by Angie Thomas
Daddy reaches for her hand. She lets him take it, and he pulls her onto his lap. Daddy wraps his arms around her and kisses the back of her head.
“We’ll be a’ight.”
He sends me and Seven to bed. Somehow I fall asleep.
Natasha runs into the store again. “Starr, come on!”
Her braids have dirt in them, and her once-fat cheeks are sunken. Blood soaks through her clothes.
I step back. She runs up to me and grabs my hand. Hers feels icy like it did in her coffin.
“Come on.” She tugs at me. “Come on!”
She pulls me toward the door, and my feet move against my will.
“Stop,” I say. “Natasha, stop!”
A hand extends through the door, holding a Glock.
Bang!
I jolt awake.
Seven bangs his fist against my door. He doesn’t text normal, and he doesn’t wake people up normal either. “We’re leaving in ten.”
My heart beats against my chest like it’s trying to get out. You’re fine, I remind myself. It’s Seven’s stupid butt. “Leaving for what?” I ask him.
“Basketball at the park. It’s the last Saturday of the month, right? Isn’t this what we always do?”
“But—the riots and stuff?”
“Like Pops said, that stuff happened on the east. We’re good over here. Plus the news said it’s quiet this morning.”
What if somebody knows I’m the witness? What if they know that it’s my fault that cop hasn’t been arrested? What if we come across some cops and they know who I am?
“It’ll be all right,” Seven says, like he read my mind. “I promise. Now get your lazy butt up so I can kill you on the court.”
If it’s possible to be a sweet asshole, that’s Seven. I get out of bed and put on my basketball shorts, LeBron jersey, and my Thirteens like Jordan wore before he left the Bulls. I comb my hair into a ponytail. Seven waits for me at the front door, spinning the basketball between his hands.
I snatch it from him. “Like you know what to do with it.”
“We’ll see ’bout that.”
I holler to let Momma and Daddy know we’ll be back later and leave.
At first Garden Heights looks the same, but a couple of blocks away at least five police cars speed by. Smoke lingers in the air, making everything look hazy. It stinks too.
We make it to Rose Park. Some King Lords sit in a gray Escalade across the street, and a younger one’s on the park merry-go-round. Long as we don’t bother them, they won’t bother us.
Rose Park occupies a whole block, and a tall chain-link fence surrounds it. I’m not sure what it’s protecting—the graffiti on the basketball court, the rusting playground equipment, the benches that way too many babies have been made on, or the liquor bottles, cigarette butts, and trash that litter the grass.
We’re right near the basketball courts, but the entrance to the park is on the other side of the block. I toss the ball to Seven and climb the fence. I used to jump down from the top, but one fall and a sprained ankle stopped me from doing that again.
When I get over the fence Seven tosses the ball to me and climbs. Khalil, Natasha, and I used to take a shortcut through the park after school. We’d run up the slides, spin on the merry-go-round till we were dizzy, and try to swing higher than one another.
I try to forget all that as I check the ball to Seven. “First to thirty?”
“Forty,” he says, knowing damn well he’ll be lucky if he gets twenty points. He can’t play ball just like Daddy can’t play ball.
As if to prove it, Seven dribbles using the palm of his hand. You’re supposed to use your fingertips. Then this fool shoots for a three.
The ball bounces off the rim. Of course. I grab it and look at him. “Weak! You knew that shit wasn’t going in.”
“Whatever. Play the damn game.”
Five minutes in, I have ten points to his two, and I basically gave him those. I fake left, make a quick right in a smooth crossover, and go for the three. That baby goes in nicely. This girl’s got game.
Seven makes a T with his hands. He pants harder than I do, and I’m the one who used to have asthma. “Time out. Water break.”
I wipe my forehead with my arm. The sun glares on the court already. “How about we call it?”
“Hell no. I got some game in me. I gotta get my angles right.”
“Angles? This is ball, Seven. Not selfies.”
“Ay, yo!” some boy calls.
We turn around, and my breath catches. “Shit.”
