DEDICATION

ForGrandma,whoshowedmetherecanbelightinthedarkness

CONTENTS

Dedication

Part1:WhenItHappensOneTwoThreeFourFiveSixSevenEightNineTenElevenTwelveThirteenFourteenFifteen

Part2:FiveWeeksAfterItSixteenSeventeenEighteenNineteen

Part3:EightWeeksAfterItTwenty

Part4:TenWeeksAfterItTwenty-One

Part5:ThirteenWeeksAfterIt—TheDecisionTwenty-TwoTwenty-ThreeTwenty-FourTwenty-FiveTwenty-Six

Acknowledgments

BackAdAbouttheAuthorCreditsCopyrightAboutthePublisher

PART1

WHENITHAPPENS

ONE

Ishouldn’thavecometothisparty.I’mnotevensureIbelongat thisparty.That’snotonsomebougieshit,either.Thereare justsome

placeswhereit’snotenoughtobeme.Eitherversionofme.BigD’sspringbreakpartyisoneofthoseplaces.

I squeeze through sweaty bodies and followKenya, her curls bouncing past her shoulders.A hazelingers over the room, smelling like weed, and music rattles the floor. Some rapper calls out foreverybodytoNae-Nae,followedbyabunchof“Heys”aspeoplelaunchintotheirownversions.Kenyaholdsuphercupanddancesherwaythroughthecrowd.Betweentheheadachefromtheloud-assmusicandthenauseafromtheweedodor,I’llbeamazedifIcrosstheroomwithoutspillingmydrink.

Webreakoutthecrowd.BigD’shouseispackedwall-to-wall.I’vealwaysheardthateverybodyandtheirmommacomestohisspringbreakparties—well,everybodyexceptme—butdamn,Ididn’tknowitwouldbethismanypeople.Girlsweartheirhaircolored,curled,laid,andslayed.Gotmefeelingbasicashellwithmyponytail.Guysintheirfreshestkicksandsaggingpantsgrindsoclosetogirls theyjustabout need condoms.My nana likes to say that spring brings love. Spring in GardenHeights doesn’talways bring love, but it promises babies in the winter. I wouldn’t be surprised if a lot of them areconceivedthenightofBigD’sparty.Healwayshas iton theFridayofspringbreakbecauseyouneedSaturdaytorecoverandSundaytorepent.

“Stopfollowingmeandgodance,Starr,”Kenyasays.“Peoplealreadysayyouthinkyouallthat.”“Ididn’tknowsomanymindreaderslivedinGardenHeights.”Orthatpeopleknowmeasanything

otherthan“BigMav’sdaughterwhoworksinthestore.”Isipmydrinkandspititbackout.IknewtherewouldbemorethanHawaiianPunchinit,butthisiswaystrongerthanI’musedto.Theyshouldn’tevencallitpunch.Juststraight-upliquor.Iputitonthecoffeetableandsay,“Folkskillme,thinkingtheyknowwhatIthink.”

“Hey,I’mjustsaying.Youactlikeyoudon’tknownobody’causeyougotothatschool.”I’vebeenhearingthatforsixyears,eversincemyparentsputmeinWilliamsonPrep.“Whatever,”I

mumble.“Anditwouldn’tkillyoutonotdresslike...”Sheturnsuphernoseasshelooksfrommysneakersto

myoversizedhoodie.“That.Ain’tthatmybrother’shoodie?”Ourbrother’shoodie.KenyaandIshareanolderbrother,Seven.ButsheandIaren’t related.Her

mommaisSeven’smomma,andmydadisSeven’sdad.Crazy,Iknow.“Yeah,it’shis.”“Figures.Youknowwhatelsepeoplesayingtoo.Gotfolksthinkingyou’remygirlfriend.”“DoIlooklikeIcarewhatpeoplethink?”“No!Andthat’stheproblem!”“Whatever.” If I’d known followingher to this partymeant she’d be on someExtremeMakeover:

Starr Edition mess, I would’ve stayed home and watched Fresh Prince reruns. My Jordans arecomfortable,anddamn,they’renew.That’smorethansomepeoplecansay.Thehoodie’swaytoobig,but

Ilikeitthatway.Plus,ifIpullitovermynose,Ican’tsmelltheweed.“Well,Iain’tbabysittingyouallnight,soyoubetterdosomething,”Kenyasays,andscopestheroom.

Kenyacouldbeamodel,ifI’mcompletelyhonest.She’sgotflawlessdark-brownskin—Idon’tthinksheevergets apimple—slantedbrowneyes, and longeyelashes that aren’t store-bought.She’s theperfectheightformodelingtoo,butalittlethickerthanthosetoothpicksontherunway.Sheneverwearsthesameoutfittwice.Herdaddy,King,makessureofthat.

KenyaisabouttheonlypersonIhangoutwithinGardenHeights—it’shardtomakefriendswhenyougotoaschool that’sforty-fiveminutesawayandyou’rea latchkeykidwho’sonlyseenatherfamily’sstore. It’s easy to hang out with Kenya because of our connection to Seven. She’s messy as hellsometimes, though.Alwaysfightingsomebodyandquicktosayherdaddywillwhoopsomebody’sass.Yeah,it’strue,butIwishshe’dstoppickingfightssoshecanusehertrumpcard.Hell,Icoulduseminetoo.Everybodyknowsyoudon’tmesswithmydad,BigMav,andyoudefinitelydon’tmesswithhiskids.Still,youdon’tseemegoingaroundstartingshit.

LikeatBigD’sparty,KenyaisgivingDenasiaAllensomeseriousstank-eye.Idon’tremembermuchaboutDenasia,butIrememberthatsheandKenyahaven’t likedeachothersincefourthgrade.Tonight,Denasia’sdancingwithsomeguyhalfwayacrosstheroomandpayingnoattentiontoKenya.Butnomatterwherewemove,KenyaspotsDenasiaandglaresather.Andthethingaboutthestank-eyeisatsomepointyoufeelitonyou,invitingyoutokicksomeassorhaveyourasskicked.

“Ooh!Ican’tstandher,”Kenyaseethes.“Theotherday,wewereinlineinthecafeteria,right?Andshebehindme,talkingoutthesideofherneck.Shedidn’tusemyname,butIknowshewastalking’boutme,sayingItriedtogetwithDeVante.”

“Forreal?”IsaywhatI’msupposedto.“Uh-huh.Idon’twanthim.”“Iknow.”Honestly?Idon’tknowwhoDeVanteis.“Sowhatdidyoudo?”“WhatyouthinkIdid?Iturnedaroundandaskedifshehadaproblemwithme.Ol’trick,gon’say,‘I

wasn’teventalkingaboutyou,’knowingshewas!You’resoluckyyougotothatwhite-peopleschoolanddon’thavetodealwithhoeslikethat.”

Ain’tthissomeshit?Notevenfiveminutesago,Iwasstuck-upbecauseIgotoWilliamson.NowI’mlucky?“Trustme,myschoolhashoestoo.Hoedomisuniversal.”

“Watch,wegon’ handle her tonight.”Kenya’s stank-eye reaches its highest level of stank.DenasiafeelsitsstingandlooksrightatKenya.“Uh-huh,”Kenyaconfirms,likeDenasiahearsher.“Watch.”

“Holdup.We?That’swhyyoubeggedmetocometothisparty?Soyoucanhaveatagteampartner?”Shehasthenervetolookoffended.“Itain’tlikeyouhadnothingelsetodo!Oranybodyelsetohang

outwith.I’mdoingyourassafavor.”“Really,Kenya?YoudoknowIhavefriends,right?”Sherollshereyes.Hard.Onlythewhitesarevisibleforafewseconds.“Themli’lbougiegirlsfrom

yourschooldon’tcount.”“They’renotbougie,andtheydocount.”Ithink.MayaandIarecool.Notsurewhat’supwithmeand

Haileylately.“Andhonestly?Ifpullingmeintoafightisyourwayofhelpingmysociallife,I’mgood.Goddamn,it’salwayssomedramawithyou.”

“Please,Starr?”Shestretchesthepleaseextralong.Toolong.“ThiswhatI’mthinking.WewaituntilshegetawayfromDeVante,right?Andthenwe...”

Myphonevibrates againstmy thigh, and Iglanceat the screen.Since I’ve ignoredhis calls,Christextsmeinstead.

Canwetalk?

Ididn’tmeanforittogolikethat.Ofcoursehedidn’t.Hemeantforit togoawholedifferentwayyesterday,whichistheproblem.I

slipthephoneinmypocket.I’mnotsurewhatIwannasay,butI’dratherdealwithhimlater.“Kenya!”somebodyshouts.This big, light-skinnedgirlwith bone-straight hairmoves through the crowd towardus.A tall boy

withablack-and-blondFro-hawkfollowsher.TheybothgiveKenyahugsand talkabouthowcuteshelooks.I’mnotevenhere.

“Whyyouain’ttellmeyouwascoming?”thegirlsays,andsticksherthumbinhermouth.She’sgotanoverbitefromdoingthattoo.“Youcould’verodewithus.”

“Nah,girl.IhadtogogetStarr,”Kenyasays.“Wewalkedheretogether.”That’swhentheynoticeme,standingnotevenhalfafootfromKenya.Theguysquintsashegivesmeaquickonce-over.Hefrownsforahotsecond,butInoticeit.“Ain’t

youBigMav’sdaughterwhoworkinthestore?”See?Peopleactlikethat’sthenameonmybirthcertificate.“Yeah,that’sme.”“Ohhh!” thegirlsays.“Iknewyoulookedfamiliar.Wewere in thirdgrade together.Ms.Bridges’s

class.Isatbehindyou.”“Oh.”IknowthisisthemomentI’msupposedtorememberher,butIdon’t.IguessKenyawasright—

I really don’t know anybody. Their faces are familiar, but you don’t get names and life stories whenyou’rebaggingfolks’groceries.

Icanliethough.“Yeah,Irememberyou.”“Girl,quitlying,”theguysays.“Youknowyoudon’tknowherass.”“‘Whyyoualways lying?’”Kenyaand thegirlsing together.Theguy joins in,and theyallbustout

laughing.“Bianca and Chance, be nice,” Kenya says. “This Starr’s first party. Her folks don’t let her go

nowhere.”Icutheraside-eye.“Igotoparties,Kenya.”“Havey’allseenheratanyparties’roundhere?”Kenyaasksthem.“Nope!”“Pointmade.Andbeforeyousayit,li’llamewhite-kidsuburbpartiesdon’tcount.”ChanceandBiancasnicker.Damn,Iwishthishoodiecouldswallowmeupsomehow.“IbettheybedoingMollyandshit,don’tthey?”Chanceasksme.“Whitekidslovepoppingpills.”“AndlisteningtoTaylorSwift,”Biancaadds,talkingaroundherthumb.Okay,that’ssomewhattrue,butI’mnottellingthemthat.“Nah,actuallytheirpartiesareprettydope,”

Isay.“Onetime,thisboyhadJ.Coleperformathisbirthdayparty.”“Damn.Forreal?”Chanceasks.“Shiiit.Bitch,nexttimeinviteme.I’llpartywiththemwhitekids.”“Anyway,” Kenya says loudly. “We were talking ’bout running up on Denasia. Bitch over there

dancingwithDeVante.”“Ol’ trick,” Bianca says. “You know she been running her mouth ’bout you, right? I was in Mr.

Donald’sclasslastweekwhenAaliyahtoldme—”Chancerollshiseyes.“Ugh!Mr.Donald.”“Youjustmadhethrewyouout,”Kenyasays.“Hellyes!”“Anyway,Aaliyahtoldme—”Biancabegins.I get lost again as classmates and teachers that I don’t know are discussed. I can’t say anything.

Doesn’tmatterthough.I’minvisible.

Ifeellikethatalotaroundhere.In themiddle of them complaining about Denasia and their teachers, Kenya says something about

gettinganotherdrink,andthethreeofthemwalkoffwithoutme.SuddenlyI’mEveintheGardenaftersheatethefruit—it’slikeIrealizeI’mnaked.I’mbymyselfata

partyI’mnotevensupposedtobeat,whereIbarelyknowanybody.AndthepersonIdoknowjustleftmehanging.

Kenyabeggedmetocometothispartyforweeks.IknewI’dbeuncomfortableashell,buteverytimeItoldKenyanoshesaidIactlikeI’m“toogoodforaGardenparty.”Igottiredofhearingthatshitanddecidedtoproveherwrong.Problemisitwould’vetakenBlackJesustoconvincemyparentstoletmecome.NowBlackJesuswillhavetosavemeiftheyfindoutI’mhere.

Peopleglanceover atmewith that “who is this chick, standingagainst thewallbyherself likeanidiot?”look.Islipmyhandsintomypockets.AslongasIplayitcoolandkeeptomyself,Ishouldbefine.Theironicthingisthough,atWilliamsonIdon’thaveto“playitcool”—I’mcoolbydefaultbecauseI’moneoftheonlyblackkidsthere.IhavetoearncoolnessinGardenHeights,andthat’smoredifficultthanbuyingretroJordansonreleaseday.

Funnyhowitworkswithwhitekidsthough.It’sdopetobeblackuntilit’shardtobeblack.“Starr!”afamiliarvoicesays.Theseaofpeoplepartsforhimlikehe’sabrown-skinnedMoses.Guysgivehimdaps,andgirlscrane

theirneckstolookathim.Hesmilesatme,andhisdimplesruinanyGpersonahehas.Khalil is fine,nootherwayofputting it.AndIused to takebathswithhim.Not like that,butway

backinthedaywhenwewouldgigglebecausehehadawee-weeandIhadwhathisgrandmacalledawee-ha.Iswearitwasn’tpervertedthough.

Hehugsme,smellinglikesoapandbabypowder.“What’sup,girl?Ain’tseenyouinaminute.”Heletsmego.“Youdon’ttextnobody,nothing.Whereyoubeen?”

“Schoolandthebasketball teamkeepmebusy,”Isay.“ButI’malwaysat thestore.You’re theonenobodyseesanymore.”

Hisdimplesdisappear.Hewipeshisnoselikehealwaysdoesbeforealie.“Ibeenbusy.”Obviously.Thebrand-newJordans,thecrispwhitetee,thediamondsinhisears.Whenyougrowup

inGardenHeights,youknowwhat“busy”reallymeans.Fuck.Iwishhewasn’tthatkindabusythough.Idon’tknowifIwannatearuporsmackhim.But thewayKhalil looksatmewith thosehazeleyesmakes ithard tobeupset. I feel like I’m ten

again,standinginthebasementofChristTempleChurch,havingmyfirstkisswithhimatVacationBibleSchool.SuddenlyIrememberI’minahoodie,lookingastraight-upmess.. .andthatIactuallyhaveaboyfriend.ImightnotbeansweringChris’scallsortextsrightnow,buthe’sstillmineandIwannakeepitthatway.

“How’syourgrandma?”Iask.“AndCameron?”“They a’ight. Grandma’s sick though.” Khalil sips from his cup. “Doctors say she got cancer or

whatever.”“Damn.Sorry,K.”“Yeah,shetakingchemo.Sheonlyworried’boutgettingawigthough.”Hegivesaweaklaughthat

doesn’tshowhisdimples.“She’llbea’ight.”It’saprayermorethanaprophecy.“IsyourmommahelpingwithCameron?”“Goodol’Starr.Alwayslookingforthebestinpeople.Youknowsheain’thelping.”“Hey,itwasjustaquestion.Shecameinthestoretheotherday.Shelooksbetter.”“Fornow,”saysKhalil.“Sheclaimshetryingtogetclean,but it’s theusual.She’llgocleanafew

weeks, decide shewants onemore hit, then be back at it.But like I said, I’mgood,Cameron’s good,Grandma’sgood.”Heshrugs.“That’sallthatmatters.”

“Yeah,”Isay,butIrememberthenightsIspentwithKhalilonhisporch,waitingforhismommatocomehome.Whetherhelikesitornot,shematterstohimtoo.

Themusicchanges,andDrakerapsfromthespeakers.Inodtothebeatandrapalongundermybreath.Everybodyonthedanceflooryellsoutthe“startedfromthebottom,nowwe’rehere”part.Somedays,weareatthebottominGardenHeights,butwestillsharethefeelingthatdamn,itcouldbeworse.

Khaliliswatchingme.Asmiletriestoformonhislips,butheshakeshishead.“Can’tbelieveyoustilllovewhiny-assDrake.”

Igapeathim.“Leavemyhusbandalone!”“Yourcorny husband. ‘Baby, youmy everything, you all I everwanted,’”Khalil sings in awhiny

voice. Ipushhimwithmyshoulder,andhe laughs,hisdrinksplashingover thesidesof thecup.“Youknowthat’swhathesoundslike!”

Ifliphimoff.Hepuckershislipsandmakesakissingsound.Allthesemonthsapart,andwe’vefallenbackintonormallikeit’snothing.

KhalilgrabsanapkinfromthecoffeetableandwipesdrinkoffhisJordans—theThreeRetros.Theycameoutafewyearsago,butIswearthosethingsaresofresh.Theycostaboutthreehundreddollars,andthat’s ifyou findsomebodyoneBaywhogoeseasy.Chrisdid. Igotmine forastealatone-fifty,but Iwearkidsizes.Thankstomysmallfeet,ChrisandIcanmatchoursneakers.Yes,we’rethatcouple.Shit,we’reflythough.Ifhecanstopdoingstupidstuff,we’llreallybegood.

“Ilikethekicks,”ItellKhalil.“Thanks.”Hescrubstheshoeswithhisnapkin.Icringe.Witheachhardrub,theshoescryformyhelp.

Nolie,everytimeasneakeriscleanedimproperly,akittendies.“Khalil,” I say,onesecondawayfromsnatching thatnapkin.“Eitherwipegentlybackand forthor

dab.Don’tscrub.Forreal.”Helooksupatme,smirking.“Okay,Ms.Sneakerhead.”AndthankBlackJesus,hedabs.“Sinceyou

mademespillmydrinkonthem,Ioughtamakeyoucleanthem.”“It’llcostyousixtydollars.”“Sixty?”heshouts,straighteningup.“Hell, yeah. And it would be eighty if they had icy soles.” Clear bottoms are a bitch to clean.

“Cleaningkitsaren’tcheap.Besides,you’reobviouslymakingbigmoneyifyoucanbuythose.”KhalilsipshisdrinklikeIdidn’tsayanything,mutters,“Damn,thisshitstrong,”andsetsthecupon

thecoffeetable.“Ay,tellyourpopsIneedtohollaathimsoon.SomestuffgoingdownthatIneedtotalktohim’bout.”

“Whatkindastuff?”“Grownfolksbusiness.”“Yeah,’causeyou’resogrown.”“Fivemonths,twoweeks,andthreedaysolderthanyou.”Hewinks.“Iain’tforgot.”Acommotionstirsinthemiddleofthedancefloor.Voicesarguelouderthanthemusic.Cusswordsfly

leftandright.My first thought?Kenyawalked up onDenasia like she promised.But the voices are deeper than

theirs.Pop!Ashotringsout.Iduck.Pop!Asecondshot.Thecrowdstampedestowardthedoor,whichleadstomorecussingandfighting

sinceit’simpossibleforeverybodytogetoutatonce.

Khalilgrabsmyhand.“C’mon.”TherearewaytoomanypeopleandwaytoomuchcurlyhairformetocatchaglimpseofKenya.“But

Kenya—”“Forgether,let’sgo!”Hepullsmethroughthecrowd,shovingpeopleoutourwayandsteppingonshoes.Thatalonecould

getussomebullets.IlookforKenyaamongthepanickedfaces,butstillnosignofher.Idon’ttrytoseewhogotshotorwhodidit.Youcan’tsnitchifyoudon’tknowanything.

Carsspeedawayoutside,andpeoplerunintothenightinanydirectionwhereshotsaren’tfiringoff.KhalilleadsmetoaChevyImpalaparkedunderadimstreetlight.Hepushesmeinthroughthedriver’sside,andIclimbintothepassengerseat.Wescreechoff,leavingchaosintherearviewmirror.

“Alwayssomeshit,”hemumbles.“Can’thaveapartywithoutsomebodygettingshot.”Hesoundslikemyparents.That’sexactlywhytheydon’tletme“gonowhere,”asKenyaputsit.At

leastnotaroundGardenHeights.I sendKenya a text, hoping she’s all right.Doubt those bulletsweremeant for her, but bullets go

wheretheywannago.Kenyatextsbackkindaquick.I’mfine.Iseethatbitchtho.Bouttohandleherass.Whereuat?Isthischickforreal?Wejustranforourlives,andshe’sreadytofight?Idon’tevenanswerthatdumb

shit.Khalil’sImpalaisnice.Notallflashylikesomeguys’cars.Ididn’tseeanyrimsbeforeIgotin,and

thefrontseathascracksintheleather.Buttheinteriorisatackylimegreen,soit’sbeencustomizedatsomepoint.

Ipickatacrackintheseat.“Whoyouthinkgotshot?”Khalilgetshishairbrushoutthecompartmentonthedoor.“ProbablyaKingLord,”hesays,brushing

thesidesofhis fade.“SomeGardenDisciplescame inwhen Igot there.Somethingwasbound topopoff.”

Inod.GardenHeightshasbeenabattlefieldforthepasttwomonthsoversomestupidterritorywars.Iwasborna“queen”’causeDaddyusedtobeaKingLord.Butwhenheleftthegame,mystreetroyaltystatusended.ButevenifI’dgrownupinit,Iwouldn’tunderstandfightingoverstreetsnobodyowns.

Khalildropsthebrushinthedoorandcranksuphisstereo,blastinganoldrapsongDaddyhasplayedamilliontimes.Ifrown.“Whyyoualwayslisteningtothatoldstuff?”

“Man,getouttahere!Tupacwasthetruth.”“Yeah,twentyyearsago.”“Nah, evennow.Like, check this.”Hepoints atme,whichmeanshe’s about togo intooneof his

Khalil philosophicalmoments. “’Pac said Thug Life stood for ‘TheHate UGive Little Infants FucksEverybody.’”

Iraisemyeyebrows.“What?”“Listen!TheHateU—theletterU—GiveLittleInfantsFucksEverybody.T-H-U-GL-I-F-E.Meaning

whatsocietygiveusasyouth,itbitesthemintheasswhenwewildout.Getit?”“Damn.Yeah.”“See?Toldyouhewasrelevant.”Henodstothebeatandrapsalong.ButnowI’mwonderingwhat

he’sdoingto“fuckeverybody.”AsmuchasIthinkIknow,IhopeI’mwrong.Ineedtohearitfromhim.“Sowhy have you really been busy?” I ask. “A fewmonths agoDaddy said you quit the store. I

haven’tseenyousince.”Hescootsclosertothesteeringwheel.“Whereyouwantmetotakeyou,yourhouseorthestore?”“Khalil—”“Yourhouseorthestore?”“Ifyou’resellingthatstuff—”“Mindyourbusiness,Starr!Don’tworry’boutme.I’mdoingwhatIgottado.”“Bullshit.Youknowmydadwouldhelpyouout.”Hewipeshisnosebeforehislie.“Idon’tneedhelpfromnobody,okay?Andthatli’lminimum-wage

jobyourpopsgavemedidn’tmakenothinghappen.Igottiredofchoosingbetweenlightsandfood.”“Ithoughtyourgrandmawasworking.”“Shewas.Whenshegotsick,themclownsatthehospitalclaimedthey’dworkwithher.Twomonths

later,shewasn’tpullingherloadonthejob,’causewhenyou’regoingthroughchemo,youcan’tpullbig-assgarbagebinsaround.Theyfiredher.”Heshakeshishead.“Funny,huh?Thehospitalfiredher’causeshewassick.”

It’ssilentintheImpalaexceptforTupacaskingwhodoyoubelievein?Idon’tknow.Myphonevibrates again,probablyeitherChris asking for forgivenessorKenyaasking forbackup

againstDenasia.Instead,mybigbrother’sall-capstextsappearonthescreen.Idon’tknowwhyhedoesthat.Heprobablythinksitintimidatesme.Really,itannoysthehelloutofme.

WHERERU?UANDKENYABETTERNOTBE@THATPARTY.IHEARDSOMEBODYGOTSHOT.Theonlythingworsethanprotectiveparentsisprotectiveolderbrothers.EvenBlackJesuscan’tsave

mefromSeven.Khalilglancesoveratme.“Seven,huh?”“How’dyouknow?”“’Causeyoualwayslooklikeyouwannapunchsomethingwhenhetalkstoyou.Rememberthattime

atyourbirthdaypartywhenhekepttellingyouwhattowishfor?”“AndIpoppedhiminhismouth.”“ThenNatashagotmadatyoufortellingher‘boyfriend’toshutup,”Khalilsays,laughing.Irollmyeyes.“ShegotonmynerveswithhercrushonSeven.Halfthetime,Ithoughtshecameover

justtoseehim.”“Nah,itwasbecauseyouhadtheHarryPottermovies.Whatweusedtocallourselves?TheHood

Trio.Tighterthan—”“TheinsideofVoldemort’snose.Weweresosillyforthat.”“Iknow,right?”hesays.Welaugh,butsomething’smissingfromit.Someone’smissingfromit.Natasha.Khalillooksattheroad.“Crazyit’sbeensixyears,youknow?”Awhoop-whoopsoundstartlesus,andbluelightsflashintherearviewmirror.

TWO

WhenIwastwelve,myparentshadtwotalkswithme.Onewas the usual birds and bees.Well, I didn’t really get the usual version.Mymom,Lisa, is a

registerednurse,andshetoldmewhatwentwhere,andwhatdidn’tneedtogohere,there,oranydamnwheretillI’mgrown.Backthen,Idoubtedanythingwasgoinganywhereanyway.Whilealltheothergirlssproutedbreastsbetweensixthandseventhgrade,mychestwasasflatasmyback.

Theothertalkwasaboutwhattodoifacopstoppedme.Momma fussed and toldDaddy Iwas too young for that.He argued that Iwasn’t too young to get

arrestedorshot.“Starr-Starr,youdowhatevertheytellyoutodo,”hesaid.“Keepyourhandsvisible.Don’tmakeany

suddenmoves.Onlyspeakwhentheyspeaktoyou.”Iknewitmust’vebeenserious.DaddyhasthebiggestmouthofanybodyIknow,andifhesaidtobe

quiet,Ineededtobequiet.IhopesomebodyhadthetalkwithKhalil.He cusses under his breath, turnsTupac down, andmaneuvers the Impala to the side of the street.

We’reonCarnationwheremostofthehousesareabandonedandhalfthestreetlightsarebusted.Nobodyaroundbutusandthecop.

Khalilturnstheignitionoff.“Wonderwhatthisfoolwants.”Theofficerparksandputshisbrightson.Iblinktokeepfrombeingblinded.I remembersomethingelseDaddysaid. If you’rewith somebody,youbetterhope theydon’thave

nothingonthem,orbothofy’allgoingdown.“K,youdon’thaveanythinginthecar,doyou?”Iask.Hewatchesthecopinhissidemirror.“Nah.”The officer approaches the driver’s door and taps thewindow.Khalil cranks the handle to roll it

down.Asifwearen’tblindedenough,theofficerbeamshisflashlightinourfaces.“License,registration,andproofofinsurance.”Khalilbreaksarule—hedoesn’tdowhatthecopwants.“Whatyoupullusoverfor?”“License,registration,andproofofinsurance.”“Isaidwhatyoupullusoverfor?”“Khalil,”Iplead.“Dowhathesaid.”Khalilgroansandtakeshiswalletout.Theofficerfollowshismovementswiththeflashlight.Myheartpoundsloudly,butDaddy’sinstructionsechoinmyhead:Getagoodlookatthecop’sface.

Ifyoucanrememberhisbadgenumber,that’sevenbetter.WiththeflashlightfollowingKhalil’shands,Imakeoutthenumbersonthebadge—one-fifteen.He’s

white,midthirtiestoearlyforties,hasabrownbuzzcutandathinscaroverhistoplip.Khalilhandstheofficerhispapersandlicense.One-Fifteenlooksoverthem.“Whereareyoutwocomingfromtonight?”

“Nunya,”Khalilsays,meaningnoneofyourbusiness.“Whatyoupullmeoverfor?”“Yourtaillight’sbroken.”“Soareyougon’givemeaticketorwhat?”Khalilasks.“Youknowwhat?Getoutthecar,smartguy.”“Man,justgivememyticket—”“Getoutthecar!Handsup,whereIcanseethem.”Khalilgetsoutwithhishandsup.One-Fifteenyankshimbyhisarmandpinshimagainst theback

door.Ifighttofindmyvoice.“Hedidn’tmean—”“Handsonthedashboard!”theofficerbarksatme.“Don’tmove!”Idowhathetellsme,butmyhandsareshakingtoomuchtobestill.HepatsKhalildown.“Okay,smartmouth,let’sseewhatwefindonyoutoday.”“Youain’tgon’findnothing,”Khalilsays.One-Fifteenpatshimdowntwomoretimes.Heturnsupempty.“Stayhere,”hetellsKhalil.“Andyou.”Helooksinthewindowatme.“Don’tmove.”Ican’tevennod.Theofficerwalksbacktohispatrolcar.Myparentshaven’traisedmetofearthepolice,justtobesmartaroundthem.Theytoldmeit’snot

smarttomovewhileacophashisbacktoyou.Khalildoes.Hecomestohisdoor.It’snotsmarttomakeasuddenmove.Khalildoes.Heopensthedriver’sdoor.“Youokay,Starr—”Pow!One.Khalil’s body jerks. Blood splatters from his back.He holds on to the door to keep himself

upright.Pow!Two.Khalilgasps.Pow!Three.Khalillooksatme,stunned.Hefallstotheground.I’mtenagain,watchingNatashadrop.Anearsplittingscreamemergesfrommygut,explodesinmythroat,anduseseveryinchofmetobe

heard.Instinct says don’tmove, but everything else says checkonKhalil. I jumpout the Impala and rush

around to theother side.Khalil staresat the skyas ifhehopes to seeGod.Hismouth isopen likehewantstoscream.Iscreamloudenoughforthebothofus.

“No,no,no,”isallIcansay,likeI’mayearoldandit’stheonlywordIknow.I’mnotsurehowIenduponthegroundnexttohim.Mymomoncesaidthatifsomeonegetsshot,trytostopthebleeding,butthere’ssomuchblood.Toomuchblood.

“No,no,no.”Khalildoesn’tmove.Hedoesn’tutteraword.Hedoesn’tevenlookatme.Hisbodystiffens,andhe’s

gone.IhopeheseesGod.Someoneelsescreams.Iblinkthroughmytears.OfficerOne-Fifteenyellsatme,pointing thesamegunhekilledmyfriend

with.Iputmyhandsup.

THREE

They leaveKhalil’s body in the street like it’s an exhibit. Police cars and ambulances flash all alongCarnationStreet.Peoplestandofftotheside,tryingtoseewhathappened.

“Damn,bruh,”someguysays.“Theykilledhim!”Thepolicetellthecrowdtoleave.Nobodylistens.Theparamedicscan’tdoshitforKhalil,sotheyputmeinthebackofanambulancelikeIneedhelp.

Thebrightlightsspotlightme,andpeoplecranetheirneckstogetapeek.Idon’tfeelspecial.Ifeelsick.The cops rummage throughKhalil’s car. I try to tell them to stop.Please, cover his body. Please,

closehiseyes.Please,closehismouth.Getaway fromhiscar.Don’tpickuphishairbrush.But thewordsnevercomeout.

One-Fifteensitsonthesidewalkwithhisfaceburiedinhishands.Otherofficerspathisshoulderandtellhimit’llbeokay.

TheyfinallyputasheetoverKhalil.Hecan’tbreatheunderit.Ican’tbreathe.Ican’t.Breathe.Igasp.Andgasp.Andgasp.“Starr?”Browneyeswithlongeyelashesappearinfrontofme.They’relikemine.Icouldn’tsaymuchtothecops,butIdidmanagetogivethemmyparents’namesandphonenumbers.“Hey,”Daddysays.“C’mon,let’sgo.”Iopenmymouthtorespond.Asobcomesout.Daddy ismoved aside, andMommawraps her arms aroundme. She rubsmy back and speaks in

hushedtonesthattelllies.“It’sallright,baby.It’sallright.”Westay thiswayfora longtime.Eventually,Daddyhelpsusout theambulance.Hewrapshisarm

aroundmelikeashieldagainstcuriouseyesandguidesmetohisTahoedownthestreet.Hedrives.Astreetlight flashesacrosshis face, revealinghow tighthis jaw is set.Hisveinsbulge

alonghisbaldhead.Momma’swearingherscrubs, theoneswith therubberduckson them.Shedidanextrashiftat the

emergency room tonight. Shewipes her eyes a few times, probably thinking aboutKhalil or how thatcould’vebeenmelyinginthestreet.

Mystomachtwists.Allofthatblood,anditcameoutofhim.Someofitisonmyhands,onSeven’shoodie,onmysneakers.Anhouragowewerelaughingandcatchingup.Nowhisblood...

Hotspitpoolsinmymouth.Mystomachtwiststighter.Igag.Mommaglancesatmeintherearviewmirror.“Maverick,pullover!”

Ithrowmyselfacrossthebackseatandpushthedooropenbeforethetruckcomestoacompletestop.Itfeelslikeeverythinginmeiscomingout,andallIcandoisletit.

Mommahopsoutandrunsaroundtome.Sheholdsmyhairoutthewayandrubsmyback.“I’msosorry,baby,”shesays.Whenwegethome,shehelpsmeundress.Seven’shoodieandmyJordansdisappearintoablacktrash

bag,andIneverseethemagain.IsitinatubofsteamingwaterandscrubmyhandsrawtogetKhalil’sbloodoff.Daddycarriesmeto

bed,andMommabrushesherfingersthroughmyhairuntilIfallasleep.

Nightmareswakemeoverandoveragain.Mommaremindsmetobreathe,thesamewayshedidbeforeIoutgrewasthma.Ithinkshestaysinmyroomthewholenight,’causeeverytimeIwakeup,she’ssittingonmybed.

Butthistime,she’sgone.Myeyesstrainagainstthebrightnessofmyneon-bluewalls.Theclocksaysit’sfiveinthemorning.Mybody’ssousedtowakingupatfive,itdoesn’tcareifit’sSaturdaymorningornot.

Istareattheglow-in-the-darkstarsonmyceiling,tryingtorecapthenightbefore.Thepartyflashesinmymind,thefight,One-FifteenpullingmeandKhalilover.Thefirstshotringsinmyears.Thesecond.Thethird.

I’mlyinginbed.Khalilislyinginthecountymorgue.That’swhereNatashaendeduptoo.Ithappenedsixyearsago,butIstillremembereverythingfrom

thatday.Iwassweepingfloorsatourgrocerystore,savingupformyfirstpairofJ’s,whenNatasharanin.Shewaschunky(hermommatoldheritwasbabyfat),dark-skinned,andworeherhairinbraidsthatalwayslookedfreshlydone.Iwantedbraidslikeherssobad.

“Starr,thehydrantonElmStreetbusted!”shesaid.Thatwaslikesayingwehadafreewaterpark.IrememberlookingatDaddyandpleadingsilently.He

saidIcouldgo,aslongasIpromisedtobebackinanhour.I don’t think I ever saw the water shoot as high as it did that day. Almost everybody in the

neighborhoodwastheretoo.Justhavingfun.Iwastheonlyonewhonoticedthecaratfirst.Atattooedarmstretchedoutthebackwindow,holdingaGlock.Peopleran.Notmethough.Myfeet

becamepartofthesidewalk.Natashawassplashinginthewater,allhappyandstuff.Then—Pow!Pow!Pow!Idove intoarosebush.Bythe timeIgotup,somebodywasyelling,“Callnine-one-one!”Atfirst I

thought itwasme,’causeIhadbloodonmyshirt.Thethornsontherosebushgotme, that’sall. ItwasNatashathough.Herbloodmixedinwiththewater,andallyoucouldseewasaredriverflowingdownthestreet.

She looked scared.Wewere ten,wedidn’tknowwhathappenedafteryoudied.Hell, I stilldon’tknow,andshewasforcedtofindout,evenifshedidn’twannafindout.

Iknowshedidn’t.JustlikeKhalildidn’t.Mydoorcreaksopen,andMommapeeksin.Shetriestosmile.“Lookwho’sup.”Shesinksontoherspoton thebedand touchesmyforehead,even thoughIdon’thavea fever.She

takescareofsickkidssomuchthatit’sherfirstinstinct.“Howyoufeeling,Munch?”Thatnickname.MyparentsclaimIwasalwaysmunchingonsomethingfromthemomentIgotoffthe

bottle.I’velostmybigappetite,butIcan’tlosethatnickname.“Tired,”Isay.Myvoicehasextrabassinit.“Iwannastayinbed.”

“Iknow,baby,butIdon’twantyouherebyyourself.”

That’sallIwannabe,bymyself.Shestaresatme,butitfeelslikeshe’slookingatwhoIusedtobe,herlittlegirlwithponytailsandasnaggletoothwhosworeshewasaPowerpuffGirl.It’sweirdbutalsokindalikeablanketIwannagetwrappedupin.

“Iloveyou,”shesays.“Iloveyoutoo.”Shestandsandholdsherhandout.“C’mon.Let’sgetyousomethingtoeat.”Wewalkslowlytothekitchen.BlackJesushangsfromthecrossinapaintingonthehallwaywall,

andMalcolmXholdsashotgun inaphotographnext tohim.Nanastillcomplainsabout thosepictureshangingnexttoeachother.

We live in her old house. She gave it to my parents after my uncle, Carlos, moved her into hishumongoushouseinthesuburbs.UncleCarloswasalwaysuneasyaboutNanalivingbyherselfinGardenHeights,especiallysincebreak-insandrobberiesseemtohappenmoretoolderfolksthananybody.Nanadoesn’tthinkshe’soldthough.Sherefusedtoleave,talkingabouthowitwasherhomeandnothugsweregonnarunherout,notevenwhensomebodybrokeinandstolehertelevision.Aboutamonthafterthat,UncleCarlosclaimedthatheandAuntPamneededherhelpwith theirkids.Since,accordingtoNana,AuntPam“can’tcookworthadamnforthosepoorbabies”shefinallyagreedtomove.Ourhousehasn’tlostitsNana-nessthough,withitspermanentodorofpotpourri,floweredwallpaper,andhintsofpinkinalmosteveryroom.

