Authors: Angie Thomas
“Seven,” Kenya pleads. “Stop.”
“No, Kenya!” he says, his sights square on their momma. “I’ll tell her how I didn’t think she gave a damn about my birthday, ’cause guess what? She never has! ‘You didn’t invite me, you didn’t invite me,’” he mocks. “Hell no, I didn’t. And why the fuck should I?”
Iesha blinks several times and says in a voice like broken glass, “After all I’ve done for you.”
“All you’ve done for me? What? Putting me out the house? Choosing a man over me every single chance you got? Remember when I tried to stop King from whooping your ass, Iesha? Who did you get mad at?”
“Seven,” Daddy says.
“Me! You got mad at me! Said I made him leave. That’s
what you call ‘doing’ for me? That woman right there”—he stretches his arm toward Momma—“did everything you were supposed to and then some. How dare you stand there and take credit for it. All I ever did was love you.” His voice cracks. “That’s it. And you couldn’t even give that back to me.”
The music has stopped, and heads peek over the backyard fence.
Layla approaches him. She hooks her arm through his. He allows her to take him inside. Iesha turns on her heels and starts for her car.
“Iesha, wait,” Daddy says.
“Nothing to wait for.” She throws her door open. “You happy, Maverick? You and that trick you married finally turned my son against me. Can’t wait till King fuck y’all up for letting that girl snitch on him on TV.”
My stomach clenches.
“Tell him try it if he wants and see what happens!” says Daddy.
It’s one thing to hear gossip that somebody plans to “fuck you up,” but it’s a whole different thing to hear it from somebody who would actually know.
But I can’t worry about King right now. I have to go to my brother.
Kenya’s at my side. We find him on the bottom of the staircase. He sobs like a baby. Layla rests her head on his shoulder.
Seeing him cry like that . . . I wanna cry. “Seven?”
He looks up with red, puffy eyes that I’ve never seen on my brother before.
Momma comes in. Layla gets up, and Momma takes her spot on the steps.
“Come here, baby,” she says, and they somehow hug.
Daddy touches my shoulder and Kenya’s. “Go outside, y’all.”
Kenya’s face is scrunched up like she’s gonna cry. I grab her arm and take her to the kitchen. She sits at the counter and buries her face in her hands. I climb onto the stool and don’t say anything. Sometimes it’s not necessary.
After a few minutes, she says, “I’m sorry my daddy’s mad at you.”
This is the most awkward situation ever—my friend’s dad possibly wants to kill me. “Not your fault,” I mumble.
“I understand why my brother didn’t invite my momma, but . . .” Her voice cracks. “She going through a lot, Starr. With him.” Kenya wipes her face on her arm. “I wish she’d leave him.”
“Maybe she afraid to?” I say. “Look at me. I was afraid to speak out for Khalil, and you went off on me about it.”
“I didn’t go off.”
“Yeah, you did.”
“Trust me, no, I didn’t. You’ll know when I go off on you.”
“Anyway! I know it’s not the same, but . . .” Good Lord, I never thought I’d say this. “I think I understand Iesha. It’s hard to stand up for yourself sometimes. She may need that push too.”
“So you want me to go off on her? I can’t believe you think I went off on you. Sensitive ass.”
My mouth flies open. “You know what? I’m gonna let that slide. Nah, I ain’t say you need to go off on her, that would be stupid. Just . . .” I sigh. “I don’t know.”
“I don’t either.”
We go silent.
Kenya wipes her face again. “I’m good.” She gets up. “I’m good.”
“You sure?”
“Yes! Stop asking me that. C’mon, let’s go back out there and stop them from talking about my brother, ’cause you know they’re talking.”
She heads for the door, but I say, “
Our
brother.”
Kenya turns around. “What?”
“
Our
brother. He’s mine too.”
I didn’t say it in a mean way or even with an attitude, I swear. She doesn’t respond. Not even an “okay.” Not that I expected her to suddenly go, “Of course, he’s
our
brother, I’m extremely sorry for acting like he wasn’t yours too.” I hoped for something though.
