by Angie Thomas
Somebody yanks my arm, and I turn, face-to-face with Remy, Hailey’s older brother.
“You crazy bi—”
Before he can finish “bitch,” a blur of dreadlocks charges at us and pushes Remy back.
“Get your hands off my sister!” Seven says.
And then they’re fighting. Seven throws blows like nobody’s business, knocking Remy upside his head with several good hooks and jabs. Daddy used to take both of us to the boxing gym after school.
Two security guards run over. Dr. Davis, the headmaster, marches toward us.
An hour later, I’m in Momma’s car. Seven trails us in his Mustang.
All four of us have been sentenced to three days’ suspension, despite Williamson’s zero-tolerance policy. Hailey and Remy’s dad, a Williamson board member, thought it was outrageous. He said Seven and I should be expelled because we “started it,” and that Seven shouldn’t be allowed to graduate. Dr. Davis told him, “Given the circumstances”—and he looked straight at me—“suspension will suffice.”
He knows I was with Khalil.
“This is exactly what They expect you to do,” Momma says. “Two kids from Garden Heights, acting like you ain’t got any sense!”
They with a capital T. There’s Them and then there’s Us. Sometimes They look like Us and don’t realize They are Us.
“But she was running her mouth, saying Khalil deserved—”
“I don’t care if she said she shot him herself. People are gonna say a whole lot, Starr. It doesn’t mean you hit somebody. You gotta walk away sometimes.”
“You mean walk away and get shot like Khalil did?”
She sighs. “Baby, I understand—”
“No you don’t!” I say. “Nobody understands! I saw the bullets rip through him. I sat there in the street as he took his last breath. I’ve had to listen to people try to make it seem like it’s okay he was murdered. As if he deserved it. But he didn’t deserve to die, and I didn’t do anything to deserve seeing that shit!”
WebMD calls it a stage of grief—anger. But I doubt I’ll ever get to the other stages. This one slices me into millions of pieces. Every time I’m whole and back to normal, something happens to tear me apart, and I’m forced to start all over again.
The rain lets up. The devil stops beating his wife, but I beat the dashboard, punching it over and over, numb to the pain of it. I wanna be numb to the pain of all of this.
“Let it out, Munch.” My mom rubs my back. “Let it out.”
I pull my polo over my mouth and scream until there aren’t any screams left in me. If there are any, I don’t have the energy to get them out. I cry for Khalil, for Natasha, even for Hailey, ’cause damn if I didn’t just lose her for good too.
When we turn on our street, I’m snot-nosed and wet-eyed. Finally numb.
A gray pickup and a green Chrysler 300 are parked behind Daddy’s truck in the driveway. Momma and Seven have to park in front of the house.
“What is this man up to?” Momma says. She looks over at me. “You feel better?”
I nod. What other choice do I have?
She leans over and kisses my temple. “We’ll get through this. I promise.”
We get out. I’m one hundred percent sure the cars in the driveway belong to King Lords and Garden Disciples. In Garden Heights you can’t drive a car that’s gray or green unless you claim a set. I expect yelling and cussing when I get inside, but all I hear is Daddy saying, “It don’t make no sense, man. For real, it don’t.”
It’s standing-room-only in the kitchen. We can’t even get in ’cause some guys are in the doorway. Half of them have green somewhere in their outfits. Garden Disciples. The others have light gray on somewhere. Cedar Grove King Lords. Mr. Reuben’s nephew, Tim, sits beside Daddy at the table. I’ve never noticed that cursive GD tattoo on his arm.
“We don’t know when the grand jury gon’ make their decision,” Daddy says. “But if they decide not to indict, y’all gotta tell these li’l dudes not to burn this neighborhood down.”
“What you expect them to do then?” says a GD at the table. “Folks tired of the bullshit, Mav.”
“Straight up,” says the King Lord Goon, who’s at the table too. His long plaits have ponytail holders on them like I used to wear way back in the day. “Nothing we can do ’bout it.”
“That’s bullshit,” says Tim. “We can do something.”
“We can all agree the riots got outta hand, right?” says Daddy.
He gets a bunch of “yeahs” and “rights.”
