The Hate U Give(84)

“His name was Emmett Till,” says Maya.

“Whatever. So because I didn’t want to see that disgusting shit, I’m racist?”

“No,” Maya says. “What you said about it was racist. And your Thanksgiving joke was definitely racist.”

“Oh my God, you’re still upset about that?” Hailey says. “That was so long ago!”

“Doesn’t make it okay,” I say. “And you can’t even apologize for it.”

“I’m not apologizing because it was only a joke!” she shouts. “It doesn’t make me a racist. I’m not letting you guys guilt trip me like this. What’s next? You want me to apologize because my ancestors were slave masters or something stupid?”

“Bitch—” I take a deep breath. Way too many people are watching. I cannot go angry black girl on her. “Your joke was hurtful,” I say, as calmly as I can. “If you give a damn about Maya, you’d apologize and at least try to see why it hurt her.”

“It’s not my fault she can’t get over a joke from freaking freshman year! Just like it’s not my fault you can’t get over what happened to Khalil.”

“So I’m supposed to ‘get over’ the fact he was murdered?”

“Yes, get over it! He was probably gonna end up dead anyway.”

“Are you serious?” Maya says.

“He was a drug dealer and a gangbanger,” Hailey says. “Somebody was gonna kill him eventually.”

“Get over it?” I repeat.

She folds her arms and does this little neck movement. “Um, yeah? Isn’t that what I said? The cop probably did everyone a favor. One less drug dealer on the—”

I move Maya out the way and slam my fist against the side of Hailey’s face. It hurts, but damn it feels good.

Hailey holds her cheek, her eyes wide and her mouth open for several seconds.

“Bitch!” she shrieks. She goes straight for my hair like girls usually do, but my ponytail is real. She’s not pulling it out.

I hit at Hailey with my fists, and she slaps and claws me upside my head. I push her off, and she hits the floor. Her skirt goes up, and her pink drawers are out for everybody to see. Laughter erupts around us. Some people have their phones out.

I’m no longer Williamson Starr or even Garden Heights Starr. I’m pissed.

I kick and hit at Hailey, cuss words flying out my mouth. People gather around us, chanting “Fight! Fight!” and one fool even shouts, “World Star!”

Shit. I’m gonna end up on that ratchet site.

Somebody yanks my arm, and I turn, face-to-face with Remy, Hailey’s older brother.

“You crazy bi—”

Before he can finish “bitch,” a blur of dreadlocks charges at us and pushes Remy back.

“Get your hands off my sister!” Seven says.

And then they’re fighting. Seven throws blows like nobody’s business, knocking Remy upside his head with several good hooks and jabs. Daddy used to take both of us to the boxing gym after school.

Two security guards run over. Dr. Davis, the headmaster, marches toward us.

An hour later, I’m in Momma’s car. Seven trails us in his Mustang.

All four of us have been sentenced to three days’ suspension, despite Williamson’s zero-tolerance policy. Hailey and Remy’s dad, a Williamson board member, thought it was outrageous. He said Seven and I should be expelled because we “started it,” and that Seven shouldn’t be allowed to graduate. Dr. Davis told him, “Given the circumstances”—and he looked straight at me—“suspension will suffice.”

He knows I was with Khalil.

“This is exactly what They expect you to do,” Momma says. “Two kids from Garden Heights, acting like you ain’t got any sense!”

They with a capital T. There’s Them and then there’s Us. Sometimes They look like Us and don’t realize They are Us.

“But she was running her mouth, saying Khalil deserved—”

“I don’t care if she said she shot him herself. People are gonna say a whole lot, Starr. It doesn’t mean you hit somebody. You gotta walk away sometimes.”

“You mean walk away and get shot like Khalil did?”

She sighs. “Baby, I understand—”

“No you don’t!” I say. “Nobody understands! I saw the bullets rip through him. I sat there in the street as he took his last breath. I’ve had to listen to people try to make it seem like it’s okay he was murdered. As if he deserved it. But he didn’t deserve to die, and I didn’t do anything to deserve seeing that shit!”

WebMD calls it a stage of grief—anger. But I doubt I’ll ever get to the other stages. This one slices me into millions of pieces. Every time I’m whole and back to normal, something happens to tear me apart, and I’m forced to start all over again.

The rain lets up. The devil stops beating his wife, but I beat the dashboard, punching it over and over, numb to the pain of it. I wanna be numb to the pain of all of this.

“Let it out, Munch.” My mom rubs my back. “Let it out.”

I pull my polo over my mouth and scream until there aren’t any screams left in me. If there are any, I don’t have the energy to get them out. I cry for Khalil, for Natasha, even for Hailey, ’cause damn if I didn’t just lose her for good too.