The Hate U Give
: Part 1 – Chapter 15

It takes an untouched stack of pancakes for Momma to say, “All right, Munch. What’s up?”

We have a table to ourselves in IHOP. It’s early morning, and the restaurant’s almost empty except for us and these big-bellied, bearded truckers stuffing their faces in a booth. Thanks to them, country music plays on the jukebox.

I poke my fork at my pancakes. “Not real hungry.”

Somewhat a lie, somewhat the truth. I’m having a serious emotional hangover. There’s that interview. Uncle Carlos. Hailey. Khalil. DeVante. My parents.

Momma, Sekani, and I spent the night at Uncle Carlos’s house, and I know it was more because Momma’s mad at Daddy than it was about the riots. In fact, the news said last night was the first semipeaceful night in the Garden. Just protests, no riots. Cops were still throwing tear gas though.

Anyway, if I bring up my parents’ fight, Momma’s gonna tell me, “Stay outta grown folks’ business.” You’d think since it’s partially my fault they fought, it is my business, but nope.

“I don’t know who’s supposed to believe that you’re not hungry,” Momma says. “You’ve always been greedy.”

I roll my eyes and yawn. She got me up too early and said we were going to IHOP, just the two of us like we used to do before Sekani came along and ruined everything. He has an extra uniform at Uncle Carlos’s and can go to school with Daniel. I only had some sweats and a Drake T-shirt—not DA office appropriate. I gotta go home and change.

“Thanks for bringing me here,” I say. With my awful mood, I owe her that.

“Anytime, baby. We haven’t hung out in a while. Somebody decided I wasn’t cool anymore. I thought I was still cool, so whatever.” She sips from her steaming mug of coffee. “Are you scared to talk to the DA?”

“Not really.” Although I do notice the clock is only three and a half hours away from our nine-thirty meeting.

“Is it that BS of an interview? That bastard.”

Here we go again. “Momma—”

“Got his damn daddy going on TV, telling lies,” she says. “And who’s supposed to believe a grown man was that scared of two children?”

People on the internet are saying the same thing. Black Twitter’s been going in on Officer Cruise’s dad, claiming his name should be Tom Cruise with that performance he put on. Tumblr too. I’m sure there are people who believe him—Hailey did—but Ms. Ofrah was right: it backfired. Folks who never met me or Khalil are calling BS.

So while the interview bothers me, it doesn’t bother me that much.

“It’s not really the interview,” I say. “It’s other stuff too.”

“Like?”

“Khalil,” I say. “DeVante told me some stuff about him, and I feel guilty.”

“Stuff like what?” she says.

“Why he sold drugs. He was trying to help Ms. Brenda pay a debt to King.”

Momma’s eyes widen. “What?”

“Yeah. And he wasn’t a King Lord. Khalil turned King down, and King’s been lying to save face.”

Momma shakes her head. “Why am I not surprised? King would do some mess like that.”

I stare at my pancakes. “I should’ve known better. Should’ve known Khalil better.”

“You had no way of knowing, baby,” she says.

“That’s the thing. If I would’ve been there for him, I—”

“Couldn’t have stopped him. Khalil was almost as stubborn as you. I know you cared about him a lot, even as more than a friend, but you can’t blame yourself for this.”

I look up at her. “What you mean ‘cared about him as more than a friend’?”

“Don’t play dumb, Starr. Y’all liked each other for a long time.”

“You think he liked me too?”

“Lord!” Momma rolls her eyes. “Between the two of us, I’m the old one—”

“You just called yourself old.”

“Older one,” she corrects, and shoots me a quick stank-eye, “and I saw it. How in the world did you miss it?”

“I dunno. He always talked about other girls, not me. It’s weird though. I thought I was over my crush, but sometimes I don’t know.”

Momma traces the rim of her mug. “Munch,” she says, and it’s followed by a sigh. “Baby, look. You’re grieving, okay? That can amplify your emotions and make you feel things you haven’t felt in a long time. Even if you do have feelings for Khalil, there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Even though I’m with Chris?”