“Then we can make sure it doesn’t go down like that again. Talk to these kids. Get in their heads. Yeah, they mad. We all mad, but burning down our neighborhood ain’t gon’ fix it.”
“Our?” says the GD at the table. “Nigga, you said you moving.”
“To the suburbs,” Goon mocks. “You getting a minivan too, Mav?”
They all laugh at that.
Daddy doesn’t though. “I’m moving, so what? I’ll still have a store here, and I’ll still give a damn what happens here. Who is it gon’ benefit if the whole neighborhood burns down? Damn sure won’t benefit none of us.”
“We gotta be more organized next time,” says Tim. “For one, make sure our brothers and sisters know they can’t destroy black-owned businesses. That messes it up for all of us.”
“For real,” says Daddy. “And I know, me and Tim out the game, so we can’t speak on some things, but all these territory wars gotta be put aside somehow. This is bigger than some street shit. And honestly all the street shit got these cops thinking they can do whatever they want.”
“Yeah, I feel you on that,” says Goon.
“Y’all gotta come together somehow, man,” Daddy says. “For the sake of the Garden. The last thing they’d ever expect is some unity around here. A’ight?”
Daddy slaps palms with Goon and the Garden Disciple. Then Goon and the Garden Disciple slap palms with each other.
“Wow,” Seven says.
It’s huge that these two gangs are in the same room together, and for my daddy to be the one behind it? Crazy.
He notices us in the doorway. “What y’all doing here?”
Momma inches into the kitchen, looking around. “The kids got suspended.”
“Suspended?” Daddy says. “For what?”
Seven passes him his phone.
“It’s online already?” I say.
“Yeah, somebody tagged me in it.”
Daddy taps the screen, and I hear Hailey running her mouth about Khalil, then a loud smack.
Some of the gang members watch over Daddy’s shoulder. “Damn, li’l momma,” one says, “you got hands.”
“You crazy bi—,” Remy says on the phone. A bunch of smacks and oohs follow.
“Look at my boy!” Daddy says. “Look at him!”
“I ain’t know your li’l nerdy ass had it in you,” a King Lord teases.
Momma clears her throat. Daddy stops the video.
“A’ight, y’all,” he says, serious all of a sudden. “I gotta handle some family business. We’ll meet back up tomorrow.”
Tim and all the gang members clear out, and cars crank up outside. Still no gunshots or arguing. They could’ve broken out into a gangsta rendition of “Kumbaya” and I wouldn’t be any more shocked than I am.
“How did you get all of them in here and keep the house in one piece?” Momma asks.
“I got it like that.”
Momma kisses him on the lips. “You certainly do. My man, the activist.”
“Uh-huh.” He kisses her back. “Your man.”
Seven clears his throat. “We’re standing right here.”
“Ay, y’all can’t complain,” Daddy says. “If you wouldn’t have been fighting, you wouldn’t have to see that.” He reaches over and pinches my cheek a little. “You a’ight?”
The dampness hasn’t left my eyes yet, and I’m not exactly smiling. I mutter, “Yeah.”
Daddy pulls me onto his lap
. He cradles me and switches between kissing my cheek and pinching it, going over and over in a real deep voice, “What’s wrong with you? Huh? What’s wrong with you?”
And I’m giggling before I can stop myself.
Daddy gives me a sloppy, wet kiss to my cheek and lets me up. “I knew I’d get you laughing. Now what happened?”
“You saw the video. Hailey ran her mouth, so I popped her. Simple as that.”
“That’s your child, Maverick,” Momma says. “Gotta hit somebody because she didn’t like what they said.”
“Mine? Uh-uh, baby. That’s all you.” He looks at Seven. “Why were you fighting?”
“Dude came at my sister,” Seven says. “I wasn’t gonna let him.”
As much as Seven talks about protecting Kenya and Lyric, it’s nice that he has my back too.
Daddy replays the video, starting with Hailey saying, “He was probably gonna end up dead anyway.”
“Wow,” Momma says. “That li’l girl has a lot of nerve.”
“Spoiled ass don’t know a damn thing and running her mouth,” says Daddy.
“So, what’s our punishment?” Seven asks.
