: Part 1 – Chapter 12

I’m luring Brickz inside when it passes out front.

I watch it crawl down the street for the longest time till I get the sense to alert somebody. “Daddy!”

He looks up from pulling weeds around his bell peppers. “Are they for real with that?”

The tank resembles the ones they show on the news when talking about war in the Middle East. It’s the size of two Hummers. The blue-and-white lights on the front make the street almost as bright as it is in daytime. An officer is positioned on top, wearing a vest and a helmet. He points his rifle ahead.

A voice booms from the armored vehicle, “All persons found violating the curfew will be subject to arrest.”

Daddy pulls more weeds. “Some bullshit.”

Brickz follows the piece of bologna I dangle in front of him all the way to his spot in the kitchen. He sits there all content, chomping on it and the rest of his food. Brickz won’t act crazy as long as Daddy’s home.

All of us are kinda like Brickz, really. Daddy being home means Momma won’t sit up all night, Sekani won’t flinch all the time, and Seven won’t have to be the man of the house. I’ll sleep better too.

Daddy comes in, dusting caked dirt off his hands. “Them roses dying. Brickz, you been pissing on my roses?”

Brickz’s head perks up. He locks his eyes with Daddy’s but eventually lowers his head.

“I bet’ not catch you doing it,” Daddy says. “Or we gon’ have a problem.”

Brickz lowers his eyes too.

I grab a paper towel and a slice of pizza from the box on the counter. This is like my fourth slice tonight. Momma bought two huge pies from Sal’s on the other side of the freeway. Italians own it, so the pizza is thin, herby (is that a word?), and good.

“You finished your homework?” Daddy asks.

“Yep.” A lie.

He washes his hands at the kitchen sink. “Got any tests this week?”

“Trig on Friday.”

“You studied for it?”

“Yep.” Another lie.

“Good.” He gets the grapes out the refrigerator. “You still got that old laptop? The one you had before we bought you that expensive-ass fruit one?”

I laugh. “It’s an Apple MacBook, Daddy.”

“It damn sure wasn’t the price of an apple. Anyway, you got the old one?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Give it to Seven. Tell him to look over it and make sure it’s a’ight. I want DeVante to have it.”

“Why?”

“You pay bills?”

“No.”

“Then I ain’t gotta answer that.”

That’s how he gets out of almost every argument with me. I should buy one of those cheap magazine subscriptions and say, “Yeah, I pay a bill, and what?” It won’t matter though.

I head to my room after I finish my pizza. Daddy’s already gone to his and Momma’s room. Their TV’s on, and they’re both lying on their stomachs on the bed, one of her legs on his as she types on her laptop. It’s oddly adorable. Sometimes I watch them to get an idea of what I want one day.

“You still mad at me ’bout DeVante?” Daddy asks her. She doesn’t answer, keeping her eyes on her laptop. He scrunches up his nose and gets all in her face. “You still mad at me? Huh? You still mad at me?”

She laughs and playfully pushes at him. “Move, boy. No, I’m not mad at you. Now give me a grape.”

He grins and feeds her a grape, and I just can’t. The cuteness is too much. Yeah, they’re my parents, but they’re my OTP. Seriously.

Daddy watches whatever she’s doing on the computer, feeding her a grape every time he eats one. She’s probably uploading the latest family snapshots on Facebook for our out-of-town relatives. With everything that’s going on, what can she say? “Sekani saw cops harass his daddy, but he’s doing so well in school. #ProudMom.” Or, “Starr saw her best friend die, keep her in your prayers, but my baby made the honor roll again. #Blessed.” Or even, “Tanks are rolling by outside, but Seven’s been accepted into six colleges so far. #HeIsGoingPlaces.”

I go to my room. Both my old and new laptops are on my desk, which is a mess. There’s a huge pair of Daddy’s Jordans next to my old laptop. The yellowed bottoms of the sneakers face the lamp, and a layer of Saran Wrap protects my concoction of detergent and toothpaste that’ll eventually clean them. Watching yellowed soles turn icy again is as satisfying as squeezing a blackhead and getting all the gunk out. Ah-maz-ing.

According to the lie I told Daddy, my homework is supposed to be done, but I’ve been on a “Tumblr break,” a.k.a. I haven’t started my homework and have spent the last two hours on Tumblr. I started a new blog—

. It doesn’t have my name on it, just pictures of Khalil. In the first one he’s thirteen with an Afro. Uncle Carlos took us to a ranch so we could “get a taste of country life,” and Khalil’s looking side-eyed at a horse that’s beside him. I remember him saying, “If this thing makes a wrong move, I’m running!”

