The Hate U Give(8)

“Pig in my house,” Daddy grumbles and sits next to me. Seven smirks across from him. Seven and Daddy look like one of those age-progression pictures they show when somebody’s been missing a long time. Throw my little brother, Sekani, in there and you have the same person at eight, seventeen, and thirty-six. They’re dark brown, slender, and have thick eyebrows and long eyelashes that almost look feminine. Seven’s dreads are long enough to give both bald-headed Daddy and short-haired Sekani each a head full of hair.

As for me, it’s as if God mixed my parents’ skin tones in a paint bucket to get my medium-brown complexion. I did inherit Daddy’s eyelashes—and I’m cursed with his eyebrows too. Otherwise I’m mostly my mom, with big brown eyes and a little too much forehead.

Momma passes behind Seven with the bacon and squeezes his shoulder. “Thank you for staying with your brother last night so we could—” Her voice catches, but the reminder of what happened hangs in the air. She clears her throat. “We appreciate it.”

“No problem. I needed to get out the house.”

“King spent the night?” Daddy asks.

“More like moved in. Iesha talking about they can be a family—”

“Ay,” Daddy says. “That’s your momma, boy. Don’t be calling her by her name like you grown.”

“Somebody in that house needs to be grown,” Momma says. She takes a skillet out and hollers toward the hall, “Sekani, I’m not telling you again. If you wanna go to Carlos’s for the weekend, you better get up! You’re not gonna have me late for work.” I guess she’s gotta work a day shift to make up for last night.

“Pops, you know what’s gonna happen,” Seven says. “He’ll beat her, she’ll put him out. Then he’ll come back, saying he changed. Only difference is this time, I’m not letting him put his hands on me.”

“You can always move in with us,” says Daddy.

“I know, but I can’t leave Kenya and Lyric. That fool’s crazy enough to hit them too. He don’t care that they’re his daughters.”

“A’ight,” Daddy says. “Don’t say anything to him. If he puts his hands on you, let me handle that.”

Seven nods then looks at me. He opens his mouth and keeps it open a while before saying, “I’m sorry about last night, Starr.”

Somebody finally acknowledges the cloud hanging over the kitchen, which for some reason is like acknowledging me.

“Thanks,” I say, even though it’s weird saying that. I don’t deserve the sympathy. Khalil’s family does.

There’s just the sound of bacon crackling and popping in the skillet. It’s like a “Fragile” sticker’s on my forehead, and instead of taking a chance and saying something that might break me, they’d rather say nothing at all.

But the silence is the worst.

“I borrowed your hoodie, Seven,” I mumble. It’s random, but it’s better than nothing. “The blue one. Momma had to throw it away. Khalil’s blood . . .” I swallow. “His blood got on it.”

“Oh . . .”

That’s all anybody says for a minute.

Momma turns around to the skillet. “Don’t make any sense. That baby—” she says thickly. “He was just a baby.”

Daddy shakes his head. “That boy never hurt anybody. He didn’t deserve that shit.”

“Why did they shoot him?” Seven asks. “Was he a threat or something?”

“No,” I say quietly.

I stare at the table. I can feel all of them watching me again.

“He didn’t do anything,” I say. “We didn’t do anything. Khalil didn’t even have a gun.”

Daddy releases a slow breath. “Folks around here gon’ lose their minds when they find that out.”

“People from the neighborhood are already talking about it on Twitter,” Seven says. “I saw it last night.”

“Did they mention your sister?” Momma asks.

“No. Just RIP Khalil messages, fuck the police, stuff like that. I don’t think they know details.”

“What’s gonna happen to me when the details do come out?” I ask.

“What do you mean, baby?” my mom asks.

“Besides the cop, I’m the only person who was there. And you’ve seen stuff like this. It ends up on national news. People get death threats, cops target them, all kinds of stuff.”

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” Daddy says. “None of us will.” He looks at Momma and Seven. “We’re not telling anybody that Starr was there.”

“Should Sekani know?” Seven asks.

“No,” Momma says. “It’s best if he didn’t. We’re just gonna be quiet for now.”

I’ve seen it happen over and over again: a black person gets killed just for being black, and all hell breaks loose. I’ve tweeted RIP hashtags, reblogged pictures on Tumblr, and signed every petition out there. I always said that if I saw it happen to somebody, I would have the loudest voice, making sure the world knew what went down.

Now I am that person, and I’m too afraid to speak.

I wanna stay home and watch The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, my favorite show ever, hands down. I think I know every episode word for word. Yeah it’s hilarious, but it’s also like seeing parts of my life on screen. I even relate to the theme song. A couple of gang members who were up to no good made trouble in my neighborhood and killed Natasha. My parents got scared, and although they didn’t send me to my aunt and uncle in a rich neighborhood, they sent me to a bougie private school.