Kenya goes outside.
Seven and Iesha unknowingly hit the pause button on the party. The music’s off, and Seven’s friends stand around, talking in hushed tones.
Chris and Maya walk up to me. “Is Seven okay?” Maya asks.
“Who turned the music off?” I ask. Chris shrugs.
I pick up Daddy’s iPod from the patio table, our DJ for the afternoon that’s hooked up to the sound system. Scrolling through the playlist, I find this Kendrick Lamar song Seven played for me one day, right after Khalil died. Kendrick raps about how everything will be all right. Seven said it’s for both of us.
I hit play and hope he hears it. It’s for Kenya too.
Midway through the song, Seven and Layla come back out. His eyes are puffy and pink but dry. He smiles at me a little and gives a quick nod. I return it.
Momma leads Daddy outside. They’re both wearing cone-shaped birthday hats, and Daddy carries a huge sheet cake with candles lit on top of it.
“Happy birthday to ya!” they sing, and Momma does this not-as-embarrassing shoulder bounce. “Happy birthday to ya! Happy birth-day!”
Seven smiles from ear to ear. I turn the music down.
Daddy sets the cake on the patio table, and everybody crowds around it and Seven. Our family, Kenya, DeVante, and Layla—basically, all the black people—sing the Stevie Wonder version of “Happy Birthday.” Maya seems to know it. A lot of Seven’s friends look lost. Chris does too. These cultural differences are crazy sometimes.
Nana takes the song way too far and hits notes that don’t need to be hit. Momma tells her, “The candles are about to go out, Momma!”
She’s so damn dramatic.
Seven leans down to blow the candles out, but Daddy says, “Wait! Man, you know you don’t blow no candles out till I say something.”
“Aww, Pops!”
“He can’t tell you what to do, Seven,” Sekani chirps. “You’re grown now!”
Daddy shoots Sekani an up-and-down look. “Boy—” He turns to Seven. “I’m proud of you, man. Like I told you, I never got a diploma. A lot of young brothers don’t get theirs. And where we come from, a lot of them don’t make it to eighteen. Some do make it, but they’re messed up by the time they get there. Not you though. You’re going places, no doubt. I always knew that.
“See, I believe in giving my kids names that mean something. Sekani, that means merriment and joy.”
I snort. Sekani side-eyes me.
“I named your sister Starr because she was my light in the darkness. Seven, that’s a holy number. The number of perfection. I ain’t saying you’re perfect, nobody is, but you’re the perfect gift God gave me. I love you, man. Happy birthday and congratulations.”
Daddy affectionately clasps Seven’s neck. Seven grins wider.
“Love you too, Pops.”
The cake is one of Mrs. Rooks’s red velvets. Everybody goes on and on about how good it is. Uncle Carlos pigs out on at least three slices. There’s more dancing, laughing. All in all, it’s a good day.
Good days don’t last forever though.
In our new neighborhood I can simply tell my parents “I’m going for a walk” and leave.
We just got off the phone with Ms. Ofrah, who said the grand jury will announce their decision in a few hours. She claims only the grand jurors know the decision, but I’ve got a sinking feeling I know it. It’s always the decision.
I stick my hands in the pockets of my sleeveless hoodie. Some kids race past on bikes and scooters. Nearly knock me over. Doubt they’re worried about the grand jury’s decision. They aren’t hurrying inside like the kids back home are probably doing.
Home.
We started moving into our new house this past weekend. Five days later, this place doesn’t feel like home yet. It could be
all the unpacked boxes or the street names I don’t know. And it’s almost too quiet. No Fo’ty Ounce and his creaky cart or Mrs. Pearl hollering a greeting from across the street.
I need normal.
I text Chris. Less than ten minutes later, he picks me up in his dad’s Benz.
The Bryants live in the only house on their street that has a separate house attached to it for a butler. Mr. Bryant owns eight cars, mostly antiques, and a garage to store them all.
