The Hate U Give(94)

“No. She knows King will go off when he sees DeVante’s gone,” I say. “If Kenya’s not there, Lyric’s not there, who do you think he’s gon’ take it out on?”

He says nothing.

Then, “Shit.”

The car makes an abrupt stop, lurching us forward then sideways as Seven makes a wide U-turn. He hits the gas, and houses blur past us.

“Seven, no!” Kenya says. “We can’t go back!”

“I’m supposed to protect her!”

“No, you’re not!” I say. “She’s supposed to protect you, and she’s trying to do that now.”

The car slows down. It comes to a complete stop a few houses away from Iesha’s.

“If he—” Seven swallows. “If she—he’ll kill her.”

“He won’t,” Kenya says. “She’s lasted this long. Let her do this, Seven.”

A Tupac song on the radio makes up for our silence. He raps about how we gotta start making changes. Khalil was right. ’Pac’s still relevant.

“All right,” Seven says, and he makes another U-turn. “All right.”

The song fades off. “This is the hottest station in the nation, Hot 105,” the DJ says. “If you’re just tuning in, the grand jury has decided not to indict Officer Brian Cruise Jr. in the death of Khalil Harris. Our thoughts and prayers are with the Harris family. Stay safe out there, y’all.”





TWENTY-THREE


It’s a quiet ride to Seven’s grandma’s house.

I told the truth. I did everything I was supposed to do, and it wasn’t fucking good enough. Khalil’s death wasn’t horrible enough to be considered a crime.

But damn, what about his life? He was once a walking, talking human being. He had family. He had friends. He had dreams. None of it fucking mattered. He was just a thug who deserved to die.

Car horns honk around us. Drivers shout the decision to the rest of the neighborhood. Some kids around my age stand on top of a car as they shout, “Justice for Khalil!”

Seven maneuvers around it all and parks in his grandma’s driveway. He’s silent and unmoving at first. Suddenly he punches the steering wheel. “Fuck!”

DeVante shakes his head. “This some bullshit.”

“Fuck!” Seven croaks. He covers his eyes and rocks back and forth. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

I wanna cry too. Just can’t.

“I don’t understand,” Chris says. “He killed Khalil. He should go to prison.”

“They never do,” Kenya mutters.

Seven hastily wipes his face. “Fuck this. Starr, whatever you wanna do, I’m down. You wanna burn some shit up, we’ll burn some shit up. Give the word.”

“Dude, are you crazy?” Chris says.

Seven turns around. “You don’t get it, so shut up. Starr, what you wanna do?”

Anything. Everything. Scream. Cry. Puke. Hit somebody. Burn something. Throw something.

They gave me the hate, and now I wanna fuck everybody, even if I’m not sure how.

“I wanna do something,” I say. “Protest, riot, I don’t care—”

“Riot?” Chris echoes.

“Hell yeah!” DeVante gives me dap. “That’s what I’m talking ’bout!”

“Starr, think about this,” Chris says. “That won’t solve anything.”

“And neither did talking!” I snap. “I did everything right, and it didn’t make a fucking difference. I’ve gotten death threats, cops harassed my family, somebody shot into my house, all kinds of shit. And for what? Justice Khalil won’t get? They don’t give a fuck about us, so fine. I no longer give a fuck.”

“But—”

“Chris, I don’t need you to agree,” I say, my throat tight. “Just try to understand how I feel. Please?”

He closes and opens his mouth a couple of times. No response.

Seven gets out and holds his seat forward. “C’mon, Lyric. Kenya, you staying here or you coming with us?”

“Staying,” Kenya says, her eyes wet from earlier. “In case Momma shows up.”

Seven nods heavily. “Good idea. She’ll need somebody.”

Lyric climbs off Kenya’s lap and runs up the walkway. Kenya hesitates. She looks back at me. “I’m sorry, Starr,” she says. “This ain’t right.”

She follows Lyric to the front door, and their grandma lets them inside.

Seven returns to the driver’s seat. “Chris, you want me to take you home?”

“I’m staying.” Chris nods, as if he’s settling with himself. “Yeah, I’m staying.”

“You sure you up for this?” DeVante asks. “It’s gon’ get wild out here.”

“I’m sure.” He eyes me. “I want everyone to know that decision is bullshit.”

He puts his hand on the seat with his palm facing up. I put my hand on his.

Seven cranks up the car and backs out the driveway. “Somebody check Twitter, find out where everything’s going down.”

“I got you.” DeVante holds up his phone. “Folks headed to Magnolia. That’s where a lot of shit happened last—” He winces and grabs his side.