“Yes. You’re sixteen. You’re allowed to have feelings for more than one person.”

“So you’re saying I can be a ho?”

“Girl!” She points at me. “Don’t make me kick you under this table. I’m saying don’t beat yourself up about it. Grieve Khalil all you want. Miss him, allow yourself to miss what could’ve been, let your feelings get out of whack. But like I told you, don’t stop living. All right?”

“All right.”

“Good. So that’s two things,” she says. “What else is up?”

What isn’t up? My head is tight like my brain is overloaded. I’m guessing emotional hangovers feel a lot like actual hangovers.

“Hailey,” I say.

She slurps her coffee. Loudly. “What that li’l girl do now?”

Here she goes with this. “Momma, you’ve never liked her.”

“No, I’ve never liked how you’ve followed her like you can’t think for yourself. Difference.”

“I haven’t—”

“Don’t lie! Remember that drum set you begged me to buy. Why did you want it, Starr?”

“Hailey wanted to start a band, but I liked the idea too.”

“Hold up, though. Didn’t you tell me you wanted to play guitar in this ‘band,’ but Hailey said you should play drums?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Them li’l Jonas boys,” she says. “Which one did you really like?”

“Joe.”

“But who said you should be with the curly-headed one instead?”

“Hailey, but Nick was still fine as all get-out, and this is middle school stuff—”

“Uh-uh! Last year you begged me to let you color your hair purple. Why, Starr?”

“I wanted—”

“No. Why, Starr?” she says. “The real why.”

Damn. There’s a pattern here. “Because Hailey wanted me, her, and Maya to have matching hair.”

“E-xact-damn-ly. Baby, I love you, but you have a history of putting your wants aside and doing whatever that li’l girl wants. Excuse me if I don’t like her.”

With all my receipts put out there like that, I say, “I can see why.”

“Good. Realizing is the first step. So what she do now?”

“We had an argument yesterday,” I say. “Really though, things have been weird for a while. She stopped texting me and unfollowed my Tumblr.”

Momma reaches her fork onto my plate and breaks off a piece of pancake. “What is Tumblr anyway? Is it like Facebook?”

“No, and you’re forbidden to get one. No parents allowed. You guys already took over Facebook.”

“You haven’t responded to my friend request yet.”

“I know.”

“I need Candy Crush lives.”

“That’s why I’ll never respond.”

She gives me “the look.” I don’t care. There are some things I absolutely refuse to do.

“So she unfollowed your Tumblr thingy,” Momma says, proving why she can never have one. “Is that all?”

“No. She said and did some stupid stuff too.” I rub my eyes. Like I said, it’s too early. “I’m starting to wonder why we’re friends.”

“Well, Munch”—she gets another freaking piece of my pancakes—“you have to decide if the relationship is worth salvaging. Make a list of the good stuff, then make a list of the bad stuff. If one outweighs the other, then you know what you gotta do. Trust me, that method hasn’t failed me yet.”

“Is that what you did with Daddy after Iesha got pregnant?” I ask. “’Cause I’ll be honest, I would’ve kicked him to the curb. No offense.”

“It’s all right. A lot of people called me a fool for going back to your daddy. Shoot, they may still call me a fool behind my back. Your nana would have a stroke if she knew this, but she’s the real reason I stayed with your daddy.”

“I thought Nana hated Daddy?” I think Nana still hates Daddy.

Sadness creeps into Momma’s eyes, but she gives me a small smile. “When I was growing up, your grandmother would do and say hurtful things when she was drunk, and apologize the next morning. At an early age I learned that people make mistakes, and you have to decide if their mistakes are bigger than your love for them.”

She takes a deep breath. “Seven’s not a mistake, I love him to death, but Maverick made a mistake in his actions. However, all of his good and the love we share outweighs that one mistake.”

“Even with crazy Iesha in our lives?” I ask.

