by Angie Thomas
John leads us through all of these twists and turns, and I’m so glad I’m wearing flats. He can’t stop talking about how important the interview is and how much they wanna get the truth out there. He’s not exactly adding to my “bravery.”
He takes us to the hotel courtyard, where some camera operators and other show people are setting up. In the middle of the chaos, the interviewer, Diane Carey, is getting her makeup done.
It’s weird seeing her in the flesh and not as a bunch of pixels on TV. When I was younger, every single time I spent the night at Nana’s house she made me sleep in one of her long-ass nightgowns, say my bedtime prayers for at least five minutes, and watch Diane Carey’s news report so I could be “knowledgeable of the world.”
“Hi!” Mrs. Carey’s face lights up when she sees us. She comes over, and I gotta give the makeup lady props ’cause she follows her and keeps working like a pro. Mrs. Carey shakes our hands. “Diane. So nice to meet you all. And you must be Starr,” she says to me. “Don’t be nervous. This will simply be a conversation between the two of us.”
The whole time she talks, some guy snaps photos of us. Yeah, this will be a normal conversation.
“Starr, we were thinking we could get shots of you and Diane walking and talking around the courtyard,” John says. “Then we’ll go up to the suite and do the conversations between you and Diane; you, Diane, and Ms. Ofrah; and finally you and your parents. After that, we’ll be all set.”
One of the production people mics me up as John gives me a rundown of this walk and talk thing. “It’s only a transitional shot,” he says. “Simple stuff.”
Simple my ass. The first time, I practically power-walk. The second time, I walk like I’m in a funeral processional and can’t answer Mrs. Carey’s questions. I never realized walking and talking required so much coordination.
Once we get that right, we take an elevator to the top floor. John leads us to a huge suite—seriously, it looks like a penthouse—overlooking downtown. About a dozen people are setting up cameras and lighting. Ms. Ofrah’s there in one of her Khalil shirts and a skirt. John says they’re ready for me.
I sit in the loveseat across from Mrs. Carey. I’ve never been able to cross my legs, for whatever reason, so that’s out the question. They check my mic, and Mrs. Carey tells me to relax. Soon, the cameras are rolling.
“Millions of people around the world have heard the name Khalil Harris,” she says, “and they’ve developed their own ideas of who he was. Who was he to you?”
More than he may have ever realized. “One of my best friends,” I say. “We knew each other since we were babies. If he were here, he’d point out that he was five months, two weeks, and three days older than me.” We both chuckle at that. “But that’s who Khalil is—was.”
Damn. It hurts to correct myself.
“He was a jokester. Even when things were hard, he’d somehow find some light in it. And he . . .” My voice cracks.
I know it’s corny, but I think he’s here. His nosy ass would show up to make sure I say the right things. Probably calling me his number one fan or some annoying title that only Khalil can think of.
I miss that boy.
“He had a big heart,” I say. “I know that some people call him a thug, but if you knew him, you’d know that wasn’t the case at all. I’m not saying he was an angel or anything, but he wasn’t a bad person. He was a . . .” I shrug. “He was a kid.”
She nods. “He was a kid.”
“He was a kid.”
“What do you think about people who focus on the not-so-good aspect of him?” she asks. “The fact that he may have sold drugs?”
Ms. Ofrah once said that this is how I fight, with my voice.
So I fight.
“I hate it,” I say. “If people knew why he sold drugs, they wouldn’t talk about him that way.”
Mrs. Carey sits up a little. “Why did he sell them?”
I glance at Ms. Ofrah, and she shakes her head. During all our prep meetings, she advised me not to go into details about Khalil selling drugs. She said the public doesn’t have to know about that.
But then I look at the camera, suddenly aware that millions of people will watch this in a few days. King may be one of them. Although his threat is loud in my head, it’s not nearly as loud as what Kenya said that day in the store.
Khalil would defend me. I should defend him.
So I gear up to throw a punch.
“Khalil’s mom is a drug addict,” I tell Mrs. Carey. “Anybody who knew him knew how much that bothered him and how much he hated drugs. He only sold them to help her out of a situation with the biggest drug dealer and gang leader in the neighborhood.”
