The Hate U Give(70)

We leave in the limo. I drum my fingers on my knee as I watch the neighborhood pass by. I’ve talked to detectives and the DA, and next week I’ll talk to the grand jury. I’ve talked about that night so much I can repeat it back in my sleep. But the whole world will see this.

My phone vibrates in my blazer pocket. A couple of texts from Chris.

My mom wants to know what color your prom dress is.

Something about the tailor needs to know ASAP.

Oh, shit. The Junior-Senior Prom is Saturday. I haven’t bought a dress. With all this Khalil stuff, I’m not sure I wanna go. Momma said I need to get my mind off things. I said no. She gave me “the look.”

So I’m going to the damn prom. This dictatorship she’s on? Not cool. I text Chris back.

Uh . . . light blue?

He responds:

You don’t have a dress yet?

I’ve got plenty of time, I write back. Just been busy.

It’s true. Ms. Ofrah prepared me for this interview every day after school. Some days we finished early, and I helped out around Just Us for Justice. Answered phones, passed out flyers, anything they needed me to do. Sometimes I listened in on their staff meetings as they discussed police reform ideas and the importance of telling the community to protest not riot.

I asked Dr. Davis if Just Us could have a roundtable discussion at Williamson like they do at Garden High. He said he didn’t see the need.

Chris replies to my prom text:

Okay, if you say so

Btw Vante says sup.

About to kill him on Madden

He needs to stop calling me Bieber tho

After all that “white boy trying to be black” shit DeVante said about Chris, lately he’s at Chris’s house more than I am. Chris invited him over to play Madden, and all of a sudden they’re “bros.” According to DeVante, Chris’s massive video game collection makes up for his whiteness.

I told DeVante he’s a video game thot. He told me to shut up. We’re cool like that though.

We arrive at a fancy hotel downtown. A white guy in a hoodie waits under the awning leading up to the door. He has a clipboard under his arm and a Starbucks cup in his hand.

Still, he somehow manages to open the limo door and shake our hands when we get out. “John, the producer. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He shakes my hand a second time. “And let me guess, you’re Starr.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you so much for having the bravery to do this.”

There’s that word again. Bravery. Brave peoples’ legs don’t shake. Brave people don’t feel like puking. Brave people sure don’t have to remind themselves how to breathe if they think about that night too hard. If bravery is a medical condition, everybody’s misdiagnosed me.

John leads us through all of these twists and turns, and I’m so glad I’m wearing flats. He can’t stop talking about how important the interview is and how much they wanna get the truth out there. He’s not exactly adding to my “bravery.”

He takes us to the hotel courtyard, where some camera operators and other show people are setting up. In the middle of the chaos, the interviewer, Diane Carey, is getting her makeup done.

It’s weird seeing her in the flesh and not as a bunch of pixels on TV. When I was younger, every single time I spent the night at Nana’s house she made me sleep in one of her long-ass nightgowns, say my bedtime prayers for at least five minutes, and watch Diane Carey’s news report so I could be “knowledgeable of the world.”

“Hi!” Mrs. Carey’s face lights up when she sees us. She comes over, and I gotta give the makeup lady props ’cause she follows her and keeps working like a pro. Mrs. Carey shakes our hands. “Diane. So nice to meet you all. And you must be Starr,” she says to me. “Don’t be nervous. This will simply be a conversation between the two of us.”

The whole time she talks, some guy snaps photos of us. Yeah, this will be a normal conversation.

“Starr, we were thinking we could get shots of you and Diane walking and talking around the courtyard,” John says. “Then we’ll go up to the suite and do the conversations between you and Diane; you, Diane, and Ms. Ofrah; and finally you and your parents. After that, we’ll be all set.”

One of the production people mics me up as John gives me a rundown of this walk and talk thing. “It’s only a transitional shot,” he says. “Simple stuff.”

Simple my ass. The first time, I practically power-walk. The second time, I walk like I’m in a funeral processional and can’t answer Mrs. Carey’s questions. I never realized walking and talking required so much coordination.

Once we get that right, we take an elevator to the top floor. John leads us to a huge suite—seriously, it looks like a penthouse—overlooking downtown. About a dozen people are setting up cameras and lighting. Ms. Ofrah’s there in one of her Khalil shirts and a skirt. John says they’re ready for me.

I sit in the loveseat across from Mrs. Carey. I’ve never been able to cross my legs, for whatever reason, so that’s out the question. They check my mic, and Mrs. Carey tells me to relax. Soon, the cameras are rolling.

“Millions of people around the world have heard the name Khalil Harris,” she says, “and they’ve developed their own ideas of who he was. Who was he to you?”