The Hate U Give(90)

“Yes! Stop asking me that. C’mon, let’s go back out there and stop them from talking about my brother, ’cause you know they’re talking.”

She heads for the door, but I say, “Our brother.”

Kenya turns around. “What?”

“Our brother. He’s mine too.”

I didn’t say it in a mean way or even with an attitude, I swear. She doesn’t respond. Not even an “okay.” Not that I expected her to suddenly go, “Of course, he’s our brother, I’m extremely sorry for acting like he wasn’t yours too.” I hoped for something though.

Kenya goes outside.

Seven and Iesha unknowingly hit the pause button on the party. The music’s off, and Seven’s friends stand around, talking in hushed tones.

Chris and Maya walk up to me. “Is Seven okay?” Maya asks.

“Who turned the music off?” I ask. Chris shrugs.

I pick up Daddy’s iPod from the patio table, our DJ for the afternoon that’s hooked up to the sound system. Scrolling through the playlist, I find this Kendrick Lamar song Seven played for me one day, right after Khalil died. Kendrick raps about how everything will be all right. Seven said it’s for both of us.

I hit play and hope he hears it. It’s for Kenya too.

Midway through the song, Seven and Layla come back out. His eyes are puffy and pink but dry. He smiles at me a little and gives a quick nod. I return it.

Momma leads Daddy outside. They’re both wearing cone-shaped birthday hats, and Daddy carries a huge sheet cake with candles lit on top of it.

“Happy birthday to ya!” they sing, and Momma does this not-as-embarrassing shoulder bounce. “Happy birthday to ya! Happy birthday!”

Seven smiles from ear to ear. I turn the music down.

Daddy sets the cake on the patio table, and everybody crowds around it and Seven. Our family, Kenya, DeVante, and Layla—basically, all the black people—sing the Stevie Wonder version of “Happy Birthday.” Maya seems to know it. A lot of Seven’s friends look lost. Chris does too. These cultural differences are crazy sometimes.

Nana takes the song way too far and hits notes that don’t need to be hit. Momma tells her, “The candles are about to go out, Momma!”

She’s so damn dramatic.

Seven leans down to blow the candles out, but Daddy says, “Wait! Man, you know you don’t blow no candles out till I say something.”

“Aww, Pops!”

“He can’t tell you what to do, Seven,” Sekani chirps. “You’re grown now!”

Daddy shoots Sekani an up-and-down look. “Boy—” He turns to Seven. “I’m proud of you, man. Like I told you, I never got a diploma. A lot of young brothers don’t get theirs. And where we come from, a lot of them don’t make it to eighteen. Some do make it, but they’re messed up by the time they get there. Not you though. You’re going places, no doubt. I always knew that.

“See, I believe in giving my kids names that mean something. Sekani, that means merriment and joy.”

I snort. Sekani side-eyes me.

“I named your sister Starr because she was my light in the darkness. Seven, that’s a holy number. The number of perfection. I ain’t saying you’re perfect, nobody is, but you’re the perfect gift God gave me. I love you, man. Happy birthday and congratulations.”

Daddy affectionately clasps Seven’s neck. Seven grins wider. “Love you too, Pops.”

The cake is one of Mrs. Rooks’s red velvets. Everybody goes on and on about how good it is. Uncle Carlos pigs out on at least three slices. There’s more dancing, laughing. All in all, it’s a good day.

Good days don’t last forever though.





PART 5


THIRTEEN WEEKS AFTER IT—THE DECISION





TWENTY-TWO


In our new neighborhood I can simply tell my parents “I’m going for a walk” and leave.

We just got off the phone with Ms. Ofrah, who said the grand jury will announce their decision in a few hours. She claims only the grand jurors know the decision, but I’ve got a sinking feeling I know it. It’s always the decision.

I stick my hands in the pockets of my sleeveless hoodie. Some kids race past on bikes and scooters. Nearly knock me over. Doubt they’re worried about the grand jury’s decision. They aren’t hurrying inside like the kids back home are probably doing.

Home.

We started moving into our new house this past weekend. Five days later, this place doesn’t feel like home yet. It could be all the unpacked boxes or the street names I don’t know. And it’s almost too quiet. No Fo’ty Ounce and his creaky cart or Mrs. Pearl hollering a greeting from across the street.

I need normal.

I text Chris. Less than ten minutes later, he picks me up in his dad’s Benz.

The Bryants live in the only house on their street that has a separate house attached to it for a butler. Mr. Bryant owns eight cars, mostly antiques, and a garage to store them all.

Chris parks in one of the two empty spots.

“Your parents gone?” I ask.

“Yep. Date night at the country club.”

Most of Chris’s house looks too fancy to live in. Statues, oil paintings, chandeliers. A museum more than a home. Chris’s suite on the third floor is more normal looking. There’s a leather couch in his room, right in front of the flat-screen TV and video game systems. His floor is painted to look like a half basketball court, and he can play on an actual hoop on his wall.