Ms. Ofrah noticeably sighs. My parents have wide eyes.
It’s dry snitching, but it’s snitching. Anybody who knows anything about Garden Heights will know exactly who I’m talking about. Hell, if they watch Mr. Lewis’s interview they can figure it out.
But hey, since King wants to go around the neighborhood lying and saying Khalil repped his set, I can let the world know Khalil was forced to sell drugs for him. “His mom’s life was in danger,” I say. “That’s the only reason he’d ever do something like that. And he wasn’t a gang member—”
“He wasn’t?”
“No, ma’am. He never wanted to fall into that type of life. But I guess—” I think about DeVante for some reason. “I don’t understand how everyone can make it seem like it’s okay he got killed if he was a drug dealer and a gangbanger.”
A hook straight to the jaw.
“The media?” she asks.
“Yes, ma’am. It seems like they always talk about what he may have said, what he may have done, what he may not have done. I didn’t know a dead person could be charged in his own murder, you know?”
The moment I say it, I know it’s my jab to the mouth.
Mrs. Carey asks for my account of that night. I can’t go into a lot of details—Ms. Ofrah told me not to—but I tell her we did everything One-Fifteen asked and never once cussed at him like his father claims. I tell her how afraid I was, how Khalil was so concerned about me that he opened the door and asked if I was okay.
“So he didn’t make a threat on Officer Cruise’s life?” she questions.
“No, ma’am. His exact words were, ‘Starr, are you okay?’ That was the last thing he said, and—”
I’m ugly crying, describing the moment when the shots rang out and Khalil looked at me for the last time; how I held him in the street and saw his eyes gloss over. I tell her One-Fifteen pointed his gun at me.
“He pointed his gun at you?” she asks.
“Yes, ma’am. He kept it on me until the other officers arrived.”
Behind the cameras, Momma puts her hand over her mouth. Fury sparks in Daddy’s eyes. Ms. Ofrah looks stunned.
It’s another jab.
See, I only told Uncle Carlos that part.
Mrs. Carey gives me Kleenex and a moment to get myself together. “Has this situation made you fearful of cops?” she eventually asks.
“I don’t know,” I say truthfully. “My uncle’s a cop. I know not all cops are bad. And they risk their lives, you know? I’m always scared for my uncle. But I’m tired of them assuming. Especially when it comes to black people.”
“You wish that more cops wouldn’t make assumptions about black people?” she clarifies.
“Right. This all happened because he”—I can’t say his name—“assumed that we were up to no good. Because we’re black and because of where we live. We were just two kids, minding our business, you know? His assumption killed Khalil. It could’ve killed me.”
A kick straight to the ribs.
“If Officer Cruise were sitting here,” Mrs. Carey says, “what would you say to him?”
I blink several times. My mouth waters, but I swallow. No way I’m gonna let myself cry or throw up from thinking about that man.
If he were sitting here, I don’t have enough Black Jesus in me to tell him
I forgive him. Instead I’d probably punch him. Straight up.
But Ms. Ofrah says this interview is the way I fight. When you fight, you put yourself out there, not caring who you hurt or if you’ll get hurt.
So I throw one more blow, right at One-Fifteen.
“I’d ask him if he wished he shot me too.”
SEVENTEEN
My interview aired yesterday on Diane Carey’s Friday Night News Special. This morning, John the producer called and said it’s one of the most-watched interviews in the network’s history.
A millionaire, who wishes to remain anonymous, offered to pay my college tuition. John said the offer was made right after the interview aired. I think it’s Oprah, but that’s just me because I’ve always imagined she’s my fairy godmother and one day she’ll come to my house saying, “You get a car!”
The network’s already got a bunch of emails in support of me. I haven’t seen any of them, but I received the best message in a text from Kenya.
Bout time you spoke out.
Don’t let this fame go to your head tho.
The interview trended online. When I looked this morning, people were still talking about it. Black Twitter and Tumblr have my back. Some assholes want me dead.
King’s not too happy either. Kenya told me he’s heated that I dry snitched.