“Go do your homework,” Momma says.
“That’s it?” I say.
“You’ll also have to help your dad at the store while you’re suspended.” She drapes her arms over Daddy from behind. “Sound okay, baby?”
He kisses her arm. “Sounds good to me.”
If you can’t translate Parentish, this is what they really said:
Momma: I don’t condone what you did, and I’m not saying it’s okay, but I probably would’ve done it too. What about you, baby?
Daddy: Hell yeah, I would’ve.
I love them for that.
PART 4
TEN WEEKS AFTER IT
TWENTY-ONE
Still no decision from the grand jury, so we’re still living.
It’s Saturday, and my family is at Uncle Carlos’s house for a Memorial Day weekend barbecue, which is also serving as Seven’s birthday/graduation party. He turns eighteen tomorrow, and he officially became a high school graduate yesterday. I’ve never seen Daddy cry like he did when Dr. Davis handed Seven that diploma.
The backyard smells like barbecue, and it’s warm enough that Seven’s friends swim in the pool. Sekani and Daniel run around in their trunks and push unsuspecting people in. They get Jess. She laughs about it and threatens to get them later. They try it once with me and Kenya and never again. All it takes is some swift kicks to their asses.
But DeVante comes up behind us and pushes me in. Kenya shrieks as I go under, getting my freshly done cornrows soaked and my J’s too. I have on board shorts and a tankini, but they’re new and cute, meaning they’re supposed to be looked at, not swam in.
I break the surface of the water and gulp in air.
“Starr, you okay?” Kenya calls. She’s run about five feet away from the pool.
“You not gon’ help me get out?” I say.
“Girl, nah. And mess up my outfit? You seem all right.”
Sekani and Daniel whoop and cheer for DeVante like he’s the greatest thing since Spide-Man. Bastards. I climb out that pool so fast.
“Uh-oh,” DeVante says, and the three of them take off in separate directions. Kenya goes after DeVante. I run after Sekani because dammit, blood is supposed to be thicker than pool water.
“Momma!” he squeals.
I catch him by his trunks and pull them way up, almost to his neck, until he has the worst wedgie ever. He gives a high-pitched scream. I let go, and he falls on the grass, his trunks so far up his butt it looks like he’s wearing a thong. That’s what he gets.
Kenya brings DeVante to me, holding his arms behind him like he’s under arrest. “Apologize,” she says.
“No!” Kenya yanks on his arms. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry!”
She lets go. “Better be.”
DeVante rubs his arm with a smirk. “Violent ass.”
“Punk ass,” she snips back.
He flicks his tongue at her, and she goes, “Boy, bye!”
This is flirting for them, believe it or not. I almost forget DeVante’s hiding from her daddy. They act like they’ve forgotten too.
DeVante gets me a towel. I snatch it and dry my face as I head to the poolside loungers with Kenya. DeVante sits beside her on one.
Ava skips over with her baby doll and a comb, and I naturally expect her to shove them into my hands. She hands them to DeVante instead.
“Here!” she tells him, and skips off.
And he starts combing the doll’s hair! Kenya and I stare at him for the longest.
“What?” he says.
We bust out laughing.
“She got you trained!” I say.
“Man.” He groans. “She cute, okay? I can’t tell her no.” He braids the doll’s hair, and his long thin fingers move so quickly, they look like they’ll get tangled. “My li’l sisters did me like this all the time.”
His tone dips when he mentions them. “You heard from them or your momma?” I ask.
“Yeah, about a week ago. They at my cousin’s house. She live in like the middle of nowhere. Mom’s been a mess ’cause she didn’t know if I was okay. She apologized for leaving me and for being mad. She want me to come stay with them.”
Kenya frowns. “You leaving?”
“I don’t know. Mr. Carlos and Mrs. Pam said I can stay with them for my senior year. My momma said she’d be okay with that, if it means I stay outta trouble.” He examines his handiwork. The doll has a perfect French braid. “I gotta think about it. I kinda like it out here.”