Momma chuckles. “Even with crazy, messy, annoying Iesha. It’s a little different, yeah, but if the good outweighs the bad, keep Hailey in your life, baby.”

That might be the problem. A lot of the good stuff is from the past. The Jonas Brothers, High School Musical, our shared grief. Our friendship is based on memories. What do we have now?

“What if the good doesn’t outweigh the bad?” I ask.

“Then let her go,” Momma says. “And if you keep her in your life and she keeps doing the bad, let her go. Because I promise you, had your daddy pulled some mess like that again, I’d be married to Idris Elba and saying, ‘Maverick who?’”

I bust out laughing.

“Now eat,” she says, and hands me her fork. “Before I have no choice but to eat these pancakes for you.”

I’m so used to seeing smoke in Garden Heights, it’s weird when we go back and there isn’t any. It’s dreary because of a late-night storm, but we can ride with the windows down. Even though the riots stopped, we pass as many tanks as we pass lowriders.

But at home smoke greets us at the front door.

“Maverick!” Momma hollers, and we hurry toward the kitchen.

Daddy pours water on a skillet at the sink, and the skillet responds with a loud sizzle and a white cloud. Whatever he burned, he burned it bad.

“Hallelujah!” Seven throws his hands up at the table. “Somebody who can actually cook.”

“Shut up,” Daddy says.

Momma takes the skillet and examines the unidentifiable remains. “What was this? Eggs?”

“Glad to see you know how to come home,” he says. He walks right by me without a glance or a good morning. He’s still pissed about Chris?

Momma gets a fork and stabs at the charred food stuck to the skillet. “You want some breakfast, Seven baby?”

He watches her and goes, “Um, nah. By the way, the skillet didn’t do anything, Ma.”

“You’re right,” she says, but she keeps stabbing. “Seriously, I can fix you something. Eggs. Bacon.” She looks toward the hall and shouts, “The pork kind! Pig! Swine! All’a that!”

So much for the good outweighing the bad. Seven and I look at each other. We hate when they fight because we always get stuck in the middle of their wars. Our appetites are the greatest casualty. If Momma’s mad and not cooking, we have to eat Daddy’s struggle meals, like spaghetti with ketchup and hot dogs in it.

“I’ll grab something at school.” Seven kisses her cheek. “Thanks though.” He gives me a fist bump on his way out, the Seven way of wishing me good luck.

Daddy returns wearing a backwards cap. He grabs his keys and a banana.

“We have to be at the DA’s office at nine thirty,” Momma says. “Are you coming?”

“Oh, Carlos can’t do it? Since he the one y’all let in on secrets and stuff.”

“You know what, Maverick—”

“I’ll be there,” he says, and leaves.

Momma stabs the skillet some more.

The DA personally escorts us to a conference room. Her name is Karen Monroe, and she’s a middle-aged white lady who claims she understands what I’m going through.

Ms. Ofrah is already in the conference room along with some people who work at the DA’s office. Ms. Monroe gives a long speech about how much she wants justice for Khalil and apologizes that it’s taken this long for us to meet.

“Twelve days, to be exact,” Daddy points out. “Too long, if you ask me.”

Ms. Monroe looks a bit uncomfortable at that.

She explains the grand jury proceedings. Then she asks about that night. I pretty much tell her what I told the cops, except she doesn’t ask any stupid questions about Khalil. But when I get to the part when I describe the number of shots, how they hit Khalil in his back, the look on his face—

My stomach bubbles, bile pools in my mouth, and I gag. Momma jumps up and grabs a garbage bin. She puts it in front of me quick enough to catch the vomit that spews from my mouth.

And I cry and puke. Cry and puke. It’s all I can do.

The DA gets me a soda and says, “That’ll be all today, sweetie. Thank you.”

Daddy helps me to Momma’s car, and people in the halls gawk. I bet they know I’m the witness from my teary, snotty face, and are probably giving me a new name—Poor Thing. As in, “Oh, that poor thing.” That makes it worse.