DaddyandSevenaretalkingbeforewegettothekitchen.Theygosilentassoonaswewalkin.“Morning,babygirl.”Daddygetsupfromthetableandkissesmyforehead.“Yousleepokay?”“Yeah,”Ilieasheguidesmetoaseat.Sevenjuststares.Mommaopensthefridge,thedoorcrowdedwithtakeoutmenusandfruit-shapedmagnets.“Allright,

Munch,”shesays,“youwantturkeybaconorregular?”“Regular.” I’m surprised I have an option. We never have pork. We aren’t Muslims. More like

“Christlims.”MommabecameamemberofChristTempleChurchwhenshewasinNana’sbelly.Daddybelieves in Black Jesus but follows the Black Panthers’ Ten-Point Program more than the TenCommandments.HeagreeswiththeNationofIslamonsomestuff,buthecan’tgetoverthefactthattheymayhavekilledMalcolmX.

“Pig inmyhouse,”Daddygrumblesandsitsnext tome.Sevensmirksacross fromhim.SevenandDaddylooklikeoneofthoseage-progressionpicturestheyshowwhensomebody’sbeenmissingalongtime. Throwmy little brother, Sekani, in there and you have the same person at eight, seventeen, andthirty-six. They’re dark brown, slender, and have thick eyebrows and long eyelashes that almost lookfeminine.Seven’sdreadsarelongenoughtogivebothbald-headedDaddyandshort-hairedSekanieachaheadfullofhair.

As forme, it’s as ifGodmixedmyparents’ skin tones in a paint bucket to getmymedium-browncomplexion. I did inherit Daddy’s eyelashes—and I’m cursed with his eyebrows too. Otherwise I’mmostlymymom,withbigbrowneyesandalittletoomuchforehead.

MommapassesbehindSevenwiththebaconandsqueezeshisshoulder.“Thankyouforstayingwithyourbrotherlastnightsowecould—”Hervoicecatches,butthereminderofwhathappenedhangsintheair.Sheclearsherthroat.“Weappreciateit.”

“Noproblem.Ineededtogetoutthehouse.”“Kingspentthenight?”Daddyasks.“Morelikemovedin.Ieshatalkingabouttheycanbeafamily—”“Ay,”Daddysays.“That’syourmomma,boy.Don’tbecallingherbyhernamelikeyougrown.”“Somebodyinthathouseneedstobegrown,”Mommasays.Shetakesaskilletoutandhollerstoward

thehall,“Sekani,I’mnottellingyouagain.IfyouwannagotoCarlos’sfortheweekend,youbettergetup!You’renotgonnahavemelateforwork.”Iguessshe’sgottaworkadayshifttomakeupforlastnight.

“Pops,youknowwhat’sgonnahappen,”Sevensays.“He’llbeather,she’llputhimout.Thenhe’llcomeback,sayinghechanged.Onlydifferenceisthistime,I’mnotlettinghimputhishandsonme.”

“Youcanalwaysmoveinwithus,”saysDaddy.“Iknow,butIcan’tleaveKenyaandLyric.Thatfool’scrazyenoughtohitthemtoo.Hedon’tcarethat

they’rehisdaughters.”“A’ight,”Daddysays.“Don’tsayanythingtohim.Ifheputshishandsonyou,letmehandlethat.”Sevennodsthenlooksatme.Heopenshismouthandkeepsitopenawhilebeforesaying,“I’msorry

aboutlastnight,Starr.”Somebody finally acknowledges the cloudhangingover thekitchen,which for some reason is like

acknowledgingme.“Thanks,”Isay,eventhoughit’sweirdsayingthat.Idon’tdeservethesympathy.Khalil’sfamilydoes.There’sjustthesoundofbaconcracklingandpoppingintheskillet.It’slikea“Fragile”sticker’son

myforehead,andinsteadoftakingachanceandsayingsomethingthatmightbreakme,they’drathersaynothingatall.

Butthesilenceistheworst.“Iborrowedyourhoodie,Seven,”Imumble.It’srandom,butit’sbetterthannothing.“Theblueone.

Mommahadtothrowitaway.Khalil’sblood...”Iswallow.“Hisbloodgotonit.”“Oh...”That’sallanybodysaysforaminute.Mommaturnsaroundtotheskillet.“Don’tmakeanysense.Thatbaby—”shesaysthickly.“Hewas

justababy.”Daddyshakeshishead.“Thatboyneverhurtanybody.Hedidn’tdeservethatshit.”“Whydidtheyshoothim?”Sevenasks.“Washeathreatorsomething?”“No,”Isayquietly.Istareatthetable.Icanfeelallofthemwatchingmeagain.“Hedidn’tdoanything,”Isay.“Wedidn’tdoanything.Khalildidn’tevenhaveagun.”Daddyreleasesaslowbreath.“Folksaroundheregon’losetheirmindswhentheyfindthatout.”“People from theneighborhood are already talking about it onTwitter,”Seven says. “I saw it last

night.”“Didtheymentionyoursister?”Mommaasks.“No.JustRIPKhalilmessages,fuckthepolice,stufflikethat.Idon’tthinktheyknowdetails.”“What’sgonnahappentomewhenthedetailsdocomeout?”Iask.“Whatdoyoumean,baby?”mymomasks.“Besidesthecop,I’mtheonlypersonwhowasthere.Andyou’veseenstufflikethis.Itendsupon

nationalnews.Peoplegetdeaththreats,copstargetthem,allkindsofstuff.”“Iwon’tletanythinghappentoyou,”Daddysays.“Noneofuswill.”HelooksatMommaandSeven.

“We’renottellinganybodythatStarrwasthere.”“ShouldSekaniknow?”Sevenasks.“No,”Mommasays.“It’sbestifhedidn’t.We’rejustgonnabequietfornow.”I’veseenithappenoverandoveragain:ablackpersongetskilledjustforbeingblack,andallhell

breaks loose. I’ve tweeted RIP hashtags, reblogged pictures on Tumblr, and signed every petition outthere.IalwayssaidthatifIsawithappentosomebody,Iwouldhavetheloudestvoice,makingsuretheworldknewwhatwentdown.

NowIamthatperson,andI’mtooafraidtospeak.

IwannastayhomeandwatchTheFreshPrinceofBel-Air,myfavoriteshowever,handsdown.IthinkIknow every episode word for word. Yeah it’s hilarious, but it’s also like seeing parts of my life onscreen.Ievenrelatetothethemesong.AcoupleofgangmemberswhowereuptonogoodmadetroubleinmyneighborhoodandkilledNatasha.Myparentsgotscared,andalthoughtheydidn’tsendmetomyauntanduncleinarichneighborhood,theysentmetoabougieprivateschool.

IjustwishIcouldbemyselfatWilliamsonlikeWillwashimselfinBel-Air.IkindawannastayhomesoIcanreturnChris’scallstoo.Afterlastnight,itfeelsstupidtobemadat

him.OrIcouldcallHaileyandMaya,thosegirlsKenyaclaimsdon’tcountasmyfriends.IguessIcanseewhyshesaysthat.Ineverinvitethemover.WhywouldI?Theyliveinmini-mansions.Myhouseisjustmini.

Imadethemistakeofinvitingthemtoasleepoverinseventhgrade.Mommawasgonnaletusdoournails, stay up all night, and eat as much pizza as we wanted. It was gonna be as awesome as thoseweekendswehadatHailey’s.Theoneswestillhavesometimes.IinvitedKenyatoo,soIcouldfinallyhangoutwithallthreeofthematonce.

Haileydidn’tcome.Herdaddidn’twantherspendingthenightin“theghetto.”Ioverheardmyparentssay that.Mayacamebut endedupaskingherparents to comegether thatnight.Therewasadrive-byaroundthecorner,andthegunshotsscaredher.

That’swhenI realizedWilliamson isoneworldandGardenHeights isanother,andIhave tokeepthemseparate.

Itdoesn’tmatterwhatI’mthinkingaboutdoingtodaythough—myparentshavetheirownplansforme.MommatellsmeI’mgoingtothestorewithDaddy.BeforeSevenleavesforwork,hecomestomyroominhisBestBuypoloandkhakisandhugsme.

“Loveyou,”hesays.See,that’swhyIhateitwhensomebodydies.Peopledostufftheywouldn’tusuallydo.EvenMomma

hugsmelongerandtighterwithmoresympathythan“justbecause”init.Sekani,ontheotherhand,stealsbaconoffmyplate,looksatmyphone,andpurposelystepsonmyfootonhiswayout.Ilovehimforit.

Ibringabowlofdog foodand leftoverbaconoutside toourpitbull,Brickz.Daddygavehimhisname’causehe’salwaysbeenasheavyassomebricks.Soonasheseesme,hejumpsandfightstobreakfreefromhischain.AndwhenIgetcloseenough,hishyperbuttjumpsupmylegs,nearlytakingmedown.

“Get!”Isay.Hecrouchesontothegrassandstaresupatme,whimperingwithwidepuppy-dogeyes.TheBrickzversionofanapology.

I know pit bulls can be aggressive, but Brickz is a baby most of the time. A big baby. Now, ifsomebodytriestobreakinourhouseorsomething,theywon’tmeetthebabyBrickz.

WhileIfeedBrickzandrefillhiswaterbowl,Daddypicksbunchesofcollardgreensfromhisgarden.Hecutsrosesthathavebloomsasbigasmypalms.Daddyspendshoursouthereeverynight,planting,tilling,andtalking.Heclaimsagoodgardenneedsgoodconversation.

About thirtyminutes later,we’re riding inhis truckwith thewindowsdown.On the radio,MarvinGayeaskswhat’sgoingon.It’sstilldarkout,thoughthesunpeeksthroughtheclouds,andhardlyanybodyisoutside.Thisearlyinthemorningit’seasytoheartherumblingofeighteen-wheelersonthefreeway.

DaddyhumstoMarvin,buthecouldn’tcarryatuneifitcameinabox.He’swearingaLakersjerseyandnoshirtunderneath, revealingtattoosalloverhisarms.Oneofmybabyphotossmilesbackatme,permanentlyetchedonhisarmwithSomethingtolivefor,somethingtodieforwrittenbeneathit.SevenandSekaniareonhisotherarmwiththesamewordsbeneaththem.Lovelettersinthesimplestform.

“Youwannatalk’boutlastnightsomemore?”heasks.“Nah.”“A’ight.Wheneveryouwanna.”Anotherloveletterinthesimplestform.We turn ontoMarigold Avenue, where Garden Heights is waking up. Some ladies wearing floral

headscarvescomeouttheLaundromat,carryingbigbasketsofclothes.Mr.Reubenunlocksthechainsonhis restaurant. His nephewTim, the cook, leans against thewall andwipes sleep from his eyes.Ms.Yvetteyawnsasshegoesinherbeautyshop.ThelightsareonatTopShelfSpiritsandWine,butthey’realwayson.

DaddyparksinfrontofCarter’sGrocery,ourfamily’sstore.DaddyboughtitwhenIwasnineaftertheformerowner,Mr.Wyatt,leftGardenHeightstogositonthebeachallday,watchingprettywomen.(Mr.Wyatt’swords,notmine.)Mr.WyattwastheonlypersonwhowouldhireDaddywhenhegotoutofprison,andhelatersaidDaddywastheonlypersonhetrustedtorunthestore.

ComparedtotheWalmartontheeastsideofGardenHeights,ourgroceryistiny.White-paintedmetalbarsprotectthewindowsanddoor.Theymakethestoreresembleajail.

Mr.Lewisfromthebarbershopnextdoorstandsoutfront,hisarmsfoldedoverhisbigbelly.HesetshisnarrowedeyesonDaddy.

Daddysighs.“Herewego.”Wehopout.Mr.Lewisgives someof thebesthaircuts inGardenHeights—Sekani’shigh-top fade

proves it—butMr.Lewis himselfwears anuntidyAfro.His stomachblocks his viewof his feet, andsince hiswife passed nobody tells him that his pants are too short and his socks don’t alwaysmatch.Todayoneisstripedandtheotherisargyle.

“Thestoreusedtoopenatfivefifty-fiveonthedot,”hesays.“Fivefifty-five!”It’s6:05.Daddyunlocksthefrontdoor.“Iknow,Mr.Lewis,butItoldyou,I’mnotrunningthestorethesame

wayWyattdid.”“Itsho’isobvious.Firstyoutakedownhispictures—whothehellreplacesapictureofDr.Kingwith

somenobody—”“HueyNewtonain’tanobody.”“Heain’tDr.King!Thenyouhirethugstoworkupinhere.IheardthatKhalilboygothimselfkilled

last night.Hewasprobably selling that stuff.”Mr.Lewis looks fromDaddy’s basketball jersey to histattoos.“Wonderwherehegetthatideafrom.”

Daddy’sjawtightens.“Starr,turnthecoffeepotonforMr.Lewis.”Sohecangetthehellouttahere,Isaytomyself,finishingDaddy’ssentenceforhim.Iflicktheswitchonthecoffeepotat theself-servetable,whichHueyNewtonwatchesoverfroma

photograph,hisfistraisedforblackpower.I’msupposedtoreplacethefilterandputnewcoffeeandwaterin,butfortalkingaboutKhalilMr.

Lewisgetscoffeemadefromday-oldgrounds.Helimpsthroughtheaislesandgetsahoneybun,anapple,andapackofhogheadcheese.Hegives

methehoneybun.“Heatitup,girl.Andyoubet’notovercookit.”Ileaveitinthemicrowaveuntiltheplasticwrapperswellsandpopsopen.Mr.LewiseatsitsoonasI

takeitout.“Thatthanghot!”Hechewsandblowsatthesametime.“Youheatedittoolong,girl.’Bouttoburnmy

mouth!”WhenMr.Lewisleaves,Daddywinksatme.

Theusualcustomerscomein, likeMrs.Jackson,who insistsonbuyinghergreensfromDaddyandnobodyelse.Four red-eyedguys in saggingpantsbuyalmosteverybagofchipswehave.Daddy tellsthemit’stooearlytobethatblazed,andtheylaughwaytoohard.Oneofthemlickshisnextbluntastheyleave. Around eleven,Mrs. Rooks buys some roses and snacks for her bridge clubmeeting. She hasdroopyeyesandgoldplatingonherfrontteeth.Herwigisgold-coloredtoo.

“Y’allneedtogetsomeLottoticketsupinhere,baby,”shesaysasDaddyringsherupandIbagherstuff.“Tonightit’satthreehundredmillion!”

Daddysmiles.“Forreal?Whatwouldyoudowithallthatmoney,Mrs.Rooks?”“Shiiit.Baby,thequestioniswhatIwouldn’tdowithallthatmoney.Lordknows,I’dgetonthefirst

planeouttahere.”Daddylaughs.“Isthatright?Thenwhogon’makeredvelvetcakesforus?”“Somebodyelse,’causeI’dbegone.”Shepointstothedisplayofcigarettesbehindus.“Baby,hand

meapackofthemNewports.”ThoseareNana’sfavoritestoo.TheyusedtobeDaddy’sfavoritesbeforeIbeggedhimtoquit.Igrab

apackandpassittoMrs.Rooks.She’sstaringatmemomentsafter,pattingthepackagainstherpalm,andIwaitforit.Thesympathy.

“Baby,IheardwhathappenedtoRosalie’sgrandboy,”shesays.“I’msosorry.Y’allusedtobefriends,didn’tyou?”

The“usedto”stings,butIjustsaytoMrs.Rooks,“Yes,ma’am.”“Hmm!”Sheshakesherhead.“Lord,havemercy.Myheart ’boutbrokewhenIheard. I tried togo

overthereandseeRosalielastnight,butsomanypeoplewerealreadyatthehouse.PoorRosalie.Allshegoingthroughandnowthis.BarbarasaidRosalienotsurehowshegon’paytoburyhim.Wetalking’boutraisingsomemoney.Thinkyoucanhelpusout,Maverick?”

“Oh,yeah.Letmeknowwhaty’allneed,andit’sdone.”Sheflashesthosegoldteethinasmile.“Boy,it’sgoodtoseewheretheLorddonebroughtyou.Your

mommawouldbeproud.”Daddynodsheavily.Grandma’sbeengonetenyears—longenoughthatDaddydoesn’tcryeveryday,

butsuchashortwhileagothatifsomeonebringsherup,itbringshimdown.“Andlookatthisgirl,”Mrs.Rookssays,eyeingme.“EverybitofLisa.Maverick,youbetterwatch

out.Theseli’lboysaroundheregon’betryingit.”“Nah,theybetterwatchout.YouknowIain’thavingthat.Shecan’tdatetillsheforty.”Myhanddriftstomypocket,thinkingofChrisandhistexts.Shit,Ileftmyphoneathome.Needlessto

say, Daddy doesn’t know a thing about Chris. We’ve been together over a year now. Seven knows,becausehemetChrisatschool,andMommafigureditoutwhenChriswouldalwaysvisitmeatUncleCarlos’shouse,claiminghewasmyfriend.OnedaysheandUncleCarloswalkedinonuskissingandtheypointedoutthatfriendsdon’tkisseachotherlikethat.I’veneverseenChrisgetsoredinmylife.

SheandSevenareokaywithmedatingChris,althoughifitwasuptoSevenI’dbecomeanun,butwhatever.Ican’tgetthegutstotellDaddythough.Andit’snotjustbecausehedoesn’twantmedatingyet.ThebiggerissueisthatChrisiswhite.

AtfirstIthoughtmymommightsaysomethingaboutit,butshewaslike,“Hecouldbepolkadot,aslongashe’snotacriminalandhe’streatingyouright.”Daddy,ontheotherhand,rantsabouthowHalleBerry“actlikeshecan’tgetwithbrothersanymore”andhowmessedupthatis.Imean,anytimehefindsout a black person is with a white person, suddenly something’s wrong with them. I don’t want himlookingatmelikethat.

Luckily,Momma hasn’t told him. She refuses to get in themiddle of that fight.My boyfriend,my

responsibilitytotellDaddy.Mrs.Rooks leaves.Seconds later, thebellclangs.Kenyastruts into thestore.Herkicksarecute—

BazookaJoeNikeDunksthatIhaven’taddedtomycollection.Kenyaalwayswearsflysneakers.Shegoestogetherusualfromtheaisles.“Hey,Starr.Hey,UncleMaverick.”“Hey,Kenya,”Daddyanswers,eventhoughhe’snotheruncle,butherbrother’sdad.“Yougood?”ShecomesbackwithajumbobagofHotCheetosandaSprite.“Yeah.Mymommawannaknowifmy

brotherspentthenightwithy’all.”ThereshegoescallingSeven“mybrother”likeshe’stheonlyonewhocanclaimhim.It’sannoyingas

hell.“TellyourmommaI’llcallherlater,”Daddysays.“Okay.”Kenyapaysforherstuffandmakeseyecontactwithme.Shejerksherheadalittletotheside.“I’mgonnasweeptheaisles,”ItellDaddy.Kenyafollowsme.Igrabthebroomandgototheproduceaisleontheothersideofthestore.Some

grapeshavespilledoutfromthosered-eyedguyssamplingbeforebuying.IbarelystartsweepingbeforeKenyastartstalking.

“IheardaboutKhalil,”shesays.“I’msosorry,Starr.Youokay?”Imakemyselfnod.“I...justcan’tbelieveit,youknow?IthadbeenawhilesinceIsawhim,but...”“Ithurts.”KenyasayswhatIcan’t.“Yeah.”Fuck,Ifeelthetearscoming.I’mnotgonnacry,I’mnotgonnacry,I’mnotgonnacry....“I kinda hoped he’d be in herewhen Iwalked in,” she says softly. “Like he used to be. Bagging

groceriesinthatuglyapron.”“Thegreenone,”Imutter.“Yeah.Talkingabouthowwomenloveamaninuniform.”Istareatthefloor.IfIcrynow,Imayneverstop.KenyapopsherHotCheetosopenandholdsthebagtowardme.Comfortfood.Ireachinandgetacouple.“Thanks.”“Noproblem.”WemunchonCheetos.Khalil’ssupposedtobeherewithus.“So,um,”Isay,andmyvoiceisallrough.“YouandDenasiagotintoitlastnight?”“Girl.”Shesoundslikeshe’sbeenwaitingtodropthisstoryforhours.“DeVantecameover tome,

rightbeforeitgotcrazy.Heaskedformynumber.”“IthoughthewasDenasia’sboyfriend?”“DeVantenotthetypetobetieddown.Anyway,Denasiawalkedovertostartsomething,buttheshots

went off. We ended up running down the same street, and I clocked her ass. It was so funny! Youshould’veseenit!”

Iwould’ve rather seen that insteadofOfficerOne-Fifteen.OrKhalil staring at the sky.Or all thatblood.Mystomachtwistsagain.

Kenyawavesherhandinfrontofme.“Hey.Youokay?”IblinkKhalilandthatcopaway.“Yeah.I’mgood.”“Yousure?Yourealquiet.”“Yeah.”Sheletsitdrop,andIlethertellmeaboutthesecondroundshehasplannedforDenasia.Daddy calls me up front.When I get there, he hands me a twenty. “Get me some beef ribs from

Reuben’s.AndIwant—”

“Potatosaladandfriedokra,”Isay.That’swhathealwayshasonSaturdays.Hekissesmycheek.“Youknowyourdaddy.Getwhateveryouwant,baby.”Kenyafollowsmeoutthestore.Wewaitforacartopass,themusicblastingandthedriverreclined

sofarbackthatonlythetipofhisnoseseemstonodtothesong.WecrossthestreettoReuben’s.The smoky aroma hits us on the sidewalk, and a blues song pours outside. Inside, the walls are

coveredwithphotographsofcivil rights leaders,politicians,andcelebritieswhohaveeatenhere, likeJamesBrownandpre-heart-bypassBillClinton.There’sapictureofDr.KingandamuchyoungerMr.Reuben.

Abulletproofpartitionseparates thecustomersfromthecashier.Ifanmyselfafterafewminutes inline.Theairconditionerinthewindowstoppedworkingmonthsago,andthesmokerheatsupthewholebuilding.

Whenwegettothefrontoftheline,Mr.Reubengreetsuswithagap-toothedsmilefrombehindthepartition.“Hey,StarrandKenya.Howy’alldoing?”

Mr.Reubenisoneoftheonlypeoplearoundherewhoactuallycallsmebymyname.Herememberseverybody’snamessomehow.“Hey,Mr.Reuben,”Isay.“Mydaddywantshisusual.”

Hewritesitonapad.“Allright.Beefs,tatersalad,okra.Y’allwantfriedBBQwingsandfries?Andextrasauceforyou,Starrbaby?”

Herememberseverybody’susualorderstoosomehow.“Yes,sir,”wesay.“Allright.Y’allbeenstayingoutoftrouble?”“Yes,sir,”Kenyalieswithease.“How’boutsomepoundcakeonthehousethen?Rewardforgoodbehavior.”Wesayyeahandthankhim.Butsee,Mr.ReubencouldknowaboutKenya’sfightandwouldofferher

poundcakeregardless.He’snicelikethat.Hegiveskidsfreemealsiftheybringintheirreportcards.Ifit’sagoodone,he’llmakeacopyandputitonthe“All-StarWall.”Ifit’sbad,aslongastheyownuptoitandpromisetodobetter,he’llstillgivethemameal.

“It’sgon’take’boutfifteenminutes,”hesays.Thatmeanssitandwaittillyournumberiscalled.Wefindatablenexttosomewhiteguys.Yourarely

seewhitepeople inGardenHeights, butwhenyoudo they’reusually atReuben’s.Themenwatch thenewsontheboxTVinacorneroftheceiling.

ImunchonsomeofKenya’sHotCheetos.Theywouldtastemuchbetterwithcheesesauceonthem.“HastherebeenanythingonthenewsaboutKhalil?”

Shepaysmoreattentiontoherphone.“Yeah,likeIwatchthenews.IthinkIsawsomethingonTwitter,though.”

Iwait.Betweenastoryaboutabadcaraccidentonthefreewayandagarbagebagoflivepuppiesthatwas found inapark, there’sa short storyaboutanofficer-involvedshooting that isbeing investigated.Theydon’tevensayKhalil’sname.Somebullshit.

Wegetourfoodandheadbacktothestore.Rightaswecrossthestreet,agrayBMWpullsupbesideus,bassthumpinginsidelikethecarhasaheartbeat.Thedriver’ssidewindowrollsdown,smokedriftsout,andthemale,three-hundred-poundversionofKenyasmilesatus.“Whatup,queens?”

Kenyaleansinthroughthewindowandkisseshischeek.“Hey,Daddy.”“Hey,Starr-Starr,”hesays.“Notgon’sayheytoyouruncle?”Youain’tmyuncle,Iwannasay.Youain’tshittome.Andifyoutouchmybrotheragain,I’ll—“Hey,

King,”Ifinallymumble.Hissmilefadeslikehehearsmythoughts.Hepuffsonacigarandblowssmokefromthecornerofhis

mouth.Twotearsaretattooedunderhislefteye.Twoliveshe’staken.Atleast.

“I seey’allbeen toReuben’s.Here.”Heholdsout two fat rollsofmoney.“Makeup forwhatevery’allspent.”

Kenyatakesoneeasily,butI’mnottouchingthatdirtymoney.“Nothanks.”“Goon,queen.”Kingwinks.“Takesomemoneyfromyourgodfather.”“Nah,shegood,”Daddysays.Hewalkstowardus.Daddyleansagainstthecarwindowsohe’seyelevelwithKingandgiveshim

oneofthoseguyhandshakeswithsomanymovementsyouwonderhowtheyrememberit.“BigMav,”Kenya’sdadsayswithagrin.“Whatup,king?”“Don’t callme that shit.”Daddydoesn’t say it loudlyor angrily,but in the sameway Iwould tell

somebodynot toputonionsormayoonmyburger.Daddyonce toldmethatKing’sparentsnamedhimafter the sameganghe later joined,and that’swhyaname is important. Itdefinesyou.KingbecameaKingLordwhenhetookhisfirstbreath.

“Iwasjustgivingmygoddaughtersomepocketchange,”Kingsays.“Iheardwhathappenedtoherli’lhomie.That’sfuckedup.”

“Yeah.Youknowhowitis,”Daddysays.“Po-poshootfirst,askquestionslater.”“Nodoubt.Theyworsethanussometimes.”Kingchuckles.“Butay?Onsomebusinessshit,Igota

packagecoming,needsomewheretokeepit.GottoomanyeyesonIesha’shouse.”“Ialreadytoldyouthatshitain’tgoingdownhere.”Kingrubshisbeard.“Oh,okay.Sofolksgetoutthegame,forgetwheretheycomefrom,forgetthatif

itwasn’tformymoney,theywouldn’thavetheirli’lstore—”“Andifitwasn’tforme,you’dbelockedup.Threeyears,statepen,rememberthatshit?Idon’towe

younothing.”Daddyleansontothewindowandsays,“ButifyoutouchSevenagain,I’lloweyouanasswhooping.Rememberthat,nowthatyoudonemovedbackinwithhismomma.”

Kingsuckshisteeth.“Kenya,getinthecar.”“ButDaddy—”“Isaidgetyourassinthecar!”Kenyamumbles“bye”tome.Shegoesaroundtothepassenger’ssideandhopsin.“A’ight,BigMav.Soit’slikethat?”Kingsays.Daddystraightensup.“It’sexactlylikethat.”“A’ightthen.Youjustmakesureyourassdon’tgetouttaline.Ain’tnotellingwhatI’lldo.”TheBMWpeelsout.

FOUR

Thatnight,Natashatriestoconvincemetofollowhertothefirehydrant,andKhalilbegsmetogoforaridewithhim.

Iforceasmile,mylipstrembling,andtellthemIcan’thangout.Theykeepasking,andIkeepsayingno.

Darknesscrawlstowardthem.Itrytowarnthem,butmyvoicedoesn’twork.Theshadowswallowsthemupinaninstant.Nowitcreepstowardme.Ibackaway,onlytofinditbehindme....

Iwakeup.Myclockglowswiththenumbers:11:05.I suck in deep breaths. Sweat glues my tank top and basketball shorts to my skin. Sirens scream

nearby,andBrickzandotherdogsbarkinresponse.Sittingonthesideofmybed,Irubmyface,asifthat’llwipethenightmareaway.NowayIcango

backtosleep.Notifitmeansseeingthemagain.My throat is linedwith sandpaper and aches forwater.Whenmy feet touch the cold floor, goose

bumps pop up all overme.Daddy always has the air conditioning on high in the spring and summer,turningthehouseintoameatlocker.Therestofusshiverourbuttsoff,butheenjoysit,saying,“Ali’lcoldneverhurtnobody.”Alie.

Idragmyselfdownthehall.HalfwaytothekitchenIhearMommasay,“Whycan’ttheywait?Shejustsawoneofherbestfriendsdie.Shedoesn’tneedtorelivethatrightnow.”

Istop.Lightfromthekitchenstretchesintothehallway.“Wehavetoinvestigate,Lisa,”saysasecondvoice.UncleCarlos,Momma’solderbrother.“Wewant

thetruthasmuchasanyone.”“Youmeany’allwannajustifywhatthatpigdid,”Daddysays.“Investigatemyass.”“Maverick,don’tmakethissomethingit’snot,”UncleCarlossays.“Asixteen-year-oldblackboyisdeadbecauseawhitecopkilledhim.Whatelsecoulditbe?”“Shhh!”Mommahisses.“Keepitdown.Starrhadthehardesttimefallingasleep.”UncleCarlossayssomething,butit’stoolowformetohear.Iinchcloser.“Thisisn’taboutblackorwhite,”hesays.“Bullshit,”saysDaddy.“IfthiswasoutinRivertonHillsandhisnamewasRichie,wewouldn’tbe

havingthisconversation.”“Iheardhewasadrugdealer,”saysUncleCarlos.“Andthatmakesitokay?”Daddyasks.“Ididn’tsayitdid,butitcouldexplainBrian’sdecisionifhefeltthreatened.”A“no”lodgesinmythroat,achingtobeyelledout.Khalilwasn’tathreatthatnight.Andwhatmadethecopthinkhewasadrugdealer?Wait.Brian.That’sOne-Fifteen’sname?“Oh,soyouknowhim,”Daddymocks.“Iain’tsurprised.”“He’sacolleague,yesandagoodguy,believeitornot.I’msurethisishardonhim.Whoknowswhat

hewasthinkingatthetime?”“Yousaidityourself,hethoughtKhalilwasadrugdealer,”Daddysays.“A thug.Whyheassumed

thatthough?What?BylookingatKhalil?Explainthat,Detective.”Silence.“Whywassheeveninthecarwithadrugdealer?”UncleCarlosasks.“Lisa,Ikeeptellingyou,you

needtomoveherandSekanioutofthisneighborhood.It’spoisonous.”“I’vebeenthinkingaboutit.”“Andwe’renotgoinganywhere,”Daddysays.“Maverick,she’sseentwoofherfriendsgetkilled,”Mommasays.“Two!Andshe’sonlysixteen.”“Andonewasatthehandsofapersonwhowassupposedtoprotecther!What,youthinkifyoulive

nextdoortothem,they’lltreatyoudifferent?”“Whydoesitalwayshavetobeaboutracewithyou?”UncleCarlosasks.“Otherracesaren’tkilling

usnearlyasmuchaswe’rekillingourselves.”“Ne-gro, please. If I kill Tyrone, I’m going to prison. If a cop killsme, he’s getting put on leave.

Maybe.”“Youknowwhat?There’snopointhavingthisconversationwithyou,”UncleCarlossays.“Willyou

atleastconsiderlettingStarrspeaktothedetectiveshandlingthecase?”“Weshouldprobablygetheranattorneyfirst,Carlos,”Mommasays.“That’snotnecessaryrightnow,”hesays.“Anditwasn’tnecessaryforthatcoptopullthetrigger,”saysDaddy.“Youreallythinkwegon’let

themtalktoourdaughterandtwistherwordsaroundbecauseshedoesn’thavealawyer?”“Nobody’sgoingtotwistherwordsaround!Itoldyou,wewantthetruthtocomeouttoo.”“Oh,weknowthetruth,that’snotwhatwewant,”saysDaddy.“Wewantjustice.”Uncle Carlos sighs. “Lisa, the sooner she talks to the detectives, the better. It will be a simple

process.Allshehastodoisanswersomequestions.That’sit.Noneedtospendmoneytogetanattorneyjustyet.”

“Frankly,Carlos,wedon’twantanyonetoknowStarrwasthere,”Mommasays.“She’sscared.Iamtoo.Whoknowswhat’sgonnahappen?”

“Igetthat,butIassureyoushe’llbeprotected.Ifyoudon’ttrustthesystem,canyouatleasttrustme?”“Idon’tknow,”saysDaddy.“Canwe?”“Youknowwhat,Maverick?I’vejustabouthaditwithyou—”“Youcangetoutmyhousethen.”“Itwouldn’tevenbeyourhouseifitwasn’tformeandmymom!”“Y’allstop!”Mommasays.Ishiftmyweight,andgoddamnifthefloordoesn’tcreak,whichislikesoundinganalarm.Momma

glancesaroundthekitchendoorwayanddownthehall,straightatme.“Starrbaby,whatyoudoingup?”Now I have no choice but to go to the kitchen. The three of them are sitting around the table,my

parentsintheirpajamasandUncleCarlosinsomesweatsandahoodie.“Hey,babygirl,”hesays.“Wedidn’twakeyouup,didwe?”“No,”Isay,sittingnexttoMomma.“Iwasalreadyawake.Nightmares.”AllofthemlooksympatheticeventhoughIdidn’tsayitforsympathy.Ikindahatesympathy.“Whatareyoudoinghere?”IaskUncleCarlos.“Sekanihasastomachbugandbeggedmetobringhimhome.”“Andyourunclewasjustgettingreadytoleave,”Daddyadds.UncleCarlos’sjawtwitches.Hisfacehasgottenroundersincehemadedetective.HehasMomma’s

“highyella”complexion,asNanacallsit,andwhenhegetsmad,hisfaceturnsdeepred,likeitisnow.“I’msorryaboutKhalil,babygirl,”hesays.“Iwasjusttellingyourparentshowthedetectiveswould

likeforyoutocomeinandanswerafewquestions.”“Butyoudon’thavetodoitifyoudon’twanna,”Daddysays.“Youknowwhat—”UncleCarlosbegins.“Stop.Please?”saysMomma.Shelooksatme.“Munch,doyouwannatalktothecops?”Iswallow.IwishIcouldsayyes,butIdon’tknow.Ononehand, it’s thecops. It’snot likeI’llbe

tellingjustanybody.Ontheotherhand,it’sthecops.OneofthemkilledKhalil.ButUncleCarlosisacop,andhewouldn’taskmetodosomethingthatwouldhurtme.“WillithelpKhalilgetjustice?”Iask.UncleCarlosnods.“Itwill.”“WillOne-Fifteenbethere?”“Who?”“Theofficer,that’shisbadgenumber,”Isay.“Irememberit.”“Oh.No,hewon’tbethere.Ipromise.It’llbeokay.”UncleCarlos’spromisesareguarantees,sometimesevenmorethanmyparents’.Heneverusesthat

wordunlessheabsolutelymeansit.“Okay,”Isay.“I’lldoit.”“Thankyou.”UncleCarloscomesoverandgivesmetwokissestomyforehead,thewayhe’sdone

sinceheusedtotuckmein.“Lisa,justbringherafterschoolonMonday.Itshouldn’ttaketoolong.”Mommagetsupandhugshim.“Thankyou.”Shewalkshimdownthehall,towardthefrontdoor.“Be

safe,okay?Andtextmewhenyougethome.”“Yes,ma’am.Soundinglikeourmomma,”heteases.“Whatever.Youjustbettertextme—”“Okay,okay.Goodnight.”Mommacomesbacktothekitchen,pullingherrobetogether.“Munch,yourfatherandIarevisiting

Ms.Rosalieinthemorninginsteadofgoingtochurch.You’rewelcometocomeifyouwant.”“Yeah,”Daddysays.“Andain’tnounclepressuringyoutogo.”Mommacutshimaquickglare,thenturnstome.“So,youthinkyou’reupforit,Starr?”TalkingtoMs.Rosaliemaybeharderthantalkingtothecops,honestly.ButIoweittoKhaliltopay

hisgrandmotheravisit.ShemaynotevenknowIwasawitnesstotheshooting.Ifshesomehowdoesandwantstoknowwhathappened,morethananybodyshehastherighttoask.

“Yeah.I’llgo.”“Webetterfindheranattorneybeforeshetalkstothedetectives,”Daddysays.“Maverick.”Mommasighs.“IfCarlosdoesn’tthinkit’snecessaryjustyet,Itrusthisjudgment.Plus

I’llbewithhertheentiretime.”“Goodthingsomebodytrustshis judgment,”saysDaddy.“Andyoureallybeen thinkingagain’bout

moving?Wediscussedthisalready.”“Maverick,I’mnotgoingtherewithyoutonight.”“Howwegon’changeanythingaroundhereifwe—”“Mav-rick!” she says through gritted teeth.WheneverMomma breaks a name down like that, you

better hope it’s not yours. “I said I’m not going there tonight.” She side-eyes him, waiting for thecomeback.There isn’t one. “Try andget some sleep, baby,” she tellsme, and kissesmy cheek beforegoingtotheirroom.

Daddygoestotherefrigerator.“Youwantsomegrapes?”“Yeah.HowcomeyouandUncleCarlosalwaysfighting?”“’Causeheabuster.”He joinsmeat the tablewithabowlofwhitegrapes.“But for real,heain’t

neverlikedme.ThoughtIwasabadinfluenceonyourmomma.LisawaswildwhenImetherthough,likeallthemotherCatholicschoolgirls.”

“IbethewasmoreprotectiveofMommathanSeveniswithme,huh?”“Oh,yeah,”hesays.“CarlosactedlikehewasLisa’sdaddy.WhenIgotlockedup,hemovedy’allin

withhimandblockedmycalls.Eventookhertoadivorceattorney.”Hegrins.“Stillcouldn’tgetridofme.”

IwasthreewhenDaddywentinprison,sixwhenhegotout.Alotofmymemoriesincludehim,butalotofmyfirstsdon’t.Firstdayofschool,thefirsttimeIlostatooth,thefirsttimeIrodeabikewithouttrainingwheels.Inthosememories,UncleCarlos’sfaceiswhereDaddy’sshould’vebeen.Ithinkthat’stherealreasonthey’realwaysfighting.

