wanted to get home to his wife and kids.”

Pictures flash on the screen. One-Fifteen smiles with his arms draped around a blurred-out woman. He’s on a fishing trip with two small, blurred-out children. They show him with a smiley golden retriever, with his pastor and some fellow deacons who are all blurred out, and then in his police uniform.

“Officer Brian Cruise Jr. has been on the force for sixteen years,” the voice-over says, and more pics of him as a cop are shown. He’s been a cop for as long as Khalil was alive, and I wonder if in some sick twist of fate Khalil was only born for this man to kill.

“A majority of those years have been spent serving in Garden Heights,” the voice-over continues, “a neighborhood notorious for gangs and drug dealers.”

I tense as footage of my neighborhood, my home, is shown. It’s like they picked the worst parts—the drug addicts roaming the streets, the broken-down Cedar Grove projects, gangbangers flashing signs, bodies on the sidewalks with white sheets over them. What about Mrs. Rooks and her cakes? Or Mr. Lewis and his haircuts? Mr. Reuben? The clinic? My family?

Me?

I feel Hailey’s and Maya’s eyes on me. I can’t look at them.

“My son loved working in the neighborhood,” One-Fifteen’s father claims. “He always wanted to make a difference in the lives there.”

Funny. Slave masters thought they were making a difference in black people’s lives too. Saving them from their “wild African ways.” Same shit, different century. I wish people like them would stop thinking that people like me need saving.

One-Fifteen Sr. talks about his son’s life before the shooting. How he was a good kid who never got into trouble, always wanted to help others. A lot like Khalil. But then he talks about the stuff One-Fifteen did that Khalil will never get to do, like go to college, get married, have a family.

The interviewer asks about that night.

“Apparently, Brian pulled the kid over ’cause he had a broken taillight and was speeding.”

Khalil wasn’t speeding.

“He told me, ‘Pop, soon as I pulled him over, I had a bad feeling,’” says One-Fifteen Sr.

“Why is that?” the interviewer asks.

“He said the kid and his friend immediately started cursing him out—”

We never cursed.

“And they kept glancing at each other, like they were up to something. Brian says that’s when he got scared, ’cause they could’ve taken him down if they teamed up.”

I couldn’t have taken anyone down. I was too afraid. He makes us sound like we’re superhumans. We’re kids.

“No matter how afraid he is, my son’s still gonna do his job,” he says. “And that’s all he set out to do that night.”

“There have been reports that Khalil Harris was unarmed when the incident took place,” the interviewer says. “Has your son told you why he made the decision to shoot?”

“Brian says he had his back to the kid, and he heard the kid say, ‘I’m gon’ show your ass today.’”

No, no, no. Khalil asked if I was okay.

“Brian turned around and saw something in the car door. He thought it was a gun—”

It was a hairbrush.

His lips quiver. My body shakes. He covers his mouth to hold back a sob. I cover mine to keep from puking.

“Brian’s a good boy,” he says, in tears. “He only wanted to get home to his family, and people are making him out to be a monster.”

That’s all Khalil and I wanted, and you’re making us out to be monsters.

I can’t breathe, like I’m drowning in the tears I refuse to shed. I won’t give One-Fifteen or his father the satisfaction of crying. Tonight, they shot me too, more than once, and killed a part of me. Unfortunately for them, it’s the part that felt any hesitation about speaking out.

“How has your son’s life changed since this happened?” the interviewer asks.

“All of our lives have been hell, honestly,” his father claims. “Brian’s a people person, but now he’s afraid to go out in public, even for something as simple as getting a gallon of milk. There have been threats on his life, our family’s lives. His wife had to quit her job. He’s even been attacked by fellow officers.”

“Physically or verbally?” the interviewer asks.