I get in the car away from their pity and rest my head against the window, feeling like shit.

Momma parks in front of the store, and Daddy pulls up behind us. He gets out his truck and comes to Momma’s side of the car. She rolls her window down.

“I’m going to the school,” she tells him. “They need to know what’s going on. Can she stay with you?”

“Yeah, that’s fine. She can rest in the office.”

Another thing puking and crying gets you—people talk about you like you’re not there and make plans for you. Poor Thing apparently can’t hear.

“You sure?” Momma asks him. “Or do I need to take her to Carlos?”

Daddy sighs. “Lisa—”

“Maverick, I don’t give a flying monkey’s ass what your problem is, just be there for your daughter. Please?”

Daddy moves to my side of the car and opens the door. “Come here, baby.”

I climb out, blubbering like a little kid who skinned her knee. Daddy pulls me into his chest, rubbing my back and kissing my hair. Momma drives off.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he says.

The crying, the puking don’t mean anything anymore. My daddy’s got me.

We go in the store. Daddy turns on the lights but keeps the closed sign in the window. He goes to his office for a second, then comes back to me and holds my chin.

“Open your mouth,” he says. I open it, and his face scrunches up. “Ill. We gotta get you a whole bottle of mouthwash. ’Bout to raise the dead with that breath.”

I laugh with tears in my eyes. Like I said, Daddy’s talented that way.

He wipes my face with his hands, which are rough as sandpaper, but I’m used to them. He frames my face. I smile. “There go my baby,” he says. “You’ll be a’ight.”

I feel normal enough to say, “Now I’m your baby? You haven’t been acting like it.”

“Don’t start!” He goes down the medicine aisle. “Sounding like your momma.”

“I’m just saying. You’ve been extra salty today.”

He returns with a bottle of Listerine. “Here. Before you kill my produce with your breath.”

“Like you killed those eggs this morning?”

“Ay, those were blackened eggs. Y’all don’t know ’bout that.”

“Nobody knows ’bout that.”

A couple of rinses in the restroom transform my mouth from a swamp of puke residue to normal. Daddy waits on the wooden bench at the front of the store. Our older customers who can’t walk much usually sit there as Daddy, Seven, or I get their groceries for them.

Daddy pats the spot next to him.

I sit. “You’re gonna open back up soon?”

“In a li’l bit. What you see in that white boy?”

Damn. I wasn’t expecting him to go right into it. “Besides the fact he’s adorable—” I say, and Daddy makes a gagging sound, “he’s smart, funny, and he cares about me. A lot.”

“You got a problem with black boys?”

“No. I’ve had black boyfriends.” Three of them. One in fourth grade, although that doesn’t really count, and two in middle school, which don’t count either ’cause nobody knows shit about a relationship in middle school. Or about anything really.

“What?” he says. “I ain’t know ’bout them.”

“Because I knew you’d act crazy. Put a hit on them or something.”

“You know, that ain’t a bad idea.”

“Daddy!” I smack his arm as he cracks up.

“Did Carlos know ’bout them?” he asks.

“No. He would’ve ran background checks on them or arrested them. Not cool.”

“So why you tell him ’bout the white boy?”

“I didn’t tell him,” I say. “He found out. Chris lives down the street from him, so it was harder to hide. And let’s be real here, Daddy. I’ve heard the stuff you’ve said about interracial couples. I didn’t want you talking about me and Chris like that.”

“Chris,” he mocks. “What kinda plain-ass name is that?”

He’s so petty. “Since you wanna ask me questions, do you have a problem with white people?”

“Not really.”

“Not really?”

“Ay, I’m being honest. My thing is, girls usually date boys who are like their daddies, and I ain’t gon’ lie, when I saw that white—Chris,” he corrects, and I smile. “I got worried. Thought I turned you against black men or didn’t set a good example of a black man. I couldn’t handle that.”