Daddy drums the mahogany surface of the dining table, making a thump-thump-thump beat. “Thenightmareswillgoawayafterawhile,”hesays.“They’realwaystheworstrightafter.”

That’showitwaswithNatasha.“Howmanypeoplehaveyouseendie?”“Enough.WorstonewasmycousinAndre.”Hisfingerseemstoinstinctivelytracethetattooonhis

forearm—anAwithacrownoverit.“Adrugdealturnedintoarobbery,andhegotshotintheheadtwice.Rightinfrontofme.Afewmonthsbeforeyouwereborn,infact.That’swhyInamedyouStarr.”Hegivesmeasmallsmile.“Mylightduringallthatdarkness.”

Daddychompsonsomegrapes.“Don’tbescared’boutMonday.Tellthecopsthetruth,anddon’tletthemputwordsinyourmouth.Godgaveyouabrain.Youdon’tneedtheirs.Andrememberthatyoudidn’tdonothingwrong—thecopdid.Don’tletthemmakeyouthinkotherwise.”

Something’s bugging me. I wanted to ask Uncle Carlos, but I couldn’t for some reason. Daddy’sdifferentthough.WhileUncleCarlossomehowkeepsimpossiblepromises,Daddykeepsitrealwithme.“YouthinkthecopswantKhaliltohavejustice?”Iask.

Thump-thump-thump. Thump . . . thump . . . thump. The truth casts a shadow over the kitchen—peoplelikeusinsituationslikethisbecomehashtags,buttheyrarelygetjustice.Ithinkweallwaitforthatonetimethough,thatonetimewhenitendsright.

Maybethiscanbeit.“Idon’tknow,”Daddysays.“Iguesswe’llfindout.”

Sundaymorning,wepulluptoasmallyellowhouse.Brightflowersbloombelowthefrontporch.IusedtositwithKhalilonthatporch.

MyparentsandIhopoutthetruck.Daddycarriesafoil-coveredpanoflasagnathatMommamade.Sekani claims he’s still not feeling good, so he stayed home. Seven’s therewith him. I don’t buy this“sick”actthough—Sekanialwaysgetssomekindabugrightasspringbreakends.

GoingupMs.Rosalie’swalkwayfloodsmewithmemories.Ihavescarstattooedonmyarmsandlegsfromfallsonthisconcrete.OnetimeIwasonmyscooter,andKhalilpushedmeoff’causeIhadn’tgivenhimaturn.WhenIgotup,skinwasmissingfrommostofmyknee.Ineverscreamedsoloudinmylife.

We played hopscotch and jumped rope on thiswalkway too.Khalil neverwanted to play at first,talkingabouthowthoseweregirls’games.HealwaysgaveinwhenmeandNatashasaidthewinnergotaFreezeCup—frozenKool-AidinaStyrofoamcup—orapackof“Nileators,”a.k.a.NowandLaters.Ms.RosaliewastheneighborhoodCandyLady.

IwasatherhousealmostasmuchasIwasatmyown.MommaandMs.Rosalie’syoungestdaughter,

Tammy,werebestfriendsgrowingup.WhenMommagotpregnantwithme,shewasinhersenioryearofhighschoolandNanaputherout thehouse.Ms.Rosalie tookher inuntilmyparentseventuallygotanapartmentoftheirown.MommasaysMs.Rosaliewasoneofherbiggestsupportersandcriedatherhighschoolgraduationlikeitwasherowndaughterwalkingacrossthestage.

Threeyearslater,Ms.RosaliesawMommaandmeatWyatt’s—thiswaswaybeforeitbecameourstore. She asked my mom how college was going. Momma told her that with Daddy in prison, shecouldn’tafforddaycareandthatNanawouldn’ttakecareofme’causeIwasn’therbabyandthereforeIwasn’therproblem.SoMommawasthinkingaboutdroppingout.Ms.Rosalietoldhertobringmetoherhousethenextdayandthatshebetternotsayawordaboutpayingher.ShebabysatmeandlaterSekanithewholetimeMommawasinschool.

Momma knocks on the door, rattling the screen.Ms. Tammy answers in a headwrap, T-shirt, andsweatpants.Sheunhooksthelocks,holleringback,“Maverick,Lisa,andStarrarehere,Ma.”

The living room looks just like it did whenKhalil and I played hide-and-seek in it. There’s stillplasticonthesofaandrecliner.Ifyousitonthemtoolonginthesummerwhilewearingshorts,theplasticnearlygluestoyourlegs.

“Hey,Tammygirl,”Mommasays,andtheyhuglongandhard.“Howyoudoing?”“I’mhanging in there.”Ms.TammyhugsDaddy, thenme. “Justhate that this is the reason Ihad to

comehome.”It’ssoweirdlookingatMs.Tammy.ShelooksthewayKhalil’smomma,Ms.Brenda,wouldlookif

Ms.Brendawasn’toncrack.A lot likeKhalil.Samehazeleyesanddimples.One timeKhalil saidhewishedMs.TammywashismommainsteadsohecouldliveinNewYorkwithher.Iusedtojokeandtellhimshedidn’thavetimeforhim.IwishIneversaidthat.

“Whereyouwantmetoputthislasagna,Tam?”Daddyasksher.“In the refrigerator, ifyoucanfind room,”shesays,asheheads toward thekitchen.“Mommasaid

folksbroughtfoodalldayyesterday.TheywerestillbringingitwhenIgotherelastnight.Seemslikethewholeneighborhoodhasstoppedby.”

“That’stheGardenforyou,”Mommasays.“Iffolkscan’tdoanythingelse,they’llcook.”“Youain’teverlied.”Ms.Tammymotionstothesofa.“Y’all,haveaseat.”MommaandIsitdown,andDaddycomesbackandjoinsus.Ms.TammytakesthereclinerthatMs.

Rosalieusuallysitsin.Shegivesmeasadsmile.“Starr,youknow,yousurehavegrownsincethelasttimeIsawyou.YouandKhalilbothgrewupso—”

Her voice cracks.Momma reaches over and pats her knee.Ms.Tammy a takes a deep breath andsmilesatmeagain.“It’sgoodtoseeyou,baby.”

“WeknowMs.Rosaliegon’tellusshefine,Tam,”Daddysays,“buthowshereallydoing?”“We’retakingonedayatatime.Thechemo’sworking,thankfully.IhopeIcanconvincehertomove

inwithme.ThatwayIcanmakesureshe’sgettingherprescriptions.”Shesighsthroughhernose.“IhadnoideaMommawasstrugglinglikeshewas.Ididn’tevenknowshe’dlostherjob.Youknowhowsheis.Neverwannaaskforhelp.”

“WhataboutMs.Brenda?”Iask.Ihaveto.Khalilwould’ve.“Idon’tknow,Starr.Bren...that’scomplicated.Wehaven’tseenhersincewegotthenews.Don’t

knowwheresheis.Ifwedofindherthough...Idon’tknowwhatwe’lldo.”“Icanhelpyoufindarehabfacilitynearyou,”Mommasays.“She’sgottawannagetcleanthough.”Ms.Tammynods.“Andthat’stheproblem.ButIthink...Ithinkthiswilleitherpushhertofinallyget

helporpushherovertheedge.Ihopeit’stheformer.”Cameronholdshisgrandma’shandashe leadsher into the living room like she’s thequeenof the

worldinahousecoat.Shelooksthinner,butstrongforsomebodygoingthroughchemoandallofthis.Ascarfwrappedaroundherheadaddstohermajesty—anAfricanqueen,andwe’reblessedtobeinherpresence.

Therestofusstand.MommahugsCameronandkissesoneofhischubbycheeks.KhalilcalledhimChipmunkbecauseof

them,buthe’dcheckanybodystupidenoughtocallhislittlebrotherfat.DaddygivesCameronapalm-slapthatendsinahug.“What’sup,man?Youokay?”“Yes,sir.”Abig,widesmilespreadsacrossMs.Rosalie’sface.Sheholdsherarmsout,andIwalkintothemost

heartfelt hug I’ve ever gotten from somebodywho’s not related tome. There’s not any sympathy in iteither.Justloveandstrength.IguesssheknowsIneedsomeofboth.

“Mybaby,”shesays.Shepullsbackandlooksatme,tearsbrimminginhereyes.“Wentandgrewuponme.”

Shehugsmyparentstoo.Ms.Tammyletsherhavetherecliner.Ms.Rosaliepatstheendofthesofaclosesttoher,soIsitthere.Sheholdsmyhandandrubsherthumbalongthetopofit.

“Mmm,”shesays.“Mmm!”It’slikemyhandistellingherastory,andshe’sresponding.Shelistenstoitforawhile,thensays,

“I’msogladyoucameover.I’vebeenwantingtotalktoyou.”“Yes,ma’am.”IsaywhatI’msupposedto.“Youweretheverybestfriendthatboyeverhad.”ThistimeIcan’tsaywhatI’msupposedto.“Ms.Rosalie,weweren’tasclose—”“Idon’tcare,baby,”shesays.“Khalilneverhadanotherfriendlikeyou.Iknowthatforafact.”Iswallow.“Yes,ma’am.”“Thepolicetoldmeyouweretheonewithhimwhenithappened.”Sosheknows.“Yes,ma’am.”I’mstandingonatrack,watchingthetrainbarreltowardme,andItenseupandwaitfortheimpact,

themomentsheaskswhathappened.Butthetrainshiftstoanothertrack.“Maverick,hewantedtotalktoyou.Hewantedyourhelp.”Daddystraightensup.“Forreal?”“Uh-huh.Hewassellingthatstuff.”Somethingleavesme.Imean,Ikindafiguredit,buttoknowit’sthetruth...Thishurts.ButIswearIwannacussKhalilout.Howhecouldselltheverystuffthattookhismommafromhim?

Didherealizethathewastakingsomebodyelse’smommafromthem?Didherealizethatifhedoesbecomeahashtag,somepeoplewillonlyseehimasadrugdealer?Hewassomuchmorethanthat.“Buthewantedtostop,”Ms.Rosaliesays.“Hetoldme,‘Grandma,Ican’tstayinthis.Mr.Maverick

said itonly leads to twothings, thegraveorprison,andIain’t trying toseeeither.’Herespectedyou,Maverick.Alot.Youwerethefatherheneverhad.”

Ican’texplainit,butsomethingleavesDaddytoo.Hiseyesdim,andhenods.Mommarubshisback.“Itriedtotalksomesenseintohim,”Ms.Rosaliesays,“butthisneighborhoodmakesyoungmendeaf

totheirelders.Themoneypartdidn’thelp.Hewasgoingaroundhere,payingbills,buyingsneakersandmess.ButIknowherememberedthe thingsyoutoldhimover theyears,Maverick,andthatgavemealottafaith.

“Ikeepthinkingifonlyhehadanotherdayor—”Ms.Rosaliecovershertremblinglips.Ms.Tammy

startsforher,butshesays,“I’mokay,Tam.”Shelooksatme.“I’mhappyhewasn’talone,butI’mevenhappieryouwerewithhim.That’sallIneedtoknow.Don’tneeddetails,nothingelse.Knowingyouwerewithhimisgoodenough.”

LikeDaddy,allIcandoisnod.But as I holdKhalil’s grandma’s hand, I see the anguish in her eyes.His little brother can’t smile

anymore.Sowhatifpeopleendupthinkinghewasathugandnevercare?Wecare.Khalilmatterstous,notthestuffhedid.Forgeteverybodyelse.MommaleansacrossmeandsetsanenvelopeinMs.Rosalie’slap.“Wewantyoutohavethat.”Ms.Rosalieopensit,andIcatchaglimpseofawholelotofmoneyinside.“Whatintheworld?Y’all

knowIcan’ttakethis.”“Yes,youcan,”Daddysays.“Weain’tforgothowyoukeptStarrandSekaniforus.Weweren’t’bout

toletyoubeempty-handed.”“Andweknowy’all are trying topay for the funeral,”Mommasays. “Hopefully that’llhelp.Plus,

we’reraisingmoneyaroundtheneighborhoodtoo.Sodon’tyouworryaboutathing.”Ms.Rosaliewipesanewsetoftearsfromhereyes.“I’mgonnapayy’allbackeverypenny.”“Didwesayyouhadtopayusback?”Daddyasks.“Youfocusongettingbetter,a’ight?Andifyou

giveusanymoney,wegivingitrightback,God’smywitness.”There are a lotmore tears and hugs.Ms. Rosalie givesme a Freeze Cup for the road, red syrup

glisteningonthetop.Shealwaysmakesthemextrasweet.Asweleave,IrememberhowKhalilusedtorunuptothecarwhenIwasabouttogo,thesunshining

onthegrease lines thatseparatedhiscornrows.Theglimmer inhiseyeswouldbe justasbright.He’dknockonthewindow,I’dletitdown,andhe’dsaywithasnaggletoothgrin,“Seeyoulater,alligator.”

BackthenI’dgigglebehindmyownsnaggleteeth.NowItearup.Good-byeshurtthemostwhentheother person’s already gone. I imagine him standing atmywindow, and I smile for his sake. “After awhile,crocodile.”

FIVE

OnMonday,thedayI’msupposedtotalktothedetectives,I’mcryingoutofnowhere,hunchedovermybedastheironinmyhandspitsoutsteam.MommatakesitbeforeIburntheWilliamsoncrestonmypolo.

Sherubsmyshoulder.“Letitout,Munch.”WehaveaquietbreakfastatthekitchentablewithoutSeven.Hespentthenightathismomma’shouse.

Ipickatmywaffles.Justthinkingaboutgoingintothatstationwithallthosecopsmakesmewannapuke.Foodwouldmakeitworse.

Afterbreakfast,wejoinhandsinthelivingroomlikewealwaysdo,undertheframedposteroftheTen-PointProgram,andDaddyleadsusinprayer.

“BlackJesus,watchovermybabies today,”hesays.“Keep themsafe, steer themfromwrong,andhelpthemrecognizesnakesfromfriends.Givethemthewisdomtheyneedtobetheirownpeople.

“HelpSevenwiththissituationathismomma’shouse,andlethimknowhecanalwayscomehome.Thank you for Sekani’s miraculous, sudden healing that just so happened to come after he found outthey’rehavingpizzaatschooltoday.”IpeekoutatSekani,whoseeyesandmouthareopenwide.Ismirkandclosemyeyes.“BewithLisaattheclinicasshehelpsyourpeople.Helpmybabygirlgetthroughhersituation,Lord.Giveherpeaceofmind,andhelpherspeakhertruththisafternoon.Andlastly,strengthenMs.Rosalie,Cameron,Tammy,andBrendaastheygothroughthisdifficulttime.InyourpreciousnameIpray,amen.”

“Amen,”therestofussay.“Daddy,whyyouputmeonthespotlikethatwithBlackJesus?”Sekanicomplains.“Heknowsthetruth,”Daddysays.HewipescrustfromthecornersofSekani’seyesandstraightens

thecollarofhispolo.“I’mtryingtohelpyouout.Getyousomemercyorsomething,man.”Daddypullsmeintoahug.“Yougon’bea’ight?”Inodintohischest.“Yeah.”Icouldstaylikethisallday—it’soneofthefewplaceswhereOne-Fifteendoesn’texistandwhereI

canforgetabouttalkingtodetectives—butMommasaysweneedtoleavebeforerushhour.Nowdon’tgetitwrong,Icandrive.Igotmylicenseaweekaftermysixteenthbirthday.ButIcan’tget

acarunlessIpayforitmyself.ItoldmyparentsIdon’thavetimeforajobwithschoolandbasketball.TheysaidIdon’thavetimeforacartheneither.Messedup.

Ittakesforty-fiveminutestogettoschoolonagoodday,andanhouronaslowone.Sekanidoesn’thave towearhisheadphones ’causeMommadoesn’t cuss anybodyouton the freeway.Shehumswithgospelsongsontheradioandsays,“Givemestrength,Lord.Givemestrength.”

WegetoffthefreewayintoRivertonHillsandpassallthesegatedneighborhoods.UncleCarloslivesinoneofthem.Tome,it’ssoweirdtohaveagatearoundaneighborhood.Seriously,aretheytryingtokeeppeopleoutorkeeppeoplein?IfsomebodyputsagatearoundGardenHeights,it’llbealittlebitofboth.

Our school is gated too, and the campus has new, modern buildings with lots of windows and

marigoldsbloomingalongthewalkways.Mommagetsinthecarpoollaneforthelowerschool.“Sekani,yourememberedyouriPad?”“Yes,ma’am.”“Lunchcard?”“Yes,ma’am.”“Gymshorts?Andyoubetterhavegottenthecleanonestoo.”“Yes,Momma.I’malmostnine.Can’tyougivemealittlecredit?”Shesmiles.“Allright,bigman.Thinkyoucangivemesomesugar?”Sekanileansoverthefrontseatandkisseshercheek.“Loveyou.”“Loveyoutoo.Anddon’tforget,Seven’sbringingyouhometoday.”Herunsovertosomeofhisfriendsandblendsinwithalltheotherkidsinkhakisandpolos.Wegetin

thecarpoollaneformyschool.“Allright,Munch,”Mommasays.“Seven’sgonnabringyoutotheclinicafterschool,thenyouandI

willgotothestation.Areyouabsolutelysureyou’reupforit?”No.ButUncleCarlospromisedit’llbeokay.“I’lldoit.”“Okay.Callmeifyoudon’tthinkyoucanmakeitthewholedayatschool.”Holdup.Icould’vestayedhome?“Whyareyoumakingmecomeinthefirstplace?”“’Causeyouneed togetout thehouse.Out thatneighborhood. Iwantyou toat least try,Starr.This

will sound mean, but just because Khalil’s not living doesn’t mean you stop living. You understand,baby?”

“Yeah.”Iknowshe’sright,butitfeelswrong.Wegettothefrontofthecarpoolline.“NowIdon’thavetoaskifyoubroughtsomefunky-assgym

shorts,doI?”shesays.Ilaugh.“No.Bye,Momma.”“Bye,baby.”Igetoutthecar.ForatleastsevenhoursIdon’thavetotalkaboutOne-Fifteen.Idon’thavetothink

aboutKhalil. I just have tobenormalStarr at normalWilliamson andhave anormalday.ThatmeansflippingtheswitchinmybrainsoI’mWilliamsonStarr.WilliamsonStarrdoesn’tuseslang—ifarapperwouldsay it,shedoesn’tsay it,even ifherwhitefriendsdo.Slangmakes themcool.Slangmakesher“hood.”WilliamsonStarrholdshertonguewhenpeoplepissheroffsonobodywillthinkshe’sthe“angryblackgirl.”WilliamsonStarrisapproachable.Nostank-eyes,side-eyes,noneofthat.WilliamsonStarrisnonconfrontational.Basically,WilliamsonStarrdoesn’tgiveanyoneareasontocallherghetto.

Ican’tstandmyselffordoingit,butIdoitanyway.Islingmybackpackovermyshoulder.Asusual itmatchesmyJ’s, theblue-and-blackElevens like

JordanworeinSpaceJam.Iworkedatthestoreamonthtobuythem.Ihatedressinglikeeverybodyelse,butTheFreshPrincetaughtmesomething.See,Willalwaysworehisschooluniformjacketinsideoutsohecouldbedifferent. Ican’twearmyuniforminsideout,but Icanmakesuremysneakersarealwaysdopeandmybackpackalwaysmatchesthem.

IgoinsideandscantheatriumforMaya,Hailey,orChris.Idon’tseethem,butIseethathalfthekidshavetansfromspringbreak.LuckilyIwasbornwithone.Someonecoversmyeyes.

“Maya,Iknowthat’syou.”Shesnickersandmovesherhands.I’mnottallatall,butMayahastostandonhertiptoestocovermy

eyes.Andthechickactuallywantstoplaycenteronthevarsitybasketballteam.Shewearsherhairinahighbunbecausesheprobablythinksitmakesherlooktaller,butnope.

“What’s up, Ms. I Can’t Text Anyone Back?” she says, and we do our little handshake. It’s not

complicatedlikeDaddyandKing’s,butitworksforus.“Iwasstartingtowonderifyouwereabductedbyaliens.”

“Huh?”Sheholdsupherphone.Thescreenhasabrand-newcrackstretchingfromcornertocorner.Maya’s

alwaysdroppingit.“Youhaven’ttextedmeintwodays,Starr,”shesays.“Notcool.”“Oh.”I’vebarelylookedatmyphonesinceKhalilgot...sincetheincident.“Sorry.Iwasworkingat

thestore.Youknowhowcrazythatcanget.Howwasyourspringbreak?”“Okay,Iguess.”ShemunchesonsomeSourPatchKids.“Wevisitedmygreat-grandparentsinTaipei.

Iendeduptakingabunchofsnapbacksandbasketballshorts,soallweeklongIheard,‘Whydoyoudresslikeaboy?’‘Whydoyouplayaboysport?’Blah,blah,blah.AnditwasawfulwhentheysawapictureofRyan.Theyaskedifhewasarapper!”

Ilaughandstealsomeofhercandy.Maya’sboyfriend,Ryan,happenstobetheonlyotherblackkidineleventhgrade,andeverybodyexpectsustobetogether.Becauseapparentlywhenit’stwoofus,wehavetobeonsomeNoah’sArktypeshitandpairuptopreservetheblacknessofourgrade.LatelyI’msuperawareofBSlikethat.

Weheadforthecafeteria.Ourtablenearthevendingmachinesisalmostfull.There’sHailey,sittingontopofit,havingaheateddiscussionwithcurly-haired,dimpledLuke.Ithinkthat’sforeplayforthem.They’velikedeachothersincesixthgrade,andifyourfeelingscansurvivetheawkwardnessofmiddleschoolyoushouldstopplayingaroundandgoout.

Someoftheothergirlsfromtheteamaretheretoo:Jesstheco-captainandBrittthecenterwhomakesMayalooklikeanant.It’skindastereotypicalthatweallsittogether,butitworkedoutthatway.Imean,whoelsewilllistentousbitchaboutswollenkneesandunderstandinsidejokesbornonthebusafteragame?

Chris’sboysfromthebasketballteamareatthetablenexttoours,eggingHaileyandLukeon.Chrisisn’tthereyet.Unfortunatelyandfortunately.

LukeseesmeandMayaandreacheshisarmstowardus.“Thankyou!Twosensiblepeoplewhocanendthisdiscussion.”

IslideontothebenchbesideJess.Sherestsherheadonmyshoulder.“They’vebeenatitforfifteenminutes.”

Poorgirl.Ipatherhair.IhaveasecretcrushonJess’spixiecut.Myneck’snotlongenoughforone,butherhairisperfect.Everystrandiswhereitshouldbe.IfIwereintogirls,Iwouldtotallydateherforherhair,andshewoulddatemeformyshoulder.

“What’sitaboutthistime?”Iask.“PopTarts,”Brittsays.Hailey turns to us and points at Luke. “This jerk actually said they’re better warmed up in the

microwave.”“Eww,”Isay,insteadofmyusual“Ill,”andMayagoes,“Areyouserious?”“Iknow,right?”saysHailey.“JesusChrist!”Lukesays.“Ionlyaskedforadollartobuyonefromthemachine!”“You’renotwastingmymoneytodestroyaperfectlygoodPopTartinamicrowave.”“They’resupposedtobeheatedup!”heargues.“IactuallyagreewithLuke,”Jesssays.“PopTartsaretentimesbetterheatedup.”Imovemyshouldersoherheadisn’trestingonit.“Wecan’tbefriendsanymore.”Hermouthdropsopen,andshepouts.“Fine,fine,”Isay,andsherestsherheadonmyshoulderwithawidegrin.Totalweirdo.Idon’tknow

howshe’llsurvivewithoutmyshoulderwhenshegraduatesinafewmonths.“AnyonewhoheatsupaPopTartshouldbecharged,”Haileysays.“Andimprisoned,”Isay.“AndforcedtoeatuncookedPopTartsuntiltheyaccepthowgoodtheyare,”Mayaadds.“Itislaw,”Haileyfinishes,smackingthetablelikethatsettlesit.“Youguyshaveissues,”Lukesays,hoppingoffthetable.HepicksatHailey’shair.“Ithinkall that

dyeseepedintoyourbrain.”Sheswatsathimasheleaves.She’saddedbluestreakstoherhoney-blondhairandcutitshoulder-

length.Infifthgrade,shetrimmeditwithsomescissorsduringamathtestbecauseshefelt likeit.ThatwasthemomentIknewshedidn’tgiveashit.

“Iliketheblue,Hails,”Isay.“Andthecut.”“Yeah.”Mayagrins.“It’sveryJoeJonasofyou.”Haileywhipsherheadaroundsofast,hereyesflashing.MayaandIsnicker.Sothere’savideodeepinthedepthsofYouTubeofthethreeofuslip-syncingtotheJonasBrothers

andpretendingtoplayguitarsanddrumsinHailey’sbedroom.ShedecidedshewasJoe,IwasNick,andMayawasKevin.IreallywantedtobeJoe—Isecretlylovedhimthemost,butHaileysaidsheshouldhavehim,soIlether.

Iletherhaveherwayalot.Stilldo.That’spartofbeingWilliamsonStarr,Iguess.“Isohavetofindthatvideo,”Jesssays.“Nooo,” Hailey goes, sliding off the tabletop. “It must never be found.” She sits across from us.

“Never.Ne-ver.IfIrememberedthataccount’spassword,I’ddeleteit.”“Ooh,whatwastheaccount’sname?”Jessasks.“JoBroLoverorsomething?Wait,no,JoBroLova.

Everybodylikedtomisspellshitinmiddleschool.”Ismirkandmumble,“Close.”Haileylooksatme.“Starr!”MayaandBrittcrackup.It’smomentslikethisthatIfeelnormalatWilliamson.DespitetheguidelinesIputonmyself,I’vestill

foundmygroup,mytable.“Okaythen,”Haileysays.“Iseehowitis,MayaJonasandNick’sStarryGirl2000—”“So, Hails,” I say before she can finish my old screen name. She grins. “How was your spring

break?”Haileyloseshergrinandrollshereyes.“Oh,itwaswonderful.DadandStepmotherDearestdragged

meandRemytothehouseintheBahamasfor‘familybonding.’”Andbam.Thatnormalfeeling?Gone.IsuddenlyrememberhowdifferentIamfrommostofthekids

here.NobodywouldhavetodragmeormybrotherstotheBahamas—we’dswimthereifwecould.Forus,afamilyvacationisstayingatalocalhotelwithaswimmingpoolforaweekend.

“Soundslikemyparents,”saysBritt.“TookustofuckingHarryPotterWorldforthethirdyearinarow.I’msickofButterBeerandcornyfamilyphotoswithwands.”

Holyshit.WhothefuckcomplainsaboutgoingtoHarryPotterWorld?OrButterBeer?Orwands?I hope none of them ask about my spring break. They went to Taipei, the Bahamas, Harry Potter

World.Istayedinthehoodandsawacopkillmyfriend.“IguesstheBahamaswasn’tsobad,”Haileysays.“Theywantedustodofamilystuff,butweended

updoingourownthingtheentiretime.”“Youmeanyoutextedmetheentiretime,”Mayasays.“Itwasstillmyownthing.”

“Allday,everyday,”Mayaadds.“Ignoringthetimedifference.”“Whatever,Shorty.Youknowyoulikedtalkingtome.”“Oh,”Isay.“That’scool.”Reallythough,it’snot.Haileynevertextedmeduringspringbreak.Shebarelytextsmeatalllately.

Maybeonceaweeknow,anditusedtobeeveryday.Something’schangedbetweenus,andneitheroneofusacknowledges it.We’renormalwhenwe’reatWilliamson, likenow.Beyondhere though,we’renolongerbestfriends,just...Idon’tknow.

PlussheunfollowedmyTumblr.ShehasnocluethatIknow.IoncepostedapictureofEmmettTill,afourteen-year-oldblackboywho

wasmurdered forwhistling at awhitewoman in1955.Hismutilatedbodydidn’t lookhuman.Haileytextedmeimmediatelyafter,freakingout.Ithoughtitwasbecauseshecouldn’tbelievesomeonewoulddothattoakid.No.Shecouldn’tbelieveIwouldreblogsuchanawfulpicture.

Notlongafterthat,shestoppedlikingandrebloggingmyotherposts.Ilookedthroughmyfollowerslist. Aww, Hails was no longer following me. With me living forty-five minutes away, Tumblr issupposedtobesacredgroundwhereourfriendshipiscemented.Unfollowingmeisthesameassaying“Idon’tlikeyouanymore.”

Maybe I’m being sensitive.Ormaybe things have changed,maybe I’ve changed. For now I guesswe’llkeeppretendingeverythingisfine.

Thefirstbellrings.OnMondaysAPEnglishisfirstforme,Hailey,andMaya.Onthewaytheygetinto this big discussion-turned-argument aboutNCAAbrackets and the Final Four.Haileywas born aNotreDamefan.Mayahatesthemalmostunhealthily.Istayoutthatdiscussion.TheNBAismoremythinganyway.

Weturndownthehall,andChrisisstandinginthedoorwayofourclass,hishandsstuffedinpocketsandapairofheadphonesdrapedaroundhisneck.Helooksstraightatmeandstretcheshisarmacrossthedoorway.

Hailey glances from him tome. Back and forth, back and forth. “Did something happenwith youguys?”

Mypursedlipsprobablygivemeaway.“Yeah.Sortof.”“Thatdouche,”Haileysays,remindingmewhywe’refriends—shedoesn’tneeddetails.Ifsomeone

hurtsmeinanyway,they’reautomaticallyonhershitlist.Itstartedinfifthgrade,twoyearsbeforeMayacame along.We were those “crybaby” kids who bust out crying at the smallest shit. Me because ofNatasha,andHaileybecauseshelosthermomtocancer.Werodethewavesofgrieftogether.

That’swhythisweirdnessbetweenusdoesn’tmakesense.“Whatdoyouwanttodo,Starr?”sheasks.I don’t know. Before Khalil, I planned to cold-shoulder Chris with a stingmore powerful than a

ninetiesR&Bbreakupsong.ButafterKhalilI’mmorelikeaTaylorSwiftsong.(Noshade,IfuckswithTay-Tay,butshedoesn’tservelikeninetiesR&Bontheangry-girlfriendscale.)I’mnothappywithChris,yetImisshim.Imissus.IneedhimsomuchthatI’mwillingtoforgetwhathedid.That’sscaryasfucktoo.SomeoneI’veonlybeenwithforayearmeansthatmuchtome?ButChris...he’sdifferent.

Youknowwhat?I’llBeyoncéhim.NotaspowerfulasaninetiesR&Bbreakupsong,butstrongerthanaTaylorSwift.Yeah.That’llwork.ItellHaileyandMaya,“I’llhandlehim.”

TheymovesoI’mbetweenthemlikethey’remybodyguards,andwegotothedoortogether.Chrisbowstous.“Ladies.”“Move!”Mayaorders.FunnyconsideringhowmuchChristowersoverher.Helooksatmewiththosebabyblues.Hegotatanoverbreak.Iusedtotellhimhewassopalehe

lookedlikeamarshmallow.HehatedthatIcomparedhimtofood.Itoldhimthat’swhathegotforcalling

mecaramel.Itshuthimup.Dammitthough.He’swearingtheSpaceJamElevenstoo.Iforgotwedecidedtowearthemthefirst

dayback.Theylookgoodonhim.Jordansaremyweakness.Can’thelpit.“Ijustwannatalktomygirl,”heclaims.“Idon’tknowwhothatis,”Isay,Beyoncé’inghimlikeapro.Hesighsthroughhisnose.“Please,Starr?Canweatleasttalkaboutit?”I’mbacktoTaylorSwiftbecausethepleasedoesit.InodatHaileyandMaya.“Youhurther,andI’llkillyou,”Haileywarns,andsheandMayagointoclasswithoutme.ChrisandImoveawayfromthedoor.Ileanagainstalockerandfoldmyarms.“I’mlistening,”Isay.Abass-heavy instrumentalplays inhisheadphones.Probablyoneofhisbeats. “I’msorry forwhat

happened.Ishould’vetalkedtoyoufirst.”Icockmyhead.“Wedidtalkaboutit.Aweekbefore.Remember?”“Iknow,Iknow.AndIheardyou.Ijustwantedtobepreparedincase—”“Youcouldpushtherightbuttonsandconvincemetochangemymind?”“No!”Hishandsgoupinsurrender.“Starr,youknowIwouldn’t—that’snot—I’msorry,okay?Itook

ittoofar.”Understatement.ThedaybeforeBigD’sparty,ChrisandIwereinChris’sridiculouslylargeroom.

Thethirdfloorofhisparents’mansionisasuiteforhim,aperkofbeingthelastborntoempty-nesters.Itrytoforgetthathehasanentirefloorasbigasmyhouseandhiredhelpthatlookslikeme.

Foolingaroundisn’tnewforus,andwhenChrisslippedhishandinmyshorts,Ididn’tthinkanythingofit.Thenhegotmegoing,andIreallywasn’tthinking.Atall.Forreal,mythoughtprocesswentoutthedoor.AndrightasIwasatthatmoment,hestopped,reachedintohispocket,andpulledoutacondom.Heraisedhiseyebrowsatme,silentlyaskingforaninvitationtogoalltheway.

AllIcouldthinkaboutwasthosegirlsIseewalkingaroundGardenHeights,babiesproppedontheirhips.Condomornocondom,shithappens.

IwentoffonChris.Heknew Iwasn’t ready for that,wealready talkedabout it, andyethehadacondom?Hesaidhewantedtoberesponsible,butifIsaidI’mnotready,I’mnotready.

Ilefthishousepissedandhorny,theabsoluteworstwaytoleave.Mymommayhavebeenrightthough.Sheoncesaidthatafteryougotherewithaguy,itactivatesall

these feelings,andyouwannado it all the time.Chrisand Iwent farenough that Inoticeeverysingledetailabouthisbodynow.Hiscutenostrilsthatflarewhenhesighs.Hissoftbrownhairthatmyfingerslove toexplore.Hisgentle lips,andhis tongue thatwets themeverysooften.The five frecklesonhisneckthatareintheperfectspotsforkissing.

Morethanthat,Iremembertheguywhospendsalmosteverynightonthephonewithmetalkingaboutnothingandeverything.Theonewholovestomakemesmile.Yeah,hepissesmeoffsometimes,andI’msureIpisshimoff,butwemeansomething.Weactuallymeanalot.

Fuckityfuck,fuck,fuck.I’mcrumbling.“Chris...”Hegoesforalowblowandbeatboxesanall-too-familiar,“Boomp...boomp,boomp,boomp.”Ipointathim.“Don’tyoudare!”“‘Now,thisisastoryallabouthow,mylifegotflipped—turnedupsidedown.AndI’dliketotakea

minute,justsitrightthere,I’lltellyouhowIbecametheprinceofatowncalledBel-Air.’”He beat-boxes the instrumental and pops his chest and booty to the rhythm. People pass by us,

laughing.Aguywhistlessuggestively.Someoneshouts,“Shakethatass,Bryant!”MysmilegrowsbeforeIcanstopit.TheFreshPrince isn’tjustmyshow,it’sourshow.SophomoreyearhefollowedmyTumblr,andI

followedhimback.Weknewofeachotherfromschool,butwedidn’tknoweachother.OneSaturday,Ireblogged a bunch of Fresh Prince GIFs and clips. He liked and reblogged every single one. ThatMondaymorninginthecafeteria,hepaidformyPopTartsandgrapejuiceandsaid,“ThefirstAuntVivwasthebestAuntViv.”

Itwasthebeginningofus.ChrisgetsTheFreshPrince,whichhelpshimgetme.WeoncetalkedabouthowcoolitwasthatWill

remainedhimselfinhisnewworld.IslippedupandsaidIwishIcouldbelikethatatschool.Chrissaid,“Whycan’tyou,FreshPrincess?”

Eversince,Idon’thavetodecidewhichStarrIhavetobewithhim.Helikesboth.Well, thepartsI’veshownhim.SomethingsIcan’treveal,likeNatasha.Onceyou’veseenhowbrokensomeoneisit’slikeseeingthemnaked—youcan’tlookatthemthesameanymore.

Ilikethewayhelooksatmenow,asifI’moneofthebestthingsinhislife.He’soneofthebestthingsinminetoo.

Ican’tlie,wegetthe“whyishedatingher”starethatusuallycomesfromrichwhitegirls.SometimesIwonderthesamething.Chrisactslikethoselooksdon’texist.Whenhedoesstufflikethis,rappingandbeatboxinginthemiddleofabusyhalljusttomakemesmile,Iforgetaboutthoselookstoo.

Hestarts thesecondverse,swayinghisshouldersandlookingatme.Theworstpart?Hissillybuttknowsit’sworking.“‘InWestPhiladelphia,bornandraised’—c’mon,babe.Joinin.”

Hegrabsmyhands.One-FifteenfollowsKhalil’shandswiththeflashlight.HeordersKhaliltogetoutwithhishandsup.Hebarksatmetoputmyhandsonthedashboard.Ikneelbesidemydeadfriendinthemiddleofthestreetwithmyhandsraised.Acopaswhiteas

Chrispointsagunatme.AswhiteasChris.Iflinchandsnatchaway.Chrisfrowns.“Starr,youokay?”Khalilopensthedoor.“Youokay,Starr—”Pow!There’sblood.Toomuchblood.Thesecondbellrings,joltingmebacktonormalWilliamson,whereI’mnotnormalStarr.Chrisleansdown,hisfaceinfrontofmine.Mytearsblurhim.“Starr?”It’safewtears,yeah,butIfeelexposed.Iturntogotoclass,andChrisgrabsmyarm.Iyankaway

andwhirlonhim.Hishandsgoupinsurrender.“Sorry.Iwas...”Iwipemyeyesandwalkintotheclassroom.Chrisisrightbehindme.HaileyandMayashoothimthe

dirtiestlooks.IlowermyselfintothedeskinfrontofHailey.Shesqueezesmyshoulder.“Thatjackwad.”

NobodymentionedKhalilat school today. Ihate toadmit it,because it’s like throwinghim themiddlefinger,butI’mrelieved.

Sincebasketballseasonisover,Ileavewheneverybodyelsedoes.ProbablyforthefirsttimeinmylifeIwishitwasn’ttheendoftheday.I’mthatmuchclosertotalkingtothecops.

