The Hate U Give(92)

I send Momma a text to let her know where I am, where I’m going, and that I’m okay. I don’t have the guts to call her. And have her go off on me? Nah, no thanks.

Seven is talking on his phone when he pulls into the driveway. By the look on his face, somebody’s gotta be dead.

I throw open the passenger door. “What’s wrong?”

“Kenya, calm down,” he says. “What happened?” Seven listens and looks more horrified by the second. Then he suddenly says, “I’m on my way,” and tosses the phone on the backseat. “It’s DeVante.”

“Whoa, wait.” I’m holding the door, and he’s revving up his engine. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. Chris, take Starr home—”

“And let you go to Garden Heights by yourself?” But shoot, actions are louder. I climb in the passenger seat.

“I’m coming too,” Chris says. I let my seat forward, and he climbs in the back.

Luckily, or unluckily, Seven doesn’t have time to argue. We pull off.

Seven cuts the forty-five-minute drive to Garden Heights to thirty. The entire drive I plead with God to let DeVante be okay.

The sun’s gone by the time we get off the freeway. I fight the urge to tell Seven to turn around. This is Chris’s first time in my neighborhood.

But I have to trust him. He wants me to let him in, and this is the most “in” he could get.

At the Cedar Grove Projects there’s graffiti on the walls and broken-down cars in the courtyard. Under the Black Jesus mural at the clinic, grass grows up through the cracks in the sidewalk. Trash litters every curb we pass. Two junkies argue loudly on a corner. There’s lots of hoopties, cars that should’ve been in the junkyard a long time ago. The houses are old, small.

Whatever Chris thinks doesn’t come out his mouth.

Seven parks in front of Iesha’s house. The paint is peeling, and the windows have sheets in them instead of blinds and curtains. Iesha’s pink BMW and King’s gray one make an L shape on the yard. The grass is completely gone from years of them parking there. Gray cars fitted with rims sit in the driveway and along the street.

Seven turns his ignition off. “Kenya said they’re all in the backyard. I should be good. Y’all stay here.”

Judging by those cars, for one Seven there’s about fifty King Lords. I don’t care if King is pissed at me, I’m not letting my brother go in there alone. “I’m coming with you.”

“No.”

“I said I’m coming.”

“Starr, I don’t have time for—”

I fold my arms. “Try and make me stay.”

He can’t, and he won’t.

Seven sighs. “Fine. Chris, stay here.”

“Hell no! I’m not staying out here by myself.”

We all get out. Music echoes from the backyard along with random shouts and laughter. A pair of gray high-tops dangle by their laces from the utility line in front of the house, telling everybody who can decipher the code that drugs are sold here.

Seven takes the steps two at a time and throws the front door open. “Kenya!”

Compared to the outside, the inside is five-star-hotel nice. They have a damn chandelier in the living room and brand-new leather furniture. A flat-screen TV takes up a whole wall, and tropical fish swim around in a tank on another wall. The definition of “hood rich.”

“Kenya!” Seven repeats, going down the hall.

From the front door I see the back door. A whole lot of King Lords dance with women in the backyard. King’s in the middle in a high-backed chair, his throne, puffing on a cigar. Iesha sits on the arm of the chair, holding a cup and moving her shoulders to the music. Thanks to the dark screen on the door, I can see outside but chances are they can’t see inside.

Kenya peeks into the hall from one of the bedrooms. “In here.”

DeVante lies on the floor in the fetal position at the foot of a king-size bed. The plush white carpet is stained with his blood as it trickles from his nose and mouth. There’s a towel beside him, but he’s not doing anything with it. One of his eyes has a fresh bruise around it. He groans, clutching his side.

Seven looks at Chris. “Help me get him up.”

Chris has paled. “Maybe we should call—”

“Chris, man, c’mon!”

Chris inches over, and the two of them sit DeVante up against the bed. His nose is swollen and bruised, and his upper lip has a nasty cut.

Chris passes him the towel. “Dude, what happened?”

“I walked into King’s fist. Man, what you think happened? They jumped me.”

“I couldn’t stop them,” Kenya says, all stuffed-up sounding like she’s been crying. “I’m so sorry, DeVante.”

“This shit ain’t your fault, Kenya,” DeVante says. “Are you a’ight?”

She sniffs and wipes her nose on her arm. “I’m okay. He only pushed me.”

Seven’s eyes flash. “Who pushed you?”

“She tried to stop them from beating my ass,” DeVante says. “King got mad and pushed her out the—”

Seven marches to the door. I catch his arm and dig my feet into the carpet to keep him from moving, but he ends up pulling me with him. Kenya grabs his other arm. In this moment, he’s our brother, not just mine or hers.