I rest my head on his shoulder. “Nah, Daddy. You haven’t set a good example of what a black man should be. You’ve set a good example of what a man should be. Duh!”

“Duh,” he mocks, and kisses the top of my head. “My baby.”

A gray BMW comes to a sudden stop in front of the store.

Daddy nudges me off the bench. “C’mon.”

He pulls me to his office and shoves me in. I catch a glimpse of King getting out the BMW before Daddy closes the door in my face.

Hands shaking, I crack open the door.

Daddy stands guard in the entrance of the store. His hand drifts to his waist. His piece.

Three other King Lords hop out the BMW, but Daddy calls out, “Nah. If you wanna talk, we do this alone.”

King nods at his boys. They wait beside the car.

Daddy steps aside, and King lumbers in. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I don’t know if Daddy stands a chance against King. Daddy isn’t skinny or short, but compared to King, who’s pure muscle at six feet, he looks tiny. It’s damn near blasphemous to think like that though.

“Where he at?” King asks.

“Where who at?”

“You know who. Vante.”

“How I’m supposed to know?” Daddy says.

“He was working here, wasn’t he?”

“For a day or two, yeah. I ain’t seen him today.”

King paces and points his cigar at Daddy. Sweat glistens on the rolls of fat on the back of his head. “You lying.”

“Why I gotta lie, King?”

“All the shit I did for you,” King says, “and this how you repay me? Where he at, Big Mav?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where he at?” King yells.

“I said I don’t know! He asked me for a couple hundred dollars the other day. I told him he had to work for it. So he did. I had some mercy and paid it all up front like a dumbass. He was supposed to come in today and didn’t. End of story.”

“Why he need money from you when he stole five Gs from me?”

“Hell if I know,” Daddy says.

“If I replace out you lying—”

“You ain’t gotta worry ’bout that. Got too many problems of my own.”

“Oh, yeah. I know ’bout your problems,” King says, a laugh bubbling from him. “I heard Starr-Starr the witness they been talking ’bout on the news. Hope she know to keep her mouth shut when she supposed to.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“These cases always interesting,” King says. “They dig for information. Shit, they try to replace out more ’bout the person who died than the person who shot them. Make it seem like a good thing they got killed. They already saying Khalil sold drugs. That could mean problems for anybody who may have been involved in his hustle. So people gotta be careful when they talking to the DA. Wouldn’t want them to be in danger ’cause they ran their mouth.”

“Nah,” Daddy says. “The folks who were involved in the hustle need to be careful ’bout what they say or even think ’bout doing.”

There are several agonizing seconds of Daddy and King staring each other down. Daddy’s hand is at his waist like it’s glued there.

King leaves, pushing the door hard enough to nearly break the hinges, the bell clanging wildly. He gets in his BMW. His minions follow, and he peels out, leaving the truth behind.

He’s gonna mess me up if I rat on him.

Daddy sinks onto the old people’s bench. His shoulders slump, and he takes a deep breath.

We close early and pick up dinner from Reuben’s.

During the short drive home, I notice every car behind us, especially if it’s gray.

“I won’t let him do anything to you,” Daddy says.

I know. But still.

Momma’s beating the hell out of some steaks when we get home. First the skillet and now red meat. Nothing in the kitchen is safe.

Daddy holds up the bags for her to see. “I got dinner, baby.”

It doesn’t stop her from beating the steaks.

We all sit around the kitchen table, but it’s the quietest dinner in Carter family history. My parents aren’t talking. Seven’s not talking. I’m definitely not talking. Or eating. Between the disaster at the DA’s office and King, my ribs and baked beans look disgusting. Sekani can’t sit still, like he’s itching to give every detail of his day. I guess he can tell nobody’s in the mood. Brickz chomps and slobbers over some ribs in his corner.

Afterward, Momma collects our plates and silverware. “All right, guys, finish your homework. And don’t worry, Starr. Your teachers gave me yours.”

Why would I worry about that? “Thanks.”