HaileyandItrekacrosstheparkinglot,arminarm.Mayahasadrivertopickherup.Haileyhasherowncar,andIhaveabrotherwithacar;thetwoofusalwaysendupwalkingouttogether.

“Areyouabsolutelysureyoudon’twantmetokickChris’sass?”Haileyasks.ItoldherandMayaaboutCondomgate,andasfarasthey’reconcernedChrisiseternallybanishedto

AssholeLand.“Yes,”Isay,forthehundredthtime.“You’reviolent,Hails.”“Whenitcomestomyfriends,possibly.Seriouslythough,whywouldheeven?God,boysandtheir

fuckingsexdrive.”Isnort.“IsthatwhyyouandLukehaven’tgottentogether?”Shelightlyelbowsme.“Shutup.”Ilaugh.“Whywon’tyouadmityoulikehim?”“WhatmakesyouthinkIlikehim?”“Really,Hailey?”“Whatever,Starr.Thisisn’taboutme.Thisisaboutyouandyoursex-drivenboyfriend.”“He’snotsex-driven,”Isay.“Thenwhatdoyoucallit?”“Hewashornyatthatmoment.”“Samething!”I try tokeepastraight faceandshedoes too,butsoonwe’recrackingup.God, it feelsgood tobe

normalStarrandHailey.HasmewonderingifIimaginedachange.WepartatthehalfwaypointtoHailey’scarandSeven’s.“Theass-kickingofferisstillonthetable,”

shecallstome.“Bye,Hailey!”Iwalkoff,rubbingmyarms.Springhasdecidedtogothroughanidentitycrisisandgetchillyonme.

Afewfeetaway,Sevenkeepsahandonhiscarashetalkstohisgirlfriend,Layla.HimandthatdamnMustang. He touches it more than he touches Layla. She obviously doesn’t care. She plays with thedreadlocknearhisfacethatisn’tpulledintohisponytail.Eye-rollworthy.Somegirlsdotoomuch.Can’tsheplaywithallthemcurlsonherownhead?

Honestly though, I don’t have a problem with Layla. She’s a geek like Seven, smart enough forHarvardbutHowardbound,andrealsweet.She’soneofthefourblackgirlsintheseniorclass,andifSevenjustwantstodateblackgirls,hepickedagreatone.

Iwalkuptothemandgo,“Hem-hem.”SevenkeepshiseyesonLayla.“GosignSekaniout.”“Can’t,”Ilie.“Mommadidn’tputmeonthelist.”“Yeah,shedid.Go.”Ifoldmyarms.“Iamnotwalkinghalfwayacrosscampustogethimandhalfwayback.Wecangethim

whenwe’releaving.”Heside-eyesme,butI’mtootiredforallthat,andit’scold.SevenkissesLaylaandgoesaroundtothe

driver’sside.“Actinglikethat’salongwalk,”hemumbles.“Actinglikewecan’tgethimwhenwe’releaving,”Isay,andhopin.Hestartsthecar.ThisnicemixChrismadeofKanyeandmyotherfuturehusbandJ.Coleplaysfrom

Seven’siPoddock.HemaneuversthroughtheparkinglottraffictoSekani’sschool.Sevensignshimoutofhisafter-schoolprogram,andweleave.

“I’mhungry,”Sekaniwhinesnotevenfiveminutesouttheparkinglot.“Didn’ttheygiveyouasnackinafter-school?”Sevenasks.“So?I’mstillhungry.”“Greedy butt,” Seven says, and Sekani kicks the back of his seat. Seven laughs. “Okay, okay!Ma

askedmetobringsomefoodtotheclinicanyway.I’llgetyousomethingtoo.”HelooksatSekaniintherearviewmirror.“Isthatcool—”

Sevenfreezes.HeturnsChris’smixoffandslowsdown.“Whatyouturnthemusicofffor?”Sekaniasks.“Shutup,”Sevenhisses.Westopataredlight.ARivertonHillspatrolcarpullsupbesideus.Sevenstraightensupandstaresahead,barelyblinkingandgrippingthesteeringwheel.Hiseyesmove

alittlelikehewantstolookatthecopcar.Heswallowshard.“C’mon,light,”heprays.“C’mon.”Istareaheadandprayforthelighttochangetoo.Itfinallyturnsgreen,andSevenletsthepatrolcargofirst.Hisshouldersdon’trelaxuntilwegeton

thefreeway.Mineneither.WestopatthisChineserestaurantMommalovesandgetfoodforallofus.Shewantsmetoeatbefore

I talk to thedetectives. InGardenHeights, kidsplay in the streets.Sekanipresseshis face againstmywindowandwatchesthem.Hewon’tplaywiththemthough.Lasttimeheplayedwithsomeneighborhoodkids,theycalledhim“whiteboy”’causehegoestoWilliamson.

BlackJesusgreetsusfromamuralonthesideoftheclinic.HehaslocslikeSeven.Hisarmsstretchthewidthofthewall,andtherearepuffywhitecloudsbehindhim.BiglettersabovehimremindusthatJesusLovesYou.

SevenpassesBlack Jesus andgoes into theparking lotbehind theclinic.Hepunches in a code toopenthegateandparksnexttoMomma’sCamry.Igetthetrayofsodas,Sevengetsthefood,andSekanidoesn’ttakeanythingbecausehenevertakesanything.

Ihitthebuzzerforthebackdoorandwaveupatthecamera.Thedooropensintoasterile-smellinghallwithbright-whitewallsandwhite-tilefloorsthatreflectus.Thehalltakesustothewaitingroom.AhandfulofpeoplewatchthenewsontheoldboxTVintheceilingorreadmagazinesthathavebeentheresinceIwaslittle.Whenthisshaggy-hairedmanseesthatwehavefood,hestraightensupandsniffshardasifit’sforhim.

“Whaty’allbringingupinhere?”Ms.Feliciaasksatthefrontdesk,stretchinghernecktosee.Mommacomesfromtheotherhallwayinherplainyellowscrubs,followingateary-eyedboyandhis

mom.Theboysucksonalollipop,arewardforsurvivingashot.“Theregomybabies,”Mommasayswhensheseesus.“Andtheygotmyfoodtoo.C’mon.Let’sgoin

theback.”“Savemesome!”Ms.Feliciacallsafterus.Mommatellshertohush.Wesetthefoodoutonthebreakroomtable.Mommagetssomepaperplatesandplasticutensilsthat

shekeepsinacabinetfordayslikethis.Wesaygraceanddigin.Mommasitsonthecountertopandeats.“Mmm-mm!Thisishittingthespot.Thankyou,Sevenbaby.I

onlyhadabagofCheetostoday.”“Youdidn’thavelunch?”Sekaniasks,withamouthfulloffriedrice.Mommapointsherforkathim.“WhatdidItellyouabouttalkingwithyourmouthfull?Andforyour

information,noIdidnot.Ihadameetingonmylunchbreak.Now,tellmeabouty’all.Howwasschool?”Sekanialwaystalksthelongestbecausehegiveseverysingledetail.Sevensayshisdaywasfine.I’m

asshortwithmy“Itwasallright.”Mommasipshersoda.“Anythinghappen?”Ifreakedoutwhenmyboyfriendtouchedme,but—“Nope.Nothing.”Ms.Feliciacomestothedoor.“Lisa,sorrytobotheryou,butwehaveanissueupfront.”

“I’monbreak,Felicia.”“Don’tyouthinkIknowthat?Butsheaskingforyou.It’sBrenda.”Khalil’smomma.Mymomsetsherplatedown.Shelooksstraightatmewhenshesays,“Stayhere.”I’mhardheadedthough.Ifollowhertothewaitingroom.Ms.Brendasitswithherfaceinherhands.

Herhairisuncombed,andherwhiteshirtisdingy,almostbrown.Shehassoresandscabsonherarmsandlegs,andsinceshe’sreallight-skinnedtheyshowupevenmore.

Mommakneelsinfrontofher.“Bren,hey.”Ms.Brendamovesherhands.HerredeyesremindmeofwhatKhalilsaidwhenwewerelittle,that

hismommahadturnedintoadragon.Heclaimedthatonedayhe’dbecomeaknightandturnherback.Itdoesn’tmakesensethathesolddrugs.Iwould’vethoughthisbrokenheartwouldn’tlethim.“Mybaby,”hismommacries.“Lisa,mybaby.”Momma sandwichesMs.Brenda’s handsbetweenhers and rubs them,not caring that they’re nasty

looking.“Iknow,Bren.”“Theykilledmybaby.”“Iknow.”“Theykilledhim.”“Iknow.”“Lord Jesus,”Ms. Felicia says from the doorway.Next to her, Seven puts his arm aroundSekani.

Somepatientsinthewaitingroomshaketheirheads.“ButBren,yougottagetcleanedup,”Mommasays.“That’swhathewanted.”“Ican’t.Mybabyain’there.”“Yes,youcan.YouhaveCameron,andheneedsyou.Yourmommaneedsyou.”Khalilneededyou,Iwannasay.Hewaitedforyouandcriedforyou.Butwherewereyou?Youdon’t

gettocrynow.Nuh-uh.It’stoolate.Butshekeepscrying.Rockingandcrying.“TammyandIcangetyousomehelp,Bren,”Mommasays.“Butyougottareallywantitthistime.”“Idon’twannalivelikethisnomore.”“I know.” Momma waves Ms. Felicia over and hands Ms. Felicia her phone. “Look through my

contactsandfindTammyHarris’snumber.Callandtellherthathersisterishere.Bren,whenwasthelasttimeyouate?”

“Idon’tknow.Idon’t—mybaby.”MommastraightensupandrubsMs.Brenda’sshoulder.“I’mgonnagetyousomefood.”IfollowMommaback.Shewalkskindafastbutpassesthefoodandgoestothecounter.Sheleanson

itwithherbacktomeandbowsherhead,notsayingaword.EverythingIwantedtosayinthewaitingroomcomesbubblingout.“Howcomeshegetstobeupset?

Shewasn’tthereforKhalil.Youknowhowmanytimeshecriedabouther?Birthdays,Christmas,allthat.Whydoesshegettocrynow?”

“Starr,please.”“Shehasn’tactedlikeamomtohim!Nowallofasudden,he’sherbaby?It’sbullshit!”Mommasmacksthecounter,andIjump.“Shutup!”shescreams.Sheturnsaround,tearsstreakingher

face.“Thatwasn’tsomeli’lfriendofhers.Thatwasherson,youhearme?Herson!”Hervoicecracks.“Shecarriedthatboy,birthedthatboy.Andyouhavenorighttojudgeher.”

Ihavecotton-mouth.“I—”Mommacloseshereyes.Shemassagesherforehead.“I’msorry.Fixheraplate,baby,okay?Fixhera

plate.”Idoandputalittleextraofeverythingonit.ItakeittoMs.Brenda.Shemumbleswhatsoundslike

“thankyou”asshetakesit.Whenshelooksatmethroughtheredhaze,Khalil’seyesstarebackatme,andIrealizemymom’s

right.Ms.BrendaisKhalil’smomma.Regardless.

SIX

MymomandIarriveatthepolicestationatfourthirtyonthedot.Ahandfulofcopstalkonphones, typeoncomputers,orstandaround.Normalstuff, likeonLaw&

Order,butmybreathcatches.Icount:One.Two.Three.Four.IlosecountaroundtwelvebecausethegunsintheirholstersareallIcansee.

Allofthem.Twoofus.Mommasqueezesmyhand.“Breathe.”Ididn’trealizeIhadgrabbedhers.Itakeadeepbreathandanother,andshenodswitheachone,saying,“That’sit.You’reokay.We’re

okay.”UncleCarloscomesover,andheandMommaleadmetohisdesk,whereIsitdown.Ifeeleyesonme

fromallaround.Thegrip tightensaroundmylungs.UncleCarloshandsmeasweatingbottleofwater.Mommaputsituptomylips.

ItakeslowsipsandlookaroundUncleCarlos’sdesktoavoidthecuriouseyesoftheofficers.HehasalmostasmanypicturesofmeandSekaniondisplayashehasofhisownkids.

“I’mtakingherhome,”Mommatellshim.“I’mnotputtingherthroughthistoday.She’snotready.”“Iunderstand,butshehastotalktothematsomepoint,Lisa.She’savitalpartofthisinvestigation.”Mommasighs.“Carlos—”“I get it,” he says, in a noticeably lower voice. “Believeme, I do.Unfortunately, ifwewant this

investigationdoneright,shehastotalktothem.Ifnottoday,thenanotherday.”Anotherdayofwaitingandwonderingwhat’sgonnahappen.Ican’tgothroughthat.“Iwannadoittoday,”Imumble.“Iwannagetitoverwith.”Theylookatme,liketheyjustrememberedI’mhere.UncleCarloskneelsinfrontofme.“Areyousure,babygirl?”InodbeforeIlosemynerve.“Allright,”Mommasays.“ButI’mgoingwithher.”“That’stotallyfine,”UncleCarlossays.“Idon’tcareifit’snotfine.”Shelooksatme.“She’snotdoingthisalone.”ThosewordsfeelasgoodasanyhugI’veevergotten.UncleCarloskeepsanarmaroundmeandleadsustoasmallroomthathasnothinginitbutatable

andsomechairs.Anunseenairconditionerhumsloudly,blastingfreezingairintotheroom.“Allright,”UncleCarlossays.“I’llbeoutside,okay?”“Okay,”Isay.Hekissesmyforeheadwithhisusualtwopecks.Mommatakesmyhand,andhertightsqueezetells

mewhatshedoesn’tsayoutloud—Igotyourback.Wesitatthetable.She’sstillholdingmyhandwhenthetwodetectivescomein—ayoungwhiteguy

withslickblackhairandaLatinawithlinesaroundhermouthandaspikyhaircut.Bothofthemweargunsontheirwaists.

Keepyourhandsvisible.Nosuddenmoves.Onlyspeakwhenspokento.“Hi,StarrandMrs.Carter,”thewomansays,holdingoutherhand.“I’mDetectiveGomez,andthisis

mypartner,DetectiveWilkes.”Iletgoofmymom’shandtoshakethedetectives’hands.“Hello.”Myvoiceischangingalready.It

alwayshappensaround“other”people,whetherI’matWilliamsonornot.Idon’ttalklikemeorsoundlikeme.IchooseeverywordcarefullyandmakesureIpronouncethemwell.Icannever,everletanyonethinkI’mghetto.

“It’ssonicetomeetyouboth,”Wilkessays.“Consideringthecircumstances,Iwouldn’tcallitnice,”saysMomma.Wilkes’sfaceandneckgetextremelyred.“Whathemeansiswe’veheardsomuchaboutyouboth,”Gomezsays.“Carlosalwaysgushesabout

hiswonderfulfamily.Wefeellikeweknowyoualready.”She’slayingitonextrathick.“Please,haveaseat.”Gomezpointstoachair,andsheandWilkessitacrossfromus.“Justsoyou

know,you’rebeingrecorded,butit’ssimplysowecanhaveStarr’sstatementonrecord.”“Okay,”Isay.Thereitisagain,allperkyandshit.I’mneverperky.DetectiveGomezgivesthedateandtimeandthenamesofthepeopleintheroomandremindsusthat

we’re being recorded.Wilkes scribbles in his notebook.Momma rubsmyback.For amoment there’sonlythesoundofpencilonpaper.

“Allrightthen.”Gomezadjustsherselfinherchairandsmiles,thelinesaroundhermouthdeepening.“Don’tbenervous,Starr.Youhaven’tdoneanythingwrong.Wejustwanttoknowwhathappened.”

IknowIhaven’tdoneanythingwrong,Ithink,butitcomesoutas,“Yes,ma’am.”“You’resixteen,right?”“Yes,ma’am.”“HowlongdidyouknowKhalil?”“SinceIwasthree.Hisgrandmotherusedtobabysitme.”“Wow,”shesays,allteacher-like,stretchingouttheword.“That’salongtime.Canyoutelluswhat

happenedthenightoftheincident?”“Youmeanthenighthewaskilled?”Shit.Gomez’s smile dims, the lines around her mouth aren’t as deep, but she says, “The night of the

incident,yes.Startwhereyoufeelcomfortable.”IlookatMomma.Shenods.“MyfriendKenyaandIwenttoahousepartyhostedbyaguynamedDarius,”Isay.Thump-thump-thump.Idrumthetable.Stop.Nosuddenmoves.Ilaymyhandsflattokeepthemvisible.“Hehasoneeveryspringbreak,”Isay.“Khalilsawme,cameover,andsaidhello.”“Doyouknowwhyhewasattheparty?”Gomezasks.Whydoesanybodygotoaparty?Toparty.“Iassumeitwasforrecreationalpurposes,”Isay.“He

andItalkedaboutthingsgoingoninourlives.”

“Whatkindofthings?”shequestions.“Hisgrandmotherhascancer.Ididn’tknowuntilhetoldmethatevening.”“Isee,”Gomezsays.“Whathappenedafterthat?”“Afightoccurredattheparty,sowelefttogetherinhiscar.”“Khalildidn’thaveanythingtodowiththefight?”Iraiseaneyebrow.“Nah.”Dammit.ProperEnglish.Isitupstraight.“Imean,no,ma’am.Weweretalkingwhenthefightoccurred.”“Okay,soyoutwoleft.Wherewereyougoing?”“Heoffered to takemehomeor tomyfather’sgrocerystore.Beforewecoulddecide,One-Fifteen

pulledusover.”“Who?”sheasks.“Theofficer,that’shisbadgenumber,”Isay.“Irememberit.”Wilkesscribbles.“Isee,”Gomezsays.“Canyoudescribewhathappenednext?”Idon’tthinkI’lleverforgetwhathappened,butsayingitoutloud,that’sdifferent.Andhard.Myeyesprickle.Iblink,staringatthetable.Mommarubsmyback.“Lookup,Starr.”Myparents have this thingwhere they neverwantme ormy brothers to talk to somebodywithout

lookingthemintheireyes.Theyclaimthataperson’seyessaymorethantheirmouth,andthatitgoesbothways—ifwelooksomeoneintheireyesandmeanwhatwesay,theyshouldhavelittlereasontodoubtus.

IlookatGomez.“Khalil pulledover to the sideof the roadand turned the ignitionoff,” I say. “One-Fifteenputhis

brightson.HeapproachedthewindowandaskedKhalilforhislicenseandregistration.”“DidKhalilcomply?”Gomezasks.“Heaskedtheofficerwhyhepulledusoverfirst.Thenheshowedhislicenseandregistration.”“DidKhalilseemirateduringthisexchange?”“Annoyed,notirate,”Isay.“Hefeltthatthecopwasharassinghim.”“Didhetellyouthis?”“No,butIcouldtell.Iassumedthesamethingmyself.”Shit.Gomezscootscloser.Maroonlipstickstainsher teeth,andherbreathsmells likecoffee.“Andwhy

wasthat?”Breathe.Theroomisn’thot.You’renervous.“Becauseweweren’tdoinganythingwrong,”Isay.“Khalilwasn’tspeedingordrivingrecklessly.It

didn’tseemlikehehadareasontopullusover.”“Isee.Whathappenednext?”“TheofficerforcedKhaliloutthecar.”“Forced?”shesays.“Yes,ma’am.Hepulledhimout.”“BecauseKhalilwashesitant,right?”Mommamakesthisthroatysound,likeshewasabouttosaysomethingbutstoppedherself.Shepurses

herlipsandrubsmybackincircles.IrememberwhatDaddysaid—“Don’tletthemputwordsinyourmouth.”

“No,ma’am,”IsaytoGomez.“Hewasgettingoutonhisown,andtheofficeryankedhimtherestoftheway.”

She says “I see” again, but she didn’t see it so she probably doesn’t believe it. “What happenednext?”sheasks.

“TheofficerpattedKhalildownthreetimes.”“Three?”Yeah.Icounted.“Yes,ma’am.Hedidn’tfindanything.HethentoldKhaliltostayputwhileheranhis

licenseandregistration.”“ButKhalildidn’tstayput,didhe?”shesays.“Hedidn’tpullthetriggeronhimselfeither.”Shit.Yourfuckingbigmouth.Thedetectivesglanceateachother.Amomentofsilentconversation.Thewallsmoveincloser.Thegriparoundmylungsreturns.Ipullmyshirtawayfrommyneck.“Ithinkwe’redonefortoday,”Mommasays,takingmyhandasshestartstostandup.“ButMrs.Carter,we’renotfinished.”“Idon’tcare—”“Mom,”Isay,andshelooksdownatme.“It’sokay.Icandothis.”Shegivesthemaglaresimilartotheoneshegivesmeandmybrotherswhenwe’vepushedhertoher

limit.Shesitsdownbutholdsontomyhand.“Okay,” Gomez says. “So he patted Khalil down and told him he would check his license and

registration.Whatnext?”“Khalilopenedthedriver’ssidedoorand—”Pow!Pow!Pow!Blood.Tearscrawldownmycheeks.Iwipethemonmyarm.“Theofficershothim.”“Doyou—”Gomezstarts,butMommaholdsafingertowardher.“Couldyoupleasegiveherasecond,”shesays.Itsoundsmorelikeanorderthanaquestion.Gomezdoesn’tsayanything.Wilkesscribblessomemore.Mymomwipessomeofmytearsforme.“Wheneveryou’reready,”shesays.Iswallowthelumpinmythroatandnod.“Okay,”Gomezsays,andtakesadeepbreath.“DoyouknowwhyKhalilcametothedoor,Starr?”“IthinkhewascomingtoaskifIwasokay.”“Youthink?”I’mnotatelepath.“Yes,ma’am.Hestartedaskingbutdidn’tfinishbecausetheofficershothiminthe

back.”Moresaltytearsfallonmylips.Gomez leans across the table. “Weallwant toget to thebottomof this,Starr.Weappreciateyour

cooperation.Iunderstandthisishardrightnow.”Iwipemyfaceonmyarmagain.“Yeah.”“Yeah.”Shesmilesandsaysinthatsamesugary,sympathetictone,“Now,doyouknowifKhalilsold

narcotics?”Pause.Whatthefuck?

Mytearsstop.Forreal,myeyesgetdrywiththequickness.BeforeIcansayanything,mymomgoes,“Whatdoesthathavetodowithanything?”

“It’sonlyaquestion,”Gomezsays.“Doyou,Starr?”Allthesympathy,thesmiles,theunderstanding.Thischickwasbaitingme.Investigatingorjustifying?Iknowtheanswertoherquestion.IknewitwhenIsawKhalilattheparty.Heneverworenewshoes.

Andjewelry?Thoselittleninety-nine-centchainsheboughtatthebeautysupplystoredidn’tcount.Ms.Rosaliejustconfirmedit.

Butwhatthehelldoesthathavetodowithhimgettingmurdered?Isthatsupposedtomakeallofthisokay?

Gomeztiltsherhead.“Starr?Canyoupleaseanswerthequestion?”Irefusetomakethemfeelbetteraboutkillingmyfriend.Istraightenup,lookGomezdeadinhereyes,andsay,“Ineversawhimselldrugsordodrugs.”“Butdoyouknowifhesoldthem?”sheasks.“Henevertoldmehedid,”Isay,whichistrue.Khalilneverflat-outadmittedittome.“Doyouhaveknowledgeofhimsellingthem?”“Iheardthings.”Alsotrue.Shesighs.“Isee.DoyouknowifhewasinvolvedwiththeKingLords?”“No.”“TheGardenDisciples?”“No.”“Didyouconsumeanyalcoholattheparty?”sheasks.IknowthatmovefromLaw&Order.She’stryingtodiscreditme.“No.Idon’tdrink.”“DidKhalil?”“Whoa,waitonesecond,”Mommasays.“Arey’allputtingKhalilandStarrontrialorthecopwho

killedhim?”Wilkeslooksupfromhisnotes.“I—Idon’tquiteunderstand,Mrs.Carter?”Gomezsputters.“Youhaven’taskedmychildabout thatcopyet,”Mommasays.“YoukeepaskingheraboutKhalil,

likehe’sthereasonhe’sdead.Likeshesaid,hedidn’tpullthetriggeronhimself.”“Wejustwantthewholepicture,Mrs.Carter.That’sall.”“One-Fifteenkilledhim,”Isay.“Andhewasn’tdoinganythingwrong.Howmuchofabiggerpicture

doyouneed?”Fifteenminuteslater,Ileavethepolicestationwithmymom.Bothofusknowthesamething:Thisisgonnabesomebullshit.

SEVEN

Khalil’sfuneralisFriday.Tomorrow.Exactlyoneweeksincehedied.I’matschool, tryingnot to thinkaboutwhathe’ll look like in thecoffin,howmanypeoplewillbe

there,whathe’lllooklikeinthecoffin,ifotherpeoplewillknowIwaswithhimwhenhedied...whathe’lllooklikeinthecoffin.

I’mfailingatnotthinkingaboutit.OntheMondaynightnews,theyfinallygaveKhalil’snameinthestoryabouttheshooting,butwitha

titleaddedtoit—KhalilHarris,aSuspectedDrugDealer.Theydidn’tmentionthathewasunarmed.Theysaidthatan“unidentifiedwitness”hadbeenquestionedandthatthepolicewerestillinvestigating.

AfterwhatItoldthecops,I’mnotsurewhat’sleftto“investigate.”In thegymeveryone’schanged into theirblue shorts andgoldWilliamsonT-shirts,but classhasn’t

startedyet.Topass time, someof thegirlschallengedsomeof theboys toabasketballgame.They’replayingononeendofthegym,thefloorsqueakingastheyrunaround.Thegirlsareall“Staawp!”whentheguysguardthem.Flirting,Williamsonstyle.

Hailey,Maya, and I are in thebleacherson theother end.On the floor, someguys are supposedlydancing,tryingtogettheirmovesreadyforprom.Isaysupposedlybecausethere’snowaythatshitcanbecalleddancing.Maya’sboyfriend,Ryan,istheonlyoneevenclose,andhe’sjustdoingthedab.It’shisgo-tomove.He’sabig,wide-shoulderedlinebacker,anditlooksalittlefunny,butthat’sanadvantageofbeingthesoleblackguyinclass.Youcanlooksillyandstillbecool.

Chris is on the bottom bleacher, playing one of his mixes on his phone for them to dance to. Heglancesoverhisshoulderatme.

I have two bodyguardswhowon’t allowhimnearme—Maya on one side, cheeringRyan on, andHailey,who’slaughingherassoffatLukeandrecordinghim.They’restillpissedatChris.

I’mhonestlynot.Hemadeamistake,andIforgivehim.TheFreshPrincethemeandhiswillingnesstoembarrasshimselfhelpedwiththat.

ButthatmomenthegrabbedmyhandsandIflashedbacktothatnight,it’slikeIsuddenlyreally,reallyrealized thatChris iswhite. Just likeOne-Fifteen.And I know, I’m sitting here next tomywhite bestfriend,butit’salmostasifI’mgivingKhalil,Daddy,Seven,andeveryotherblackguyinmylifeabig,loud“fuckyou”byhavingawhiteboyfriend.

Chrisdidn’tpullusover,hedidn’tshootKhalil,butamIbetrayingwhoIambydatinghim?Ineedtofigurethisout.“OhmyGod, that’ssickening,”saysHailey.She’sstoppedrecording towatch thebasketballgame.

“They’renoteventrying.”They’rereallynot.TheballsailspastthehoopfromanattemptedshotbyBridgetteHolloway.Either

homegirl’s hand-eye coordination is way off or she missed that on purpose, because now JacksonReynoldsisshowingherhowtoshoot.Basically,he’salluponher.Andshirtless.

“Idon’tknowwhat’sworse,”Haileysays.“Thefactthatthey’regoingsoftonthembecausethey’re

girls,orthatthegirlsarelettingthemgosoftonthem.”“Equalityinbasketball.Right,Hails?”Mayasayswithawink.“Yes!Wait.”SheeyesMayasuspiciously.“Areyoumakingfunofmeorareyouserious,Shorty?”“Both,”Isay,leaningbackonmyelbows,mybellypoochingoutmyshirt—afoodbaby.Wejustleft

lunch,and thecafeteriahad friedchicken,oneof the foodsWilliamsongets right. “It’snotevena realgame,Hails,”Itellher.

“Nope.”Mayapatsmystomach.“Whenareyoudue?”“Samedayasyou.”“Aww!Wecanraiseourfoodoffspringassiblings.”“Iknow,right?I’mnamingmineFernando,”Isay.“WhyFernando?”Mayaasks.“Dunno.Itsoundslikeafoodbabyname.Especiallywhenyourollther.”“Ican’trollmyr’s.”Shetries,butshemakessomeweirdnoise,spitflying,andI’mcrackingup.Haileypointsat thegame.“Lookat that! It’s thatwhole ‘play likeagirl’mind-set themalegender

usestobelittlewomen,whenwehaveasmuchathleticismastheydo.”OhmyLord.She’sseriouslyupsetoverthis.“Taketheballtothehole!”shehollerstothegirls.Mayacatchesmyeye,hersglimmeringsneakily,andit’smiddleschooldéjàvu.“Anddon’tbeafraidtoshoottheoutsideJ!”Mayashouts.“Justkeepyaheadinthegame,”Isay.“Justkeepyaheadinthegame.”“Anddon’tbeafraidto‘shoottheoutsideJ,’”Mayasings.“‘Justget’chaheadinthegame,’”Ising.Webustoutwith“Get’chaHeadintheGame”fromHighSchoolMusical.It’llbestuckinmyhead

for days.Wewere obsessedwith themovies around the same time as our Jonas Brothers obsession.Disneytookallourparents’money.

We’reloudwithitnow.Hailey’stryingtoglareatus.Shesnorts.“C’mon.”ShegetsupandpullsmeandMayauptoo.“Get’chaheadinthisgame.”I’mthinking,Oh,soyoucandragmetoplaybasketballduringoneofyourfeministrages,butyou

can’tfollowmyTumblrbecauseofEmmettTill?Idon’tknowwhyIcan’tmakemyselfbringitup.It’sTumblr.

Butthen,it’sTumblr.“Hey!”Haileysays.“Wewannaplay.”“Nowedon’t,”Mayamutters.Haileynudgesher.Idon’twannaplayeither,butforsomereasonHaileymakesdecisionsandMayaandIfollowalong.

It’snotlikeweplannedittobethisway.Sometimestheshitjusthappens,andonedayyourealizethere’saleaderamongyouandyourfriendsandit’snotyou.

“Comeonin,ladies.”Jacksonbeckonsusintothegame.“There’salwaysroomforprettygirls.We’lltrynottohurtyou.”

Haileylooksatme,Ilookather,andwehavethesamedeadpanexpressionthatwe’vehadmasteredsincefifthgrade,mouthsslightlyopen,eyesreadytorollatanymoment.

“Alrightythen,”Isay.“Let’splay.”“Threeonthree,”Haileysaysaswetakeourpositions.“Girlsversusboys.Halfcourt.Firsttotwenty.

Sorry,ladies,butmeandmygirlsaregonnahandlethisone,mm-kay?”BridgettegivesHaileysomeseriousstank-eye.Sheandherfriendsmovetothesideline.Thedancepartystopsandthoseguyscomeover,Chrisincluded.HewhisperssomethingtoTyler,one

oftheboyswhoplayedinthepreviousgame.ChristakesTyler’splaceonthecourt.JacksoncheckstheballtoHailey.Irunaroundmyguard,Garrett,andHaileypassestome.Nomatter

what’sgoingon,whenHailey,Maya,andIplaytogether,it’srhythm,chemistry,andskillrolledintoaballofamazingness.

Garrett’sguardingme,butChrisrunsupandelbowshimaside.Garrettgoes,“Thehell,Bryant?”“I’vegother,”Chrissays.Hegetsinhisdefensivestance.We’reeyetoeyeasIdribbletheball.“Hey,”hesays.“Hey.”Idoachest-passtoMaya,who’swideopenforajumpshot.Shemakesit.Twotozero.“Goodjob,Yang!”saysCoachMeyers.She’scomeoutheroffice.Allittakesisahintofarealgame,

andshe’s incoachingmode.Sheremindsmeofa fitness traineronarealityTVshow.She’spetiteyetmuscular,andGodthatwomancanyell.

Garrett’satthebaselinewiththeball.Chrisrunstogetopen.Stomachfull,Ihavetopushhardertostayonhim.We’rehiptohip,watching

Garrett try todecidewho topass to.Ourarmsbrush,andsomething inme isactivated;mysensesaresuddenlyconsumedbyChris.Hislegslooksogoodinhisgymshorts.He’swearingOldSpice,andevenjustfromthatlittlebrush,hisskinfeelssosoft.

“Imissyou,”hesays.Nopointinlying.“Imissyoutoo.”Theballsailshisway.Chriscatchesit.NowI’minmydefensivestance,andwe’reeyetoeyeagain

ashedribbles.Mygazelowerstohislips;they’realittlewetandbeggingmetokissthem.See,thisiswhyIcanneverplayballwithhim.Igettoodistracted.

“Willyouatleasttalktome?”Chrisasks.“Defense,Carter!”Coachyells.Ifocusontheballandattempttosteal.Notquickenough.Hegetsaroundmeandgoesstraightforthe

hoop,onlytopassittoJackson,who’sopenatthethree-pointline.“Grant!”CoachshoutsforHailey.Haileyrunsover.HerfingertipsgrazetheballasitleavesJackson’shand,changingitscourse.Theballgoesflying.Igorunning.Icatchit.Chris isbehindme, theonly thingbetweenmeand thehoop.Letmeclarify—mybutt isagainsthis

crotch,mybackagainsthischest.I’mbumpingupagainsthim,tryingtofigureouthowtogettheballinthehole.Itsoundswaydirtierthanitactuallyis,especiallyinthisposition.IunderstandwhyBridgettemissedshotsthough.

“Starr!”Haileycalls.She’sopenatthethree.Ibounce-passittoher.Sheshoots.Nailsit.Fivetozero.“C’mon,boys,”Mayataunts.“Isthatallyoucando?”Coachclaps.“Goodjob.Goodjob.”Jackson’satthebaseline.HepassestoChris.Chrischest-passesitbacktohim.“Idon’tgetit,”Chrissays.“Youpracticallyfreakedouttheotherdayinthehall.What’sgoingon?”GarrettpassestoChris.Igetinmydefensivestance,eyesontheball.NotonChris.Cannotlookat

Chris.Myeyeswillgivemeaway.“Talktome,”hesays.Iattempttostealagain.Noluck.“Playthegame,”Isay.Chrisgoesleft,quicklychangesdirection,andgoesright.Itrytostayonhim,butmyheavystomach

slowsmedown.Hegetstothehoopandmakesthelayup.It’sgood.Fivetotwo.“Dammit,Starr!”Haileyyells,recoveringtheball.Shepassesit tome.“Hustle!Pretendtheball is

somefriedchicken.Betyou’llstayonitthen.”What.The.Actual.Fuck?Theworld surges forwardwithoutme. I hold the ball and stare atHailey as she jogs away, blue-

streakedhairbouncingbehindher.Ican’tbelieveshesaid...Shecouldn’thave.Noway.Theballfallsoutmyhands.Iwalkoffthecourt.I’mbreathinghard,andmyeyesburn.Thesmellofpostgamefunklingersinthegirls’lockerroom.It’smyplaceofsolacewhenwelosea

game,whereIcancryorcussifIwant.Ipacefromonesideofthelockerstotheother.HaileyandMayarushin,outofbreath.“What’supwithyou?”Haileyasks.“Me?”Isay,myvoicebouncingoffthelockers.“Whatthehellwasthatcomment?”“Lightenup!Itwasonlygametalk.”“Afriedchickenjokewasonlygametalk?Really?”Iask.“It’sfriedchickenday!”shesays.“YouandMayawere just jokingabout it.Whatareyoutryingto

say?”Ikeeppacing.Hereyeswiden.“OhmyGod.YouthinkIwasbeingracist?”I lookather. “Youmadea friedchickencomment to theonlyblackgirl in the room.Whatdoyou

think?”“Ho-lyshit,Starr!Seriously?Aftereverythingwe’vebeenthrough,youthinkI’maracist?Really?”“Youcansaysomethingracistandnotbearacist!”“Issomethingelsegoingon,Starr?”Mayasays.“Whydoeseveryonekeepaskingmethat?”Isnap.“Becauseyou’reacting soweird lately!”Hailey snapsback.She looksatmeandasks, “Does this

havesomethingtodowiththepoliceshootingthatdrugdealerinyourneighborhood?”“Wh-what?”“Iheardaboutitonthenews,”shesays.“AndIknowyou’reintothatsortofthingnow—”Thatsortofthing?Whatthefuckis“thatsortofthing”?“Andthentheysaidthedrugdealer’snamewasKhalil,”shesays,andexchangesalookwithMaya.“We’vewantedtoask if itwas theKhalilwhousedtocometoyourbirthdayparties,”Mayaadds.

“Wedidn’tknowhow,though.”The drug dealer. That’s how they see him. It doesn’tmatter that he’s suspected of doing it. “Drug

dealer”islouderthan“suspected”everwillbe.Ifit’srevealedthatIwasinthecar,whatwillthatmakeme?Thethugghettogirlwiththedrugdealer?

Whatwillmyteachersthinkaboutme?Myfriends?Thewholefuckingworld,possibly?“I—”Iclosemyeyes.Khalilstaresatthesky.“Mindyourbusiness,Starr,”hesays.Iswallowandwhisper,“Idon’tknowthatKhalil.”It’sabetrayalworsethandatingawhiteboy.Ifuckingdenyhim,damnnearerasingeverylaughwe

shared,everyhug,everytear,everysecondwespenttogether.Amillion“I’msorry”ssoundinmyhead,andIhopetheyreachKhalilwhereverheis,yetthey’llneverbeenough.

ButIhadtodoit.Ihadto.“Thenwhatisit?”Haileyasks.“Isthis,like,Natasha’sanniversaryorsomething?”Istareattheceilingandblinkfasttokeepfrombawling.Besidesmybrothersandtheteachers,Hailey

andMayaaretheonlypeopleatWilliamsonwhoknowaboutNatasha.Idon’twantallthepity.“Mom’s anniversary was a few weeks ago,” Hailey says. “I was in a shitty mood for days. I

understandifyou’reupset,buttoaccusemeofbeingracist,Starr?Howcanyoueven?”Iblink faster.God, I’mpushingher away,Chris away.Hell, do I deserve them? Idon’t talk about

Natasha,andIjustflat-outdeniedKhalil.Icould’vebeentheonekilledinsteadofthem.Idon’thavethedecencytokeeptheirmemoriesalive,yetI’msupposedtobetheirbestfriend.

