“Right. I’m gonna do extra shifts at the clinic,” Momma says.
“And I’m gon’ figure something out to do about the store till I get it renovated,” says Daddy. “We ain’t gotta live there to change things, baby. We just gotta give a damn. A’ight?”
“All right.”
Momma kisses my cheek and runs a hand over my hair. “Look at you. Community minded all of a sudden. Maverick, what time did the claims agent say he was coming?”
Daddy closes his eyes and pinches the space between them. “In a couple of hours. I don’t even wanna see it.”
“It’s okay, Daddy,” Sekani says, with a mouth full of sandwich. “You don’t have to go by yourself. We’ll go with you.”
So we do. Two police cars block off the entrance to Garden Heights. Daddy shows them his ID and explains why we need to go in. I’m able to breathe during the whole exchange, and they let us through.
Damn, I see why they aren’t letting people in though. Smoke has taken up a permanent residence, and glass and all kinds of trash litter the streets. We pass so many blackened frames of what used to be businesses.
The store is the hardest to see. The burned roof folds into itself like the slightest wind will knock it over. The bricks and burglar bars protect charred rubble.
Mr. Lewis sweeps the sidewalk in front of his shop. It’s not as bad off as the store, but a broom and a dustpan won’t make it better.
Daddy parks in front of the store, and we get out. Momma rubs and squeezes Daddy’s shoulder.
“Starr,” Sekani whispers, and looks back at me. “The store—”
His eyes have tears in them, and then mine do too. I drape my arms over his shoulders and hug him to me. “I know, man.”
A loud creaking sound approaches and somebody whistles a tune. Fo’ty Ounce pushes his shopping cart down the sidewalk. As hot as it is, he’s wearing his camouflage coat.
He comes to an abrupt stop in front of the store, like he just noticed it.
“Goddamn, Maverick,” he says in that fast, Fo’ty Ounce way where it all sounds like one word. “What the hell happened?”
“Man, where were you last night?” Daddy says. “My store got burned up.”
“I went on the other side of the freeway. Couldn’t stay here. Oh nooo, I knew these fools would go crazy. You got insurance? I hope you do. I got insurance.”
“What for?” I ask, because seriously?
“My life!” he says, like it’s obvious. “You gon’ rebuild, Maverick?”
“I don’t know, man. I gotta think about it.”
“You have to ’cause now we won’t have no store. Everybody else gon’ leave and never come back.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Okay. If you need anything, let me know.” And he pushes his cart down the sidewalk but comes to an abrupt stop again. “The liquor store gone too? Oh nooo!”
I snicker. Only Fo’ty Ounce.
Mr. Lewis limps over with his broom. “That fool got a point. Folks will need a store around here. Everybody else gon’ leave.”
“I know,” Daddy says. “It’s just—it’s a lot, Mr. Lewis.”
“I know it is. But you can handle it. I told Clarence what happened,” he says of Mr. Wyatt, his friend who used to own the store. “He thinks you oughta stick around. And we were talking, and I think it’s about time for me to do like him. Sit on a beach, watch some pretty women.”
“You’re closing the shop?” Seven asks.
“Who’s gonna cut my hair?” Sekani adds.
Mr. Lewis looks down at him. “Not my problem. Since you gon’ be the only store around here, Maverick, you’ll need more space when you rebuild. I wanna give you the shop.”
“What?” Momma sputters.
“Whoa, now, wait a minute, Mr. Lewis,” Daddy says.
“Wait nothing. I got insurance, and I’m gonna get more than enough from that. Ain’t nothing I can do with a burned-up shop. You can build a nice store, give folks something to be proud to shop in. All I ask is that you put up some pictures of Dr. King alongside your Newey Whoever-He-Was.”
Daddy chuckles. “Huey Newton.”
“Yeah. Him. I know y’all moving, and I’m glad, but the neighborhood still needs more men like you. Even if you just running a store.”
The insurance man arrives a little later, and Daddy gives him a tour of what’s left. Momma gets some gloves and garbage bags from the truck, passes them to me and my brothers, and tells us to get to work. It’s kinda hard with people driving by and honking their horns. They yell out stuff like “Keep y’all heads up” or “We got your back!”
Some of them come and help out, like Mrs. Rooks and Tim. Mr. Reuben brings us ice-cold bottles of water, ’cause this sun ain’t no joke. I sit on the curb, sweating, tired, and one hundred percent ready to be done. We aren’t anywhere near finished.
A shadow casts over me, and somebody says, “Hey.”
I shield my eyes as I look up. Kenya’s wearing an oversized T-shirt and some basketball shorts. They look like Seven’s.
“Hey.”
She sits next to me and pulls her knees up to her chest. “I saw you on TV,” she says. “I told you to speak out, but damn, Starr. You took it kinda far.”
“It got people talking though, didn’t it?”
“Yeah. Sorry about the store. I heard my daddy did it.”
“He did.” No point in denying it, shoot. “How’s your momma?”
Kenya pulls her knees closer. “He beat her. She ended up in the hospital. They kept her overnight. She got a concussion and a whole bunch of other stuff, but she’ll be okay. We saw her a li’l while ago. The cops came, and we had to leave.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. They raided our house earlier and wanted to ask her some questions. Me and Lyric gotta stay with Grandma right now.”
DeVante struck already. “You okay with that?”
“I’m relieved, actually. Messed up, huh?”
“Nah, not really.”
She scratches one of her cornrows, which somehow makes all of them move in the same back-and-forth motion. “I’m sorry for calling Seven my brother and not our brother.”
“Oh.” I kinda forgot about that. It seems minor after everything that’s happened. “It’s all right.”
“I guess I called him my brother ’cause . . . it made it feel like he really was my brother, you know?”
“Um, he is your brother, Kenya. I honestly get jealous of how much he wants to be with you and Lyric.”
“Because he thinks he has to be,” she says. “He wants to be with y’all. I mean, I get why. He and Daddy don’t get along. But I wish he wanted to be my brother sometimes and didn’t feel like he had to be. He ashamed of us. ’Cause of our momma and my daddy.”
“No, he’s not.”
“Yeah, he is. You ashamed of me too.”
“I’ve never said that.”
“You didn’t have to, Starr,” she says. “You never invited me to hang out with you and them girls. They were never at your house when I was. Like you ain’t want them to know I was your friend too. You were ashamed of me, Khalil, even the Garden, and you know it.”
I go quiet. If I face the truth, as ugly as it is, she’s right. I was ashamed of Garden Heights and everything in it. It seems stupid now though. I can’t change where I come from or what I’ve been through, so why should I be ashamed of what makes me, me? That’s like being ashamed of myself.
Nah. Fuck that.
“Maybe I was ashamed,” I admit. “But I’m not anymore. And Seven’s not ashamed of you, your momma, or Lyric. He loves y’all, Kenya. So like I said, our brother. Not just mine. Trust, I’m more than happy to share if it means getting him off my back.”
“He can be a pain in the ass, can’t he?”
“Girl, yes.”
We laugh together. As much as I’ve lost, I’ve gained some good stuff too. Like Kenya.
“Yeah, all right,” she says. “I guess we can share him.”
“Chop-chop, Starr,” Momma calls, clapping her hands as if that’ll make me move faster. Still on her dictatorship, I swear. “We’ve got work to do. Kenya, I got a bag and some gloves with your name on them if you wanna help out.”
Kenya turns to me like, seriously?