On Tumblr, I captioned the picture: “The Khalil I know was afraid of animals.” I tagged it with his name. One person liked it and reblogged it. Then another and another.

That made me post more pictures, like one of us in a bathtub when we were four. You can’t see our private parts because of all the suds, and I’m looking away from the camera. Ms. Rosalie’s sitting on the side of the tub, beaming at us, and Khalil’s beaming right back at her. I wrote, “The Khalil I know loved bubble baths almost as much as he loved his grandma.”

In just two hours, hundreds of people have liked and reblogged the pictures. I know it’s not the same as getting on the news like Kenya said, but I hope it helps. It’s helping me at least.

Other people posted about Khalil, uploaded artwork of him, posted pictures of him that they show on the news. I think I’ve reblogged every single one.

Funny though: somebody posted a video clip of Tupac from back in the day. Okay, so every video clip of Tupac is from back in the day. He’s got a little kid on his lap and is wearing a backwards snapback that would be fly now. He explains Thug Life like Khalil said he did—The Hate U Give Little Infants Fucks Everybody. ’Pac spells out “Fucks” because that kid is looking dead in his face. When Khalil told me what it meant I kinda understood it. I really understand it now.

I grab my old laptop when my phone buzzes on my desk. Momma returned it earlier—hallelujah, thank you, Black Jesus. She said it’s only in case there’s another situation at school. I got it back though, don’t really care why. I’m hoping it’s a text from Kenya. I sent her the link to my new Tumblr earlier. Thought she’d like to see it since she kinda pushed me to do it.

But it’s Chris. He took note from Seven with his all-caps texts:

OMG!

THIS EPISODE WILL’S DAD DIDN’T TAKE HIM WITH HIM THE ASSHOLE CAME BACK AND LEFT HIM AGAIN NOW HE’S HAVING A BREAKDOWN WITH UNCLE PHIL MY EYES ARE SWEATING Understandable. That’s seriously the saddest episode ever. I text Chris back:

Sorry :(. And your eyes aren’t sweating. You’re crying, babe.

He replies:

LIES!

I say:

You ain’t gotta lie, Craig. You ain’t gotta lie.

He responds:

DID YOU REALLY USE A LINE FROM FRIDAY ON ME???

So watching nineties movies is kinda our thing too. I text back:

Yep 😉

He replies:

BYE, FELICIA!

I take the laptop to Seven’s room, phone in hand in case Chris has another breakdown. Some reggae chants meet me in the hall, followed by Kendrick Lamar rapping about being a hypocrite. Seven sits on the side of the lower bunk, an open computer tower at his feet. With his head down, his dreads hang loosely and make a curtain in front of his face. DeVante sits cross-legged on the floor. His Afro bobs to the song.

A zombie version of Steve Jobs watches them from a poster on the wall along with all these superheroes and characters. There’s a Slytherin comforter on the bottom bunk that I swear I’ll steal one day. Seven and I are reverse HP fans—we liked the movies first, then the books. I got Khalil and Natasha hooked on them too. Momma found the first movie for a dollar at a thrift store back when we lived in the Cedar Grove projects. Seven and I said we were Slytherins since almost all Slytherins were rich. When you’re a kid in a one-bedroom in the projects, rich is the best thing anybody can be.

Seven removes a silver box from the computer and examines it. “It’s not even that old.”

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Big D asked me to fix his computer. It needs some new DVD drives. He burnt his out making all them bootlegs.”

My brother is the unofficial Garden Heights tech guy. Old ladies, hustlers, and everybody in between pay him to fix their computers and phones. He makes good money like that too.

A black garbage bag leans against the foot of the bunk bed with some clothes sticking out the top of it. Somebody put it over the fence and left it in our front yard. Seven, Sekani, and I found it when we came home from the store. We thought it may have been DeVante’s, but Seven looked inside and everything in it belonged to him. The stuff he had at his momma’s house.

He called Iesha. She said she was putting him out. King told her to.

“Seven, I’m sorry—”

“It’s okay, Starr.”

“But she shouldn’t have—”

“I said it’s okay.” He glances up at me. “All right? Don’t sweat it.”

“All right,” I say as my phone vibrates. I hand DeVante the laptop and look. Still no response from Kenya. Instead it’s a text from Maya.