I covermymouth. It doesn’t stop the sob. It’s loud and echoes off thewalls.One follows it, andanotherandanother.MayaandHaileyrubmybackandshoulders.

CoachMeyersrushesin.“Carter—”Haileylooksatherandsays,“Natasha.”Coachnodsheavily.“Carter,goseeMs.Lawrence.”What?No.She’ssendingmetotheschoolshrink?AlltheteachersknowaboutpoorStarrwhosaw

herfrienddiewhenshewasten.Iusedtobustoutcryingallthetime,andthatwasalwaystheirgo-toline—seeMs.Lawrence.Iwipemyeyes.“Coach,I’mokay—”

“No,you’renot.”Shepullsahallpassfromherpocketandholdsittowardme.“Gotalktoher.It’llhelpyoufeelbetter.”

Noitwon’t,butIknowwhatwill.Itakethepass,grabmybackpackoutmylocker,andgobackintothegym.Myclassmatesfollowme

withtheireyesasIhurrytowardthedoors.Chriscallsoutforme.Ispeedup.They probably heardme crying.Great.What’sworse than being theAngryBlackGirl?TheWeak

BlackGirl.BythetimeIgettothemainoffice,I’vedriedmyeyesandmyfacecompletely.“Good afternoon,Ms. Carter,” Dr. Davis, the headmaster, says. He’s leaving as I’m going in and

doesn’twaitformyresponse.Doesheknowallthestudentsbyname,orjusttheoneswhoareblacklikehim?IhatethatIthinkaboutstufflikethatnow.

Hissecretary,Mrs.Lindsey,greetsmewithasmileandaskshowshecanassistme.“Ineedtocallsomeonetocomegetme,”Isay.“Idon’tfeelgood.”

IcallUncleCarlos.Myparentswouldasktoomanyquestions.Alimbhastobemissingforthemtotakemeoutofschool.IonlyhavetotellUncleCarlosthatIhavecramps,andhe’llpickmeup.

Feminineproblems.ThekeytoendinganUncleCarlosinterrogation.Luckilyhe’sonlunchbreak.Hesignsmeout,andIholdmystomachforaddedeffect.Asweleavehe

asks if Iwant some fro-yo. I sayyeah, and a shortwhile laterwe’re going into a shop that’swalkingdistance fromWilliamson. It’s in abrand-newminimall that shouldbe calledHipsterHeaven, full of

storesyou’dneverfindinGardenHeights.Ononesideofthefro-yoplace,there’sIndieUrbanStyleandontheotherside,DapperDog,whereyoucanbuyoutfitsforyourdog.Clothes.Foradog.WhatkindafoolwouldIbe,dressingBrickzinalinenshirtandjeans?

Onaserioustip—whitepeoplearecrazyfortheirdogs.Wefillourcupswithyogurt.At thetoppingsbar,UncleCarlosbreaksout intohisfro-yorap.“I’m

gettingfro-yo,yo.Fro-yo,yo,yo.”Heloveshisfro-yo.It’skindaadorable.Wetakeaboothinacornerthat’sgotalime-greentableand

hot-pinkseats.Youknow,typicalfro-yodecor.Uncle Carlos looks over into my cup. “Did you seriously ruin perfectly good fro-yo with Cap’n

Crunch?”“Youcan’ttalk,”Isay.“Oreos,UncleCarlos?Really?Andthey’renoteventheGoldenOreos,which

arebyfarthesuperiorOreos.Yougottheregularones.Ill.”Hedevoursaspoonfulandsays,“You’reweird.”“You’reweird.”“Socramps,huh?”hesays.Shit.Ialmostforgotaboutthat.Iholdmystomachandgroan.“Yeah.They’rerealbadtoday.”Iknowwhowon’twinanOscaranytimesoon.UncleCarlosgivesmehisharddetectivestare.Igroan

again;thisonesoundsalittlemorebelievable.Heraiseshiseyebrows.Hisphoneringsinhisjacketpocket.Hesticksanotherspoonfuloffro-yoinhismouthandchecksit.

“It’s your mom calling me back,” he says around the spoon. He holds the phone with his cheek andshoulder.“Hey,Lisa.Yougetmymessage?”

Shit.“She’snotfeelinggood,”UncleCarlossays.“She’sgot,youknow,feminineproblems.”Herresponseisloudbutmuffled.Shit,shit.UncleCarlosholdsthenapeofhisneckandslowlyreleasesalong,deepbreath.Heturnsintoalittle

boywhenMommaraiseshervoiceathim,andhe’ssupposedtobetheoldest.“Okay,okay.Ihearyou,”hesays.“Here,youtalktoher.”Shit,shit,shit.Hepassesmethepieceofdynamiteformerlyknownashisphone.There’sanexplosionofquestioning

assoonasIsay,“Hello?”“Cramps,Starr?Really?”shesays.“They’rebad,Mommy,”Iwhine,lyingmybuttoff.“Girl,please. Iwent toclass in laborwithyou,”shesays.“Ipay toomuchmoneyforyoutogo to

Williamsonsoyoucanleavebecauseofcramps.”IalmostpointoutthatIgetascholarshiptoo,butnah.She’dbecomethefirstpersoninhistorytohit

someonethroughaphone.“Didsomethinghappen?”sheasks.“No.”“IsitKhalil?”sheasks.Isigh.ThistimetomorrowI’llbestaringathiminacoffin.“Starr?”shesays.“Nothinghappened.”Ms.Feliciacallsforherinthebackground.“Look,Igottago,”shesays.“Carloswilltakeyouhome.

Lockthedoor,stayinside,anddon’tletanybodyin,youhearme?”Those aren’t zombie survival tips. Just normal instructions for latchkeykids inGardenHeights. “I

can’tletSevenandSekaniin?Great.”“Oh,somebody’s tryingtobefunny.NowIknowyouain’tfeelingbad.We’ll talk later. I loveyou.

Mwah!”Ittakesalotofnervetogooffonsomebody,callthemout,andtellthemyoulovethemwithinaspan

offiveminutes.ItellherIlovehertooandpassUncleCarloshisphone.“Allright,babygirl,”hesays.“Spillit.”Istuffsomefro-yoinmymouth.It’smeltingalready.“LikeIsaid.Cramps.”“I’mnotbuyingthat,andlet’sbeclearaboutsomething:youonlygetone‘UncleCarlos,getmeoutof

school’cardperschoolyear,andyou’reusingitrightnow.”“YougotmeinDecember,remember?”Forcrampsalso.Ididn’tlieaboutthose.Theywereabitch

thatday.“Allright,onepercalendaryear,”heclarifies.Ismile.“Butyougottagivemealittlemoretowork

with.Sotalk.”IpushCap’nCruncharoundmyfro-yo.“Khalil’sfuneralistomorrow.”“Iknow.”“Idon’tknowifIshouldgo.”“What?Why?”“Because,”Isay.“Ihadn’tseenhiminmonthsbeforetheparty.”“Youstillshouldgo,”hesays.“You’llregretitifyoudon’t.Ithoughtaboutgoing.Notsureifthat’sa

goodidea,considering.”Silence.“Areyoureallyfriendswiththatcop?”Iask.“Iwouldn’tsayfriends,no.Colleagues.”“Butyou’reonafirst-namebasis,right?”“Yes,”hesays.Istareatmycup.UncleCarloswasmyfirstdadinsomeways.Daddywenttoprisonaroundthetime

Irealizedthat“Mommy”and“Daddy”weren’tjustnames,buttheymeantsomething.ItalkedtoDaddyonthephoneeveryweek,buthedidn’twantmeandSeventoeversetfootinaprison,soIdidn’tseehim.

I sawUncle Carlos though.He fulfilled the role and then some.Once I asked if I could call himDaddy.Hesaidno,becauseIalreadyhadone,butbeingmyunclewasthebestthinghecouldeverbe.Eversince,“Uncle”hasmeantalmostasmuchas“Daddy.”

Myuncle.Onafirst-namebasiswiththatcop.“Babygirl,Idon’tknowwhattosay.”Hisvoiceisgruff.“IwishIcould—I’msorrythishappened.I

am.”“Whyhaven’ttheyarrestedhim?”“Caseslikethisaredifficult.”“It’snotthatdifficult,”Isay.“HekilledKhalil.”“Iknow,Iknow,”hesays,andwipeshisface.“Iknow.”“Wouldyouhavekilledhim?”Helooksatme.“Starr—Ican’tanswerthat.”“Yeah,youcan.”“No, I can’t. I’d like to think Iwouldn’t have, but it’s hard to say unless you’re in that situation,

feelingwhatthatofficerisfeeling—”“Hepointedhisgunatme,”Iblurtout.“What?”

Myeyespricklelikecrazy.“Whilewewerewaitingonhelptoshowup,”Isay,mywordswobbling.“Hekeptitonmeuntilsomebodyelsegotthere.LikeIwasathreat.Iwasn’ttheonewiththegun.”

UncleCarlosstaresatmeforthelongesttime.“Babygirl.”Hereachesformyhand.Hesqueezesitandmovestomysideofthetable.Hisarmgoes

aroundme,andIburymyfaceinhisribcage,tearsandsnotwettinghisshirt.“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He kisses my hair with each apology. “But I know that’s not

enough.”

EIGHT

Funeralsaren’tfordeadpeople.They’refortheliving.I doubt Khalil cares what songs are sung or what the preacher says about him. He’s in a casket.

Nothingcanchangethat.My family and I leave thirtyminutes before the funeral starts, but the parking lot atChristTemple

Churchisalreadyfull.SomekidsfromKhalil’sschoolstandaroundin“RIPKhalil”T-shirtswithhisfaceonthem.Aguytriedtosellsometousyesterday,butMommasaidweweren’twearingthemtoday—T-shirtsareforthestreets,notforchurch.

Sohereweare,gettingoutthecarinourdressesandsuits.Myparentsholdhandsandwalkinfrontofmeandmybrothers.WeusedtogotoChristTemplewhenIwasyounger,butMommagottiredofhowpeoplehereactliketheirshitdon’tstank,andnowwegotothis“diverse”churchinRivertonHills.Waytoomanypeoplegothere,andpraiseandworshipisledbyawhiteguyonguitar.Oh,andservicelastslessthananhour.

Goingback inChristTemple is likewhenyougoback toyourold elementary school afteryou’vebeentohighschool.Whenyouwereyoungeritseemedbig,butwhenyougobackyourealizehowsmallitis.Peoplefillupthetinyfoyer.Ithascranberry-coloredcarpetandtwoburgundyhigh-backchairs.OnetimeMommabroughtmeoutherebecauseIwasactingup.Shemademesitinoneofthosechairsandtoldmenot tomoveuntil servicewasover. I didn’t.Apaintingof thepastor hung above the chairs, and Icould’veswornhewaswatchingme.Alltheseyearslaterandtheystillhavethatcreepypaintingup.

There’salinetosignabookforKhalil’sfamilyandanotherlinetogointothesanctuary.Toseehim.Icatchaglimpseofthewhitecasketat thefrontofthesanctuary,butIcan’tmakemyselftrytosee

more than that. I’ll see him eventually, but—I don’t know. I wanna wait until I don’t have any otherchoice.

PastorEldridgegreetspeopleinthedoorwayofthesanctuary.He’swearingalongwhiterobewithgold crosses on it. He smiles at everyone. I don’t know why they made him look so creepy in thatpainting.He’snotcreepyatall.

Mommaglancesbackatme,Seven,andSekani, like she’smakingsurewe looknice, then sheandDaddygouptoPastorEldridge.“Morning,Pastor,”shesays.

“Lisa!Sogoodtoseeyou.”HekisseshercheekandshakesDaddy’shand.“Maverick,goodtoseeyouaswell.Wemissy’allaroundhere.”

“Ibety’alldo,”Daddymumbles.AnotherreasonweleftChristTemple:Daddydoesn’tlikethattheytakeupsomanyofferings.Buthedoesn’tevengotoourdiversechurch.

“Andthesemustbe thechildren,”PastorEldridgesays.HeshakesSeven’sandSekani’shandsandkissesmycheek.Ifeelmoreofhisbristlymustachethananything.“Y’allsurehavegrownsinceIlastsawyou.Irememberwhenthelittleonewasanitty-bittythingwrappedupinablanket.How’syourmommadoing,Lisa?”

“She’sgood.Shemissescominghere,butthedriveisalittlelongforher.”

I side-eye thehell—excuseme, heck;we’re in church—outof her.Nana stopped coming toChristTemple because of some incident betweenher andMotherWilsonoverDeaconRankin. It endedwithNanastormingofffromthechurchpicnic,bananapuddinginhand.That’sallIknowthough.

“Weunderstand,”saysPastorEldridge.“Letherknowwe’reprayingforher.”HelooksatmewithanexpressionIknowtoowell—pity.“Ms.RosalietoldmeyouwerewithKhalilwhenthishappened.Iamsosorryyouhadtowitnessit.”

“Thankyou.”It’sweirdsayingthat,likeI’mstealingsympathyfromKhalil’sfamily.Mommagrabsmyhand.“We’regonnafindsomeseats.Nicetalkingtoyou,Pastor.”Daddywrapshisarmaroundme,andthethreeofuswalkintothesanctuarytogether.Mylegstrembleandawaveofnauseahitsme,andwearen’tevenatthefrontoftheviewinglineyet.

Peoplegouptothecasketintwos,soIcan’tseeKhalilatall.Soontherearesixpeopleinfrontofus.Four.Two.Ikeepmyeyesclosedthewholetimewiththelast

two.Thenit’sourturn.Myparentsleadmeup.“Baby,openyoureyes,”Mommasays.I do. It looksmore like amannequin thanKhalil in the casket.His skin is darker and his lips are

pinkerthantheyshouldbe,becauseofthemakeup.Khalilwould’vehadafitifheknewtheyputthatonhim.He’swearingawhitesuitandagoldcrosspendant.

TherealKhalilhaddimples.Thismannequinversionofhimdoesn’t.Mommabrushestearsfromhereyes.Daddyshakeshishead.SevenandSekanistare.That’snotKhalil,Itellmyself.Likeitwasn’tNatasha.Natasha’smannequinworeawhitedresswithpinkandyellowflowersalloverit.Ithadonmakeup

too.Mommahadtoldme,“See,shelooksasleep,”butwhenIsqueezedherhand,hereyesneveropened.DaddycarriedmeoutthesanctuaryasIscreamedforhertowakeup.WemovesothenextsetofpeoplecanlookatKhalil’smannequin.Anusherisabouttodirectusto

someseats,but this ladywithnatural twistsgestures toward the front rowof the friends’side, right infrontofher.Nocluewhosheis,butshemustbesomebodyifshe’sgivingorderslikethat.Andshemustknowsomethingaboutmeifshethinksmyfamilydeservesthefrontrow.

Wetakeourseats,andIfocusontheflowersinstead.There’sabigheartmadeoutofredandwhiteroses, a “K”madeoutof calla lilies, andan arrangementof flowers inorangeandgreen,his favoritecolors.

WhenIrunoutofflowers,Ilookatthefuneralprogram.It’sfullofpicturesofKhalil,fromthetimehewasacurly-hairedbabyupuntilafewweeksagowithfriendsIdon’trecognize.TherearepicturesofmeandhimfromyearsagoandonewithusandNatasha.Allthreeofussmile,tryingtolookgangsterwithourpeacesigns.TheHoodTrio,tighterthantheinsideofVoldemort’snose.NowI’mtheonlyoneleft.

Iclosetheprogram.“Letusstand.”PastorEldridge’svoiceechoesthroughoutthesanctuary.Theorganiststartsplaying,

andeveryonestands.“AndJesussaid,‘Donotletyourheartsbetroubled,’”hesays,comingdowntheaisle.“‘Youbelieve

inGod,believealsoinme.’”Ms.Rosaliemarchesbehindhim.Cameronwalks alongsideher, grippingherhand.Tears stainhis

chubbycheeks.He’sonlynine,ayearolderthanSekani.Hadoneofthosebulletshitme,thatcould’vebeenmylittlebrothercryinglikethat.

Khalil’sauntTammyholdsMs.Rosalie’sotherhand.Ms.Brendaiswailingbehindthem,wearingablackdressthatoncebelongedtoMomma.Herhairhasbeencombedintoaponytail.Twoguys,Ithinkthey’reKhalil’scousins,holdherup.It’seasiertolookatthecasket.

“‘MyFather’shousehasmanyrooms;ifthatwerenotso,wouldIhavetoldyouthatIamgoingtheretoprepareaplaceforyou?’”PastorEldridgesays.“‘AndifIgoandprepareaplaceforyou,IwillcomebackandtakeyoutobewithmethatyoualsomaybewhereIam.’”

At Natasha’s funeral, her momma passed out when she saw her in the casket. Somehow Khalil’smommaandgrandmadon’t.

“Iwannamakeonethingcleartoday,”PastorEldridgesaysonceeveryoneisseated.“Nomatterthecircumstances, this is a homegoing celebration.Weepingmayendure for anight, but howmanyofyouknowthatJOY—!”Hedoesn’tevenfinishandpeopleshout.

Thechoirsingsupbeatsongs,andalmosteveryoneclapsandpraisesJesus.Mommasingsalongandwavesherhands.Khalil’sgrandmaandauntieclapandsingtoo.Apraisebreakevenstarts,andpeoplerunaroundthesanctuaryanddothe“HolyGhostTwo-Step,”asSevenandIcallit,theirfeetmovinglikeJamesBrownandtheirbentarmsflappinglikechickenwings.

ButifKhalil’snotcelebrating,howthehellcanthey?AndwhypraiseJesus,sinceheletKhalilgetshotinthefirstplace?

Iputmyfaceinmyhands,hopingtodrownoutthedrums,thehorns, theshouting.Thisshitdoesn’tmakeanysense.

Afterall thatpraising,someofKhalil’sclassmates—theoneswhowereintheparkinglot intheT-shirts—make a presentation. They give his family the cap and gownKhalil would’ve worn in a fewmonthsandcryastheytellfunnystoriesI’dneverheard.YetI’mtheoneinthefrontrowonthefriends’side.I’msuchafuckingphony.

Next, the ladywith the twists goes up to the podium.Her black pencil skirt and blazer aremoreprofessional-lookingthanchurch-looking,andshe’swearingan“RIPKhalil”T-shirttoo.

“Goodmorning,”shesays,andeveryoneresponds.“MynameisAprilOfrah,andI’mwithJustUsforJustice.WeareasmallorganizationhereinGardenHeightsthatadvocatesforpoliceaccountability.

“AswesayfarewelltoKhalil,wefindourheartsburdenedwiththeharshtruthofhowhelosthislife.Justbeforethestartofthisservice,Iwasinformedthat,despiteacredibleeyewitnessaccount,thepolicedepartmenthasnointentionsofarrestingtheofficerwhomurderedthisyoungman.”

“What?” I say, as people murmur around the sanctuary. Everything I told them, and they’re notarrestinghim?

“Whattheydon’twantyoutoknow,”Ms.Ofrahsays,“isthatKhalilwasunarmedatthetimeofhismurder.”

Peoplereallystarttalkingthen.Acoupleoffolksyellout,includingonepersonwho’sboldenoughtoshout“Thisisbullshit”inachurch.

“Wewon’tgiveupuntilKhalilreceivesjustice,”Ms.Ofrahsaysoverthetalking.“IaskyoutojoinusandKhalil’sfamilyaftertheserviceforapeacefulmarchtothecemetery.Ourroutehappenstopassthepolicestation.Khalilwassilenced,butlet’sjointogetherandmakeourvoicesheardforhim.Thankyou.”

Thecongregationgivesherastandingovation.Asshereturnstoherseat,sheglancesatme.IfMs.RosalietoldthepastorIwaswithKhalil,sheprobablytoldthisladytoo.Ibetshewantstotalk.

PastorEldridgejustaboutpreachesKhalilintoheaven.I’mnotsayingKhalildidn’tmakeittoheaven—Idon’tknow—butPastorEldridgetriestomakesurehegetsthere.HesweatsandbreathessohardIgettiredlookingathim.

Attheendoftheeulogy,hesays,“Ifanybodywishestoviewthebody,nowisthe—”Hestaresatthebackofthechurch.Murmursbubblearoundthesanctuary.Mommalooksback.“Whatintheworld?”Kingandabunchofhisboyspostupinthebackintheirgrayclothesandbandanas.Kinghashisarm

hookedaroundaladyinatightblackdressthatbarelycoversherthighs.Shehaswaytoomuchweaveinherhead—forreal,itcomestoherass—andwaytoomuchmakeupon.

Seventurnsbackaround.Iwouldn’twannaseemymommalookinglikethateither.Butwhyaretheyhere?KingLordsonlyshowupatKingLordfunerals.PastorEldridgeclearshis throat.“As Iwassaying, ifanyonewishes toview thebody,now is the

time.”Kingandhisboysswaggerdowntheaisle.Everybodystares.Ieshawalksalongsidehim,allproud

andshit,notrealizingshelooksahotmess.Sheglancesatmyparentsandsmirks,andIcan’tstandherass. I mean, not just because of how she treats Seven, but because every time she shows up, there’ssuddenlyanunspoken tensionbetweenmyparents.Likenow.Mommashiftshershoulderso it’snotasclose to Daddy, and his jaw is clenched. She’s the Achilles’ heel of their marriage, and it’s onlynoticeableifyou’vebeenwatchingitforsixteenyearslikeIhave.

King, Iesha, and the rest of themgoup to the casket.OneofKing’sboyshandshima foldedgraybandana,andhelaysitacrossKhalil’schest.

Myheartstops.KhalilwasaKingLordtoo?Ms.Rosaliejumpsup.“Likehellyouwill!”Shemarches to the coffin and snatches the bandana offKhalil. She starts towardKing, butDaddy

catchesherhalfwayandholdsherback.“Getouttahere,youdemon!”shescreams.“Andtakethismesswithyou!”

ShethrowsthebandanaatthebackofKing’shead.Hestills.Slowly,heturnsaround.“Nowlook,bi—”“Ay!”Daddysays.“King,man,justgo!Leave,a’ight?”“Youol’hag,”Ieshasnarls.“Gotsomenervetreatingmymanlikethisafterheofferedtopayforthis

funeral.”“Hecankeephisfilthymoney!”Ms.Rosaliesays.“Andyoucantakeyourbehindrightoutthedoor

too.ComingintheLord’shouse,lookingliketheprostituteyouare!”Sevenshakeshishead.It’snosecretthatmybigbrotheristheresultofa“forhire”sessionDaddyhad

withIeshaafterafightwithMomma.IeshawasKing’sgirl,buthetoldherto“hookMaverickup,”notknowingSevenwouldcomealonglookingexactlylikeDaddy.Fuckedup,Iknow.

MommareachesbehindmeandrubsSeven’sback.Thereareraretimes,whenSeven’snotaroundandMommathinksSekaniandIcan’thearher,thatshe’lltellDaddy,“Istillcan’tbelieveyousleptwiththatnastyho.”ButSevencan’tbearound.Whenhe’saround,noneofthatmatters.SheloveshimmorethanshehatesIesha.

TheKingLordsleave,andconversationsbreakoutallaround.DaddyleadsMs.Rosalietoherseat.She’ssomadshe’sshaking.Ilookatthemannequininthecoffin.AllthosehorrorstoriesDaddytoldusaboutgangbanging,and

KhalilbecameaKingLord?Howcouldheeventhinkaboutdoingthat?It doesn’tmake sense though.Hehadgreen in his car.That’swhatGardenDisciples do, notKing

Lords.Andhedidn’truntohelpoutwiththefightatBigD’sparty.Butthebandana.Daddyoncesaidthat’saKingLordtradition—theycrowntheirfallencomradesby

putting a folded bandana on the body, as if to say they’re going into heaven repping their set. Khalilmust’vejoinedtogetthathonor.

Icould’vetalkedhimoutofit,Iknowit,butIabandonedhim.Fuckthefriends’side.Ishouldn’teven

beathisfuneral.DaddystayswithMs.Rosaliefortherestoftheserviceandlaterhelpsherwhenthefamilyfollows

thecasketout.AuntTammymotionsusovertojointhem.“Thankyouforbeinghere,”shetellsme.“YoumeantalottoKhalil,Ihopeyouknowthat.”Mythroattightenstoomuchformetotellherhemeansalottometoo.Wefollowthecasketwiththefamily.Justabouteveryonewepasshastearsintheireyes.ForKhalil.

Hereallyisinthatcasket,andhe’snotcomingback.I’ve never told anyone, but Khalil wasmy first crush. He unknowingly introducedme to stomach

butterfliesandlaterheartbreakwhenhegothisowncrushonImaniAnderson,ahighschoolerwhowasn’teventhinkingaboutfourth-gradehim.Iworriedaboutmyappearanceforthefirsttimearoundhim.

Butfuckthecrush,hewasoneofthebestfriendsIeverhad,nomatterifwesaweachothereverydayoronceayear.Timedidn’tcomparetoalltheshitwewentthroughtogether.Andnowhe’sinacasket,likeNatasha.

Bigfattearsfallfrommyeyes,andIsob.Aloud,nasty,uglysobthateverybodyhearsandseesasIcomeuptheaisle.

“Theyleftme,”Icry.Mommawrapsherarmaroundmeandpressesmyheadontohershoulder.“Iknow,baby,butwe’re

here.Wearen’tgoinganywhere.”Warmthbrushesmyface,andIknowwe’reoutside.Allofthevoicesandnoisesmakemelook.There

aremorepeopleoutherethaninthechurch,holdingposterswithKhalil’sfaceonthemandsignsthatsay“JusticeforKhalil.”Hisclassmateshaveposterssaying“AmINext?”and“EnoughIsEnough!”Newsvanswithtallantennasareparkedacrossthestreet.

IburymyfaceinMomma’sshoulderagain.People—Idon’tknowwho—patmybackandtellmeit’llbeokay.

Icantellwhenit’sDaddywho’srubbingmybackwithouthimevensayinganything.“Wegon’stayandmarch,baby,”hetellsMomma.“IwantSevenandSekanitobeapartofthis.”

“Yeah,I’mtakingherhome.Howarey’allgettingback?”“Wecanwalk to thestore. Igottaopenupanyway.”Hekissesmyhair.“I loveyou,babygirl.Get

somerest,a’ight?”Heelsclacktowardus,thensomeonesays,“Hi,Mr.andMrs.Carter,I’mAprilOfrahwithJustUsfor

Justice.”Mommatensesupandpullsmecloser.“Howmaywehelpyou?”She lowers her voice and says, “Khalil’s grandmother toldme thatStarr is the onewhowaswith

Khalilwhenthishappened.Iknowshegaveastatementtothepolice,andIwanttocommendheronherbravery.Thisisadifficultsituation,andthatmust’vetakenalotofstrength.”

“Yeah,itdid,”Daddysays.ImovemyheadoffMomma’sshoulder.Ms.Ofrahshiftsherweightfromfoottofootandfumbleswith

herfingers.Myparentsaren’thelpingwiththehardlooksthey’regivingher.“Weallwantthesamething,”shesays.“JusticeforKhalil.”“Excuseme,Ms.Ofrah,”Mommasays,“butasmuchasIwantthat,Iwantmydaughtertohavesome

peace.Andprivacy.”Mommalooksatthenewsvansacrossthestreet.Ms.Ofrahglancesbackatthem.“Oh!”shesays.“Ohno.No,no,no.Weweren’t—Iwasn’t—Idon’twanttoputStarrouttherelike

that.Quitetheopposite,actually.Iwanttoprotectherprivacy.”Mommaloosensherhold.“Isee.”

“Starroffersauniqueperspectiveinthis,oneyoudon’tgetalotwiththesecases,andIwanttomakesureherrightsareprotectedandthathervoiceisheard,butwithoutherbeing—”

“Exploited?”Daddyasks.“Pimped?”“Exactly.Thecaseisabouttogainnationalmediaattention,butIdon’twantittobeatherexpense.”

Shehandseachofusabusinesscard.“Besidesbeinganadvocate,I’malsoanattorney.JustUsforJusticeisn’t providing theHarris familywith legal representation—someone else is doing that.We’re simplyrallyingbehindthem.However,I’mavailableandwillingtorepresentStarronmyown.Wheneveryou’reready,pleasegivemeacall.AndIamsosorryforyourloss.”

Shedisappearsintothecrowd.CallherwhenI’mready,huh?I’mnotsureI’lleverbereadyfortheshitthat’sabouttohappen.

NINE

Mybrotherscomehomewithamessage—Daddy’sspendingthenightatthestore.Healsoleavesinstructionsforus—stayinside.Achain-linkfencesurroundsourhouse.Sevenputsthebiglockonthegate,theoneweusewhenwe

gooutoftown.IbringBrickzinside.Hedoesn’tknowhowtoact,walkingaroundincirclesandjumpingonthefurniture.Mommadoesn’tsayanythinguntilhegetsonhergoodsofainthelivingroom.

“Ay!”Shesnapsherfingersathim.“Getyourbigbehindoffmyfurniture.Youcrazy?”Hewhimpersandscurriesovertome.Thesunsets.We’reinthemiddleofsayinggraceoverpotroastandpotatoeswhenthefirstgunshots

ringout.We open our eyes. Sekani flinches. I’m used to gunshots, but these are louder, faster. One barely

soundsoffbeforeanother’srightbehindit.“Machineguns,”saysSeven.Moreshotsfollow.“Takeyourdinnertotheden,”Mommasays,gettingupfromthetable.“Andsitonthefloor.Bullets

don’tknowwherethey’resupposedtogo.”Sevengetsuptoo.“Ma,Ican—”“Seven,den,”shesays.“But—”“Se-ven.”Shebreakshisnamedown.“I’mturningthelightsoff,baby,okay?Please,gototheden.”Hegivesin.“Allright.”WhenDaddyisn’thome,Sevenactslikehe’sthemanofthehousebydefault.

Mommaalwayshastobreakhisnamedownandputhiminhisplace.IgrabmyplateandMomma’sandheadfor theden, theoneroomwithoutexteriorwalls.Brickz is

right behind me, but he always follows food. The hallway darkens as Momma turns off the lightsthroughoutthehouse.

We have one of those old-school big-screen TVs in the den. It’s Daddy’s prized possession.Wecrowdaroundit,andSeventurnsonthenews,lightinguptheden.

Thereareat leastahundredpeoplegatheredonMagnoliaAvenue.Theychant for justiceandholdsigns,fistshighintheairforblackpower.

Mommacomesin,talkingonthephone.“Allright,Mrs.Pearl,aslongasyousure.Justrememberwegotenoughroomoverhereforyouifyoudon’tfeelcomfortablebeingalone.I’llcheckinlater.”

Mrs.Pearl is thiselderlyladywholivesbyherselfacrossthestreet.Mommachecksonherall thetime.ShesaysMrs.Pearlneedstoknowthatsomebodycares.

Mommasitsnexttome.Sekanirestshisheadinherlap.Brickzmimicshimandputshisheadinmylap,lickingmyfingers.

“Aretheymad’causeKhalildied?”Sekaniasks.Mommabrushesherfingersthroughhishigh-topfade.“Yeah,baby.Weallare.”Butthey’rereallymadthatKhalilwasunarmed.Can’tbeacoincidencethis ishappeningafterMs.

Ofrahannouncedthatathisfuneral.Thecopsrespondtothechantswithteargasthatblanketsthecrowdinawhitecloud.Thenewscuts

tofootageinsidethecrowdofpeoplerunningandscreaming.“Damn,”Sevensays.SekaniburieshisfaceinMomma’sthigh.IfeedBrickzapieceofmypotroast.Theclenchinginmy

stomachwon’tletmeeat.Sirenswailoutside.Thenewsshowsthreepatrolcarsthathavebeensetablazeatthepoliceprecinct,

aboutafive-minutedriveawayfromus.Agasstationnearthefreewaygetslooted,andtheowner,thisIndianman,staggersaroundbloody,sayinghedidn’thaveanythingtodowithKhalil’sdeath.AlineofcopsguardtheWalmartontheeastside.

Myneighborhoodisawarzone.ChristextstoseeifI’mokay,andIimmediatelyfeellikeshitforavoidinghim,Beyoncé’inghim,and

everythingelse.Iwouldapologize,buttexting“I’msorry”combinedwitheveryemojiintheworldisn’tthesameassayingitface-to-face.IdolethimknowI’mokaythough.

MayaandHaileycall,askingaboutthestore,thehouse,myfamily,me.Neitherofthemmentionthefriedchickendrama.It’sweirdtalkingtothemaboutGardenHeights.Weneverdo.I’malwaysafraidoneofthemwillcallit“theghetto.”

Igetit.GardenHeightsistheghetto,soitwouldn’tbealie,butit’slikewhenIwasnineandSevenandIgot intooneofour fights.Hewent fora lowblowandcalledmeShortyMcShort-Short.A lameinsultnowwhenIthinkaboutit,butittoremeupbackthen.IknewtherewasapossibilityIwasshort—everybody else was taller than I was—and I could call myself short if I wanted. It became anuncomfortabletruthwhenSevensaidit.

IcancallGardenHeightstheghettoallIwant.Nobodyelsecan.Mommastaysonherphone too,checkingonsomeneighborsandgettingcalls fromotherswhoare

checkingonus.Ms.Jonesdownthestreetsaysthatsheandherfourkidsareholedupintheirdenlikeweare.Mr.Charlesnextdoorsaysthatifthepowergoesoutwecanusehisgenerator.

UncleCarlos checksonus too.Nana takes thephone and tellsMomma to bring us out there.Likewe’reabouttogothroughtheshittogetoutofit.Daddycallsandsaysthestoreisallright.Itdoesn’tstopmefromtensingupeverytimethenewsmentionsabusinessthat’sbeenattacked.

ThenewsdoesmorethangiveKhalil’snamenow—theyshowhispicturetoo.Theyonlycallme“thewitness.”Sometimes“thesixteen-year-oldblackfemalewitness.”

The police chief appears onscreen and says what I was afraid he’d say: “We have taken intoconsiderationtheevidenceaswellasthestatementgivenbythewitness,andasofnowweseenoreasontoarresttheofficer.”

MommaandSevenglanceatme.Theydon’tsayanythingwithSekanirighthere.Theydon’thaveto.Allof this ismyfault.Theriots,gunshots, teargas,allof it,areultimatelymyfault.Iforgot totell thecopsthatKhalilgotoutwithhishandsup.Ididn’tmentionthattheofficerpointedhisgunatme.Ididn’tsaysomethingright,andnowthatcop’snotgettingarrested.

Butwhiletheriotsaremyfault,thenewsbasicallymakesitsoundlikeit’sKhalil’sfaulthedied.“There are multiple reports that a gun was found in the car,” the anchor claims. “There is also

suspicionthatthevictimwasadrugdealeraswellasagangmember.Officialshavenotconfirmedifanyofthisistrue.”

Thegunstuffcan’tbetrue.WhenIaskedKhalilifhehadanythinginthecar,hesaidno.Healsowouldn’tsayifhewasadrugdealerornot.Andhedidn’tevenmentionthegangbangingstuff.Doesitmatterthough?Hedidn’tdeservetodie.

SekaniandBrickzstartbreathingdeeplyaroundthesametime,fastasleep.That’snotanoptionformewith the helicopters, the gunshots, and the sirens.Momma and Seven stay up too. Around four in themorning,whenit’squieteddown,Daddycomesinbleary-eyedandyawning.

“Theydidn’thitMarigold,”hesaysbetweenbitesofpotroastatthekitchentable.“Looksliketheykeepingitmostlyontheeastside,nearwherehewaskilled.Fornowatleast.”

“Fornow,”Mommarepeats.Daddyrunshishandoverhisface.“Yeah.Idon’tknowwhat’sgon’stopthemfromcomingthisway.

Shit,muchasIunderstandit,Idreaditiftheydo.”“Wecan’tstayhere,Maverick,”shesays,andhervoiceisshaky,likeshe’sbeenholdingsomethingin

thisentiretimeandisjustnowlettingitout.“Thiswon’tgetbetter.It’llgetworse.”Daddyreachesforherhand.Sheletshimtakeit,andhepullsherontohislap.Daddywrapshisarms

aroundherandkissesthebackofherhead.“We’llbea’ight.”HesendsmeandSeventobed.SomehowIfallasleep.

Natasharunsintothestoreagain.“Starr,comeon!”Herbraidshavedirtinthem,andheronce-fatcheeksaresunken.Bloodsoaksthroughherclothes.Istepback.Sherunsuptomeandgrabsmyhand.Hersfeelsicylikeitdidinhercoffin.“Comeon.”Shetugsatme.“Comeon!”Shepullsmetowardthedoor,andmyfeetmoveagainstmywill.“Stop,”Isay.“Natasha,stop!”Ahandextendsthroughthedoor,holdingaGlock.Bang!

Ijoltawake.Sevenbangshisfistagainstmydoor.Hedoesn’ttextnormal,andhedoesn’twakepeopleupnormal

either.“We’releavinginten.”Myheartbeatsagainstmychest like it’s trying togetout.You’re fine, I remindmyself. It’sSeven’s

stupidbutt.“Leavingforwhat?”Iaskhim.“Basketballatthepark.It’sthelastSaturdayofthemonth,right?Isn’tthiswhatwealwaysdo?”“But—theriotsandstuff?”“LikePopssaid,thatstuffhappenedontheeast.We’regoodoverhere.Plusthenewssaidit’squiet

thismorning.”What ifsomebodyknowsI’mthewitness?What if theyknowthat it’smyfault thatcophasn’tbeen

arrested?WhatifwecomeacrosssomecopsandtheyknowwhoIam?“It’llbeallright,”Sevensays,likehereadmymind.“Ipromise.NowgetyourlazybuttupsoIcan

killyouonthecourt.”Ifit’spossibletobeasweetasshole,that’sSeven.Igetoutofbedandputonmybasketballshorts,

LeBronjersey,andmyThirteenslikeJordanworebeforehelefttheBulls.Icombmyhairintoaponytail.Sevenwaitsformeatthefrontdoor,spinningthebasketballbetweenhishands.

