The Hate U Give(93)

“Seven, no,” I say. He tries to pull away, but my grip and Kenya’s grip are steel. “You go out there and you’re dead.”

His jaw is hard, his shoulders are tense. His narrowed eyes are set on the doorway.

“Let. Me. Go,” he says.

“Seven, I’m okay. I promise,” Kenya says. “But Starr’s right. We gotta get Vante outta here before they kill him. They just waiting for the sun to set.”

“He put his hands on you,” Seven snarls. “I said I wouldn’t let that happen again.”

“We know,” I say. “But please don’t go back there.”

I hate stopping him because I promise, I want somebody to whoop King’s ass. It can’t be Seven. No way in hell. I can’t lose him too. I’d never be normal again.

He snatches away from us, and the sting that would usually come with that gesture is missing. I understand his frustration like it’s mine.

The back door squeaks and slams closed.

Shit.

We freeze. Feet thump against the floor, drawing nearer. Iesha appears in the doorway.

Nobody speaks.

She stares at us, sipping from a red plastic cup. Her lip is curled up slightly, and she takes her sweet time to speak, like she’s getting a kick out of our fear.

Chomping on some ice, she looks at Chris and says, “Who this li’l white boy y’all done brought up in my house?”

Iesha smirks and eyes me. “I bet he yours, ain’t he? That’s what happens when you go to them white folks’ schools.” She leans against the doorframe. Her gold bracelets jingle as she lifts her cup to her lips again. “I would’ve paid to see Maverick’s face the day you brought this one home. Shit, I’m surprised Seven got a black girl.”

At his name Seven snaps out his trance. “Can you help us?”

“Help you?” she echoes with a laugh. “What? With DeVante? What I look like helping him?”

“Momma—”

“Now I’m Momma?” she says. “What happened to that ‘Iesha’ shit from the other week? Huh, Seven? See, baby, you don’t know how the game work. Let Momma explain something to you, okay? When DeVante stole from King, he earned an ass whooping. He got one. Anybody who helps him is asking for it too, and they better be able to handle it.” She looks at me. “That goes for dry snitches too.”

All it takes is her hollering for King . . .

Her eyes flick toward the back door. The music and laughter rise in the air. “I tell y’all what,” she says, and turns to us. “Y’all better get DeVante’s sorry ass out my bedroom. Bleeding on my carpet and shit. And got the nerve to use one of my damn towels? Matter of fact, get him and that snitch out my house.”

Seven says, “What?”

“You deaf too?” she says. “I said get them out my house. And take your sisters.”

“What I gotta take them for?” Seven says.

“Because I said so! Take them to your grandma’s or something, I don’t care. Get them out my face. I’m trying to get my party on, shit.” When none of us moves, she says, “Go!”

“I’ll get Lyric,” Kenya says, and leaves.

Chris and Seven each take one of DeVante’s hands and pull him up. DeVante winces and cusses the whole way. Once on his feet, he bends over, holding his side, but slowly straightens up and takes steadying breaths. He nods. “I’m good. Just sore.”

“Hurry up,” Iesha says. “Damn. I’m tired of looking at y’all.”

Seven’s glare says what he doesn’t.

DeVante insists he can walk, but Seven and Chris lend their shoulders for support anyway. Kenya’s already at the front door with Lyric on her hip. I hold the door open for all of them and look toward the backyard.

Shit. King’s rising off his throne.

Iesha goes out the back door, and she’s in his face before he can fully stand up. She grabs his shoulders and guides him back down, whispering in his ear. He smiles widely and leans back into his chair. She turns around so her back is to him, the view he really wants, and starts dancing. He smacks her ass. She looks my way.

I doubt she can see me, but I don’t think I’m one of the people she’s trying to see anyway. They’ve gone to the car.

Suddenly I get it.

“Starr, c’mon,” Seven calls.

I jump off the porch. Seven holds his seat forward for me and Chris to climb in the back with his sisters. Once we’re in, he drives off.

“We gotta get you to the hospital, Vante,” he says.

DeVante presses the towel against his nose and looks at the blood staining it. “I’ll be a’ight,” he says, like that quick observation tells him what a doctor can’t. “We lucky Iesha helped us, man. For real.”

Seven snorts. “She wasn’t helping us. Somebody could be bleeding to death, and she would be more worried about her carpet and getting her party on.”

My brother is smart. So smart that he’s dumb. He’s been hurt by his momma so much that when she does something right he’s blind to it. “Seven, she did help us,” I say. “Think about it. Why did she tell you to take your sisters too?”

“’Cause she didn’t wanna be bothered. As always.”