Are u mad @ us?

“What’s this for?” DeVante asks, staring at the laptop.

“Daddy wants you to have it. But he said let Seven check it out first,” I tell him as I reply to Maya.

What do u think?

“What he want me to have it for?” DeVante asks.

“Maybe he wants to see if you actually know how to operate one,” I tell DeVante.

“I know how to use a computer,” DeVante says. He hits Seven, who’s snickering.

My phone buzzes three times. Maya has responded.

Definitely mad.

Can the 3 of us talk?

Things have been awkward lately.

Typical Maya. If Hailey and I have any kind of disagreement, she tries to fix it. She has to know this won’t be a “Kumbaya” moment. I reply:

Okay. Will let u know when I’m @ my uncle’s.

Gunshots fire at rapid speed in the distance. I flinch.

“Goddamn machine guns,” Daddy says. “Folks acting like this Iran or some shit.”

“No cussing, Daddy!” Sekani says from the den.

“Sorry, man. I’ll add a dollar to the jar.”

“Two! You said the ‘g-d’ word.”

“A’ight, two. Starr, come to the kitchen for a second.”

In the kitchen, Momma speaks in her “other voice” on the phone. “Yes, ma’am. We want the same thing.” She sees me. “And here’s my lovely daughter now. Could you hold, please?” She covers the receiver. “It’s the DA. She would like to talk to you this week.”

Definitely not what I expected. “Oh . . .”

“Yeah,” Momma says. “Look, baby, if you’re not comfortable with it—”

“I am.” I glance at Daddy. He nods. “I can do it.”

“Oh,” she says, looking from me to Daddy and back. “Okay. As long as you’re sure. I think we should meet with Ms. Ofrah first though. Possibly take her up on her offer to represent you.”

“Definitely,” Daddy says. “I don’t trust them folks at the DA office.”

“So how about we see her tomorrow and meet with the DA later on this week?” Momma asks.

I grab another slice of pizza and take a bite. It’s cold now, but cold pizza is the best pizza. “So two days of no school?”

“Oh, you’re going to school,” she says. “And did you eat any salad while you’re eating all that pizza?”

“I’ve had veggies. These little bitty peppers.”

“They don’t count when they’re that little.”

“Yeah, they do. If babies can count as humans when they’re little, veggies can count as veggies when they’re little.”

“That logic ain’t working with me. So, we’ll meet with Ms. Ofrah tomorrow and the DA on Wednesday. Sound like a plan?”

“Yeah, except the school part.”

Momma uncovers the phone. “Sorry for the delay. We can come in on Wednesday morning.”

“In the meantime tell your boys the mayor and the police chief to get them fucking tanks out my neighborhood,” Daddy says loudly. Momma swats at him, but he’s going down the hall. “Claim folks need to act peaceful, but rolling through here like we in a goddamn war.”

“Two dollars, Daddy,” Sekani says.

When Momma hangs up, I say, “It wouldn’t kill me to miss one day of school. I don’t wanna be there if they try that protest mess again.” I wouldn’t be surprised if Remy tried to get a whole week off because of Khalil. “I need two days, that’s all.” Momma raises her brows. “Okay, one and a half. Please?”

She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “We’ll see. But not a word of this to your brothers, you hear me?”

Basically, she said yes without saying yes outright. I can deal with that.

Pastor Eldridge once preached that “Faith isn’t just believing but taking steps toward that belief.” So when my alarm goes off Tuesday morning, by faith I don’t get up, believing that Momma won’t make me go to school.

And to quote Pastor Eldridge, hallelujah, God shows up and shows out. Momma doesn’t make me get up. I stay in bed, listening as everybody else gets ready for the day. Sekani makes it his business to tell Momma I’m not up yet.

“Don’t worry about her,” she says. “Worry about yourself.”

The TV in the den blares some morning news show, and Momma hums around the house. When Khalil and One-Fifteen are mentioned, the volume lowers a whole lot and doesn’t go back up until a political story comes on.

My phone buzzes under my pillow. I take it out and look. Kenya finally texted me back about my new Tumblr. She would make me wait hours for a response, and her comment is short as hell:

It’s aight I roll my eyes. That’s about as close as I’m gonna get to a compliment from her. I text back.

I love you too Her response?