Isnatchitfromhim.“Likeyouknowwhattodowithit.”“We’llsee’boutthat.”IhollertoletMommaandDaddyknowwe’llbebacklaterandleave.AtfirstGardenHeightslooksthesame,butacoupleofblocksawayatleastfivepolicecarsspeedby.

Smokelingersintheair,makingeverythinglookhazy.Itstinkstoo.

Wemake it toRosePark.SomeKingLordssit inagrayEscaladeacross thestreet,andayoungerone’sontheparkmerry-go-round.Longaswedon’tbotherthem,theywon’tbotherus.

RosePark occupies awhole block, and a tall chain-link fence surrounds it. I’mnot surewhat it’sprotecting—thegraffitionthebasketballcourt,therustingplaygroundequipment,thebenchesthatwaytoomanybabieshavebeenmadeon,ortheliquorbottles,cigarettebutts,andtrashthatlitterthegrass.

We’rerightnearthebasketballcourts,buttheentrancetotheparkisontheothersideoftheblock.ItosstheballtoSevenandclimbthefence.Iusedtojumpdownfromthetop,butonefallandasprainedanklestoppedmefromdoingthatagain.

WhenIgetoverthefenceSeventossestheballtomeandclimbs.Khalil,Natasha,andIusedtotakeashortcut throughtheparkafterschool.We’drunup theslides,spinon themerry-go-roundtillweweredizzy,andtrytoswinghigherthanoneanother.

ItrytoforgetallthatasIchecktheballtoSeven.“Firsttothirty?”“Forty,”hesays,knowingdamnwellhe’llbeluckyifhegetstwentypoints.Hecan’tplayball just

likeDaddycan’tplayball.Asiftoproveit,Sevendribblesusingthepalmofhishand.You’resupposedtouseyourfingertips.

Thenthisfoolshootsforathree.Theballbouncesofftherim.Ofcourse.Igrabitandlookathim.“Weak!Youknewthatshitwasn’t

goingin.”“Whatever.Playthedamngame.”Fiveminutesin,Ihavetenpointstohistwo,andIbasicallygavehimthose.Ifakeleft,makeaquick

rightinasmoothcrossover,andgoforthethree.Thatbabygoesinnicely.Thisgirl’sgotgame.SevenmakesaTwithhishands.HepantsharderthanIdo,andI’mtheonewhousedtohaveasthma.

“Timeout.Waterbreak.”Iwipemyforeheadwithmyarm.Thesunglaresonthecourtalready.“Howaboutwecallit?”“Hellno.Igotsomegameinme.Igottagetmyanglesright.”“Angles?Thisisball,Seven.Notselfies.”“Ay,yo!”someboycalls.Weturnaround,andmybreathcatches.“Shit.”Therearetwoofthem.Theylookthirteen,fourteenyearsoldandarewearinggreenCelticsjerseys.

GardenDisciples,nodoubt.Theycrossthecourts,comingstraightforus.ThetallestonestepstoSeven.“Nigga,youKinging?”Ican’teventakethisfoolseriously.Hisvoicesqueaks.Daddysaysthere’satricktotellingOGsfrom

YoungGs,besidestheirage.OGsdon’tstartstuff,theyfinishit.YoungGsalwaysstartstuff.“Nah,I’mneutral,”Sevensays.“Ain’tKingyourdaddy?”theshorteroneasks.“Hell,no.Hejustmessingwithmymomma.”“Itdon’tevenmatter.”Thetalloneflicksoutapocketknife.“Handyourshitover.Sneakers,phones,

everything.”RuleoftheGarden—ifitdoesn’tinvolveyou,itdoesn’thaveshittodowithyou.Period.TheKing

LordsintheEscaladeseeeverythinggoingdown.Sincewedon’tclaimtheirset,wedon’texist.Buttheboyonthemerry-go-roundrunsoverandpushestheGDsback.Heliftsuphisshirt,flashing

hispiece.“Wegotaproblem?”Theybackup.“Yeah,wegotaproblem,”theshorteronesays.“Yousure?LasttimeIchecked,RoseParkwasKingterritory.”HelookstowardtheEscalade.The

KingLordsinsidenodatus,asimplewayofaskingifthingsarecool.Wenodback.

“A’ight,”thetallGDsays.“Wegotyou.”TheGDsleavethesamewaytheycame.TheyoungerKingLordslapspalmswithSeven.“Youstraight,bruh?”heasks.“Yeah.Goodlookingout,Vante.”Ican’tlie,he’skindacute.Hey,just’causeIhaveaboyfrienddoesn’tmeanIcan’tlook,andasmuch

asChrisdroolsoverNickiMinaj,Beyoncé,andAmberRose,Idarehimtogetmadatmeforlooking.Onasidenote—myboyfriendclearlyhasatype.ThisVanteguy’saroundmyage,alittletaller,withabigAfropuffandthefaintsignsofamustache.

Hehassomenicelipstoo.Realplumpandsoft.I’velookedatthemtoolong.Helicksthemandsmiles.“Ihadtomakesureyouandli’lmommawere

okay.”Andthatruinsit.Don’tcallmebyanicknameifyoudon’tknowme.“Yeah,we’refine,”Isay.“ThemGDshelpedyououtanyway,”hetellsSeven.“Shewaskillingyououthere.”“Man,shutup,”Sevensays.“Thisismysister,Starr.”“Ohyeah,”theguysays.“YoutheonewhoworkupinBigMav’sstore,ain’tyou?”LikeIsaid,Igetthatall.The.Time.“Yep.That’sme.”“Starr,thisisDeVante,”Sevensays.“He’soneofKing’sboys.”“DeVante?”SothisisthedudeKenyafoughtover.“Yeah,that’sme.”Helooksatmefromheadtotoeandlickshislipsagain.“Youheard’boutmeor

something?”Allthatliplicking.Notcute.“Yeah,I’veheardaboutyou.AndyoumaywannagetsomeChapstickif

yourlipsthatdry,sinceyou’relickingthemsomuch.”“Damn,it’slikethat?”“Whatshemeansisthanksforhelpingusout,”Sevensays,eventhoughthat’snotwhatImeant.“We

appreciateit.”“It’sallgood.Themfoolsrunningaroundhere’causetheriotshappeningontheirside.It’stoohotfor

themoverthere.”“Whatyoudoingintheparkthisearlyanyway?”Sevenasks.Heshoveshishandsinhispocketsandshrugs.“Postedup.Youknowhowitgo.”He’sad-boy.Damn,Kenyareallyknowshowtopick them.Anytimedrug-dealinggangbangersare

yourtype,you’vegotsomeseriousissues.Well,Kingisherdaddy.“Iheardaboutyourbrother,”Sevensays.“I’msorry,man.Dalvinwasacooldude.”DeVantekicksatapebbleonthecourt.“Thanks.Mom’stakingitrealhard.That’swhyI’mhere.Had

togetoutthehouse.”Dalvin?DeVante? I tiltmy head. “Yourmomma named y’all after themdudes from that old group

Jodeci?”IonlyknowbecausemyparentslovethemsomeJodeci.“Yeah,so?”“Itwasjustaquestion.Youdon’thavetohaveanattitude.”AwhiteTahoescreechestoastopontheothersideofthefence.Daddy’sTahoe.Hiswindow rolls down.He’s in awifebeater and pillowmarks zigzag across his face. I pray he

doesn’tgetoutbecauseknowingDaddyhis legsareashyandhe’swearingNike flip-flopswithsocks.“Whatthehelly’allthinking,leavingthehousewithouttellingnobody?”heyells.

TheKingLordsacrossthestreetbustoutlaughing.DeVantecoughsintohisfistlikehewantstolaughtoo.SevenandIlookateverythingbutDaddy.

“Oh,y’allwannaactlikey’alldon’thearme?AnswermewhenI’mtalkingtoyou!”

TheKingLordshowlwithlaughter.“Pops,wejustcametoplayball,”Sevensays.“Idon’tcare.Allthisshitgoingon,andy’allleave?Getinthistruck!”“Goddamn,”Isayundermybreath.“Alwaysgottaactafool.”“Whatyousay?”hebarks.TheKingLordshowllouder.Iwannadisappear.“Nothing,”Isay.“Nah,itwassomething.Tellyouwhat,don’tclimbthefence.Goroundtotheentrance.AndIbet’not

beaty’allthere.”Hedrivesoff.Shit.I grabmyball, andSeven and I haul ass across the park.The last time I ran this fast,Coachwas

makingusdo suicides.Weget to theentranceasDaddypullsup. I climb in thebackof the truck, andSeven’sdumbbuttgetsinthepassengerseat.

Daddydrivesoff.“Donelosty’allminds,”hesays.“Peoplerioting,damnnearcallingtheNationalGuardaroundhere,andy’allwannaplayball.”

“Whyyouhavetoembarrassuslikethat?”Sevensnaps.I’msogladI’minthebackseat.DaddyturnstowardSeven,notevenlookingattheroad,andgrowls,

“Youain’ttooold.”Sevenstaresahead.Steamisjustaboutcomingoffhim.Daddylooksat theroadagain.“Gotsomegoddamnnerve talking tomelike that ’causesomeKing

Lordswerelaughingatyou.What,youKingingnow?”Sevendoesn’trespond.“I’mtalkingtoyou,boy!”“No,sir,”hebitesout.“Sowhyyoucarewhattheythink?Youwannabeamansodamnbad,butmendon’tcarewhatnobody

thinks.”Hepullsintoourdriveway.NotevenhalfwayupthewalkwayIseeMommathroughthescreenonthe

doorinhernightgown,herarmsfoldedandherbarefoottapping.“Getinthishouse!”sheshouts.Shepacesthelivingroomaswecomein.Thequestionisn’tifshe’llexplodebutwhen.SevenandIsinkontohergoodsofa.“Wherewerey’all?”sheasks.“Andyoubetternotlie.”“Thebasketballcourt,”Imumble,staringatmyJ’s.Momma leans down close tome and puts her hand to her ear. “Whatwas that? I didn’t hear you

good.”“Speakup,girl,”Daddysays.“Thebasketballcourt,”Irepeatlouder.“The basketball court.” Momma straightens up and laughs. “She said the basketball court.” Her

laughter stops, and her voice gets louderwith eachword. “I’mwalking around here,worried outmymind,andy’allatthedamnbasketballcourt!”

Somebodygigglesinthehallway.“Sekani,gotoyourroom!”Mommasayswithoutlookingthatway.Hisfeetthumphurriedlydownthe

hall.“Iholleredandtoldy’allwewereleaving,”Isay.

“Oh,shehollered,”Daddymocks.“Didyouhearanybodyholler,baby?’CauseIdidn’t.”Mommasucksherteeth.“NeitherdidI.Shecanwakeusuptoaskforsomemoney,butshecan’twake

usuptotellusshe’sgoinginawarzone.”“It’smyfault,”Sevensays.“Iwantedtogetheroutthehouseanddosomethingnormal.”“Baby, there’snosuch thingasnormal rightnow!”saysMomma.“Youseewhat’sbeenhappening.

Andy’allwerecrazyenoughtogoouttherelikethat?”“Dumbenoughismorelikeit,”Daddyadds.Ikeepmyeyesonmyshoes.“Handoveryourphones,”Mommasays.“What?”Ishriek.“That’snotfair!Iholleredandtoldy’all—”“StarrAmara,”shesaysthroughherteeth.Sincemyfirstnameisonlyonesyllable,shehastothrow

mymiddlenameintheretobreakitdown.“Ifyoudon’thandmethatphone,IsweartoGod.”Iopenmymouth,butshegoes,“Saysomethingelse!Idareyou,saysomethingelse!I’lltakeallthem

Jordanstoo!”This is somebullshit.For real.Daddywatchesus;her attackdog,waiting forus tomakeawrong

move.That’showtheywork.Mommadoesthefirstround,andifit’snotsuccessful,DaddygoesfortheKO.AndyouneverwantDaddytogofortheKO.

SevenandIhandherourphones.“Ithoughtso,”shesays,andpassesthemtoDaddy.“Sincey’allwant‘normal’somuch,gogetyour

stuff.We’regoingtoCarlos’sfortheday.”“Nah,nothim.”DaddymotionsSeventogetup.“Hegoingtothestorewithme.”Momma looks at me and jerks her head toward the hall. “Go. I oughta make you take a shower,

smellinglikeoutside.”AsI’mleaving,shehollers,“Anddon’tgetanyskimpystufftoweartoCarlos’seither!”

Ooh,shegetsonmynerves.See,ChrislivesdownthestreetfromUncleCarlos.Iamgladshedidn’tsayanymoreinfrontofDaddythough.

Brickzmeetsmeatmybedroomdoor.Hejumpsupmylegsandtriestolickmyface.Ihadaboutfortyshoeboxesstackedinacorner,andheknockedallofthemover.

Iscratchbehindhisears.“Clumsydog.”Iwouldtakehimwithus,buttheydon’tallowpitsinUncleCarlos’sneighborhood.Hesettlesonmy

bedandwatchesmepack.Ionlyreallyneedmyswimsuitandsomesandals,butMommacoulddecidetostay out there the whole weekend because of the riots. I pack a couple of outfits and get my schoolbackpack.Ithroweachbackpackoverashoulder.“C’mon,Brickz.”

Hefollowsmetohisspotinthebackyard,andIhookhimuptohischain.WhileIrefillBrickz’sfoodandwater bowls,Daddycrouchesbesidehis roses and examines thepetals.Hewaters them likehe’ssupposedto,butforsomereasonthey’redrylooking.

“C’mon,now,”hetellsthem.“Y’allgottadobetterthanthis.”MommaandSekaniwaitformeinherCamry.Iendupinthepassenger’sseat.It’schildish,butIdon’t

wanna sit this close toher rightnow.Unfortunately it’s either sitnext toherornext toSir-Farts-a-LotSekani.I’mstaringstraightahead,andoutthecornerofmyeyeIseeherlookingatme.Shemakesthissoundlikeshe’sabouttospeak,butherwordsdecidetocomeoutasasigh.

Good.Idon’twannatalktohereither.I’mbeingpettyashellanddon’tevencare.We head for the freeway, passing the Cedar Grove projects, where we used to live. We get to

MagnoliaAvenue,thebusieststreetinGardenHeights,wheremostofthebusinessesarelocated.UsuallyonSaturdaymornings,guysaroundtheneighborhoodhavetheircarsondisplay,cruisingupanddownthe

streetandracingeachother.Today the street’sblockedoff.Acrowdmarchesdown themiddleof it.They’reholdingsignsand

postersofKhalil’sfaceandarechanting,“JusticeforKhalil!”Ishouldbeout therewith them,but Ican’t join thatmarch,knowingI’moneof thereasons they’re

protesting.“Youknownoneofthisisyourfault,right?”Mommaasks.Howintheworlddidshedothat?“Iknow.”“Imeanit,baby.It’snot.Youdideverythingright.”“Butsometimesright’snotgoodenough,huh?”Shetakesmyhand,anddespitemyannoyanceIlether.It’stheclosestthingIgettoananswerfora

while.Saturdaymorningtrafficonthefreewaymovessmoothlycomparedtoweekdaytraffic.Sekaniputshis

headphonesonandplayswithhistablet.SomeninetiesR&Bsongsplayontheradio,andMommasingsalongunderherbreath.Whenshereallygetsintoit,sheattemptsallkindsofrunsandgoes,“Yes,girl!Yes!”

Outofnowhereshesays,“Youweren’tbreathingwhenyouwereborn.”Myfirsttimehearingthat.“Forreal?”“Uh-huh. Iwas eighteenwhen I hadyou.Still a babymyself, but I thought Iwasgrown.Wouldn’t

admittoanybodythatIwasscaredtodeath.YournanathoughttherewasnowayinhellIcouldbeagoodparent.NotwildLisa.

“I was determined to prove her wrong. I stopped drinking and smoking, went to all of myappointments, ate right, took my vitamins, the whole nine. Shoot, I even played Mozart on someheadphonesandput themonmybelly.Weseewhatgood thatwas.Youdidn’t finishamonthofpianolessons.”

Ilaugh.“Sorry.”“It’sokay.LikeIwassaying,Idideverythingright.Irememberbeinginthatdeliveryroom,andwhen

theypulledyouout,Iwaitedforyoutocry.Butyoudidn’t.Everybodyranaround,andyourfatherandIkeptaskingwhatwaswrong.Finallythenursesaidyouweren’tbreathing.

“I freakedout.Yourdaddycouldn’t calmmedown.Hewasbarelycalmhimself.After the longestminuteofmylife,youcried.IthinkIcriedharderthanyouthough.IknewIdidsomethingwrong.Butoneofthenursestookmyhand”—Mommagrabsmyhandagain—“lookedmeintheeye,andsaid,‘Sometimesyoucandoeverythingrightandthingswillstillgowrong.Thekeyistoneverstopdoingright.’”

Sheholdsmyhandtherestofthedrive.

IusedtothinkthesunshonebrighterouthereinUncleCarlos’sneighborhood,buttodayitreallydoes—there’s no smoke lingering, and the air is fresher. All the houses have two stories. Kids play on thesidewalksandinthebigyards.Therearelemonadestands,garagesales,andlotsofjoggers.Evenwithallthatgoingon,it’srealquiet.

WepassMaya’shouse,a fewstreetsoverfromUncleCarlos’s. Iwould textherandsee if Icouldcomeover,but,youknow,Idon’thavemyphone.

“Youcan’tvisityourli’lfriendtoday,”Mommasays,readingmymindoncea-freaking-gain.“You’regrounded.”

Mymouthflieswideopen.“ButshecancomeovertoCarlos’sandseeyou.”Sheglancesatmeoutthecornerofhereyewithahalfsmile.ThisissupposedtobethemomentIhug

herandthankherandtellhershe’sthebest.Nothappening.Isay,“Cool.Whatever,”andsitback.Shebustsoutlaughing.“Youaresostubborn!”“No,I’mnot!”“Yes,youare,”shesays.“Justlikeyourfather.”Soonaswepull intoUncleCarlos’sdriveway,Sekani jumpsout.OurcousinDanielwavesathim

fromdownthesidewalkwithsomeotherboys,andthey’reallontheirbikes.“Later,Momma,”Sekanisays.HerunspastUncleCarlos,who’scomingoutthegarage,andgrabshis

bike.SekanigotitforChristmas,buthekeepsitatUncleCarlos’shousebecauseMomma’snotabouttolethimridearoundGardenHeights.Hepedalsdownthedriveway.

Mommahopsoutandcallsafterhim,“Don’tgotoofar!”Igetout,andUncleCarlosmeetsmewithaperfectUncleCarloshug—nottootight,butsofirmthatit

tellsmehowmuchhelovesmeinafewseconds.Hekissesthetopofmyheadtwiceandasks,“Howareyoudoing,babygirl?”“Okay.”Isniff.Smoke’sintheair.Thegoodkindthough.“Youbarbecuing?”“Justheatedthegrillup.Gonnathrowsomeburgersandchickenonforlunch.”“Ihopewedon’tendupwithfoodpoisoning,”Mommateases.“Ah, lookwho’s trying tobe a comedian,”he says. “You’ll be eatingyourwordsandeverything I

cook,babysis,becauseI’mabouttothrowdown.FoodNetworkdoesn’thaveanythingonme.”Andhepopshiscollar.

Lord.He’ssocornysometimes.AuntPamtendstothegrillonthepatio.MylittlecousinAvasucksherthumbandhugsAuntPam’s

leg.Thesecondsheseesme,shecomesrunning.“Starr-Starr!”Herponytails fly as she runs, and she launchesherself intomyarms. I swingher around,gettinga

wholelotofgigglesoutofher.“How’smyfavoritethree-year-oldinthewholewideworlddoing?”“Good!”Shesticksherwrinkly,wetthumbbackinhermouth.“Hey,AuntieLeelee.”“Hey,baby.You’vebeengood?”Avanodstoomuch.Nowayshe’sbeenthatgood.AuntPamletsUncleCarloshandlethegrillandgreetsMommawithahug.Shehasdark-brownskin

andbigcurlyhair.Nanalikesherbecauseshecomesfroma“goodfamily.”Hermomisanattorney,andherdadisthefirstblackchiefofsurgeryatthesamehospitalwhereAuntPamworksasasurgeon.Real-lifeHuxtables,Iswear.

IputAvadown,andAuntPamhugsmeextratight.“Howareyoudoing,sweetie?”“Okay.”Shesayssheunderstands,butnobodyreallydoes.Nanacomesbustingoutthebackdoorwithherarmsoutstretched.“Mygirls!”That’s the first sign something’s up. She hugsme andMomma and kisses our cheeks. Nana never

kissesus,andshenever letsuskissher.Shesaysshedoesn’tknowwhereourmouthshavebeen.Sheframesmyfacewithherhands,talkingabout,“ThanktheLord.Hesparedyourlife.Hallelujah!”

Somanyalarmsgooffinmyhead.Notthatshewouldn’tbehappythat“theLordsparedmylife,”butthisisn’tNana.Atall.

ShetakesmeandMommabyourwristsandpullsustowardthepoolsideloungers.“Y’allcomeoverhereandtalktome.”

“ButIwasgonnatalktoPam—”Nana looksatMommaandhisses throughgritted teeth,“Shut thehellup, sitdown,and talk tome,

goddammit.”Nowthat’sNana.Shesitsbackinaloungerandfansherselfalldramatically.She’saretiredtheater

teacher,soshedoeseverythingdramatically.MommaandIsharealoungerandsitonthesideofit.“What’swrong?”Mommaasks.“When—”shebegins,butplastersonafakesmilewhenAvawaddlesoverwithherbabydollanda

comb.Avahandsbothtomeandgoestoplaywithsomeofherothertoys.Icombthedoll’shair.Thatgirlhasmetrained.Doesn’thavetosayanything,andIdoit.OnceAva’soutofearshot,Nanasays,“Wheny’alltakingmebacktomyhouse?”“Whathappened?”Mommaasks.“Keepyourdamnvoicedown!”Ironically,she’snotkeepinghersdown.“Yesterdaymorning,Itook

somecatfishoutfordinner.Wasgonnafryitupwithsomehushpuppies,fries,thewholenine.Ilefttorunsomeerrands.”

“Whatkindaerrands?”Iaskforthehellofit.Nanacutsme“the look”and it’s like seeingMomma in thirtyyears,witha fewwrinklesandgray

hairsshemissedwhencoloringherhair(she’dwhoopmybehindforsayingthat).“I’mgrown,li’lgirl,”shesays.“Don’taskmewhatIdo.Anyway,Icomehomeandthatheffadone

coveredmycatfishinsomedamncornflakesandbakedit!”“Cornflakes?”Isay,partingthedoll’shair.“Yes!Talking’bout,‘It’shealthierthatway.’IfIwanthealthy,Ieatasalad.”Mommacovershermouth,andtheedgesofherlipsareturnedup.“IthoughtyouandPamgotalong.”“Wedid.Untilshemessedwithmyfood.Now,I’vedealtwithalottathingssinceI’vebeenhere.But

that”—sheholdsupafinger—“istakingittoodamnfar.I’dratherlivewithyouandthatex-conthandealwiththis.”

MommastandsandkissesNana’sforehead.“You’llbeallright.”Nanawavesheroff.WhenMommaleaves,shelooksatme.“Youokay,li’lgirl?Carlostoldmeyou

wereinthecarwiththatboywhenhewaskilled.”“Yes,ma’am,I’mokay.”“Good.Andifyou’renot,youwillbe.We’restronglikethat.”Inod,butIdon’tbelieveit.Atleastnotaboutmyself.Thedoorbellringsupfront.Isay,“I’llgetit,”putAva’sdolldown,andgoinside.Crap.Chris is on theother sideof thedoor. Iwannaapologize tohim,butdammit, I need time to

prepare.Weirdthough.He’spacing.Thesamewayhedoeswhenwestudyfortestsorbeforeabiggame.He’s

afraidtotalktome.Iopenthedoorandleanagainsttheframe.“Hey.”“Hey.”Hesmiles,anddespiteeverythingIsmiletoo.“Iwaswashingoneofmydad’scarsandsawyouguyspullup,”hesays.Thatexplainshistanktop,

flip-flops,andshorts.“Areyouokay?Iknowyousaidyouwereinyourtext,butIwantedtobesure.”“I’mokay,”Isay.“Yourdad’sstoredidn’tgethit,didit?”heasks.“Nope.”“Good.”Staringandsilence.Hesighs.“Look,ifthisisaboutthecondomstuff,I’llneverbuyoneagain.”“Never?”

“Well,onlywhenyouwantmeto.”Hequicklyadds,“Whichdoesn’thavetobeanytimesoon.Matteroffact,youdon’thavetoeversleepwithme.Orkissme.Hell,ifyoudon’twantmetotouchyou,I—”

“Chris,Chris,”Isay,myhandsuptogethimtoslowdown,andI’mfightingalaugh.“It’sokay.Iknowwhatyoumean.”

“Okay.”“Okay.”Anotherroundofstaringandsilence.“I’m sorry, actually,” I tell him, shifting my weight from foot to foot. “For giving you the silent

treatment.Itwasn’taboutthecondom.”“Oh...”Hiseyebrowsmeet.“Thenwhatwasitabout?”Isigh.“Idon’tfeelliketalkingaboutit.”“Soyoucanbemadatme,butyoucan’teventellmewhy?”“Ithasnothingtodowithyou.”“Yeah,itdoesifyou’regivingmethesilenttreatment,”hesays.“Youwouldn’tunderstand.”“Maybe you should let me determine that myself?” he says. “Here I am, calling you, texting you,

everything,andyoucan’ttellmewhyyou’reignoringme?That’skindashitty,Starr.”Igivehimthislook,andIhaveastrongfeelingIlooklikeMommaandNanarightnowwiththeir“I

knowyoudidn’tjustsaythat”glare.“Itoldyou,youwouldn’tunderstand.Sodropit.”“No.”Hefoldshisarms.“Icameallthewaydownhere—”“Alltheway?Bruh,allwhatway?Downthestreet?”GardenHeightsStarrisallupinmyvoicerightnow.“Yeah,downthestreet,”hesays.“Andguesswhat?Ididn’thavetodothat.ButIdid.Andyoucan’t

eventellmewhat’sgoingon!”“You’rewhite,okay?”Iyell.“You’rewhite!”Silence.“I’mwhite?”hesays,likehe’sjusthearingthatforthefirsttime.“Whatthefuck’sthatgottodowith

anything?”“Everything!You’rewhite,I’mblack.You’rerich,I’mnot.”“Thatdoesn’tmatter!”hesays.“Idon’tcareaboutthatkindastuff,Starr.Icareaboutyou.”“Thatkindastuffispartofme!”“Okay, and . . . ? It’s nobigdeal.God, seriously?This iswhatyou’repissed about?This iswhy

you’regivingmethesilenttreatment?”Istareathim,andIknow,Iknow,I’mstraightuplookinglikeLisaJanaeCarter.Mymouthisslightly

openlikeherswhenIormybrothers“getsmart,”asshecallsit,I’vepulledmychinbackalittle,andmyeyebrowsareraised.Shit,myhand’sevenonmyhip.

Christakesasmallstepback,justlikemybrothersandIdo.“Itjust...itdoesn’tmakesensetome,okay?That’sall.”

“SolikeIsaid,youdon’tunderstand.Doyou?”Bam.IfIamactinglikemymom,thisisoneofher“see,Itoldyou”moments.“No.IguessIdon’t,”hesays.Anotherroundofsilence.Chrisputshishandsinhispockets.“Maybeyoucanhelpmeunderstand?Idon’tknow.ButIdoknow

thatnothavingyouinmylifeisworsethannotmakingbeatsorplayingbasketball.Andyouknowhow

muchIlovemakingbeatsandplayingbasketball,Starr.”Ismirk.“Youcallthataline?”Hebiteshisbottomlipandshrugs.Ilaugh.Hedoestoo.“Badline,huh?”heasks.“Awful.”Wegosilentagain,butit’sthetypeofsilenceIdon’tmind.Heputshishandoutformine.I stilldon’tknowif I’mbetrayingwhoIambydatingChris,but I’vemissedhimsomuch ithurts.

MommathinkscomingtoUncleCarlos’shouseisnormal,butChrisisthekindofnormalIreallywant.Thenormalwhere I don’t have to choosewhichStarr tobe.Thenormalwherenobody tells youhowsorrytheyareortalksabout“Khalilthedrugdealer.”Just...normal.

That’swhyIcan’ttellChrisI’mthewitness.Itakehishand,andeverythingsuddenlyfeelsright.Noflinchingandnoflashbacks.“C’mon,”Isay.“UncleCarlosshouldhavetheburgersready.”Wegointothebackyard,handinhand.He’ssmiling,andsurprisinglyIamtoo.

TEN

WespendthenightatUncleCarlos’shousebecausetheriotsstartedagainassoonasthesunwentdown.Somehowthestoregotspared.WeshouldgotochurchandthankGodforthat,butMommaandIaretootiredtositthroughlessthananhourofanything.SekaniwantstospendanotherdayatUncleCarlos’s,soSundaymorningwereturntoGardenHeightswithouthim.

Right as we get off the freeway, we’re met by a police roadblock. Only one lane of traffic isn’tblockedbyapatrolcar,andofficerstalktodriversbeforelettingthempassthrough.

Suddenly it’s as if someonegrabbedmyheart and twisted it. “Canwe—”I swallow.“Canwegetaroundthem?”

“Doubt it. They probably got these all around the neighborhood.”Mommaglances over atme andfrowns.“Munch?Youokay?”

Igrabmydoorhandle.TheycaneasilygrabtheirgunsandleaveuslikeKhalil.Allthebloodinourbodiespoolingon the street for everybody to see.Ourmouthswideopen.Our eyes staring at the sky,searchingforGod.

“Hey.”Mommacupsmycheek.“Hey,lookatme.”Itryto,butmyeyesarefilledwithtears.I’msosickofbeingthisdamnweak.Khalilmayhavelost

hislife,butIlostsomethingtoo,anditpissesmeoff.“It’sokay,”Mommasays.“Wegotthis,allright?Closeyoureyesifyouhaveto.”Ido.Keepyourhandsvisible.Nosuddenmoves.Onlyspeakwhenspokento.Thesecondsdragbylikehours.TheofficerasksMommaforherIDandproofofinsurance,andIbeg

BlackJesustogetushome,hopingtherewon’tbeagunshotasshesearchesthroughherpurse.Wefinallydriveoff.“See,baby,”shesays.“Everything’sfine.”Herwordsusedtohavepower.Ifshesaiditwasfine,itwasfine.Butafteryou’veheldtwopeople

astheytooktheirlastbreaths,wordslikethatdon’tmeanshitanymore.

Ihaven’tletgoofthecardoorhandlewhenwepullintoourdriveway.Daddycomesoutandknocksonmywindow.Mommarollsitdownforme.“Theregomygirls.”He

smiles,butitfadesintoafrown.“What’swrong?”“Youabouttogosomewhere,baby?”Mommaasks,meaningthey’lltalklater.“Yeah,gottaruntothewarehouseandstockup.”Hetapsmyshoulder.“Ay,wannahangoutwithyour

daddy?I’llgetyousomeicecream.Oneofthembigfattubsthat’lllast’boutamonth.”IlaugheventhoughIdon’tfeellikeit.Daddy’stalentedlikethat.“Idon’tneedallthaticecream.”“Iain’tsayyouneededit.Whenwegetback,wecanwatchthatHarryPottershityoulikesomuch.”“Noooooooo.”“What?”heasks.

“Daddy,you’retheworstpersontowatchHarryPotterwith.Thewholetimeyou’retalkingabout”—Ideepenmyvoice—“‘Whydon’ttheyshootthatniggaVoldemort?’”

“Ay,itdon’tmakesensethatinallthemmoviesandbooks,nobodythoughttoshoothim.”“Ifit’snotthat,”Mommasays,“you’regivingyour‘HarryPotterisaboutgangs’theory.”“Itis!”hesays.Okay,soitisagoodtheory.DaddyclaimstheHogwartshousesarereallygangs.Theyhavetheirown

colors, their own hideouts, and they are always riding for each other, like gangs. Harry, Ron, andHermionenever snitchononeanother, just likegangbangers.DeathEaters evenhavematching tattoos.AndlookatVoldemort.They’rescaredtosayhisname.Really,that“HeWhoMustNotBeNamed”stuffislikegivinghimastreetname.That’ssomegangbangingshitrightthere.

“Y’allknowthatmakealotofsense,”Daddysays.“Just’causetheywasinEnglanddon’tmeantheywasn’tgangbanging.”Helooksatme.“Soyoudowntohangoutwithyouroldmantodayorwhat?”

I’malwaysdowntohangoutwithhim.Werollthroughthestreets,Tupacblastingthroughthesubwoofers.He’srappingaboutkeepingyour

headup,andDaddyglancesatmeasherapsalong,likehe’stellingmethesamethingTupacis.“Iknowyou’refedup,baby”—henudgesmychin—“butkeepyourheadup.”He singswith thechorusabouthow thingswillget easier, and Idon’tknow if Iwannacry ’cause

that’sreallyspeakingtomerightnow,orcrackup’causeDaddy’ssingingissohorrible.Daddy says, “Thatwas a deep dude right there. Real deep. They don’tmake rappers like that no

more.”“You’reshowingyourage,Daddy.”“Whatever.It’sthetruth.Rappersnowadaysonlycare’boutmoney,hoes,andclothes.”“Showingyourage,”Iwhisper.“’Pacrapped’boutthatstufftoo,yeah,buthealsocared’boutupliftingblackpeople,”saysDaddy.

“Like he took the word ‘nigga’ and gave it a whole new meaning—Never Ignorant Getting GoalsAccomplished.AndhesaidThugLifemeant—”

“TheHateUGiveLittleInfantsF---sEverybody,”Icensormyself.ThisismydaddyI’mtalkingto,youknow?

“Youknow’boutthat?”“Yeah.Khalil toldmewhat he thought itmeans.Wewere listening toTupac right before . . . you

know.”“A’ight,sowhatdoyouthinkitmeans?”“Youdon’tknow?”Iask.“Iknow.Iwannahearwhatyouthink.”Herehegoes.Pickingmybrain. “Khalil said it’s aboutwhat society feedsus as youth andhow it

comesbackandbites themlater,”Isay.“I thinkit’saboutmorethanyouththough.I thinkit’saboutus,period.”

“Uswho?”heasks.“Blackpeople,minorities,poorpeople.Everybodyatthebottominsociety.”“Theoppressed,”saysDaddy.“Yeah.We’retheoneswhogettheshortendofthestick,butwe’retheonestheyfearthemost.That’s

whythegovernmenttargetedtheBlackPanthers,right?BecausetheywerescaredofthePanthers?”“Uh-huh,”Daddysays.“ThePantherseducatedandempoweredthepeople.Thattacticofempowering

theoppressedgoesevenfurtherbackthanthePanthersthough.Nameone.”Isheserious?Healwaysmakesmethink.Thisonetakesmeasecond.“Theslaverebellionof1831,”

Isay.“NatTurnerempoweredandeducatedotherslaves,anditledtooneofthebiggestslaverevoltsinhistory.”

“A’ight,a’ight.Youonit.”Hegivesmedap.“So,what’sthehatethey’regivingthe‘littleinfants’intoday’ssociety?”

“Racism?”“Yougottageta li’lmoredetailed than that.Think ’boutKhalil andhiswhole situation.Beforehe

died.”“Hewasadrugdealer.”Ithurtstosaythat.“Andpossiblyagangmember.”“Whywasheadrugdealer?Whyaresomanypeopleinourneighborhooddrugdealers?”IrememberwhatKhalilsaid—hegottiredofchoosingbetweenlightsandfood.“Theyneedmoney,”I

say.“Andtheydon’thavealotofotherwaystogetit.”“Right.Lackofopportunities,”Daddysays.“CorporateAmericadon’tbringjobstoourcommunities,

andtheydamnsureain’tquicktohireus.Then,shit,evenifyoudohaveahighschooldiploma,somanyoftheschoolsinourneighborhoodsdon’tprepareuswellenough.That’swhywhenyourmommatalkedaboutsendingyouandyourbrotherstoWilliamson,Iagreed.Ourschoolsdon’tgettheresourcestoequipyoulikeWilliamsondoes.It’seasiertofindsomecrackthanitistofindagoodschoolaroundhere.

“Now, think ’bout this,” he says. “How did the drugs even get in our neighborhood? This is amultibillion-dollar industrywe talking ’bout,baby.Thatshit is flown intoourcommunities,but Idon’tknowanybodywithaprivatejet.Doyou?”

“No.”“Exactly.Drugs come from somewhere, and they’re destroying our community,” he says. “You got

folkslikeBrenda,whothinktheyneedthemtosurvive,andthenyougottheKhalils,whothinktheyneedto sell them to survive. TheBrendas can’t get jobs unless they’re clean, and they can’t pay for rehabunlesstheygotjobs.WhentheKhalilsgetarrestedforsellingdrugs,theyeitherspendmostoftheirlifeinprison, another billion-dollar industry, or they have a hard time getting a real job and probably startselling drugs again. That’s the hate they’re giving us, baby, a systemdesigned against us. That’sThugLife.”

“Ihearyou,butKhalildidn’thavetoselldrugs,”Isay.“Youstoppeddoingit.”“True,butunlessyou’reinhisshoes,don’tjudgehim.It’seasiertofallintothatlifethanitistostay

outtait,especiallyinasituationlikehis.Now,onemorequestion.”“Really?”Damn,he’smessedwithmyheadenough.“Yeah,really,”hemocksinahighvoice.Idon’tevensoundlikethat.“AftereverythingI’vesaid,how

doesThugLifeapplytotheprotestsandtheriots?”I have to think about that one for a minute. “Everybody’s pissed ’cause One-Fifteen hasn’t been

charged,”Isay,“butalsobecausehe’snotthefirstonetodosomethinglikethisandgetawaywithit.It’sbeenhappening,andpeoplewillkeepriotinguntilitchanges.SoIguessthesystem’sstillgivinghate,andeverybody’sstillgettingfucked?”

Daddy laughs andgivesmedap. “Mygirl.Watchyourmouth, but yeah, that’s about right.Andwewon’tstopgettingfuckedtillitchanges.That’sthekey.It’sgottachange.”

A lump forms inmy throat as the truth hitsme. Hard. “That’s why people are speaking out, huh?Becauseitwon’tchangeifwedon’tsaysomething.”