The Saturday news programs discussed the interview too, dissecting my words like I’m the president or something. This one network is outraged by my “disregard for cops.” I’m not sure how they got that out the interview. It’s not like I was on some NWA “Fuck the Police” type shit. I simply said I’d ask the man if he wished he shot me too.
I don’t care. I’m not apologizing for how I feel. People can say what they want.
But it’s Saturday, and I’m sitting in a Rolls-Royce on my way to prom with a boyfriend who isn’t saying much of anything to me. Chris is more interested in his phone.
“You look nice,” I tell him. Which he does. His black tux with a light-blue vest and tie match the strapless tea-length gown I have on. His black leather Chuck Taylors are also a good match to my silver sequined ones. The dictator, a.k.a. my mom, bought my outfit. She has pretty good taste.
Chris says, “Thanks. You too,” but it’s so robotic, like he’s saying what he’s supposed to and not what he wants to. And how does he know what I look like? He’s barely looked at me since he picked me up from Uncle Carlos’s house.
I have no clue what’s wrong with him. Things have been fine between us, as far as I know. Now, out of nowhere, he’s all moody and silent. I would ask the driver to take me back to Uncle Carlos’s, but I look too cute to go home.
The driveway at the country club is lit with blue lights, and golden balloon arches hang over it. We’re in the only Rolls-Royce among a sea of limos, so of course people look when we pull up to the entrance.
The driver opens the door for us. Mr. Silent climbs out first and actually helps me out. Our classmates whoop and cheer and whistle. Chris wraps his arm around my waist, and we smile for pictures like everything’s all good. Chris takes my hand and wordlessly escorts me inside.
Loud music greets us. Chandeliers and flashing party lights light up the ballroom. Some committee decided the theme should be Midnight in Paris, so there’s a huge Eiffel Tower made out of Christmas lights. Looks like just about every junior and senior at Williamson is on the dance floor.
Let me say it. A Garden Heights party and a Williamson party are two very different things. At Big D’s party, people Nae-Naed, Hit the Quan, twerked and stuff. At prom, I honestly don’t know what the hell some of them are doing. Lots of jumping and fist pumping and attempts at twerking. It’s not bad. Just different. Way different.
It’s weird though—I’m not as hesitant to dance here as I was at Big D’s party. Like I said, at Williamson I’m cool by default because I’m black. I can go out there and do a silly dance move I made up, and everyone will think it’s the new thing. White people assume all black people are experts on trends and shit. There’s no way in hell I’d try that at a Garden Heights party though. You make a fool of yourself one time, and that’s it. Everybody in the neighborhood will know and nobody will forget.
In Garden Heights, I learn how to be dope by watching. At Williamson, I put my learned dopeness on display. I’m not even that dope, but these white kids think I am and that goes a long way in high school politics.
I start to ask Chris if he wants to dance, but he lets my hand go and heads toward some of his boys.
Why did I come to prom again?
“Starr!” somebody calls. I look around a couple of times and finally spot Maya waving at me from a table.
“Girl-lee!” she says when I get there. “You look good! I know Chris went crazy when he saw you.”
No. He nearly drove me crazy. “Thanks,” I say, and give her a once-over. She’s wearing a pink knee-length strapless dress. A pair of sparkly silver stilettos gives her about five more inches of height. I applaud her for making it this far in them. I hate heels. “But if anybody’s looking good tonight, it’s you. You clean up nice, Shorty.”
“Don’t call me that. Especially since She Who Must Not Be Named gave me that nickname.”
Damn. She Voldemorted Hailey. “Maya, you don’t have to take sides, you know.”
“She’s the one not speaking to us, remember?”
Hailey’s been on some silent treatment shit since the incident at Maya’s house. I mean damn, I call you out on something, so I’m wrong and deserve the cold shoulder? Nah, she’s not guilt-tripping me like that. And when Maya admitted to Hailey that she told me why Hailey unfollowed my Tumblr, Hailey stopped speaking to Maya, claiming she won’t talk to either of us until we apologize. She’s not used to both of us turning on her like this.
