The Hate U Give(96)

Glass shatters at the pawnshop on the next block. Then at the beauty supply store near it.

Flames pour out both, and people cheer. A new battle cry starts up:

The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire! We don’t need no water, let that mothafucka burn!

I’m just as pissed as anybody, but this . . . this isn’t it. Not for me.

DeVante’s right there with them, yelling out the new chant. I backhand his arm.

“What?” he says.

Chris nudges my side. “Guys . . .”

A few blocks away, a line of cops in riot gear march down the street, followed closely by two tanks with bright lights.

“This is not a peaceful assembly,” an officer on a loudspeaker says. “Disperse now, or you will be subject to arrest.”

The original battle cry starts up again: “Fuck the police! Fuck the police!”

People hurl rocks and glass bottles at the cops.

“Yo,” Seven says.

“Stop throwing objects at law enforcement,” the officer says. “Exit the streets immediately or you will be subject to arrest.”

The rocks and bottles continue to fly.

Seven hops off the bench. “C’mon,” he says, as Chris and I climb off too. “We need to get outta here.”

“Fuck the police! Fuck the police!” DeVante continues to shout.

“Vante, man, c’mon!” says Seven.

“I ain’t scared of them! Fuck the police!”

There’s a loud pop. An object sails into the air, lands in the middle of the street, and explodes in a ball of fire.

“Oh shit!” DeVante says.

He hops off the bench, and we run. It’s damn near a stampede on the sidewalk. Cars speed away in the street. It sounds like the Fourth of July behind us; pop after pop after pop.

Smoke fills the air. More glass shatters. The pops get closer, and the smoke thickens.

Flames eat away at the cash advance place. Just Us for Justice is fine though. So is the car wash on the other side of it, “black owned” spray-painted on one of its walls.

We hop into Seven’s Mustang. He speeds out the back entrance of the old Taco Bell parking lot, hitting the next street over.

“The hell just happened?” he says.

Chris slumps in his seat. “I don’t know. I don’t want it to happen again though.”

“Niggas tired of taking shit,” DeVante says, between heavy breaths. “Like Starr said, they don’t give a fuck about us, so we don’t give a fuck. Burn this bitch down.”

“But they don’t live here!” Seven says. “They don’t give a damn what happens to this neighborhood.”

“What we supposed to do then?” DeVante snaps. “All that ‘Kumbaya’ peaceful shit clearly don’t work. They don’t listen till we tear something up.”

“Those businesses though,” I say.

“What about them?” DeVante asks. “My momma used to work at that McDonald’s, and they barely paid her. That pawnshop ripped us off a hell of a lot of times. Nah, I don’t give a fuck about neither one of them bitches.”

I get it. Daddy almost lost his wedding ring to that pawnshop once. He actually threatened to burn it down. Kinda ironic it’s burning now.

But if the looters decide to ignore the “black owned” tags, they could end up hitting our store. “We need to go help Daddy.”

“What?” Seven says.

“We need to go help Daddy protect the store! In case looters show up.”

Seven wipes his face. “Shit, you’re probably right.”

“Ain’t nobody gon’ touch Big Mav,” says DeVante.

“You don’t know that,” I say. “People are pissed, DeVante. They’re not thinking shit out. They’re doing shit.”

DeVante eventually nods. “A’ight, fine. Let’s go help Big Mav.”

“Think he’ll be okay with me helping out?” Chris asks. “He didn’t seem to like me last time.”

“Seem to?” DeVante repeats. “He straight up mean-mugged your ass. I was there. I remember.”

Seven snickers. I smack DeVante and tell him, “Shush.”

“What? It’s true. He was mad as hell that Chris is white. But ay? You spit that NWA shit like you did back there, maybe he’ll think you’re a’ight.”

“What? Surprised a white boy knows NWA?” Chris teases.

“Man, you ain’t white. You light-skinned.”

“Agreed!” I say.

“Wait, wait,” Seven says over our laughter, “we gotta test him to see if he really is black. Chris, you eat green bean casserole?”

“Hell no. That shit’s disgusting.”

The rest of us lose it, saying, “He’s black! He’s black!”

“Wait, one more,” I say. “Macaroni and cheese. Full meal or a side dish?”

“Uh . . .” Chris’s eyes dart around at us.

DeVante mimics the Jeopardy! music.

“How to earn a black card for three hundred, Alex,” Seven says in an announcer’s voice.

Chris finally answers, “Full meal.”

“Aww!” the rest of us groan.

“Whomp-whomp-whomp!” DeVante adds.