I know ☺

She’s so petty. Part of me wonders though if she didn’t respond last night ’cause of drama at her house. Daddy said King’s still beating Iesha up. Sometimes he hits Kenya and Lyric too. Kenya’s not the type to talk about it like that, so I ask:

Everything okay?

, she writes back.

Short, but it says enough. There isn’t much I can do, so I just remind her:

I’m here if you need me Her response?

You better be See? Petty.

Here’s the messed-up part about missing school: you wonder what you would be doing if you went. At eight, I figure Chris and I would just be getting to history since it’s our first class on Tuesdays. I send him a quick text.

Won’t be at school today.

Two minutes later, he replies.

Are you sick? Need me to kiss it and make it better? Wink wink He seriously typed “wink wink” instead of two wink emojis. I’ll admit, I smile. I write back:

What if I’m contagious?

He says:

Doesn’t matter. I’ll kiss you anywhere. Wink wink.

I reply:

Is that another line?

He responds in less than a minute.

It’s whatever you want it to be. Love you Fresh Princess.

Pause. That “L” word completely catches me off guard, like a player from the other team stealing the ball right as you’re about to make a layup. It takes all of your momentum and you spend a week wondering how that steal slipped up on you.

Yeah. Chris saying “love you” is like that, except I can’t waste a week wondering about it. By not answering, I’m answering, if that makes sense. The shot clock is winding down, and I need to say something.

But what?

By not saying “I” before “love you,” he’s making it more casual. Seriously, “love you” and “I love you” are different.

Same team, different players. “Love you” isn’t as forward or aggressive as “I love you.” “Love you” can slip up on you, sure, but it doesn’t make an in-your-face slam dunk. More like a nice jump shot.

Two minutes pass. I need to say something.

Love you too.

It’s as foreign as a Spanish word I haven’t learned yet, but funny enough it comes pretty easily.

I get a wink emoji in return.

Just Us for Justice occupies the old Taco Bell on Magnolia Avenue, between the car wash and the cash advance place. Daddy used to take me and Seven to that Taco Bell every Friday and get us ninety-nine-cent tacos, cinnamon twists, and a soda to share. This was right after he got out of prison, when he didn’t have a lot of money. He usually watched us eat. Sometimes he asked the manager, one of Momma’s girlfriends, to keep an eye on us, and he went to the cash advance place next door. When I got older and discovered that presents don’t just “show up,” I realized Daddy always went over there around our birthdays and Christmas.

Momma rings the doorbell at Just Us, and Ms. Ofrah lets us in.

“Sorry about that,” she says, locking the door. “It’s just me here today.”

“Oh,” Momma says. “Where are your colleagues?”

“Some of them are at Garden Heights High doing a roundtable discussion. Others are leading a march on Carnation where Khalil was murdered.”

It’s weird to hear somebody say “Khalil was murdered” as easily as Ms. Ofrah does. She doesn’t bite her tongue or hesitate.

Short-walled cubicles take up most of the restaurant. They have almost as many posters as Seven has, but the kind Daddy would love, like Malcolm X standing next to a window holding a rifle, Huey Newton in prison with his fist up for black power, and photographs of the Black Panthers at rallies and giving breakfast to kids.

Ms. Ofrah leads us to her cubicle next to the drive-through window. It’s kinda funny too ’cause she has a Taco Bell cup on her desk. “Thank you so much for coming,” she says. “I was so happy when you called, Mrs. Carter.”

“Please, call me Lisa. How long have you all been in this space?”

“Almost two years now. And if you’re wondering, yes, we do get the occasional prankster who pulls up to the window and tells me they want a chalupa.”

We laugh. The doorbell rings up front.

“That’s probably my husband,” Momma says. “He was on his way.”

Ms. Ofrah leaves, and soon Daddy’s voice echoes through the office as he follows her back. He grabs a third chair from another cubicle and sets it halfway in Ms. Ofrah’s office and halfway in the hall. That’s how small her cubicle is.

“Sorry I’m late. Had to get DeVante situated with Mr. Lewis.”

“Mr. Lewis?” I ask.

“Yeah. Since I’m here, I asked him to let DeVante help around the shop. Mr. Lewis needs somebody to look out for his dumb behind. Snitching on live TV.”

“You’re talking about the gentleman who did the interview about the King Lords?” Ms. Ofrah asks.

“Yeah, him,” says Daddy. “He owns the barbershop next to my store.”

“Oh, wow. That interview definitely has people talking. Last I checked it had almost a million views online.”