There are two of them. They look thirteen, fourteen years old and are wearing green Celtics jerseys. Garden Disciples, no doubt. They cross the courts, coming straight for us.
The tallest one steps to Seven. “Nigga, you Kinging?”
I can’t even take this fool seriously. His voice squeaks. Daddy says there’s a trick to telling OGs from Young Gs, besides their age. OGs don’t start stuff, they finish it. Young Gs always start stuff.
“Nah, I’m neutral,” Seven says.
“Ain’t King your daddy?” the shorter one asks.
“Hell, no. He just messing with my momma.”
“It don’t even matter.” The tall one flicks out a pocket knife. “Hand your shit over. Sneakers, phones, everything.”
Rule of the Garden—if it doesn’t involve you, it doesn’t have shit to do with you. Period. The King Lords in the Escalade see everything going down. Since we don’t claim their set, we don’t exist.
But the boy on the merry-go-round runs over and pushes the GDs back. He lifts up his shirt, flashing his piece. “We got a problem?”
They back up. “Yeah, we got a problem,” the shorter one says.
“You sure? Last time I checked, Rose Park was King territory.” He looks toward the Escalade. The King Lords inside nod at us, a simple way of asking if things are cool. We nod back.
“A’ight,” the tall GD says. “We got you.”
The GDs leave the same way they came.
The younger King Lord slaps palms with Seven. “You straight, bruh?” he asks.
“Yeah. Good looking out, Vante.”
I can’t lie, he’s kinda cute. Hey, just ’cause I have a boyfriend doesn’t mean I can’t look, and as much as Chris drools over Nicki Minaj, Beyoncé, and Amber Rose, I dare him to get mad at me for looking.
On a side note—my boyfriend clearly has a type.
This Vante guy’s around my age, a little taller, with a big Afro puff and the faint signs of a mustache. He has some nice lips too. Real plump and soft.
I’ve looked at them too long. He licks them and smiles. “I had to make sure you and li’l momma were okay.”
And that ruins it. Don’t call me by a nickname if you don’t know me. “Yeah, we’re fine,” I say.
“Them GDs helped you out anyway,” he tells Seven. “She was killing you out here.”
“Man, shut up,” Seven says. “This is my sister, Starr.”
“Oh yeah,” the guy says. “You the one who work up in Big Mav’s store, ain’t you?”
Like I said, I get that all. The. Time. “Yep. That’s me.”
“Starr, this is DeVante,” Seven says. “He’s one of King’s boys.”
“DeVante?” So this is the dude Kenya fought over.
“Yeah, that’s me.” He looks at me from head to toe and licks his lips again. “You heard ’bout me or something?”
All that lip licking. Not cute. “Yeah, I’ve heard about you. And you may wanna get some Chapstick if your lips that dry, since you’re licking them so much.”
“Damn, it’s like that?”
“What she means is thanks for helping us out,” Seven says, even though that’s not what I meant. “We appreciate it.”
“It’s all good. Them fools running around here ’cause the riots happening on their side. It’s too hot for them over there.”
“What you doing in the park this early anyway?” Seven asks.
He shoves hi
s hands in his pockets and shrugs. “Posted up. You know how it go.”
He’s a d-boy. Damn, Kenya really knows how to pick them. Anytime drug-dealing gangbangers are your type, you’ve got some serious issues. Well, King is her daddy.
“I heard about your brother,” Seven says. “I’m sorry, man. Dalvin was a cool dude.”
DeVante kicks at a pebble on the court. “Thanks. Mom’s taking it real hard. That’s why I’m here. Had to get out the house.”
Dalvin? DeVante? I tilt my head. “Your momma named y’all after them dudes from that old group Jodeci?” I only know because my parents love them some Jodeci.
“Yeah, so?”
“It was just a question. You don’t have to have an attitude.”
A white Tahoe screeches to a stop on the other side of the fence. Daddy’s Tahoe.
His window rolls down. He’s in a wifebeater and pillow marks zigzag across his face. I pray he doesn’t get out because knowing Daddy his legs are ashy and he’s wearing Nike flip-flops with socks. “What the hell y’all thinking, leaving the house without telling nobody?” he yells.