Whatever. She and Chris can form a club for all I care. Call it the Silent Treatment League of Young, Rich Brats.
I’m in my feelings just a tad. I hate that Maya got pulled into it though. “Maya, I’m sorry—”
“No need,” she says. “Don’t know if I told you, but I brought up the cat thing to her. After I told her about Tumblr.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. And she told me to get over it.” Maya shakes her head. “I’m still mad at myself for letting her say it in the first place.”
“Yeah. I’m mad at myself too.”
We get quiet.
Maya nudges my side. “Hey. We minorities have to stick together, remember?”
I chuckle. “Okay, okay. Where’s Ryan?”
“Getting some snacks. He looks good tonight, if I say so myself. Where’s your guy?”
“Don’t know,” I say. And don’t care at the moment.
The beautiful thing about best friends? They can tell when you don’t wanna talk, and they don’t push it. Maya hooks her arm through mine. “C’mon. I did not get dressed up to stand around.”
We head for the dance floor and jump and fist-pump along with the rest of them. Maya takes those heels off and barefoots it. Jess, Britt, and some of the other girls from the team join us, and we make our own little dancing circle. We lose our minds when my cousin-through-marriage, Beyoncé, comes on. (I swear I’m related to Jay-Z somehow. Same last name—we have to be.)
We sing loudly with Cousin Bey until we almost go hoarse, and Maya and I are really into it. I may not have Khalil, Natasha, or even Hailey, but I have Maya. She’s enough.
After six songs, we head back to our table, our arms draped around each other. I carry one of Maya’s shoes, and the other one dangles from her wrist by the strap.
“Did you see Mr. Warren do the robot?” Maya asks between laughs.
“Did I? I didn’t know he had it in him.”
Maya stops. She looks around without looking at anything at all. “Don’t look, but look to the left,” she mutters.
“The hell? Which one is it?”
“Look to the left,” she says through her teeth. “But quickly.”
Hail
ey and Luke are arm in arm in the entrance, posing for pictures, and I can’t even throw shade—with her gold-and-white dress and his white tux, they’re cute. I mean, just ’cause we’ve got beef doesn’t mean I can’t compliment her, you know? I’m even happy she’s with Luke. It took long enough.
Hailey and Luke walk in our direction but brush right past us, her shoulder a couple of inches away from mine. She flashes us stank-eye. This chick. I probably shoot one back. Sometimes I give stank-eyes and don’t realize I’m giving them.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Maya says to Hailey’s back. “You better keep walking.”
Lord. Maya can go from zero to one hundred a little too quick. “Let’s get something to drink,” I say, pulling her with me. “Before you hurt yourself.”
We get some punch and join Ryan at our table. He’s stuffing his face with finger sandwiches and meatballs, crumbs falling onto his tux. “Where y’all been?” he asks.
“Dancing,” Maya says. She steals one of his shrimp. “You didn’t eat all day, did you?”
“Nope. I was about to starve to death.” He nods at me. “What’s up, Black Girlfriend?”
We joke around about that whole “only two black kids in the class are supposed to date” thing. “What’s up, Black Boyfriend?” I say, and I steal a shrimp too.
What do you know, Chris remembers he came with somebody and walks over to our table. He says hey to Maya and Ryan, then asks me, “You wanna take pictures or something?”
His tone is all robotic again. On a scale of one to ten on the “I’m done” meter, I’m at about fifty. “No thanks,” I tell him. “I’m not taking pictures with somebody who doesn’t wanna be here with me.”
He sighs. “Why do you have to have an attitude?”
“Me? You’re the one giving me the cold shoulder.”
“Dammit, Starr! Do you wanna take a fucking picture or not?”
The “done” meter blows up. Ka-boom. Blown to pieces. “Hell no. Go take one and shove it up your ass.”
I march off, ignoring Maya’s calls for me to come back. Chris follows me. He tries to grab my arm, but I snatch away and keep walking. It’s dark outside, but I easily find the Rolls-Royce parked along the driveway. The chauffeur isn’t around, or otherwise I would ask him to take me home. I hop in the back and lock the doors.