I knew it. Mr. Lewis has become a meme.

“It takes a lot of guts to be as upfront as he is. I meant what I said at Khalil’s funeral, Starr. It was very brave of you to talk to the police.”

“I don’t feel brave.” With Malcolm X watching me on her wall, I can’t lie. “I’m not running my mouth on TV like Mr. Lewis.”

“And that’s okay,” Ms. Ofrah says. “It seemed Mr. Lewis impulsively spoke out in anger and frustration. In a case like Khalil’s, I would much rather that you spoke out in a more deliberate and planned way.” She looks at Momma. “You said the DA called yesterday?”

“Yes. They’d like to meet with Starr tomorrow.”

“Makes sense. The case was turned over to their office, and they’re preparing to take it to a grand jury.”

“What does that mean?” I ask.

“A jury will decide if charges should be brought against Officer Cruise.”

“And Starr will have to testify to the grand jury,” Daddy says.

Ms. Ofrah nods. “It’s a bit different from a normal trial. There won’t be a judge or a defense attorney present, and the DA will ask Starr questions.”

“But what if I can’t answer them all?”

“What do you mean?” Ms. Ofrah says.

“I—the gun in the car stuff. On the news they said there may have been a gun in the car, like that changes everything. I honestly don’t know if there was.”

Ms. Ofrah opens a folder that’s on her desk, takes a piece of paper out, and pushes it toward me. It’s a photograph of Khalil’s black hairbrush, the one he used in the car.

“That’s the so-called gun,” Ms. Ofrah explains. “Officer Cruise claims he saw it in the car door, and he assumed Khalil was reaching for it. The handle was thick enough, black enough, for him to assume it was a gun.”

“And Khalil was black enough,” Daddy adds.

A hairbrush.

Khalil died over a fucking hairbrush.

Ms. Ofrah slips the photograph back in the folder. “It’ll be interesting to see how his father addresses it in his interview tonight.”

Hold up. “Interview?” I ask.

Momma shifts a little in her chair. “Um . . . the officer’s father has a television interview that’s airing tonight.”

I glance from her to Daddy. “And nobody told me?”

“’Cause it ain’t worth talking about, baby,” Daddy says.

I look at Ms. Ofrah. “So his dad can give his son’s side to the whole world, and I can’t give mine and Khalil’s? He’s gonna have everybody thinking One-Fifteen’s the victim.”

“Not necessarily,” Ms. Ofrah says. “Sometimes these kinds of things backfire. And at the end of the day, the court of public opinion has no say in this. The grand jury does. If they see enough evidence, which they should, Officer Cruise will be charged and tried.”

“If,” I repeat.

A wave of awkward silence rolls in. One-Fifteen’s father is his voice, but I’m Khalil’s. The only way people will know his side of the story is if I speak out.

I look out the drive-through window at the car wash next door. Water cascades from a hose, making rainbows against the sunlight like it did six years ago, right before bullets took Natasha.

I turn to Ms. Ofrah. “When I was ten, I saw my other best friend get murdered in a drive-by.”

Funny how comes out easily now.

“Oh.” Ms. Ofrah sinks back. “I didn’t— I’m so sorry, Starr.”

I stare at my fingers and fumble with them. Tears well in my eyes. “I’ve tried to forget it, but I remember everything. The shots, the look on Natasha’s face. They never caught the person who did it. I guess it didn’t matter enough. But it did matter.

mattered.” I look at Ms. Ofrah, but I can barely see her for all the tears. “And I want everyone to know that Khalil mattered too.”

Ms. Ofrah blinks. A lot. “Absolutely. I—” She clears her throat. “I would like to represent you, Starr. Pro bono, in fact.”

Momma nods, and she’s teary-eyed too.

“I’ll do whatever I can to make sure you’re heard, Starr. Because just like Khalil and Natasha mattered, you matter and your voice matters. I can start by trying to get you a television interview.” She looks at my parents. “If you’re okay with that.”

“As long as they don’t reveal her identity, yeah,” Daddy says.

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” she says. “We will absolutely make sure her privacy is protected.”

A quiet buzzing comes from Daddy’s way. He takes out his phone and answers. The person on the other end shouts something, but I can’t make it out. “Ay, calm down, Vante. Say that again?” The response makes Daddy stand up. “I’m coming. You call nine-one-one?”

“What’s wrong?” Momma says.

He motions for us to follow him. “Stay with him, a’ight? We on the way.”