The King Lords across the street bust out laughing. DeVante coughs into his fist like he wants to laugh too. Seven and I look at everything but Daddy.
“Oh, y’all wanna act like y’all don’t hear me? Answer me when I’m talking to you!”
The King Lords howl with laughter.
“Pops, we just came to play ball,” Seven says.
“I don’t care. All this shit going on, and y’all leave? Get in this truck!”
“Goddamn,” I say under my breath. “Always gotta act a fool.”
“What you say?” he barks.
The King Lords howl louder. I wanna disappear.
“Nothing,” I say.
“Nah, it was something. Tell you what, don’t climb the fence. Go round to the entrance. And I bet’ not beat y’all there.”
He drives off.
Shit.
I grab my ball, and Seven and I haul ass across the park. The last time I ran this fast, Coach was making us do suicides. We get to the entrance as Daddy pulls up. I climb in the back of the truck, and Seven’s dumb butt gets in the passenger seat.
Daddy drives off. “Done lost y’all minds,” he says. “People rioting, damn near calling the National Guard around here, and y’all wanna play ball.”
“Why you have to embarrass us like that?” Seven snaps.
I’m so glad I’m in the backseat. Daddy turns toward Seven, not even looking at the road, and growls, “You ain’t too old.”
Seven stares ahead. Steam is just about coming off him.
Daddy looks at the road again. “Got some goddamn nerve talking to me like that ’cause some King Lords were laughing at you. What, you Kinging now?”
Seven doesn’t respond.
“I’m talking to you, boy!”
“No, sir,” he bites out.
“So why you care what they think? You wanna be a man so damn bad, but men don’t care what nobody thinks.”
He pulls into our driveway. Not even halfway up the walkway I see Momma through the screen on the door in her nightgown, her arms folded and her bare foot tapping.
“Get in this house!” she shouts.
She paces the living room as we come in. The question isn’t if she’ll explode but when.
Seven and I sink onto her good sofa.
“Where were y’all?” she asks. “And you better not lie.”
“The basketball court,” I mumble, staring at my J’s.
Momma leans down close to me and puts her hand to her ear. “What was that? I didn’t hear you good.”
“Speak up, girl,” Daddy says.
“The basketball court,” I repeat louder.
“The basketball court.” Momma straightens up and laughs. “She said the basketball court.” Her laughter stops, and her voice gets louder with each word. “I’m walking around here, worried out my mind, and y’all at the damn basketball court!”
Somebody giggles in the hallway.
“Sekani, go to your room!” Momma says without looking that way. His feet thump hurriedly down the hall.
“I hollered and told y’all we were leaving,” I say.
“Oh, she hollered,” Daddy mocks. “Did you hear anybody holler, baby? ’Cause I didn’t.”
Momma sucks her teeth. “Neither did I. She can wake us up to ask for some money, but she can’t wake us up to tell us she’s going in a war zone.”
“It’s my fault,” Seven says. “I wanted to get her out the house and do something normal.”
“Baby, there’s no such thing as normal right now!” says Momma. “You see what’s been happening. And y’all were crazy enough to go out there like that?”
“Dumb enough is more like it,” Daddy adds.
I keep my eyes on my shoes.
“Hand over your phones,” Momma says.
“What?” I shriek. “That’s not fair! I hollered and told y’all—”
“Starr Amara,” she says through her teeth. Since my first name is only one syllable, she has to throw my middle name in there to break it down. “If you don’t hand me that phone, I swear to God.”
I open my mouth, but she goes, “Say something else! I dare you, say something else! I’ll take all them Jordans too!”
This is some bullshit. For real. Daddy watches us; her attack dog, waiting for us to make a wrong move. That’s how they work. Momma does the first round, and if it’s not successful, Daddy goes for the KO. And you never want Daddy to go for the KO.
Seven and I hand her our phones.
“I thought so,” she says, and passes them to Daddy. “Since y’all want ‘normal’ so much, go get your stuff. We’re going to Carlos’s for the day.”