Salt-N-Pepa’s “Push It” blasts from the speakers. That’s one song Daddy shouldn’t play. The only thing worse would be that old song “Back That Thang Up.” Momma loses her damn mind when it comes on. Really, just say, “Cash Money Records, takin’ over for the ’99 and the 2000,” and she suddenly becomes ratchet as hell.
She and Aunt Pam both go, “Heeey!” to Salt-N-Pepa and do all these old dance moves. I like nineties shows and movies, but I do not wanna see my mom and auntie reenact that decade in dance. Seven and his friends circle around them and cheer them on.
Seven’s the loudest. “Go, Ma! Go, Aunt Pam!”
Daddy jumps in the middle of the circle behind Momma. He puts both hands behind his head and moves his hips in a circle.
Seven pushes Daddy away from Momma, going, “Nooo! Stooop!” Daddy gets around him, and dances behind Momma.
“Uh-uh,” Kenya laughs. “That’s too much.”
DeVante watches them with a smile. “You were right about your aunt and uncle, Starr. They ain’t too bad. Your grandma kinda cool too.”
“Who? I know you don’t mean Nana.”
“Yeah, her. She found out I play spades. The other day, she took me to a game after she finished tutoring me. She called it extra-credit work. We been cool ever since.”
Figures.
Chris and Maya walk through the gate, and my stomach gets all jittery. I should be used to my two worlds colliding, but I never know which Starr I should be. I can use some slang, but not too much slang, some attitude, but not too much attitude, so I’m not a “sassy black girl.” I have to watch what I say and how I say it, but I can’t sound “white.”
Shit is exhausting.
Chris and his new “bro” DeVante slap palms, then Chris kisses my cheek. Maya and I do our handshake. DeVante nods at her. They met a few weeks ago.
Maya sits beside me on the lounger. Chris squeezes his big butt between us, pushing both of us aside a little.
Maya flashes him a stink eye. “Seriously, Chris?”
“Hey, she’s my girlfriend. I get to sit next to her.”
“Um, no? Besties before testes.”
Kenya and I snicker, and DeVante goes, “Damn.”
The jitters ease up a bit.
“So you’re Chris?” Kenya says. She’s seen pictures on my Instagram.
“Yep. And you’re Ke
nya?” He’s seen pictures on my Instagram too.
“The one and only.” Kenya eyes me and mouths, He is fine! Like I didn’t know that already.
Kenya and Maya look at each other. Their paths last crossed almost a year ago at my Sweet Sixteen, if you can consider that path-crossing. Hailey and Maya were at one table, Kenya and Khalil at another table with Seven. They never talked.
“Maya, right?” Kenya says.
Maya nods. “The one and only.”
Kenya’s lips curl up. “Your kicks are cute.”
“Thanks,” Maya says, checking them out for herself. Nike Air Max 95s. “They’re supposed to be running shoes. I never run in them.”
“I don’t run in mine neither,” Kenya says. “My brother’s the only person I know who actually runs in them.”
Maya laughs.
Okay. This is good so far. Nothing to worry about.
Until Kenya goes, “So where blondie at?”
Chris snorts. Maya’s eyes widen.
“Kenya, that ain’t—that’s not her name,” I say.
“You knew who I was talking about though, didn’t you?”
“Yep!” Maya says. “She’s probably somewhere licking her wounds after Starr kicked her ass.”
“What?” Kenya shouts. “Starr, you ain’t tell me about that!”
“It was, like, two weeks ago,” I say. “Wasn’t worth talking ’bout. I only hit her.”
“Only hit her?” Maya says. “You Mayweathered her.”
Chris and DeVante laugh.
“Wait, wait,” Kenya says. “What happened?”
So I tell her about it, without really thinking about what I say or how I sound. I just talk. Maya adds to the story, making it sound worse than it was, and Kenya eats it up. We tell her how Seven gave Remy a couple of hits, which has Kenya beaming, talking about, “My brother don’t play.” Like he’s only her brother, but whatever. Maya even tells her about the Thanksgiving cat thing.
“I told Starr we minorities gotta stick together,” Maya says.
“So true,” says Kenya. “White people been sticking together forever.”
“Well . . .” Chris blushes. “This is awkward.”
“You’ll get over it, boo,” I say.
Maya and Kenya crack up.