The Hate U Give(66)

“I thought Nana hated Daddy?” I think Nana still hates Daddy.

Sadness creeps into Momma’s eyes, but she gives me a small smile. “When I was growing up, your grandmother would do and say hurtful things when she was drunk, and apologize the next morning. At an early age I learned that people make mistakes, and you have to decide if their mistakes are bigger than your love for them.”

She takes a deep breath. “Seven’s not a mistake, I love him to death, but Maverick made a mistake in his actions. However, all of his good and the love we share outweighs that one mistake.”

“Even with crazy Iesha in our lives?” I ask.

Momma chuckles. “Even with crazy, messy, annoying Iesha. It’s a little different, yeah, but if the good outweighs the bad, keep Hailey in your life, baby.”

That might be the problem. A lot of the good stuff is from the past. The Jonas Brothers, High School Musical, our shared grief. Our friendship is based on memories. What do we have now?

“What if the good doesn’t outweigh the bad?” I ask.

“Then let her go,” Momma says. “And if you keep her in your life and she keeps doing the bad, let her go. Because I promise you, had your daddy pulled some mess like that again, I’d be married to Idris Elba and saying, ‘Maverick who?’”

I bust out laughing.

“Now eat,” she says, and hands me her fork. “Before I have no choice but to eat these pancakes for you.”

I’m so used to seeing smoke in Garden Heights, it’s weird when we go back and there isn’t any. It’s dreary because of a late-night storm, but we can ride with the windows down. Even though the riots stopped, we pass as many tanks as we pass lowriders.

But at home smoke greets us at the front door.

“Maverick!” Momma hollers, and we hurry toward the kitchen.

Daddy pours water on a skillet at the sink, and the skillet responds with a loud sizzle and a white cloud. Whatever he burned, he burned it bad.

“Hallelujah!” Seven throws his hands up at the table. “Somebody who can actually cook.”

“Shut up,” Daddy says.

Momma takes the skillet and examines the unidentifiable remains. “What was this? Eggs?”

“Glad to see you know how to come home,” he says. He walks right by me without a glance or a good morning. He’s still pissed about Chris?

Momma gets a fork and stabs at the charred food stuck to the skillet. “You want some breakfast, Seven baby?”

He watches her and goes, “Um, nah. By the way, the skillet didn’t do anything, Ma.”

“You’re right,” she says, but she keeps stabbing. “Seriously, I can fix you something. Eggs. Bacon.” She looks toward the hall and shouts, “The pork kind! Pig! Swine! All’a that!”

So much for the good outweighing the bad. Seven and I look at each other. We hate when they fight because we always get stuck in the middle of their wars. Our appetites are the greatest casualty. If Momma’s mad and not cooking, we have to eat Daddy’s struggle meals, like spaghetti with ketchup and hot dogs in it.

“I’ll grab something at school.” Seven kisses her cheek. “Thanks though.” He gives me a fist bump on his way out, the Seven way of wishing me good luck.

Daddy returns wearing a backwards cap. He grabs his keys and a banana.

“We have to be at the DA’s office at nine thirty,” Momma says. “Are you coming?”

“Oh, Carlos can’t do it? Since he the one y’all let in on secrets and stuff.”

“You know what, Maverick—”

“I’ll be there,” he says, and leaves.

Momma stabs the skillet some more.

The DA personally escorts us to a conference room. Her name is Karen Monroe, and she’s a middle-aged white lady who claims she understands what I’m going through.

Ms. Ofrah is already in the conference room along with some people who work at the DA’s office. Ms. Monroe gives a long speech about how much she wants justice for Khalil and apologizes that it’s taken this long for us to meet.

“Twelve days, to be exact,” Daddy points out. “Too long, if you ask me.”

Ms. Monroe looks a bit uncomfortable at that.

She explains the grand jury proceedings. Then she asks about that night. I pretty much tell her what I told the cops, except she doesn’t ask any stupid questions about Khalil. But when I get to the part when I describe the number of shots, how they hit Khalil in his back, the look on his face— My stomach bubbles, bile pools in my mouth, and I gag. Momma jumps up and grabs a garbage bin. She puts it in front of me quick enough to catch the vomit that spews from my mouth.

And I cry and puke. Cry and puke. It’s all I can do.

The DA gets me a soda and says, “That’ll be all today, sweetie. Thank you.”

Daddy helps me to Momma’s car, and people in the halls gawk. I bet they know I’m the witness from my teary, snotty face, and are probably giving me a new name—Poor Thing. As in, “Oh, that poor thing.” That makes it worse.

I get in the car away from their pity and rest my head against the window, feeling like shit.

Momma parks in front of the store, and Daddy pulls up behind us. He gets out his truck and comes to Momma’s side of the car. She rolls her window down.