Chris parks in one of the two empty spots.
“Your parents gone?” I ask.
“Yep. Date night at the country club.”
Most of Chris’s house looks too fancy to live in. Statues, oil paintings, chandeliers. A museum more than a home. Chris’s suite on the third floor is more normal looking. There’s a leather couch in his room, right in front of the flat-screen TV and video game systems. His floor is painted to look like a half basketball court, and he can play on an actual hoop on his wall.
His California King–size bed has been made, a rare sight. I never knew there was anything larger than a king-size bed before I met him. I pull my Timbs off and grab the remote from his nightstand. As I throw myself onto his bed, I flick the TV on.
Chris steps out his Chucks and sits at his desk, where a drum pad, a keyboard, and turntables are hooked up to a Mac. “Check this out,” he says, and plays a beat.
I prop myself up on my elbows and nod along. It’s got an old-school feel to it, like something Dre and Snoop would’ve used back in the day. “Nice.”
“Thanks. I think I need to take some of that bass out though.” He turns around and gets to work.
I pick at a loose thread on his comforter. “Do you think they’re gonna charge him?”
“Do you?”
“No.”
Chris spins his chair back around. My eyes are watery, and I lie on my side. He climbs in next to me so we’re facing each other.
Chris presses his forehead against mine. “I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t do anything.”
“But I feel like I should apologize on behalf of white people everywhere.”
“You don’t have to.”
“But I want to.”
Lying in his California King–size bed in his suite in his gigantic house, I realize the truth. I mean, it’s been there all along, but in this moment lights flash around it. “We shouldn’t be together,” I say.
“Why not?”
“My old house in Garden Heights could fit in your house.”
“So?”
“My dad was a gangbanger.”
“My dad gambles.”
“I grew up in the projects.”
“I grew up with a roof over my head too.”
I sigh and start to turn my back to him.
He holds my shoulder so I won’t. “Don’t let this stuff get in your head again, Starr.”
“You ever notice how people look at us?”
“What people?”
“People,” I say. “It takes them a second to realize we’re a couple.”
“Who gives a fuck?”
“Me.”
“Why?”
“Because you should be with Hailey.”
He recoils. “Why the hell would I do that?”
“Not Hailey. But you know. Blond. Rich. White.”
“I prefer: Beautiful. Amazing. Starr.”
He doesn’t get it, but I don’t wanna talk about it anymore. I wanna get so caught up in him that the grand jury’s decision isn’t even a thing. I kiss his lips, which always have and always will be perfect. He kisses me back, and soon we’re making out like it’s the only thing we know how to do.
It’s not enough. My hands travel below his chest, and he’s bulging in more than his arms. I start unzipping his jeans.
He grabs my hand. “Whoa. What are you doing?”
“What do you think?”
His eyes search mine. “Starr, I want to, I do—”
“I know you do. And it’s the perfect opportunity.” I trail kisses along his neck, getting each of those perfectly placed freckles. “Nobody’s here but us.”
“But we can’t,” he says, voice strained. “Not like this.”
“Why not?” I slip my hand in his pants, heading for the bulge.
“Because you’re not in a good place.”
I stop.
He looks at me, and I look at him. My vision blurs. Chris wraps his arms around me and pulls me closer. I bury my face in his shirt. He smells like a perfect combination of Lever soap and Old Spice. The thump of his heart is better than any beat he’s ever made. My normal, in the flesh.
Chris rests his chin on top of my head. “Starr . . .”
He lets me cry as much as I need to.
My phone vibrates against my thigh, waking me up. It’s almost pitch-black in Chris’s room—the red sky shines a bit of light through his windows. He sleeps soundly and holds me like that’s how he always sleeps.
My phone buzzes again. I untangle myself out of Chris’s arms and crawl to the foot of the bed. I fish my phone from my pocket. Seven’s face lights up my screen.
I try not to sound too groggy. “Hello?”
“Where the hell are you?” Seven barks.
“Has the decision been announced?”
