The Hate U Give(72)

“If Officer Cruise were sitting here,” Mrs. Carey says, “what would you say to him?”

I blink several times. My mouth waters, but I swallow. No way I’m gonna let myself cry or throw up from thinking about that man.

If he were sitting here, I don’t have enough Black Jesus in me to tell him I forgive him. Instead I’d probably punch him. Straight up.

But Ms. Ofrah says this interview is the way I fight. When you fight, you put yourself out there, not caring who you hurt or if you’ll get hurt.

So I throw one more blow, right at One-Fifteen.

“I’d ask him if he wished he shot me too.”





SEVENTEEN


My interview aired yesterday on Diane Carey’s Friday Night News Special. This morning, John the producer called and said it’s one of the most-watched interviews in the network’s history.

A millionaire, who wishes to remain anonymous, offered to pay my college tuition. John said the offer was made right after the interview aired. I think it’s Oprah, but that’s just me because I’ve always imagined she’s my fairy godmother and one day she’ll come to my house saying, “You get a car!”

The network’s already got a bunch of emails in support of me. I haven’t seen any of them, but I received the best message in a text from Kenya.

Bout time you spoke out.

Don’t let this fame go to your head tho.

The interview trended online. When I looked this morning, people were still talking about it. Black Twitter and Tumblr have my back. Some assholes want me dead.

King’s not too happy either. Kenya told me he’s heated that I dry snitched.

The Saturday news programs discussed the interview too, dissecting my words like I’m the president or something. This one network is outraged by my “disregard for cops.” I’m not sure how they got that out the interview. It’s not like I was on some NWA “Fuck the Police” type shit. I simply said I’d ask the man if he wished he shot me too.

I don’t care. I’m not apologizing for how I feel. People can say what they want.

But it’s Saturday, and I’m sitting in a Rolls-Royce on my way to prom with a boyfriend who isn’t saying much of anything to me. Chris is more interested in his phone.

“You look nice,” I tell him. Which he does. His black tux with a light-blue vest and tie match the strapless tea-length gown I have on. His black leather Chuck Taylors are also a good match to my silver sequined ones. The dictator, a.k.a. my mom, bought my outfit. She has pretty good taste.

Chris says, “Thanks. You too,” but it’s so robotic, like he’s saying what he’s supposed to and not what he wants to. And how does he know what I look like? He’s barely looked at me since he picked me up from Uncle Carlos’s house.

I have no clue what’s wrong with him. Things have been fine between us, as far as I know. Now, out of nowhere, he’s all moody and silent. I would ask the driver to take me back to Uncle Carlos’s, but I look too cute to go home.

The driveway at the country club is lit with blue lights, and golden balloon arches hang over it. We’re in the only Rolls-Royce among a sea of limos, so of course people look when we pull up to the entrance.

The driver opens the door for us. Mr. Silent climbs out first and actually helps me out. Our classmates whoop and cheer and whistle. Chris wraps his arm around my waist, and we smile for pictures like everything’s all good. Chris takes my hand and wordlessly escorts me inside.

Loud music greets us. Chandeliers and flashing party lights light up the ballroom. Some committee decided the theme should be Midnight in Paris, so there’s a huge Eiffel Tower made out of Christmas lights. Looks like just about every junior and senior at Williamson is on the dance floor.

Let me say it. A Garden Heights party and a Williamson party are two very different things. At Big D’s party, people Nae-Naed, Hit the Quan, twerked and stuff. At prom, I honestly don’t know what the hell some of them are doing. Lots of jumping and fist pumping and attempts at twerking. It’s not bad. Just different. Way different.

It’s weird though—I’m not as hesitant to dance here as I was at Big D’s party. Like I said, at Williamson I’m cool by default because I’m black. I can go out there and do a silly dance move I made up, and everyone will think it’s the new thing. White people assume all black people are experts on trends and shit. There’s no way in hell I’d try that at a Garden Heights party though. You make a fool of yourself one time, and that’s it. Everybody in the neighborhood will know and nobody will forget.

In Garden Heights, I learn how to be dope by watching. At Williamson, I put my learned dopeness on display. I’m not even that dope, but these white kids think I am and that goes a long way in high school politics.

I start to ask Chris if he wants to dance, but he lets my hand go and heads toward some of his boys.

Why did I come to prom again?

“Starr!” somebody calls. I look around a couple of times and finally spot Maya waving at me from a table.

“Girl-lee!” she says when I get there. “You look good! I know Chris went crazy when he saw you.”

No. He nearly drove me crazy. “Thanks,” I say, and give her a once-over. She’s wearing a pink knee-length strapless dress. A pair of sparkly silver stilettos gives her about five more inches of height. I applaud her for making it this far in them. I hate heels. “But if anybody’s looking good tonight, it’s you. You clean up nice, Shorty.”