The Hate U Give(98)

Gunshots go off close by—a little too close by—and all of us jump. Chris actually yelps.

Seven swallows. “Yeah. We’ll be all right.”





TWENTY-FOUR


Because Seven said we’d be all right, everything goes wrong.

Most of the routes through the east side are blocked off by police, and it takes Seven forever to find one that isn’t. About halfway to the store the car grunts and slows down.

“C’mon,” Seven says. He rubs the dashboard and pumps the gas. “C’mon, baby.”

His baby basically says “fuck it” and stops.

“Shit!” Seven rests his head on the steering wheel. “We’re out of gas.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Chris says.

“I wish, man. It was low when we left your house, but I thought I could wait a while before I got gas. I know my car.”

“You obviously don’t know shit,” I say.

We’re next to some duplex houses. I don’t know what street this is. I’m not familiar with the east side like that. Sirens go off nearby, and it’s as hazy and smoky as the rest of the neighborhood.

“There’s a gas station not too far from here,” Seven says. “Chris, can you help me push it?”

“As in, get out the protection of this car and push it?” Chris asks.

“Yeah, that. It’ll be all right.” Seven hops out.

“That’s what you said before,” Chris mumbles, but he climbs out.

DeVante says, “I can push too.”

“Nah, man. You need to rest up,” says Seven. “Just sit back. Starr, get behind the wheel.”

This is the first time he’s ever let anyone else drive his “baby.” He tells me to put the car in neutral and guide it with the steering wheel. He pushes next to me. Chris pushes on the passenger side. He constantly glances over his shoulder.

The sirens get louder, and the smoke thickens. Seven and Chris cough and cover their noses with their shirts. A pickup truck full of mattresses and people speeds by.

We reach a slight hill, and Seven and Chris jog to keep up with the car.

“Slow down, slow down!” Seven yells. I pump the brakes. The car stops at the bottom of the hill.

Seven coughs into his shirt. “Hold on. I need a minute.”

I put the car in park. Chris bends over, trying to catch his breath. “This smoke is killing me,” he says.

Seven straightens up and slowly blows air out his mouth. “Shit. We’ll get to the gas station faster if we leave the car. The two of us can’t push it all the way.”

The hell? I’m sitting right here. “I can push.”

“I know that, Starr. Even if you did, we’ll still be faster without it. Damn, I don’t wanna leave it here though.”

“How about we split up?” Chris says. “Two of us stay here, two of us go get some gas—and this is that white-people shit you guys were talking about, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” the rest of us say.

“Told you,” says DeVante.

Seven folds his hands and rests them on top of his dreads. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. We gotta leave it.”

I get Seven’s keys, and he grabs a gas can from the trunk. He caresses the car and whispers something to it. I think he says he loves it and promises to come back. Lord.

The four of us start down the sidewalk and pull our shirts over our mouths and noses. DeVante limps but swears he’s all right.

A voice in the distance says something, I can’t make it out, and there’s a thunderous response like from a crowd.

Chris and I walk behind the other two. His hand falls to his side, and he brushes up against me, his sly way of trying to hold my hand. I let him.

“So this is where you used to live?” he says.

I forgot this is his first time in Garden Heights. “Yeah. Well, not this side of the neighborhood. I’m from the west side.”

“West siiiiiide!” Seven says, as DeVante throws up a W. “The best siiiiiide!”

“On my momma!” DeVante adds.

I roll my eyes. People go too far with that “what side of the neighborhood you from” mess. “You saw that big apartment complex we passed? Those are the projects we lived in when I was younger.”

Chris nods. “That place where we parked—was that the Taco Bell your dad took you and Seven to?”

“Yeah. They opened a new one closer to the freeway a few years ago.”

“Maybe we can go there together one day,” he says.

“Bruh,” DeVante butts in. “Please tell me you ain’t considering taking your girl to Taco Bell for a date. Taco Bell?”

Seven hollers laughing.

“Excuse me, was anybody talking to y’all?” I ask.

“Ay, you my friend, I’m trying to help you out,” says DeVante. “Your boy ain’t got no game.”

“I have game!” Chris says. “I’m letting my girl know I’m happy to go with her anywhere, no matter what neighborhood it’s in. As long as she’s there, I’m good.”

He smiles at me without showing his teeth. I do too.

“Psh! It’s still Taco Bell,” says DeVante. “By the end of the night it’ll be Taco Hell with them bubble guts.”