“No. Answer my question.”
“Chris’s house.”
Seven sucks his teeth. “I don’t even wanna know. Is DeVante over there?”
“No. Why?”
“Uncle Carlos said he walked out a while ago. Nobody’s seen him since.”
My stomach clenches. “What?”
“Yeah. If you weren’t fooling around with your boyfriend, you’d know that.”
“You’re really making me feel guilty right now?”
He sighs. “I know you’re going through a lot, but damn, Starr. You can’t disappear on us like that. Ma’s looking for you. She’s worried sick. And Pops had to go protect the store, in case . . . you know.”
I crawl back to Chris and shake his shoulder. “Come get us,” I tell Seven. “We’ll help you look for DeVante.”
I send Momma a text to let her know where I am, where I’m going, and that I’m okay. I don’t have the guts to call her. And have her go off on me? Nah, no thanks.
Seven is talking on his phone when he pulls into the driveway. By the look on his face, somebody’s gotta be dead.
I throw open the passenger door. “What’s wrong?”
“Kenya, calm down,” he says. “What happened?” Seven
listens and looks more horrified by the second. Then he suddenly says, “I’m on my way,” and tosses the phone on the backseat. “It’s DeVante.”
“Whoa, wait.” I’m holding the door, and he’s revving up his engine. “What happened?”
“I don’t know. Chris, take Starr home—”
“And let you go to Garden Heights by yourself?” But shoot, actions are louder. I climb in the passenger seat.
“I’m coming too,” Chris says. I let my seat forward, and he climbs in the back.
Luckily, or unluckily, Seven doesn’t have time to argue. We pull off.
Seven cuts the forty-five-minute drive to Garden Heights to thirty. The entire drive I plead with God to let DeVante be okay.
The sun’s gone by the time we get off the freeway. I fight the urge to tell Seven to turn around. This is Chris’s first time in my neighborhood.
But I have to trust him. He wants me to let him in, and this is the most “in” he could get.
At the Cedar Grove Projects there’s graffiti on the walls and broken-down cars in the courtyard. Under the Black Jesus mural at the clinic, grass grows up through the cracks in the sidewalk. Trash litters every curb we pass. Two junkies argue loudly on a corner. There’s lots of hoopties, cars that should’ve been in the junkyard a long time ago. The houses are old, small.
Whatever Chris thinks doesn’t come out his mouth.
Seven parks in front of Iesha’s house. The paint is peeling, and the windows have sheets in them instead of blinds and curtains. Iesha’s pink BMW and King’s gray one make an L shape on the yard. The grass is completely gone from years of them parking there. Gray cars fitted with rims sit in the driveway and along the street.
Seven turns his ignition off. “Kenya said they’re all in the backyard. I should be good. Y’all stay here.”
Judging by those cars, for one Seven there’s about fifty King Lords. I don’t care if King is pissed at me, I’m not letting my brother go in there alone. “I’m coming with you.”
“No.”
“I said I’m coming.”
“Starr, I don’t have time for—”
I fold my arms. “Try and make me stay.”
He can’t, and he won’t.
Seven sighs. “Fine. Chris, stay here.”
“Hell no! I’m not staying out here by myself.”
We all get out. Music echoes from the backyard along with random shouts and laughter. A pair of gray high-tops dangle by their laces from the utility line in front of the house, telling everybody who can decipher the code that drugs are sold here.
Seven takes the steps two at a time and throws the front door open. “Kenya!”
Compared to the outside, the inside is five-star-hotel nice. They have a damn chandelier in the living room and brand-new leather furniture. A flat-screen TV takes up a whole wall, and tropical fish swim around in a tank on another wall. The definition of “hood rich.”
“Kenya!” Seven repeats, going down the hall.
From the front door I see the back door. A whole lot of King Lords dance with women in the backyard. King’s in the middle in a high-backed chair, his throne, puffing on a cigar. Iesha sits on the arm of the chair, holding a cup and moving her shoulders to the music. Thanks to the dark screen on the door, I can see outside but chances are they can’t see inside.