“Exactly.Wecan’tbesilent.”“SoIcan’tbesilent.”Daddystills.Helooksatme.Iseethefightinhiseyes.Imattermoretohimthanamovement.I’mhisbaby,andI’llalwaysbehis

baby,andifbeingsilentmeansI’msafe,he’sallforit.This isbigger thanmeandKhalil though.This isaboutUs,withacapitalU;everybodywholooks

likeus,feelslikeus,andisexperiencingthispainwithusdespitenotknowingmeorKhalil.Mysilenceisn’thelpingUs.

Daddyfixeshisgazeontheroadagain.Henods.“Yeah.Can’tbesilent.”

Thetriptothewarehouseishell.Yougotallthesepeoplepushingbigflatbedsaround,andthemthingsarehardtopushasitis,andyou

gottamaneuveritwhileit’sstackedwithstuff.Bythetimeweleave,IfeellikeBlackJesussnatchedmefromthedepthsofhell.Daddydoesgetmeicecreamthough.

Buyingthestuffisonlythefirststep.Weunloaditatthestore,putitontheshelves,andwe(scratchthat,I)putpricestickersonallthosebagsofchips,cookies,andcandies.Ishould’vethoughtaboutthatbeforeIagreedtohangoutwithDaddy.WhileIdothehardwork,hepaysbillsinhisoffice.

I’mputtingstickersontheHotFrieswhensomebodyknocksonthefrontdoor.“We’reclosed,”Iyellwithoutlooking.Wehaveasign,can’ttheyread?Obviouslynot.Theyknockagain.Daddyappearsinthedoorwayofhisoffice.“Weclosed!”Anotherknock.DaddydisappearsintohisofficeandreturnswithhisGlock.He’snotsupposedtocarryitsincehe’sa

felon,buthesaysthattechnicallyhedoesn’tcarryit.Hekeepsitinhisoffice.Helooksoutatthepersonontheothersideofthedoor.“Whatyouwant?”“I’mhungry,”aguysays.“CanIbuysomething?”Daddyunlocksthedoorandholdsitopen.“Yougotfiveminutes.”“Thanks,”DeVantesaysashecomesin.HisAfropuffhasbecomeafull-blownAfro.Hehasthiswild

lookabouthim,andIdon’tmean’causeofhishair,butlikeinhiseyes.They’repuffyandredanddartingaround.Hebarelygivesmeanodwhenhepasses.

Daddywaitsatthecashregisterwithhispiece.DeVanteglancesoutside.Helooksatthechips.“Fritos,Cheetos,orDori—”Hisvoicetrailsoffashe

glancesagain.Henoticesmewatchinghimandlooksatthechips.“Doritos.”“Yourfiveminutesgettingshorter,”Daddysays.“Damn,man.A’ight!”DeVantegrabsabagofFritos.“CanIgetsomethingtodrink?”“Hurryup.”DeVantegoestotherefrigerators.I joinDaddyatthecashregister.It’ssoobvioussomethingisup.

DeVantekeepsstretchinghisneck to lookoutside.Hisfiveminutespassat least three times. Itdoesn’ttakeanybodythatlongtochoosebetweenCoke,Pepsi,orFaygo.I’msorrybutitdoesn’t.

“A’ight,Vante.”Daddymotionshimtothecashregister.“Youtryingtogetthenervetostickmeuporyourunningfromsomebody?”

“Hellnah,Iain’ttryingtostickyouup.”Hetakesoutawadofmoneyandsetsitonthecounter.“I’mpaid.AndI’maKing.Idon’trunfromno-damn-body.”

“No,youhideinstores,”Isay.Heglaresatme,butDaddytellshim,“Sheright.Youhidingfromsomebody.KingsorGDs?”“It’snotthoseGDsfromthepark,isit?”Iask.“Whydon’tyoumindyourbusiness?”hesnaps.“Youcameinmydaddy’sbusiness,soIammindingmybusiness.”“Ay!”Daddysays.“Butforreal,whoyouhidingfrom?”

DeVante stares at his scuffed-up Chucks that are beyond the help of my cleaning kit. “King,” hemumbles.

“KingsorKing?”Daddyasks.“King,”DeVante repeats louder. “Hewantsme to handle the dudes that killedmybrother. I’mnot

tryingtohavethatonmethough.”“Yeah,Iheard’boutDalvin,”Daddysays.“I’msorry.Whathappened?”“WewereatBigD’sparty,andsomeGDssteppedtohim.Theygotintoit,andoneofthemcowards

shothimintheback.”Oh,damn.ThatwasthesamepartyKhalilandIwereat.Thosewerethegunshotsthatmadeusleave.“BigMav,how’dyougetoutthegame?”DeVanteasks.Daddystrokeshisgoatee,studyingDeVante.“Thehardway,”heeventuallysays.“Mydaddywasa

KingLord.AdonisCarter.AstraightupOG.”“Yo!”DeVantesays.“That’syourpops?BigDon?”“Yep.Biggestdrugdealerthiscityeverseen.”“Yo!Man,that’scrazy.”DeVante’sseriouslyfangirlingrightnow.“Iheardhehadcopsworkingfor

himandeverything.Hepulledinbigmoney.”Iheardmygranddaddywassobusypullinginbigmoneythathedidn’thavetimeforDaddy.Thereare

lotsofpicturesofDaddywhenhewasyoungerwearingminkcoats,playingwithexpensivetoys,flashingjewelry,andGrandpaDonisn’tinanyofthepictures.

“Probably so,”Daddy says. “Iwouldn’t know toomuch ’bout that.Hewent toprisonwhen Iwaseight.Beenthereeversince.I’mhisonlychild,hisson.Everybodyexpectedmetopickupwhereheleftoff.

“IbecameaKingLordwhenIwas twelve.Shit, thatwas theonlyway tosurvive.Somebodywasalwayscomingatme’causeofmypops,butifIwasaKingLordIhadfolkstowatchmyback.Kingingbecamemylife.Iwasdowntodieforit,saytheword.”

Heglancesatme.“ThenIbecameadaddy,andIrealizedthatKingLordshitwasn’tworthdyingfor.Iwantedout.Butyouknowhowthegamework,itain’taseasyassayingyoudone.Kingwasthecrownandhewasmyboy,buthecouldn’tletmeoutlikethat.Iwasmakinggoodmoneytoo,anditwashonestlyhardtoconsiderwalkingawayfromit.”

“Yeah,Kingsaysyouoneofthebestd-boysheeverknew,”DeVantesays.Daddyshrugs.“Igotitfrommypops.ButreallyIwasonlygood’causeInevergotcaught.Oneday,

me andKing took a trip to do a pickup, andwe got busted. Copswanted to knowwho theweaponsbelongedto.Kinghadtwostrikes,andthatchargewould’vemeantlife.Ididn’thavearecord,soItookthechargeandgotafewyearsandprobation.Loyallikeamotha.

“Thosewere thehardest threeyearsofmy life.GrowingupIwaspissedatmydaddyforgoing toprisonandleavingme.AndthereIwas,inthesameprisonashim,missingoutonmybabies’lives.”

DeVante’seyebrowsmeet.“Youwereinprisonwithyourpops?”Daddynods. “Allmy life, peoplemadehim sound like a real king, youknowwhat I’m saying?A

legend.Buthewasaweakoldman,regrettingthetimehemissedwithme.Realestthingheevertoldmewas,‘Don’trepeatmymistakes.’”Daddylooksatmeagain.“AndIwasdoingthat.Imissedfirstdaysofschool,allthat.Hadmybabywantingtocallsomebodyelsedaddy’causeIwasn’tthere.”

Ilookaway.HeknowshowcloseUncleCarlosandIbecame.“IwasofficiallydonewiththeKingLordshit,drugshit,allofit,”Daddysays.“AndsinceItookthat

charge,Kingagreedtoletmeout.Itmadethosethreeyearsworthit.”DeVante’seyesdimliketheydowhenhetalksabouthisbrother.“Youhadtogotoprisontogetout?”

“I’mtheexception,nottherule,”Daddysays.“Whenpeoplesayit’sforlife,it’sforlife.Yougottabewillingtodieinitordieforit.Youwantout?”

“Idon’twannagotoprison.”“Hedidn’taskyouthat,”Isay.“Heaskedifyouwantedout.”DeVanteisquietforalongtime.HelooksupatDaddyandsays,“Ijustwannabealive,man.”Daddystrokeshisgoatee.Hesighs.“A’ight.I’llhelpyou.ButIpromise,yougobacktoslingingor

banging,you’llwishKingwould’vegotyouwhenI’mdone.Yougotoschool?”“Yeah.”“Whatyourgradeslooklike?”Daddyasks.Heshrugs.“What thehell is this?”Daddy imitatesDeVante’s shrug. “Youknowwhatgradesyouget, sowhat

kind?”“Imean,IgetAsandBsandshit,”DeVantesays.“Iain’tdumb.”“A’ight,good.Wegon’makesureyoustayinschooltoo.”“Man,Ican’tgobacktoGardenHigh,”DeVantesays.“AllthemKingLordsupinthere.Youknow

that’sadeathwish,right?”“Iain’tsayyouwasgoingthere.We’llfiguresomethingout.Inthemeantimeyoucanworkhereinthe

store.Youbeenstayinghomeatnight?”“Nah.Kinggothisboyswatchingformeoverthere.”“Ofcoursehedo,”Daddymumbles.“We’llfiguresomethingoutwiththattoo.Starr,showhimhowto

dothepricestickers.”“You’rereallyhiringhim,justlikethat?”Iask.“Whosestoreisthis,Starr?”“Yours,but—”“’Nuffsaid.Showhimhowtodothepricestickers.”DeVantesnickers.Iwannapunchhiminhisthroat.“C’mon,”Imumble.Wesitcrossed-leggedinthechipaisle.Daddylocksthefrontdoorandgoesbackinhisoffice.Igrab

ajumbobagofHotCheetosandslapaninety-nine-centstickeronthem.“Yousupposedtoshowmehowtodoit,”DeVantesays.“Iamshowingyou.Watch.”Igrabanotherbag.Heleansrealcloseovermyshoulder.Tooclose.Breathinginmyearandshit.I

movemyheadandlookathim.“Doyoumind?”“What’syourproblemwithme?”heasks.“Youcaughtanattitudeyesterday,soonasIwalkedup.I

ain’tdidnothingtoyou.”Iput a stickeron someDoritos. “No,butyoudid it toDenasia.AndKenya.Andwhoknowshow

manyothergirlsinGardenHeights.”“Holdup,Iain’tdonothingtoKenya.”“Youaskedforhernumber,didn’tyou?Eventhoughyou’rewithDenasia.”“I’mnotwithDenasia.Ijustdancedwithheratthatparty,”hesays.“Shetheonewhowantedtoact

likeshewasmygirlfriendandgotmad’causeIwas talking toKenya. If Iwouldn’thavebeendealingwiththem,Icould’ve—”Heswallows.“Icould’vehelpedDalvin.BythetimeIgottohim,hewasonthefloor,bleeding.AllIcoulddowasholdhim.”

Iseemyselfsittinginapoolofbloodtoo.“Andtrytotellhimitwouldbeokay,eventhoughyouknew—”

“Therewasnochanceinhellitwouldbe.”Wegoquiet.Igetoneofthoseweirddéjà-vumomentsthough.Iseemyselfsittingcross-leggedlikeIamnow,but

I’mshowingKhalilhowtodothepricestickers.Wecouldn’thelpKhalilwithhissituationbeforehedied.MaybewecanhelpDeVante.IhandhimabagofHotFries.“I’monlygonnaexplainhowtousethispricegunonetime,andyou

betterpayattention.”Hegrins.“Myattention’sallyours,li’lmomma.”

Later,whenI’msupposedtobeasleep,mymomtellsmydadinthehallway,“Sohe’shidingfromKing,andyouthinkheshouldhidehere?”

DeVante.Apparently,Daddycouldn’t “figure itout”anddecided thatDeVante should staywithus.Daddydroppedthetwoofusoffacoupleofhoursagobeforeheadingbacktothestoretoprotectitfromtherioters.Hejustgotback.HesaidourhouseistheoneplaceKingwon’tlookforDeVante.

“Ihadtodosomething,”Daddysays.“Iunderstandthat,andIknowyouthinkthisisyourdo-overwithKhalil—”“Itain’tlikethat.”“Yeah,itis,”shesayssoftly.“Igetit,baby.IhaveatonofregretsregardingKhalilmyself.Butthis?

Thisisdangerousforourfamily.”“It’sjustfornow.DeVantecan’tstayinGardenHeights.Thisneighborhoodain’tgoodforhim.”“Wait.It’snotgoodforhim,butit’sfineforourkids?”“C’mon,Lisa.It’slate.I’mnottryingtohearthisrightnow.Ibeenatthatstoreallnight.”“AndI’vebeenupallnight,worriedaboutyou!Worriedaboutmybabiesbeinginthisneighborhood.”“Theyfine!Theyain’tinvolvedinnoneofthatbangingshit.”Mommascoffs.“Yeah,sofinethatIhavetodrivealmostanhourtogetthemtoadecentschool.And

GodforbidSekaniwantstoplayoutside.Igottadrivetomybrother’shouse,whereIdon’thavetoworryabouthimgettingshotlikehissister’sbestfrienddid.”

It’smessedupthatshecouldmeaneitherKhalilorNatasha.“A’ight,let’ssaywemove,”Daddysaid.“Thenwhat?Wejustlikealltheotherselloutswholeave

and turn theirbackson theneighborhood.Wecanchangestuffaroundhere,but insteadwe run?That’swhatyouwannateachourkids?”

“Iwantmykidstoenjoylife!Igetit,Maverick,youwannahelpyourpeopleout.Idotoo.That’swhyIbustmybutteverydayatthatclinic.Butmovingoutoftheneighborhoodwon’tmeanyou’renotrealanditwon’tmeanyoucan’thelpthiscommunity.Youneedtofigureoutwhat’smoreimportant,yourfamilyorGardenHeights.I’vealreadymademychoice.”

“Whatyousaying?”“I’msayingI’lldowhatIgottadoformybabies.”Therearefootsteps,thenadoorcloses.Istayupmostofthenight,wonderingwhatthatmeansforthem.Us.Okay,yeah,they’vetalkedabout

movingbefore,buttheyweren’targuingaboutitlikethisuntilafterKhalildied.Iftheybreakup,it’llbeonemorethingOne-Fifteentakesfromme.

ELEVEN

Mondaymorning,IknowsomethingisupwhenIfirststepintoWilliamson.Folksarequietashell.Well,whispering really, in little huddles in the halls and the atrium like they’re discussing plays during abasketballgame.

HaileyandMayafindmebeforeIfindthem.“Didyougetthetext?”Haileyasks.That’s the first thing she says.Noheyor anything. I still don’t havemyphone, so I’m like, “What

text?”Sheshowsmehers.There’sabiggrouptextwithaboutahundrednamesonit.Hailey’solderbrother,

Remy,sentoutthefirstmessage.Protestingtoday@1stperiod.Thencurly-haired,dimpledLukereplied:Hellyeah.Freeday.I’mgame.AndRemycamebackwith:That’sthepoint,dumbass.It’slikesomebodyhitapausebuttononmyheart.“They’reprotestingforKhalil?”“Yeah,”Haileysays,allgiddyandshit.“Perfecttimingtoo.IsodidnotstudyforthatEnglishexam.

Thisis,like,thefirsttimeRemyactuallycameupwithagoodideatogetoutofclass.Imean,it’skindamessedupthatwe’reprotestingadrugdealer’sdeath,but—”

AllmyWilliamsonrulesgooutthedoor,andStarrfromGardenHeightsshowsup.“Whatthefuckthatgottodowithit?”

TheirmouthsopenintoperfectlyshapedO’s.“Like,Imean...ifhewasadrugdealer,”Haileysays,“thatexplainswhy...”

“Hegotkilledeventhoughhewasn’tdoingshit?Soit’scoolhegotkilled?ButI thoughtyouwereprotestingit?”

“We are! God, lighten up, Starr,” she says. “I thought you’d be all over this, considering yourobsessiononTumblrlately.”

“Youknowwhat?”Isay,onesecondfromreallygoingoff.“Leavemealone.Havefuninyourlittleprotest.”

IwannafighteverypersonIpass,FloydMayweatherstyle.They’resodamnexcitedaboutgettingadayoff.Khalil’sinagrave.Hecan’tgetadayofffromthatshit.Iliveiteverysingledaytoo.

InclassItossmybackpackonthefloorandthrowmyselfintomyseat.WhenHaileyandMayacomein,Igivethemastank-eyeandsilentlydarethemtosayshittome.

I’mbreakingallofmyWilliamsonStarrruleswithzerofuckstogive.Chrisgetstherebeforethebellrings,headphonesdrapedaroundhisneck.Hecomesdownmyaisle

andsqueezesmynose,going,“Honk,honk,”becauseforsomereasonit’shilarioustohim.UsuallyIlaughandswatathim,buttoday...Yeah,I’mnotinthemood.Ijustswat.Kindahardtoo.

Hegoes,“Ow,”andgiveshishandaquickshake.“What’swrongwithyou?”

Idon’trespond.IfIopenmymouth,I’llexplode.Hecrouchesbesidemydeskandshakesmythigh.“Starr?Youokay?”Our teacher, balding, stumpyMr.Warren, clears his throat. “Mr. Bryant,my class is not theLove

Connection.Pleasehaveaseat.”Chrisslidesintothedesknexttomine.“What’swrongwithher?”hewhisperstoHailey.Sheplaysdumbandsays,“Dunno.”Mr.Warren tellsus to takeoutourMacBooksandbegins the lessononBritish literature.Noteven

fiveminutesin,someonesays,“JusticeforKhalil.”“JusticeforKhalil,”theotherschant.“JusticeforKhalil.”Mr.Warrentellsthemtostop,buttheygetlouderandpoundtheirfistsonthedesks.Iwannapukeandscreamandcry.Myclassmates stampede toward thedoor.Maya’s the last oneout.Sheglancesback atme then at

Haileywhomotionshertocomeon.Mayafollowsherout.IthinkI’mdonefollowingHailey.Inthehall,chantsforKhalilgoofflikesirens.UnlikeHailey,someofthemmaynotcarethathewasa

drugdealer.TheymightbealmostasupsetasIam.ButsinceIknowwhyRemystartedthisprotest,Istayinmyseat.

Chrisdoestooforsomereason.Hisdeskscrapesthefloorasitscootsclosertomineuntiltheytouch.Hebrushesmytearswithhisthumb.

“Youknewhim,didn’tyou?”hesays.Inod.“Oh,” saysMr.Warren. “I am so sorry, Starr. You don’t have to—you can call your parents, you

know?”Iwipemyface.ThelastthingIwantisMommamakingafussbecauseIcan’thandleallthis.Worse,I

don’twannabeunabletohandleit.“Canyoucontinuewiththelesson,sir?”Iask.“Thedistractionwouldbenice.”

HesmilessadlyanddoesasIask.Fortherestoftheday,sometimesChrisandIaretheonlyonesinourclasses.Sometimesoneortwo

otherpeoplejoinus.Peoplegooutof theirwaytotellmetheythinkKhalil’sdeathisbullshit,but thatRemy’sreasonforprotestingisbullshittoo.Imean,thissophomoregirlcomesuptomeinthehallandexplainsthatshesupportsthecausebutdecidedtogobacktoclassaftersheheardwhytheywerereallyprotesting.

TheyactlikeI’mtheofficialrepresentativeoftheblackraceandtheyowemeanexplanation.IthinkIunderstand though. If I sit out a protest, I’mmaking a statement, but if they sit out a protest, they lookracist.

Atlunch,ChrisandIheadtoourtablenearthevendingmachines.Jesswithherperfectpixiecutistheonlyonethere,eatingcheesefriesandreadingherphone.

“Hey?”Iaskmorethansay.I’msurprisedshe’shere.“S’up?”Shenods.“Haveaseat.Asyoucansee,there’splentyofroom.”Isitbesideher,andChrissitsontheothersideofme.JessandIhaveplayedbasketballtogetherfor

threeyears,andshe’sputherheadonmyshoulderfortwoofthem,butI’mashamedtoadmitIdon’tknowmuchabouther.Idoknowshe’sasenior,herparentsareattorneys,andsheworksatabookstore.Ididn’tknowthatshe’dskiptheprotest.

IguessI’mstaringatherhard,becauseshesays,“Idon’tusedeadpeopletogetoutofclass.”IfIwasn’tstraightIwouldtotallydateherforsayingthat.ThistimeIrestmyheadonhershoulder.

Shepatsmyhairandsays,“Whitepeopledostupidshitsometimes.”Jessiswhite.SevenandLaylajoinuswiththeirtrays.Sevenholdshisfistouttome.Ibumpit.“Sev-en,”Jesssays,andtheyfist-bumptoo.Ihadnoideatheywerecool likethat.“I takeitwe’re

protestingthe‘GetOutofClass’protest?”“Yep,”Sevensays.“Protestingthe‘GetOutofClass’protest.”

Seven and I get Sekani after school, and he won’t shut up about the news cameras he saw from hisclassroomwindow,becausehe’sSekani andhecame into thisworld looking for a camera. Ihave toomanyselfiesofhimonmyphonegivingthe“lightskinface,”hiseyessquintedandeyebrowsraised.

“Arey’allgonnabeonthenews?”heasks.“Nah,”saysSeven.“Don’tneedtobe.”Wecouldgohome,lockthedoor,andfightovertheTVlikewealwaysdo,orwecouldhelpDaddyat

thestore.Wegotothestore.Daddystandsinthedoorway,watchingareporterandcameraoperatorsetupinfrontofMr.Lewis’s

shop.Ofcourse,whenSekaniseesthecamera,hesays,“Ooh,IwannabeonTV!”“Shutup,”Isay.“Noyoudon’t.”“Yes,Ido.Youdon’tknowwhatIwant!”Thecarstops,andSekanipushesmyseatforward,sendingmychinintothedashboardashejumps

out.“Daddy,IwannabeonTV!”Irubmychin.Hishyperbuttisgonnakillmeoneday.DaddyholdsSekanibytheshoulders.“Calmdown,man.Younotgon’beonTV.”“What’sgoingon?”Sevenaskswhenwegetout.“Somecopsgotjumpedaroundthecorner,”Daddysays,onearmaroundSekani’schesttokeephim

still.“Jumped?”Isay.“Yeah.Theypulledthemouttheirpatrolcarandstompedthem.GrayBoys.”ThecodenameforKingLords.Damn.“Iheardwhathappenedaty’allschool,”Daddysays.“Everythingcool?”“Yeah.”Igivetheeasyanswer.“We’regood.”Mr.LewisadjustshisclothesandrunsahandoverhisAfro.Thereportersayssomething,andhelets

outabelly-jigglinglaugh.“Whatthisfool’bouttosay?”Daddywonders.“Wegoliveinfive,”saysthecameraoperator,andallIcanthinkis,Pleasedon’tputMr.Lewison

liveTV.“Four,three,two,one.”“That’sright,Joe,”thereportersays.“I’mherewithMr.CedricLewisJr.,whowitnessedtheincident

involvingtheofficerstoday.Canyoutelluswhatyousaw,Mr.Lewis?”“He ain’t witness nothing,” Daddy tells us. “Was in his shop the whole time. I told him what

happened!”“I sholl can,”Mr.Lewis says. “Themboyspulled thoseofficers out their car.Theyweren’t doing

nothingeither.Justsittingthereandgotbeatlikedogs.Ridiculous!Youhearme?Re-damn-diculous!”Somebody’sgonnaturnMr.Lewisintoameme.He’smakingafooloutofhimselfanddoesn’teven

knowit.“DoyouthinkthatitwasretaliationfortheKhalilHarriscase?”thereporterasks.“Isholldo!Whichisstupid.ThesethugsbeenterrorizingGardenHeightsforyears,howtheygon’get

mad now?What, ’cause they didn’t kill him themselves? The president and all’a them searching forterrorists,butI’llnameonerightnowtheycancomeget.”

“Don’tdoit,Mr.Lewis,”Daddyprays.“Don’tdoit.”Ofcourse,hedoes.“HisnameKing,andheliverighthereinGardenHeights.Probablythebiggest

drugdealerinthecity.HeoverthatKingLordsgang.Comegethimifyouwannagetsomebody.Wasn’tnobodybuthisboyswhodidthattothemcopsanyway.Wesickofthis!Somebodymarch’boutthat!”

DaddycoversSekani’sears.EverycusswordthatfollowsequalsadollarinSekani’sjarifhehearsit.“Shit,”Daddyhisses.“Shit,shit,shit.Thismotha—”

“Hesnitched,”saysSeven.“OnliveTV,”Iadd.Daddykeepssaying,“Shit,shit,shit.”“Do you think that the curfew the mayor announced today will prevent incidents like this?” the

reporterasksMr.Lewis.IlookatDaddy.“Whatcurfew?”He takes his hands off Sekani’s ears. “Every business inGardenHeights gotta close by nine.And

nobodycanbeinthestreetsafterten.Lightsout,likeinprison.”“Soyou’llbehometonight,Daddy?”Sekaniasks.Daddysmilesandpullshimcloser.“Yeah,man.Afteryoudoyourhomework,Icanshowyouathang

ortwoonMadden.”Thereporterwrapsupherinterview.Daddywaitsuntilsheandthecameraoperatorleaveandthen

goesovertoMr.Lewis.“Youcrazy?”heasks.“What?’CauseItoldthetruth?”Mr.Lewissays.“Man, you can’t be goingon liveTV, snitching like that.You a deadmanwalking, youknow that,

right?”“Iain’tscaredofthatnigga!”Mr.Lewissaysrealloud,foreverybodytohear.“Youscaredofhim?”“Nah,butIknowhowthegamework.”“I’mtoooldforgames!Yououghtabetoo!”“Mr.Lewis,listen—”“Nah,youlistenhere,boy.Ifoughtawar,cameback,andfoughtonehere.Seethis?”Heliftsuphis

pantsleg,revealingaplaidsockoveraprosthetic.“Lostitinthewar.Thisrighthere.”Heliftshisshirttohisunderarm.There’sa thinpinkscarstretchingfromhisback tohisswollenbelly.“Got itaftersomewhiteboyscutme’causeIdrankfromtheirfountain.”Heletshisshirtfalldown.“Idonefacedawholelotworsethansomeso-calledKing.Ain’tnothinghecandobutkillme,andifthat’showIgottagoforspeakingthetruth,that’showIgottago.”

“Youdon’tgetit,”Daddysays.“YeahIdo.Hell,Igetyou.Walkingaroundhere,claimingyouain’tagangsternomore,claimingyou

trying tochangestuff,but still followingall’a that ‘don’t snitch’mess.Andyou teaching themkids thesamething,ain’tyou?Kingstillcontrollingyourdumbass,andyoutoostupidtorealizeit.”

“Stupid?Howyougon’callmestupidwhenyoutheonesnitchingonliveTV!”Afamiliarwhoop-whoopsoundalarmsus.OhGod.Thepatrolcarwithflashinglightscruisesdownthestreet.ItstopsnexttoDaddyandMr.Lewis.Twoofficersgetout.Oneblack,onewhite.Theirhandslingertooclosetothegunsattheirwaists.No,no,no.“Wegotaproblemhere?”theblackoneasks,lookingsquarelyatDaddy.He’sbaldjustlikeDaddy,

butolder,taller,bigger.“No,sir,officer,”Daddysays.Hishandsthatwereonceinhisjeanspocketsarevisibleathissides.“Yousureaboutthat?”theyoungerwhiteoneasks.“Itdidn’tseemthatwaytous.”“Wewerejusttalking,officers,”Mr.Lewissays,muchsofterthanhewasminutesago.Hishandsare

athissidestoo.Hisparentsmust’vehadthetalkwithhimwhenhewastwelve.“Tomeitlookslikethisyoungmanwasharassingyou,sir,”theblackonesays,stilllookingatDaddy.

Hehasn’tlookedatMr.Lewisyet.Iwonderifit’sbecauseMr.Lewisisn’twearinganNWAT-shirt.Orbecause therearen’t tattoosallonhisarms.Orbecausehe’snotwearing somewhatbaggy jeansandabackwardscap.

“YougotsomeIDonyou?”theblackcopasksDaddy.“Sir,Iwasabouttogobacktomystore—”“IsaiddoyouhavesomeIDonyou?”Myhandsshake.Breakfast,lunch,andeverythingelsechurnsinmystomach,readytocomebackup

mythroat.They’regonnatakeDaddyfromme.“What’sgoingon?”I turn around.Tim,Mr.Reuben’s nephew,walks over to us. People have stoppedon the sidewalk

acrossthestreet.“I’mgonnareachformyID,”Daddysays.“It’sinmybackpocket.A’ight?”“Daddy—”Isay.Daddykeepshiseyesontheofficer.“Y’all,gointhestore,a’ight?It’sokay.”Wedon’tmovethough.Daddy’shandslowlygoestohisbackpocket,andIlookfromhishandstotheirs,watchingtoseeif

they’regonnamakeamovefortheirguns.Daddyremoveshiswallet,theleatheroneIboughthimforFather’sDaywithhisinitialsembossedon

it.Heshowsittothem.“See?MyIDisinhere.”Hisvoicehasneversoundedsosmall.Theblackofficertakesthewalletandopensit.“Oh,”hesays.“MaverickCarter.”Heexchangesalookwithhispartner.Bothofthemlookatme.Myheartstops.They’verealizedI’mthewitness.Theremustbeafilethatlistsmyparents’namesonit.Orthedetectivesblabbed,andnoweveryoneat

thestationknowsournames.Ortheycould’vegottenitfromUncleCarlossomehow.Idon’tknowhowithappened,butithappened.AndifsomethinghappenstoDaddy...

Theblackofficerlooksathim.“Getontheground,handsbehindyourback.”“But—”“Ontheground,face-down!”heyells.“Now!”Daddylooksatus.Hisexpressionapologizesforthefactthatwehavetoseethis.He gets downon one knee and lowers himself to the ground, face-down.His hands go behind his

back,andhisfingersinterlock.Where’sthatcameraoperatornow?Whycan’tthisbeonthenews?“Now,waitaminute,Officer,”Mr.Lewissays.“Meandhimwerejusttalking.”“Sir,goinside,”thewhitecoptellshim.“Buthedidn’tdoanything!”Sevensays.

“Boy,goinside!”theblackcopsays.“No!That’smyfather,and—”“Seven!”Daddyyells.Eventhoughhe’slyingontheconcrete,there’senoughauthorityinhisvoicetomakeSevenshutup.TheblackofficerchecksDaddywhilehispartnerglancesaroundatalloftheonlookers.There’squite

afewofusnow.Ms.Yvetteandacoupleofherclientsstandinherdoorway,towelsaroundtheclients’shoulders.Acarhasstoppedinthestreet.

“Everyone,goaboutyourownbusiness,”thewhiteonesays.“No,sir,”saysTim.“Thisisourbusiness.”TheblackcopkeepshiskneeonDaddy’sbackashesearcheshim.Hepatshimdownonce, twice,

threetimes,justlikeOne-FifteendidKhalil.Nothing.“Larry,”thewhitecopsays.Theblackone,whomustbeLarry,looksupathim,thenatallthepeoplewhohavegatheredaround.LarrytakeshiskneeoffDaddy’sbackandstands.“Getup,”hesays.Slowly,Daddygetstohisfeet.Larryglancesatme.Bilepoolsinmymouth.HeturnstoDaddyandsays,“I’mkeepinganeyeonyou,

boy.Rememberthat.”Daddy’sjawlooksrockhard.Thecopsdriveoff.Thecarthathadstoppedinthestreetleaves,andalloftheonlookersgoonabout

theirbusiness.Onepersonhollersout,“It’sallright,Maverick.”DaddylooksattheskyandblinksthewayIdowhenIdon’twannacry.Heclenchesandunclenches

hishands.Mr.Lewistoucheshisback.“C’mon,son.”HeguidesDaddyourway,buttheypassusandgointothestore.Timfollowsthem.“WhydidtheydoDaddylike that?”Sekaniaskssoftly.HelooksatmeandSevenwith tears inhis

eyes.Sevenwrapsanarmaroundhim.“Idon’tknow,man.”Iknow.Igointhestore.DeVanteleansagainstabroomnearthecashregister,wearingoneofthoseuglygreenapronsDaddy

triestomakemeandSevenwearwhenweworkinthestore.There’sapanginmychest.Khalilworeonetoo.DeVante’stalkingtoKenyaassheholdsabasketfullofgroceries.Whenthebellonthedoorclangs

behindme,bothofthemlookmyway.“Yo,whathappened?”DeVanteasks.“Wasthatthecopsoutside?”saysKenya.FromhereIseeMr.LewisandTimstandinginthedoorwayofDaddy’soffice.Hemustbeinthere.“Yeah,”IanswerKenya,headingtowardtheback.KenyaandDeVantefollowme,askingaboutfifty

millionquestionsthatIdon’thavetimetoanswer.Papersarescatteredallontheofficefloor.Daddy’shunchedoverhisdesk,hisbackmovingupand

downwitheachheavybreath.Hepoundsthedesk.“Fuck!”Daddy once toldme there’s a rage passed down to every blackman from his ancestors, born the

momenttheycouldn’tstoptheslavemastersfromhurtingtheirfamilies.Daddyalsosaidthere’snothingmoredangerousthanwhenthatrageisactivated.

“Letitout,son,”Mr.Lewistellshim.“Fuckthempigs,man,”Timsays.“Theyonlydidthatshit’causetheyknow’boutStarr.”Wait.What?Daddyglancesoverhis shoulder.Hiseyesarepuffyandwet, likehe’sbeencrying. “Thehellyou

talking’bout,Tim?”“Oneofthehomeboyssawyou,Lisa,andyourbabygirlgettingoutanambulanceatthecrimescene

thatnight,”Timsays.“Wordspreadaroundtheneighborhood,andfolksthinkshe’sthewitnesstheybeentalking’boutonthenews.”

Oh.Shit.“Starr,goringKenyaup,”Daddysays.“Vante,finishthemfloors.”Iheadforthecashregister,passingSevenandSekani.Theneighborhoodknows.IringKenyaup,mystomachknottedthewholetime.Iftheneighborhoodknows,itwon’tbelonguntil

peopleoutsideofGardenHeightsknow.Andthenwhat?“Yourangthatuptwice,”Kenyasays.“Huh?”“Themilk.Yourangituptwice,Starr.”“Oh.”Icanceloneofthemilksandputthecartonintoabag.Kenya’sprobablycookingforherselfandLyric

tonight.Shedoesthatsometimes.Iringuptherestofherstuff,takehermoney,andhandherthechange.Shestaresatmeasecond,thensays,“Wereyoureallytheonewithhim?”Mythroatisthick.“Doesitmatter?”“Yeah,itmatters.Whyyoukeepingquiet’boutit?Likeyouhidingorsomething.”“Don’tsayitthatway.”“Butitisthatway.Right?”Isigh.“Kenya,stop.Youdon’tunderstand,allright?”Kenyafoldsherarms.“What’stounderstand?”“Alot!”Idon’tmeantoyell,butdamn.“Ican’tgoaroundtellingpeoplethatshit.”“Whynot?”“Because!Youain’tseewhatthecopsjustdidtomydad’causetheyknowI’mthewitness.”“Soyougon’letthepolicestopyoufromspeakingoutforKhalil?Ithoughtyoucaredabouthimway

morethanthat.”“Ido.”Icaremorethanshemayeverknow.“Ialreadytalkedtothecops,Kenya.Nothinghappened.

WhatelseamIsupposedtodo?”“GoonTVorsomething,Idon’tknow,”shesays.“Telleverybodywhatreallyhappenedthatnight.

They’renotevengivinghissideofthestory.You’relettingthemtrash-talkhim—”“Excuse—HowthehellamIlettingthemdoanything?”“Youhearallthestuffthey’resaying’bouthimonthenews,callinghimathugandstuff,andyouknow

thatain’tKhalil.Ibetifhewasoneofyourprivateschoolfriends,you’dbeallonTV,defendinghimandshit.”

“Areyouforreal?”“Hellyeah,”shesays.“Youdroppedhimfor thembougie-asskids,andyouknowit.Youprobably

would’vedroppedmeifIdidn’tcomearound’causeofmybrother.”“That’snottrue!”

“Yousure?”I’mnot.Kenyashakesherhead.“Fucked-uppartaboutthis?TheKhalilIknowwould’vejumpedonTVina

hotsecondandtoldeverybodywhathappenedthatnightifitmeantdefendingyou.Andyoucan’tdothesameforhim.”

It’saverbalslap.Theworstkindtoo,becauseit’sthetruth.Kenya gets her bags. “I’m just saying, Starr. If I could changewhat happens atmy housewithmy

momma and daddy, I would.Here you are, with a chance to help changewhat happens in ourwholeneighborhood,andyoustayingquiet.Likeacoward.”

Kenyaleaves.TimandMr.Lewisaren’tfarbehindher.Timgivesmetheblackpowerfistonhiswayout.Idon’tdeserveitthough.

IheadtoDaddy’soffice.Seven’sstandinginthedoorway,andDaddy’ssittingonhisdesk.Sekani’snexttohim,noddingalongtowhateverDaddy’ssayingbutlookingsad.RemindsmeofthetimeDaddyandMommahadthetalkwithme.GuessDaddydecidednottowaituntilSekani’stwelve.

Daddyseesme.“Sev,gocoverthecashregister.TakeSekaniwithyou.’Bouttimehelearned.”“Aww,man,”Sekanigroans.Don’tblamehim.Themoreyoulearntodoatthestore,themoreyou’re

expectedtodoatthestore.Daddypats thenow-empty spot besidehimon thedesk. I hopupon it.His officehas just enough

space for the desk and a file cabinet. Framed photographs crowd the walls, like the one of him andMommaatthecourthousethedaytheygotmarried,herbelly(a.k.a.me)bigandround;picturesofmeandmybrothersasbabies,andthisonepicturefromaboutsevenyearsagowhenmyparentstookthethreeofustothemallforoneofthoseJ.C.Penneyfamilyportraits.Theydressedalikeinbaseballjerseys,baggyjeans,andTimberlands.Tacky.