She starts to pick up Daddy’s plate, but he touches her arm. “Nah. I got it.”

He takes all of the plates from her, dumps them in the sink, and turns the water on.

“Maverick, you don’t have to do that.”

He squirts way too much dishwashing liquid in the sink. He always does. “It’s cool. What time you gotta be at the clinic in the morning?”

“I’ll be off again tomorrow. I have a job interview.”

Daddy turns around. “Another one?”

Another one?

“Yeah. Markham Memorial again.”

“That’s where Aunt Pam works,” I say.

“Yeah. Her dad is on the board and recommended me. It’s the Pediatrics Nursing Manager. This is my second interview for it actually. They want some of the higher-ups to interview me this time.”

“Baby, that’s amazing,” Daddy says. “That means you’re close to getting it, huh?”

“Hopefully,” she says. “Pam thinks it’s as good as mine.”

“Why didn’t you guys tell us?” Seven asks.

“’Cause it’s none of y’all business,” Daddy says.

“And we didn’t want to get your hopes up,” Momma adds. “It’s a competitive position.”

“How much does it pay?” Seven’s rude self asks.

“More than what I make at the clinic. Six figures.”

“Six?” Seven and I say.

“Momma’s gonna be a millionaire!” Sekani shouts.

I swear he doesn’t know anything. “Six figures is the hundred thousands, Sekani,” I say.

“Oh. It’s still a lot.”

“What time is your interview?” Daddy asks.

“Eleven.”

“Okay, good.” He turns around and wipes a plate. “We can look at some houses before you go to it.”

Momma’s hand goes across her chest, and she steps back. “What?”

He looks at me, then at her. “I’m getting us outta Garden Heights, baby. You got my word.”

The idea is as crazy as a four-point shot. Living somewhere other than Garden Heights? Yeah, right. I’d never believe it if it wasn’t Daddy saying it. Daddy never says something unless he means it. King’s threat must’ve really got to him.

He scrubs the skillet that Momma stabbed this morning.

She takes it from him, sets it down, and grabs his hand. “Don’t worry about that.”

“I told you it’s cool. I can get the dishes.”

“Forget the dishes.”

And she pulls him to their bedroom and closes the door.

Suddenly, their TV blares real loud, and Jodeci sings over it from the stereo. If that woman ends up with a fetus in her uterus, I will be completely done. Done.

“Ill, man,” Seven says, knowing the deal too. “They’re too old for that.”

“Too old for what?” Sekani asks.

“Nothing,” Seven and I say together.

“You think Daddy meant that though?” I ask Seven. “We’re moving?”

He twists one of his dreads at the root. I don’t think he realizes he’s doing it. “Sounds like y’all are. Especially if Ma gets this job.”

“Y’all?” I say. “You’re not staying in Garden Heights.”

“I mean, I’ll visit, but I can’t leave my momma and my sisters, Starr. You know that.”

“Your momma put you out,” Sekani says “Where else you gonna go, stupid?”

“Who you calling stupid?” Seven sticks his hand under his armpit, then rubs it in Sekani’s face. The one time he did it to me I was nine. He got a busted lip, and I got a whooping.

“You’re not gonna be at your momma’s house anyway,” I say. “You’re going away to college, hallelujah, thank Black Jesus.”

Seven raises his brows. “You want an armpit hand too? And I’m going to Central Community so I can stay at my momma’s house and watch out for my sisters.”

That stings. A little. I’m his sister too, not just them. “House,” I repeat. “You never call it home.”

“Yeah, I do,” he says.

“No, you don’t.”

“Yeah.”

“Shut the hell up.” I end that argument.

“Ooh!” Sekani holds his hand out. “Gimme my dollar!”

“Hell no,” I say. “That shit doesn’t work with me.”

“Three dollars!”

“Okay, fine. I’ll give you a three-dollar bill.”

“I’ve never seen a three-dollar bill,” he says.

“Exactly. And you’ll never see my three dollars.”