Kenya peeks into the hall from one of the bedrooms. “In here.”
DeVante lies on the floor in the fetal position at the foot of a king-size bed. The plush white carpet is stained with his blood as it trickles from his nose and mouth. There’s a towel beside him, but he’s not doing anything with it. One of his eyes has a fresh bruise around it. He groans, clutching his side.
Seven looks at Chris. “Help me get him up.”
Chris has paled. “Maybe we should call—”
“Chris, man, c’mon!”
Chris inches over, and the two of them sit DeVante up against the bed. His nose is swollen and bruised, and his upper lip has a nasty cut.
Chris passes him the towel. “Dude, what happened?”
“I walked into King’s fist. Man, what you think happened? They jumped me.”
“I couldn’t stop them,” Kenya says, all stuffed-up sounding like she’s been crying. “I’m so sorry, DeVante.”
“This shit ain’t your fault, Kenya,” DeVante says. “Are you a’ight?”
She sniffs and wipes her nose on her arm. “I’m okay. He only pushed me.”
Seven’s eyes flash. “Who pushed you?”
“She tried to stop them from beating my ass,” DeVante says. “King got mad and pushed her out the—”
Seven marches to the door. I catch his arm and dig my feet into the carpet to keep him from moving, but he ends up pulling me with him. Kenya grabs his other arm. In this moment, he’s
our
brother, not just mine or hers.
“Seven, no,” I say. He tries to pull away, but my grip and Kenya’s grip are steel. “You go out there and you’re dead.”
His jaw is hard, his shoulders are tense. His narrowed eyes are set on the doorway.
“Let. Me. Go,” he says.
“Seven, I’m okay. I promise,” Kenya says. “But Starr’s right. We gotta get Vante outta here before they kill him. They just waiting for the sun to set.”
“He put his hands on you,” Seven snarls. “I said I wouldn’t let that happen again.”
“We know,” I say. “But please don’t go back there.”
I hate stopping him because I promise, I want somebody to whoop King’s ass. It can’t be Seven. No way in hell. I can’t lose him too. I’d never be normal again.
He snatches away from us, and the sting that would usually come with that gesture is missing. I understand his frustration like it’s mine.
The back door squeaks and slams closed.
Shit.
We freeze. Feet thump against the floor, drawing nearer. Iesha appears in the doorway.
Nobody speaks.
She stares at us, sipping from a red plastic cup. Her lip is curled up slightly, and she takes her sweet time to speak, like she’s getting a kick out of our fear.
Chomping on some ice, she looks at Chris and says, “Who this li’l white boy y’all done brought up in my house?”
Iesha smirks and eyes me. “I bet he yours, ain’t he? That’s what happens when you go to them white folks’ schools.” She leans against the doorframe. Her gold bracelets jingle as she lifts her cup to her lips again. “I would’ve paid to see Maverick’s face the day you brought this one home. Shit, I’m surprised Seven got a black girl.”
At his name Seven snaps out his trance. “Can you help us?”
“Help you?” she echoes with a laugh. “What? With DeVante? What I look like helping him?”
“Momma—”
“Now I’m Momma?” she says. “What happened to that ‘Iesha’ shit from the other week? Huh, Seven? See, baby, you don’t know how the game work. Let Momma explain something to you, okay? When DeVante stole from King, he earned an ass whooping. He got one. Anybody who helps him is asking for it too, and they better be able to handle it.” She looks at me. “That goes for dry snitches too.”
All it takes is her hollering for King . . .
Her eyes flick toward the back door. The music and laughter rise in the air. “I tell y’all what,” she says, and turns to us. “Y’all better get DeVante’s sorry ass out my bedroom. Bleeding on my carpet and shit. And got the nerve to use one of my damn towels? Matter of fact, get him and that snitch out my house.”
Seven says, “What?”
“You deaf too?” she says. “I said get them out my house. And take your sisters.”
“What I gotta take them for?” Seven says.