“Nah, not him.” Daddy motions Seven to get up. “He going to the store with me.”
Momma looks at me and jerks her head toward the hall. “Go. I oughta make you take a shower, smelling like outside.” As I’m leaving, she hollers, “And don’t get any skimpy stuff to wear to Carlos’s either!”
Ooh, she gets on my nerves. See, Chris lives down the street from Uncle Carlos. I am glad she didn’t say any more in front of Daddy though.
Brickz meets me at my bedroom door. He jumps up my legs and tries to lick my face. I had about forty shoe boxes stacked in a corner, and he knocked all of them over.
I scratch behind his ears. “Clumsy dog.”
I would take him with us, but they don’t allow pits in Uncle Carlos’s neighborhood. He settles on my bed and watches me pack. I only really need my swimsuit and some sandals, but Momma could decide to stay out there the whole weekend because of the riots. I pack a couple of outfits and get my school backpack. I throw each backpack over a shoulder. “C’mon, Brickz.”
He follows me to his spot in the backyard, and I hook him up to his chain. While I refill Brickz’s food and water bowls, Daddy crouches beside his roses and examines the petals. He waters them like he’s supposed to, but for some reason they’re dry looking.
“C’mon, now,” he tells them. “Y’all gotta do better than this.”
Momma and Sekani wait for me in her Camry. I end up in the passenger’s seat. It’s childish, but I don’t wanna sit this close to her right now. Unfortunately it’s either sit next to her or next to Sir-Farts-a-Lot Sekani. I’m staring straight ahead, and out the corner of my eye I see her looking at me. She makes this sound like she’s about to speak, but her words decide to come out as a sigh.
Good. I don’t wanna talk to her either. I’m being petty as hell and don’t even care.
We head for the freeway, passing the Cedar Grove projects, where we used to live. We get to Magnolia Avenue, the busiest street in Garden Heights, where most of the businesses are located. Usually on Saturday mornings, guys around the neighborhood have their cars on display, cruising up and down the street and racing each other.
Today the street’s blocked off. A crowd marches down the middle of it. They’re hold
ing signs and posters of Khalil’s face and are chanting, “Justice for Khalil!”
I should be out there with them, but I can’t join that march, knowing I’m one of the reasons they’re protesting.
“You know none of this is your fault, right?” Momma asks.
How in the world did she do that? “I know.”
“I mean it, baby. It’s not. You did everything right.”
“But sometimes right’s not good enough, huh?”
She takes my hand, and despite my annoyance I let her. It’s the closest thing I get to an answer for a while.
Saturday morning traffic on the freeway moves smoothly compared to weekday traffic. Sekani puts his headphones on and plays with his tablet. Some nineties R&B songs play on the radio, and Momma sings along under her breath. When she really gets into it, she attempts all kinds of runs and goes, “Yes, girl! Yes!”
Out of nowhere she says, “You weren’t breathing when you were born.”
My first time hearing that. “For real?”
“Uh-huh. I was eighteen when I had you. Still a baby myself, but I thought I was grown. Wouldn’t admit to anybody that I was scared to death. Your nana thought there was no way in hell I could be a good parent. Not wild Lisa.
“I was determined to prove her wrong. I stopped drinking and smoking, went to all of my appointments, ate right, took my vitamins, the whole nine. Shoot, I even played Mozart on some headphones and put them on my belly. We see what good that was. You didn’t finish a month of piano lessons.”
I laugh. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. Like I was saying, I did everything right. I remember being in that delivery room, and when they pulled you out, I waited for you to cry. But you didn’t. Everybody ran around, and your father and I kept asking what was wrong. Finally the nurse said you weren’t breathing.
“I freaked out. Your daddy couldn’t calm me down. He was barely calm himself. After the longest minute of my life, you cried. I think I cried harder than you though. I knew I did something wrong. But one of the nurses took my hand”—Momma grabs my hand again—“looked me in the eye, and said, ‘Sometimes you can do everything right and things will still go wrong. The key is to never stop doing right.’”