The Hate U Give(78)

“We’ll see who’s joking later. Ready for a butt whooping?”

“You mean am I ready to give one? Yep!”

Momma peeks around the doorway. “Munch, you want some ice cream?”

I gape at her. She knows I don’t eat dairy products during games. Dairy gives me gas, and gas is bad luck.

She grins. “How about a sundae? Sprinkles, strawberry syrup, whipped cream.”

I cover my ears. “La-la-la-la-la, go away, LeBron hater. La-la-la-la-la.”

Like I said, basketball season equals war, and my family has the dirtiest tactics.

Momma returns with a big bowl, shoveling ice cream into her mouth. She sits on the sectional and lowers her bowl into my face. “You sure you don’t want some, Munch? It’s your favorite too. Cake batter. So good!”

Be strong, I tell myself, but damn, that ice cream looks good. Strawberry syrup glistens on it and a big dollop of whipped cream sits pretty on top. I close my eyes. “I want a championship more.”

“Well, you aren’t getting that, so you may as well enjoy some ice cream.”

“Ha!” Seven goes.

“What’s all this smack up in here?” Daddy asks.

He takes the recliner on the sectional, his lucky spot. Sekani scurries in and sits behind me, propping his bare feet on my shoulders. I don’t mind. They haven’t matured and funkified yet.

“I was offering Munch some of my sundae,” Momma says. “You want some, baby?”

“Heck, nah. You know I don’t eat dairy during games.”

See? It’s serious.

“You and Seven may as well get ready for this butt whooping Cleveland ’bout to give y’all,” says Daddy. “I mean, it ain’t gon’ be a Kobe butt whooping, but it’s gon’ be a good one.”

“Amen!” I say. Except the Kobe part.

“Boy, bye,” Momma tells him. “You’re always picking sorry teams. First the Lakers—”

“Ay, a three-peat ain’t a sorry team, baby. And I don’t always pick sorry teams.” He grins. “I picked your team, didn’t I?”

Momma rolls her eyes, but she’s grinning too, and I hate to admit it but they’re kinda cute right now. “Yeah,” she says, “that’s the only time you picked right.”

“Uh-huh,” Daddy says. “See, your momma played for Saint Mary’s basketball team, and they had a game against Garden High, my school.”

“And we whooped their butts too,” Momma says, licking ice cream off her spoon. “Them li’l girls ain’t have anything on us. I’m just saying.”

“Anyway, I’m there to watch some of the homeboys play after the girls’ game,” Daddy says, looking at Momma. This is so adorable, I can’t stand it. “I got there early and saw the finest girl ever, and she was playing her ass off on the court.”

“Tell them what you did,” says Momma, although we know.

“Ay, I was trying to—”

“Nah, nah, tell them what you did,” she says.

“I tried to get your attention.”

“Uh-uh!” Momma says, getting up. She hands me her bowl and stands in front of the TV. “You were like this on the sideline,” she says, and she kinda leans to the side, holding her crotch and licking her lips. We crack up. I can so see Daddy doing that too.

“During the middle of a game!” she says. “Standing there looking like a pervert, just watching me.”

“But you noticed me,” Daddy says. “Right?”

“’Cause you looked like a fool! Then, during halftime, I’m on the bench, and he’s behind me, talking about”—she deepens her voice—“‘Ay! Ay, shorty. What’s your name? You know you looking good out there. Can I get your number?’”

“Dang, Pops, you didn’t have any game,” Seven says.

“I had game!” Daddy argues.

“Did you get her number that night though?” Seven says.

“I mean, I was working on it—”

“Did you get her number?” I repeat Seven’s question.

“Nah,” he admits, and we’re hollering laughing. “Man, whatever. Hate all y’all want. I eventually did something right.”

“Yeah,” Momma admits, running her fingers through my hair. “You did.”

By the second quarter of Cleveland versus Chicago, we’re yelling and shouting at the TV. When LeBron steals the ball, I jump up, and bam! He dunks it.

“In yo’ face!” I yell at Momma and Seven. “In yo’ face!”

Daddy gives me a high five and claps. “That’s what I’m talking ’bout!”

Momma and Seven roll their eyes.

I sit in my “game time” position—knees pulled in, right arm draped over my head and holding my left ear, and my left thumb in my mouth. Don’t hate. It works. Cleveland’s offense and defense is on point. “Let’s go, Cavs!”

Glass shatters. Then, pop, pop, pop, pop. Gunshots.

“Get down!” Daddy yells.

I’m already down. Sekani comes down next to me, then Momma on top of us, and she wraps her arms around us. Daddy’s feet thud toward the front of the house and the hinges on the front door squeak as it swings open. Tires screech off.