And back to the same ol’ shit. With targets this time.
“If y’all knew where King’s stash was,” DeVante says, “would that help?”
Uncle Carlos says, “Probably, yeah.”
“If somebody agreed to rat on him, would that help?”
Uncle Carlos turns completely toward him. “Are you saying you want to turn witness?”
“I mean . . .” DeVante pauses. “Will it help Kenya, her momma, and her sister?”
“If King went to jail?” says Seven. “Yeah. A lot.”
“It’ll help the whole neighborhood, honestly,” Daddy says.
“And I’ll be protected?” DeVante asks Uncle Carlos.
“Absolutely. I promise.”
“And Uncle Carlos always keeps his promises,” I say.
DeVante nods for a moment. “Then I guess I will turn witness.”
Ho-ly shit again. “You’re sure about that?” I ask.
“Yeah. After seeing you face those cops the way you did, I don’t know, man. That did something to me,” he says. “And that lady said our voices are weapons. I should use mine, right?”
“So you’re willing to become a snitch,” Chris says.
“On King,” Seven adds.
DeVante shrugs. “I already need the stitches. Might as well snitch.”
TWENTY-SIX
It’s around eleven the next morning, and I’m still in bed. After the longest night ever I had to seriously get reacquainted with my pillow.
My mom flicks on the lights in my new room—good Lord, it’s too many lights in here. “Starr, your partner in crime is on the phone,” she says.
“Who?” I mumble.
“Your protest partner in crime. Momma told me she saw her hand you that bullhorn on TV. Putting you in danger like that.”
“But she didn’t mean to put me in—”
“Oh, I’ve dealt with her already, don’t worry. Here. She wants to apologize to you.”
Ms. Ofrah does apologize for putting me in a bad situation and for the way things turned out with Khalil, but she says she’s proud of me.
She also says she thinks I have a future in activism.
Momma leaves with the phone, and I turn onto my side. Tupac stares back at me from a poster, a smirk on his face. The Thug Life tattoo on his stomach looks bolder than the rest of the photo. It was the first thing I put in my new room. Kinda like bringing Khalil with me.
He said Thug Life stood for “The Hate U Give Little Infants Fucks Everybody.” We did all that stuff last night because we were pissed, and it fucked all of us. Now we have to somehow un-fuck everybody.
I sit up and grab my phone off my nightstand. There are texts from Maya, who saw me on the news and thinks I’m dope personified, and texts from Chris. His parents grounded him, but he says it was so worth it. It really was.
There’s another text. From Hailey, of all people. Two simple words: I’m sorry.
Not what I expected; not that I expected to get anything from her; not that I even wanna deal with her. This is the first time she’s spoken to me since our fight. I’m not complaining. She’s been nonexistent to me too. I respond anyway.
Sorry for what?
I’m not being petty. Petty would be saying, “New number, who dis?” There’s a damn near endless list of things she could be apologizing for.
About the decision, she says.
And that you’re upset with me.
Haven’t been myself lately.
Just want everything to be how it used to be.
The sympathy for the case is nice, but she’s sorry I’m upset? That’s not the same as apologizing for her actions or the garbage she said. She’s sorry I reacted the way I did.
Oddly enough, I needed to know that.
You see, it’s like my mom said—if the good outweighs the bad, I should keep Hailey as a friend. There’s a shit ton of bad now, an overload of bad. I hate to admit that a teeny-tiny part of me hoped Hailey would see how wrong she was, but she hasn’t. She may not ever see that.
And you know what? That’s fine. Okay, maybe not fine, because it makes her a shitty-ass person, but I don’t have to wait around for her to change. I can let go. I reply: Things will never be the way they used to be.
I hit send, wait for the text to go through, and delete the conversation. I delete Hailey’s number from my phone too.
I stretch and yawn as I creep down the hall. The layout of our new house is way different than our old one, but I think I can get used to it.
Daddy clips some roses at the kitchen counter. Next to him Sekani inhales a sandwich, and Brickz stands on his hind legs with his paws on Sekani’s lap. He watches the sandwich the same way he watches a squirrel.
Momma flips switches on the wall. One causes a grinding noise in the sink, and another turns the lights off and on.
“Too many switches,” she mumbles, and notices me. “Oh look, Maverick. It’s our li’l revolutionary.”
Brickz scuttles over to me and jumps up my legs, tongue wagging.
“Morning,” I tell him, and scratch behind his ears. He gets down and returns to Sekani and the sandwich.
“Do me a favor, Starr,” Seven says, searching through a box that has “Kitchen Stuff” written on it in my handwriting. “Next time, be more specific about what type of kitchen stuff is in the box. I’ve gone through three, trying to find plates.”
I climb onto a stool at the counter. “Lazy butt, isn’t that what paper towels are for?”
Seven narrows his eyes. “Hey, Pops, guess where I picked Starr up from yester—”
“The plates are in the bottom of that box,” I say.
“Thought so.”
My middle finger wants to extend so bad.
Daddy says, “You bet’ not have been at that boy’s house, I know that.”
I force a smile. “No. Of course not.”
I’m gonna kill Seven.
Daddy sucks his teeth. “Uh-huh.” He goes back to work on his roses. An entire bush lies on the counter. The roses are dry, and some of the petals have fallen off. Daddy sets the bush in a clay pot and pours dirt over the roots.
“Will they be all right?” I ask.
“Yeah. A li’l damaged, but alive. I’m gon’ try something different with them. Putting them in new soil can be like hitting a reset button.”
“Starr,” Sekani says, mouth full of wet bread and meat. Nasty. “You’re in the newspaper.”
“Stop talking with your mouth full, boy!” Momma scolds.
Daddy nods toward the newspaper on the counter. “Yeah. Check it out, Li’l Black Panther.”
I’m on the front page. The photographer caught me mid-throw. The can of tear gas smokes in my hand. The headline reads “The Witness Fights Back.”
Momma rests her chin on my shoulder. “They’ve discussed you on every news show this morning. Your nana calls every five minutes, telling us a new channel to watch.” She kisses my cheek. “I know you better not scare me like that again.”
“I won’t. What are they saying on the news?”
“They calling you brave,” Daddy says. “But you know, that one network gotta complain, saying you put them cops in danger.”
“I didn’t have a problem with those cops. I had a problem with that tear gas can, and they threw it first.”
“I know, baby. Don’t even stress it. That whole network can kiss my—”
“Dollar, Daddy.” Sekani grins up at him.
“Roses. They can kiss my roses.” He smudges dirt on Sekani’s nose. “You ain’t getting another dollar outta me.”
“He knows,” Seven says, glaring at Sekani. Sekani gets guilty puppy-dog eyes that could give Brickz some competition.
Momma moves her chin off my shoulder. “Okay. What’s that about?”
“Nothing. I told Sekani we gotta be careful with money now.”
“He said we might have to go back to Garden Heights too!” Sekani rats. “Do we?”
“No, of course not,” Momma says. “Guys, we’ll make this work.”
“Exactly,” Daddy says. “If I have to sell oranges on the side of the street like the Nation brothers, we’ll make it.”
“Is it okay to leave though?” I ask. “I mean, the neighborhood is messed up. What are people gonna think about us leaving instead of helping fix it?”
Never, ever thought I’d say something like that, but last night has me thinking about all of this so differently, about me differently. About Garden Heights differently.
“We still can help fix it,” Daddy says.