“Youa’ight?”Daddyasks.“Areyou?”“Iwillbe,”hesays.“Justhatethatyouandyourbrothershadtoseethatshit.”“Theyonlydidit’causeofme.”“Nah,baby.Theystartedthatbeforetheyknew’boutyou.”“Butthatdidn’thelp.”IstareatmyJ’sasIkickmyfeetbackandforth.“Kenyacalledmeacoward

fornotspeakingout.”“Shedidn’tmean it.Shegoing througha lot, that’s all.King throwing Ieshaaround like a ragdoll

everysinglenight.”“Butshe’sright.”Myvoicecracks.I’mthisclosetocrying.“Iamacoward.Afterseeingwhatthey

didtoyou,Idon’twannasayshitnow.”“Hey.”DaddytakesmychinsoIhavenochoicebuttolookathim.“Don’tfallforthattrap.That’s

whattheywant.Ifyoudon’twannaspeakout,that’suptoyou,butdon’tletitbebecauseyou’rescaredofthem.WhodoItellyouthatyouhavetofear?”

“NobodybutGod.AndyouandMomma.EspeciallyMommawhenshe’sextremelypissed.”Hechuckles.“Yeah.Thelistendsthere.Youain’tgotnothingornobodyelsetofear.Youseethis?”

Herollsuphisshirtsleeve,revealingthetattooofmybabypictureonhisupperarm.“Whatitsayatthebottom?”

“Somethingtolivefor,somethingtodiefor,”Isay,withoutreallylooking.I’veseenitmywholelife.“Exactly. You and your brothers are something to live for, and something to die for, and I’ll do

whateverIgottadotoprotectyou.”Hekissesmyforehead.“Ifyou’rereadytotalk,baby,talk.Igotyourback.”

TWELVE

I’mluringBrickzinsidewhenitpassesoutfront.IwatchitcrawldownthestreetforthelongesttimetillIgetthesensetoalertsomebody.“Daddy!”Helooksupfrompullingweedsaroundhisbellpeppers.“Aretheyforrealwiththat?”ThetankresemblestheonestheyshowonthenewswhentalkingaboutwarintheMiddleEast.It’sthe

sizeoftwoHummers.Theblue-and-whitelightsonthefrontmakethestreetalmostasbrightasit is indaytime.Anofficerispositionedontop,wearingavestandahelmet.Hepointshisrifleahead.

Avoiceboomsfromthearmoredvehicle,“Allpersonsfoundviolatingthecurfewwillbesubjecttoarrest.”

Daddypullsmoreweeds.“Somebullshit.”BrickzfollowsthepieceofbolognaIdangleinfrontofhimallthewaytohisspotinthekitchen.He

sitsthereallcontent,chompingonitandtherestofhisfood.Brickzwon’tactcrazyaslongasDaddy’shome.

AllofusarekindalikeBrickz,really.DaddybeinghomemeansMommawon’tsitupallnight,Sekaniwon’tflinchallthetime,andSevenwon’thavetobethemanofthehouse.I’llsleepbettertoo.

Daddycomesin,dustingcakeddirtoffhishands.“Themrosesdying.Brickz,youbeenpissingonmyroses?”

Brickz’sheadperksup.HelockshiseyeswithDaddy’sbuteventuallylowershishead.“Ibet’notcatchyoudoingit,”Daddysays.“Orwegon’haveaproblem.”Brickzlowershiseyestoo.Igrabapaper towel anda sliceofpizza from theboxon the counter.This is likemy fourth slice

tonight.MommaboughttwohugepiesfromSal’sontheothersideofthefreeway.Italiansownit,sothepizzaisthin,herby(isthataword?),andgood.

“Youfinishedyourhomework?”Daddyasks.“Yep.”Alie.Hewasheshishandsatthekitchensink.“Gotanyteststhisweek?”“TrigonFriday.”“Youstudiedforit?”“Yep.”Anotherlie.“Good.”Hegetsthegrapesouttherefrigerator.“Youstillgotthatoldlaptop?Theoneyouhadbefore

weboughtyouthatexpensive-assfruitone?”Ilaugh.“It’sanAppleMacBook,Daddy.”“Itdamnsurewasn’tthepriceofanapple.Anyway,yougottheoldone?”“Yeah.”“Good.GiveittoSeven.Tellhimtolookoveritandmakesureit’sa’ight.IwantDeVantetohaveit.”“Why?”“Youpaybills?”

“No.”“ThenIain’tgottaanswerthat.”That’showhegetsoutofalmosteveryargumentwithme.Ishouldbuyoneofthosecheapmagazine

subscriptionsandsay,“Yeah,Ipayabill,andwhat?”Itwon’tmatterthough.IheadtomyroomafterIfinishmypizza.Daddy’salreadygonetohisandMomma’sroom.TheirTV’s

on,andthey’rebothlyingontheirstomachsonthebed,oneofherlegsonhisasshetypesonherlaptop.It’soddlyadorable.SometimesIwatchthemtogetanideaofwhatIwantoneday.

“Youstillmadatme’boutDeVante?”Daddyasksher.Shedoesn’tanswer,keepinghereyesonherlaptop.Hescrunchesuphisnoseandgetsall inherface.“Youstillmadatme?Huh?Youstillmadatme?”

Shelaughsandplayfullypushesathim.“Move,boy.No,I’mnotmadatyou.Nowgivemeagrape.”Hegrinsandfeedsheragrape,andIjustcan’t.Thecutenessistoomuch.Yeah,they’remyparents,

butthey’remyOTP.Seriously.Daddywatcheswhatever she’sdoingon the computer, feedingher agrapeevery timehe eatsone.

She’s probably uploading the latest family snapshots on Facebook for our out-of-town relatives.Witheverythingthat’sgoingon,whatcanshesay?“Sekanisawcopsharasshisdaddy,buthe’sdoingsowellinschool.#ProudMom.”Or,“Starrsawherbestfrienddie,keepherinyourprayers,butmybabymadethehonorrollagain.#Blessed.”Oreven,“Tanksarerollingbyoutside,butSeven’sbeenacceptedintosixcollegessofar.#HeIsGoingPlaces.”

Igotomyroom.Bothmyoldandnewlaptopsareonmydesk,whichisamess.There’sahugepairofDaddy’sJordansnexttomyoldlaptop.Theyellowedbottomsofthesneakersfacethelamp,andalayerofSaranWrapprotectsmyconcoctionofdetergentandtoothpastethat’lleventuallycleanthem.Watchingyellowedsolesturnicyagainisassatisfyingassqueezingablackheadandgettingallthegunkout.Ah-maz-ing.

AccordingtothelieItoldDaddy,myhomeworkissupposedtobedone,butI’vebeenona“Tumblrbreak,”a.k.a.Ihaven’tstartedmyhomeworkandhavespentthelasttwohoursonTumblr.Istartedanewblog—TheKhalil IKnow. It doesn’t havemy name on it, just pictures ofKhalil. In the first one he’sthirteenwith anAfro.UncleCarlos took us to a ranch sowe could “get a taste of country life,” andKhalil’s looking side-eyed at a horse that’s beside him. I remember him saying, “If this thingmakes awrongmove,I’mrunning!”

OnTumblr,Icaptionedthepicture:“TheKhalilIknowwasafraidofanimals.”I taggeditwithhisname.Onepersonlikeditandrebloggedit.Thenanotherandanother.

Thatmademepostmorepictures,likeoneofusinabathtubwhenwewerefour.Youcan’tseeourprivatepartsbecauseofallthesuds,andI’mlookingawayfromthecamera.Ms.Rosalie’ssittingonthesideofthetub,beamingatus,andKhalil’sbeamingrightbackather.Iwrote,“TheKhalilIknowlovedbubblebathsalmostasmuchashelovedhisgrandma.”

Injusttwohours,hundredsofpeoplehavelikedandrebloggedthepictures.Iknowit’snotthesameasgettingonthenewslikeKenyasaid,butIhopeithelps.It’shelpingmeatleast.

OtherpeoplepostedaboutKhalil,uploadedartworkofhim,postedpicturesofhimthattheyshowonthenews.IthinkI’verebloggedeverysingleone.

Funnythough:somebodypostedavideoclipofTupacfrombackintheday.Okay,soeveryvideoclipofTupacisfrombackintheday.He’sgotalittlekidonhislapandiswearingabackwardssnapbackthatwouldbeflynow.HeexplainsThugLifelikeKhalilsaidhedid—TheHateUGiveLittleInfantsFucksEverybody. ’Pac spellsout“Fucks”because thatkid is lookingdead inhis face.WhenKhalil toldmewhatitmeantIkindaunderstoodit.Ireallyunderstanditnow.

Igrabmyoldlaptopwhenmyphonebuzzesonmydesk.Mommareturneditearlier—hallelujah,thankyou,BlackJesus.Shesaidit’sonlyincasethere’sanothersituationatschool.Igotitbackthough,don’treallycarewhy.I’mhopingit’satextfromKenya.IsentherthelinktomynewTumblrearlier.Thoughtshe’dliketoseeitsinceshekindapushedmetodoit.

Butit’sChris.HetooknotefromSevenwithhisall-capstexts:OMG!THISFRESHPRINCEEPISODEWILL’SDADDIDN’TTAKEHIMWITHHIMTHEASSHOLECAMEBACKANDLEFTHIMAGAINNOWHE’SHAVINGABREAKDOWNWITHUNCLEPHILMYEYESARESWEATINGUnderstandable.That’sseriouslythesaddestepisodeever.ItextChrisback:Sorry:(.Andyoureyesaren’tsweating.You’recrying,babe.Hereplies:LIES!Isay:Youain’tgottalie,Craig.Youain’tgottalie.Heresponds:DIDYOUREALLYUSEALINEFROMFRIDAYONME???Sowatchingninetiesmoviesiskindaourthingtoo.Itextback:Yep;)Hereplies:BYE,FELICIA!ItakethelaptoptoSeven’sroom,phoneinhandincaseChrishasanotherFreshPrincebreakdown.

Somereggaechantsmeetmein thehall, followedbyKendrickLamarrappingaboutbeingahypocrite.Sevensitson thesideof the lowerbunk,anopencomputer towerathis feet.Withhisheaddown,hisdreadshanglooselyandmakeacurtaininfrontofhisface.DeVantesitscross-leggedonthefloor.HisAfrobobstothesong.

A zombie version of Steve Jobs watches them from a poster on the wall along with all thesesuperheroesandStarWarscharacters.There’saSlytherincomforteronthebottombunkthatIswearI’llstealoneday.SevenandIarereverseHPfans—welikedthemoviesfirst,thenthebooks.IgotKhalilandNatashahookedon themtoo.Mommafound the firstmovie foradollarata thrift storebackwhenwelivedintheCedarGroveprojects.SevenandIsaidwewereSlytherinssincealmostallSlytherinswererich.Whenyou’reakidinaone-bedroomintheprojects,richisthebestthinganybodycanbe.

Sevenremovesasilverboxfromthecomputerandexaminesit.“It’snoteventhatold.”“Whatareyoudoing?”Iask.“BigDaskedmetofixhiscomputer.ItneedssomenewDVDdrives.Heburnthisoutmakingallthem

bootlegs.”MybrotheristheunofficialGardenHeightstechguy.Oldladies,hustlers,andeverybodyinbetween

payhimtofixtheircomputersandphones.Hemakesgoodmoneylikethattoo.Ablackgarbagebagleansagainstthefootofthebunkbedwithsomeclothesstickingoutthetopofit.

Somebodyputitoverthefenceandleftitinourfrontyard.Seven,Sekani,andIfounditwhenwecamehomefromthestore.WethoughtitmayhavebeenDeVante’s,butSevenlookedinsideandeverythinginitbelongedtohim.Thestuffhehadathismomma’shouse.

HecalledIesha.Shesaidshewasputtinghimout.Kingtoldherto.

“Seven,I’msorry—”“It’sokay,Starr.”“Butsheshouldn’thave—”“Isaidit’sokay.”Heglancesupatme.“Allright?Don’tsweatit.”“Allright,”Isayasmyphonevibrates.IhandDeVantethelaptopandlook.Stillnoresponsefrom

Kenya.Insteadit’satextfromMaya.Areumad@us?“What’sthisfor?”DeVanteasks,staringatthelaptop.“Daddywantsyoutohaveit.ButhesaidletSevencheckitoutfirst,”ItellhimasIreplytoMaya.Whatdouthink?“Whathewantmetohaveitfor?”DeVanteasks.“Maybehewantstoseeifyouactuallyknowhowtooperateone,”ItellDeVante.“Iknowhowtouseacomputer,”DeVantesays.HehitsSeven,who’ssnickering.Myphonebuzzesthreetimes.Mayahasresponded.Definitelymad.Canthe3ofustalk?Thingshavebeenawkwardlately.TypicalMaya.IfHaileyandIhaveanykindofdisagreement,shetriestofixit.Shehastoknowthis

won’tbea“Kumbaya”moment.Ireply:Okay.WillletuknowwhenI’m@myuncle’s.Gunshotsfireatrapidspeedinthedistance.Iflinch.“Goddamnmachineguns,”Daddysays.“FolksactinglikethisIranorsomeshit.”“Nocussing,Daddy!”Sekanisaysfromtheden.“Sorry,man.I’lladdadollartothejar.”“Two!Yousaidthe‘g-d’word.”“A’ight,two.Starr,cometothekitchenforasecond.”In thekitchen,Momma speaks inher “other voice”on thephone. “Yes,ma’am.Wewant the same

thing.” She sees me. “And here’s my lovely daughter now. Could you hold, please?” She covers thereceiver.“It’stheDA.Shewouldliketotalktoyouthisweek.”

DefinitelynotwhatIexpected.“Oh...”“Yeah,”Mommasays.“Look,baby,ifyou’renotcomfortablewithit—”“Iam.”IglanceatDaddy.Henods.“Icandoit.”“Oh,”shesays,lookingfrommetoDaddyandback.“Okay.Aslongasyou’resure.Ithinkweshould

meetwithMs.Ofrahfirstthough.Possiblytakeheruponheroffertorepresentyou.”“Definitely,”Daddysays.“Idon’ttrustthemfolksattheDAoffice.”“SohowaboutweseehertomorrowandmeetwiththeDAlateronthisweek?”Mommaasks.Igrabanothersliceofpizzaandtakeabite.It’scoldnow,butcoldpizzaisthebestpizza.“Sotwo

daysofnoschool?”“Oh,you’regoingtoschool,”shesays.“Anddidyoueatanysaladwhileyou’reeatingallthatpizza?”“I’vehadveggies.Theselittlebittypeppers.”“Theydon’tcountwhenthey’rethatlittle.”“Yeah,theydo.Ifbabiescancountashumanswhenthey’relittle,veggiescancountasveggieswhen

they’relittle.”“That logic ain’t working with me. So, we’ll meet with Ms. Ofrah tomorrow and the DA on

Wednesday.Soundlikeaplan?”

“Yeah,excepttheschoolpart.”Mommauncoversthephone.“Sorryforthedelay.WecancomeinonWednesdaymorning.”“In the meantime tell your boys the mayor and the police chief to get them fucking tanks out my

neighborhood,”Daddysaysloudly.Mommaswatsathim,buthe’sgoingdownthehall.“Claimfolksneedtoactpeaceful,butrollingthroughherelikeweinagoddamnwar.”

“Twodollars,Daddy,”Sekanisays.WhenMommahangsup,Isay,“Itwouldn’tkillmetomissonedayofschool.Idon’twannabethere

iftheytrythatprotestmessagain.”Iwouldn’tbesurprisedifRemytriedtogetawholeweekoffbecauseofKhalil.“Ineedtwodays,that’sall.”Mommaraisesherbrows.“Okay,oneandahalf.Please?”

Shetakesadeepbreathandletsitoutslowly.“We’llsee.Butnotawordofthistoyourbrothers,youhearme?”

Basically,shesaidyeswithoutsayingyesoutright.Icandealwiththat.

Pastor Eldridge once preached that “Faith isn’t just believing but taking steps toward that belief.” SowhenmyalarmgoesoffTuesdaymorning,byfaithIdon’tgetup,believingthatMommawon’tmakemegotoschool.

AndtoquotePastorEldridge,hallelujah,Godshowsupandshowsout.Mommadoesn’tmakemegetup.Istayinbed,listeningaseverybodyelsegetsreadyfortheday.SekanimakesithisbusinesstotellMommaI’mnotupyet.

“Don’tworryabouther,”shesays.“Worryaboutyourself.”TheTVinthedenblaressomemorningnewsshow,andMommahumsaroundthehouse.WhenKhalil

andOne-Fifteenarementioned, thevolumelowersawholelotanddoesn’tgobackupuntilapoliticalstorycomeson.

Myphonebuzzesundermypillow.Itakeitoutandlook.KenyafinallytextedmebackaboutmynewTumblr.Shewouldmakemewaithoursforaresponse,andhercommentisshortashell:

It’saightIrollmyeyes.That’saboutascloseasI’mgonnagettoacomplimentfromher.Itextback.IloveyoutooHerresponse?Iknow☺She’s so petty. Part ofmewonders though if she didn’t respond last night ’cause of drama at her

house.DaddysaidKing’sstillbeatingIeshaup.SometimeshehitsKenyaandLyrictoo.Kenya’snotthetypetotalkaboutitlikethat,soIask:

Everythingokay?Theusual,shewritesback.Short,butitsaysenough.Thereisn’tmuchIcando,soIjustremindher:I’mhereifyouneedmeHerresponse?YoubetterbeSee?Petty.Here’sthemessed-uppartaboutmissingschool:youwonderwhatyouwouldbedoingifyouwent.At

eight,IfigureChrisandIwouldjustbegettingtohistorysinceit’sourfirstclassonTuesdays.Isendhimaquicktext.

Won’tbeatschooltoday.Twominuteslater,hereplies.

Areyousick?Needmetokissitandmakeitbetter?WinkwinkHeseriouslytyped“winkwink”insteadoftwowinkemojis.I’lladmit,Ismile.Iwriteback:WhatifI’mcontagious?Hesays:Doesn’tmatter.I’llkissyouanywhere.Winkwink.Ireply:Isthatanotherline?Herespondsinlessthanaminute.It’swhateveryouwantittobe.LoveyouFreshPrincess.Pause.That“L”wordcompletelycatchesmeoffguard,likeaplayerfromtheotherteamstealingthe

ballrightasyou’reabouttomakealayup.Ittakesallofyourmomentumandyouspendaweekwonderinghowthatstealslippeduponyou.

Yeah.Chris saying“loveyou” is like that, except Ican’twasteaweekwonderingabout it.Bynotanswering, I’m answering, if that makes sense. The shot clock is winding down, and I need to saysomething.

Butwhat?Bynotsaying“I”before“loveyou,”he’smakingitmorecasual.Seriously,“loveyou”and“I love

you”aredifferent.Same team,differentplayers. “Loveyou” isn’t as forwardor aggressive as “I loveyou.”“Loveyou”canslipuponyou,sure,but itdoesn’tmakean in-your-faceslamdunk.More likeanicejumpshot.

Twominutespass.Ineedtosaysomething.Loveyoutoo.It’sasforeignasaSpanishwordIhaven’tlearnedyet,butfunnyenoughitcomesprettyeasily.Igetawinkemojiinreturn.

JustUsforJusticeoccupiestheoldTacoBellonMagnoliaAvenue,betweenthecarwashandthecashadvanceplace.DaddyusedtotakemeandSeventothatTacoBelleveryFridayandgetusninety-nine-centtacos,cinnamontwists,andasodatoshare.Thiswasrightafterhegotoutofprison,whenhedidn’thave a lot of money. He usually watched us eat. Sometimes he asked the manager, one ofMomma’sgirlfriends,tokeepaneyeonus,andhewenttothecashadvanceplacenextdoor.WhenIgotolderanddiscovered that presents don’t just “show up,” I realized Daddy always went over there around ourbirthdaysandChristmas.

MommaringsthedoorbellatJustUs,andMs.Ofrahletsusin.“Sorryaboutthat,”shesays,lockingthedoor.“It’sjustmeheretoday.”“Oh,”Mommasays.“Whereareyourcolleagues?”“SomeofthemareatGardenHeightsHighdoingaroundtablediscussion.Othersareleadingamarch

onCarnationwhereKhalilwasmurdered.”It’sweirdtohearsomebodysay“Khalilwasmurdered”aseasilyasMs.Ofrahdoes.Shedoesn’tbite

hertongueorhesitate.Short-walledcubiclestakeupmostoftherestaurant.TheyhavealmostasmanypostersasSevenhas,

butthekindDaddywouldlove,likeMalcolmXstandingnexttoawindowholdingarifle,HueyNewtoninprisonwithhis fistup forblackpower, andphotographsof theBlackPanthersat ralliesandgivingbreakfasttokids.

Ms.Ofrahleadsustohercubiclenexttothedrive-throughwindow.It’skindafunnytoo’causeshehasaTacoBell cup on her desk. “Thank you somuch for coming,” she says. “Iwas so happywhen you

called,Mrs.Carter.”“Please,callmeLisa.Howlonghaveyouallbeeninthisspace?”“Almosttwoyearsnow.Andifyou’rewondering,yes,wedogettheoccasionalpranksterwhopulls

uptothewindowandtellsmetheywantachalupa.”Welaugh.Thedoorbellringsupfront.“That’sprobablymyhusband,”Mommasays.“Hewasonhisway.”Ms.Ofrahleaves,andsoonDaddy’svoiceechoesthroughtheofficeashefollowsherback.Hegrabs

athirdchairfromanothercubicleandsetsithalfwayinMs.Ofrah’sofficeandhalfwayinthehall.That’showsmallhercubicleis.

“SorryI’mlate.HadtogetDeVantesituatedwithMr.Lewis.”“Mr.Lewis?”Iask.“Yeah.SinceI’mhere,IaskedhimtoletDeVantehelparoundtheshop.Mr.Lewisneedssomebodyto

lookoutforhisdumbbehind.SnitchingonliveTV.”“You’retalkingaboutthegentlemanwhodidtheinterviewabouttheKingLords?”Ms.Ofrahasks.“Yeah,him,”saysDaddy.“Heownsthebarbershopnexttomystore.”“Oh,wow.Thatinterviewdefinitelyhaspeopletalking.LastIcheckedithadalmostamillionviews

online.”Iknewit.Mr.Lewishasbecomeameme.“Ittakesalotofgutstobeasupfrontasheis.ImeantwhatIsaidatKhalil’sfuneral,Starr.Itwasvery

braveofyoutotalktothepolice.”“Idon’tfeelbrave.”WithMalcolmXwatchingmeonherwall,Ican’tlie.“I’mnotrunningmymouth

onTVlikeMr.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 andplannedway.”ShelooksatMomma.“YousaidtheDAcalledyesterday?”

“Yes.They’dliketomeetwithStarrtomorrow.”“Makessense.Thecasewas turnedover to theiroffice,and they’repreparing to take it toagrand

jury.”“Whatdoesthatmean?”Iask.“AjurywilldecideifchargesshouldbebroughtagainstOfficerCruise.”“AndStarrwillhavetotestifytothegrandjury,”Daddysays.Ms.Ofrahnods.“It’sabitdifferentfromanormaltrial.Therewon’tbeajudgeoradefenseattorney

present,andtheDAwillaskStarrquestions.”“ButwhatifIcan’tanswerthemall?”“Whatdoyoumean?”Ms.Ofrahsays.“I—the gun in the car stuff.On the news they said theremay have been a gun in the car, like that

changeseverything.Ihonestlydon’tknowiftherewas.”Ms.Ofrahopensafolderthat’sonherdesk,takesapieceofpaperout,andpushesittowardme.It’sa

photographofKhalil’sblackhairbrush,theoneheusedinthecar.“That’stheso-calledgun,”Ms.Ofrahexplains.“OfficerCruiseclaimshesawitinthecardoor,and

heassumedKhalilwasreachingforit.Thehandlewasthickenough,blackenough,forhimtoassumeitwasagun.”

“AndKhalilwasblackenough,”Daddyadds.Ahairbrush.Khalildiedoverafuckinghairbrush.

Ms.Ofrahslipsthephotographbackinthefolder.“It’llbeinterestingtoseehowhisfatheraddressesitinhisinterviewtonight.”

Holdup.“Interview?”Iask.Mommashiftsalittleinherchair.“Um...theofficer’sfatherhasatelevisioninterviewthat’sairing

tonight.”IglancefromhertoDaddy.“Andnobodytoldme?”“’Causeitain’tworthtalkingabout,baby,”Daddysays.IlookatMs.Ofrah.“Sohisdadcangivehisson’ssidetothewholeworld,andIcan’tgivemineand

Khalil’s?He’sgonnahaveeverybodythinkingOne-Fifteen’sthevictim.”“Notnecessarily,”Ms.Ofrahsays.“Sometimesthesekindsofthingsbackfire.Andattheendofthe

day,thecourtofpublicopinionhasnosayinthis.Thegrandjurydoes.Iftheyseeenoughevidence,whichtheyshould,OfficerCruisewillbechargedandtried.”

“If,”Irepeat.Awaveofawkwardsilencerollsin.One-Fifteen’sfatherishisvoice,butI’mKhalil’s.Theonlyway

peoplewillknowhissideofthestoryisifIspeakout.Ilookoutthedrive-throughwindowatthecarwashnextdoor.Watercascadesfromahose,making

rainbowsagainstthesunlightlikeitdidsixyearsago,rightbeforebulletstookNatasha.IturntoMs.Ofrah.“WhenIwasten,Isawmyotherbestfriendgetmurderedinadrive-by.”Funnyhowmurderedcomesouteasilynow.“Oh.”Ms.Ofrahsinksback.“Ididn’t—I’msosorry,Starr.”I stare at my fingers and fumble with them. Tears well in my eyes. “I’ve tried to forget it, but I

remembereverything.Theshots,thelookonNatasha’sface.Theynevercaughtthepersonwhodidit.Iguessitdidn’tmatterenough.Butitdidmatter.Shemattered.”IlookatMs.Ofrah,butIcanbarelyseeherforallthetears.“AndIwanteveryonetoknowthatKhalilmatteredtoo.”

Ms.Ofrahblinks.Alot.“Absolutely.I—”Sheclearsherthroat.“Iwouldliketorepresentyou,Starr.Probono,infact.”

Mommanods,andshe’steary-eyedtoo.“I’ll do whatever I can to make sure you’re heard, Starr. Because just like Khalil and Natasha

mattered,youmatterandyourvoicematters.Icanstartbytryingtogetyouatelevisioninterview.”Shelooksatmyparents.“Ifyou’reokaywiththat.”

“Aslongastheydon’trevealheridentity,yeah,”Daddysays.“Thatshouldn’tbeaproblem,”shesays.“Wewillabsolutelymakesureherprivacyisprotected.”Aquietbuzzingcomes fromDaddy’sway.He takesouthisphoneandanswers.Thepersonon the

otherendshoutssomething,butIcan’tmakeitout.“Ay,calmdown,Vante.Saythatagain?”TheresponsemakesDaddystandup.“I’mcoming.Youcallnine-one-one?”

“What’swrong?”Mommasays.Hemotionsforustofollowhim.“Staywithhim,a’ight?Weontheway.”

THIRTEEN

Mr.Lewis’s left eye is swollen shut and blood drips onto his shirt from a slash on his cheek, but herefusestogotothehospital.

Daddy’sofficehasbecomeanexaminingroom,andMommatendstoMr.LewiswithDaddy’shelp.Ileanagainstthedoorwayandwatch.DeVantestandsevenfartherbackinthestore.

“Ittookfiveof’emtotakemedown,”Mr.Lewissays.“Fiveof’em!Againstoneli’lol’man.Ain’tthatsomething?”

“It’sreallysomethingthatyou’realive,”Isay.Snitchesgetstitchesdoesn’tapplytoKingLords.Morelikesnitchesgetgraves.

Momma tiltsMr.Lewis’shead to lookat thecutonhischeek.“She’s right.You’re real lucky,Mr.Lewis.Don’tevenneedstitches.”

“Kinghimselfgavemethatone,”hesays.“Heain’tcomein till themotheronesgotmedown.Ol’punkass,lookinglikeablackMichelinMan.”

Isnort.“Thisain’tfunny,”Daddysays.“Itoldyoutheywasgon’comeafteryou.”“AndItoldyouIain’tscared!Ifthistheworsttheycoulddo,theyain’tdidnothing!”“Nah,thisain’ttheworst,”saysDaddy.“Theycould’vekilledyou!”“I ain’t the one they want dead!” He stretches his fat finger my way, but he looks beyond me at

DeVante.“That’stheoneyouneedtoworry’bout!Imadehimhidebeforetheycamein,butKingsaidheknowyouhelpingthatboy,andhegon’killhimifhefindhim.”

DeVantebacksaway,hiseyeswide.I swear, in like two secondsDaddy grabsDeVante by his neck and slams him against the freezer.

“Whatthehellyoudo?”DeVantekicksandsquirmsandtriestopullDaddy’shandsfromhisneck.“Daddy,stop!”“Shutup!”Hisglarenever leavesDeVante. “I broughtyou inmyhouse, andyouain’t beenhonest

’boutwhyyouhiding?Kingwouldn’twantyoudeadunlessyoudidsomething,sowhatyoudo?”“Mav-rick!”Mommabreakshisnamedownrealgood.“Lethimgo.Hecan’texplainanythingwith

youchokinghim.”Daddyreleases,andDeVantebendsover,gasping forair.“Don’tbeputtingyourhandsonme!”he

says.“Orwhat?”Daddytaunts.“Starttalking.”“Man,look,itain’tabigdeal.Kingtripping.”Isheforreal?“Whatdidyoudo?”Iask.DeVanteslidesontothefloorandtriestocatchhisbreath.Heblinksrealfastforseveralseconds.His

facescrunchesup.Suddenlyhe’sbawlinglikeababy.Idon’tknowanythingelsetodo,soIsitinfrontofhim.WhenKhalilwouldcrylikethatbecausehis

mommawasmessedup,I’dlifthishead.IliftDeVante’s.“It’sokay,”Isay.That alwaysworkedwithKhalil. ItworkswithDeVante too.He stops crying as hard and says, “I

stole’boutfiveGsfromKing.”“Dammit!”Daddygroans.“Whatthehell,man?”“Ihadtogetmyfamilyouttahere!IwasgonnahandlethedudesthatkilledDalvin,andshit,allthat

woulddowasmakesomeGDscomeafterme.Iwasadeadmanwalking,straightup.Ididn’twantmymommaandmysisterscaughtupinthat.SoIgotthemsomebusticketsandgotthemouttatown.”

“That’swhywecan’tgetyourmommaonthephone,”Mommarealizes.Tearsfallaroundhislips.“Shedidn’twantmecominganyway.SaidI’dgetthemkilled.Putmeout

thehousebeforetheyleft.”HelooksatDaddy.“BigMav,I’msorry.Ishould’vetoldyoutheotherday.Ididchangemymind’boutkillingthemdudesthough,butnowKingwantsmedead.Pleasedon’ttakemetohim.I’lldoanything.Please?”

“Hebet’not!”Mr.LewislimpsoutDaddy’soffice.“Youhelpthatboy,Maverick!”DaddystaresattheceilinglikehecouldcussGodout.“Daddy,”Iplead.“A’ight!C’mon,Vante.”“BigMav,”hewhimpers,“I’msorry,please—”“I’mnottakingyoutoKing,butwegottagetyououttahere.Now.”

Fortyminuteslater,MommaandIpullupbehindDaddyandDeVanteinUncleCarlos’sdriveway.I’m surprisedDaddy knows how to get here.He never comes out herewith us.Ne-ver.Holidays,

birthdays,noneofthat.Iguesshedoesn’twannadealwithNanaandhermouth.MommaandIgetouthercarasDaddyandDeVantegetoutthetruck.“Thisiswhereyou’rebringinghim?”Mommasays.“Mybrother’shouse?”“Yeah,”Daddysays,likeit’snobigdeal.UncleCarloscomesfromthegarage,wipingoiloffhishandswithoneofAuntPam’sgoodtowels.

Heshouldn’tbehome.It’sthemiddleofaworkday,andhenevertakessickdays.Hestopswipinghishands,buttheknucklesononeofthemarestilldark.

DeVantesquintsagainstthesunlightandlooksaroundlikewebroughthimtoanotherplanet.“Damn,BigMav.Whereweat?”

“Wherearewe?”UncleCarloscorrects,andoffershishand.“Carlos.YoumustbeDeVante.”DeVantestaresathishand.Nomannersatall.“Howyouknowmyname?”UncleCarlosawkwardlyletshishandfalltohisside.“Mavericktoldmeaboutyou.We’vediscussed

gettingyououthere.”“Oh!”Mommasayswithahollowlaugh.“Maverick’sdiscussedgettinghimouthere.”Shenarrows

hereyesatDaddy.“I’msurprisedyouevenknewhowtogetouthere,Maverick.”Daddy’snostrilsflare.“We’lltalklater.”“C’mon,”UncleCarlossays.“I’llshowyouyourroom.”DeVantestaresatthehouse,hiseyesallbig.“Whatyoudotogetahouselikethis?”“Dang,you’renosy,”Isay.UncleCarloschuckles.“It’sokay,Starr.Mywife’sasurgeon,andI’madetective.”DeVantestopsdead.HeturnsonDaddy.“Whatthefuck,man?Youbroughtmetoacop?”“Watchyourmouth,”Daddysays.“AndIbroughtyoutosomebodywhoactuallywannahelpyou.”“Acopthough?Ifthehomiesfindout,theygon’thinkI’msnitching.”

“They’renotyourhomiesifyougottahidefromthem,”Isay.“PlusUncleCarloswouldn’taskyoutosnitch.”

“She’s right,” says Uncle Carlos. “Maverick’s really serious about getting you out of GardenHeights.”

Mommascoffs.Loudly.“Whenhetoldus thesituation,wewantedtohelp,”UncleCarlosgoeson.“Anditsoundslikeyou

needourhelp.”DeVantesighs.“Man,thisain’tcool.”“Look,I’monleave,”saysUncleCarlos.“Youdon’thavetoworryaboutmegettinginformationout

ofyou.”“Leave?”Isay.Thatexplainsthesweatsinthemiddleoftheday.“Why’dtheyputyouonleave?”HeglancesfrommetoMomma,andsheprobablydoesn’tknowIseehershakeherheadrealquick.

“Don’tworryaboutit,babygirl,”hesays,hookinghisarmaroundme.“Ineededavacation.”It’sso,soobvious.Theyputhimonleavebecauseofme.Nanameetsusatthefrontdoor.Knowingher,she’sbeenwatchingthroughthewindowsincewegot

here.Shehasonearmfoldedandtakesadragofhercigarettewiththeother.SheblowsthesmoketowardtheceilingwhilestaringatDeVante.“Whohesupposedtobe?”

“DeVante,”UncleCarlossays.“He’sstayingwithus.”“Whatyoumeanhe’sstayingwithus?”“JustwhatIsaid.HegotinalittletroubleinGardenHeightsandneedstostayhere.”She scoffs, and I knowwhereMomma gets it from. “A li’l trouble, huh?Tell the truth, boy.” She

lowershervoiceandaskswithsuspicious,squintedeyes,“Didyoukillsomebody?”“Momma!”mymommasays.“What?Ibetteraskbeforey’allhavemesleepinginthehousewithamurderer,wakingupdead!”Whatinthe...“Youcan’twakeupdead,”Isay.“Li’lgirl,youknowwhatImean!”Shemovesfromthedoorway.“I’llbewakingupinJesus’sface,

tryingtofigureoutwhathappened!”“Likeyougoingtoheaven,”Daddymumbles.

UncleCarlosgivesDeVantea tour.His room isaboutasbigasmeandSeven’s roomsput together. Itdoesn’t seem right thatheonlyhasa littlebackpack toput in it, andwhenwego to thekitchenUncleCarlosmakeshimhandthatover.

“Thereareafewrulesforlivinghere,”UncleCarlossays.“One,followtherules.Two”—hepullstheGlockfromDeVante’sbackpack—“noweaponsandnodrugs.”

“Iknowyouain’tbringthatinmyhouse,Vante,”Daddysays.“Kingprobablygotmoneyonmyhead.YoudamnrightIgotapiece.”“Rulethree.”UncleCarlosspeaksoverhim.“Nocursing.Ihaveaneight-year-oldandathree-year-

old.Theydon’tneedtohearthat.”’CausetheyhearitfromNanaenough.Ava’snewfavoritewordis“Goddammit!”“Rulefour,”UncleCarlossays,“gotoschool.”“Man,”DeVantegroans.“IalreadytoldBigMavIcan’tgobacktoGardenHigh.”“Weknow,”Daddysays.“Oncewegetintouchwithyourmomma,we’llgetyouenrolledinanonline

program.Lisa’smommaisaretiredteacher.Shecantutoryouthroughitsoyoucanfinishtheyearout.”“LikehellIcan!”Nanasays.Idon’tknowwheresheis,butI’mnotsurprisedshe’slistening.“Momma,stopbeingnosy!”UncleCarlossays.

“Stopvolunteeringmeforshit!”“Stopcursing,”hesays.“Tellmewhattodoagainandseewhathappens.”UncleCarlos’sfaceandneckgored.Thedoorbellrings.“Carlos,getthedoor,”Nanasaysfromwherevershe’shiding.Hepurseshislipsandleavestoanswer.AshecomesbackIcanhearhimtalkingtosomebody.Then

somebodylaughs,andIknowthatlaugh’causeitmakesmelaugh.“LookwhoIfound,”UncleCarlossays.Chris is behind him in his whiteWilliamson polo and khaki shorts. He has on the red-and-black

JordanTwelvesthatMJworewhenhehadthefluduringthe’97finals.Shoot,thatmakesChrisfinerforsomereason.OrIhaveaJordanfetish.

“Hi.”Hesmileswithoutshowingteeth.“Hi.”Ismiletoo.IforgetthatDaddyishereandthatIpotentiallyhaveabig-assproblemonmyhands.Thatonlylasts

abouttensecondsthoughbecauseDaddyasks,“Whoyou?”ChrisextendshishandtoDaddy.“Christopher,sir.Nicetomeetyou.”Daddygiveshimatwice-over.“Youknowmydaughterorsomething?”“Yeah.”Chrisstretchesitkindalongandlooksatme.“WebothgotoWilliamson?”Inod.Goodanswer.Daddyfoldshisarms.“Well,doyouordon’tyou?Yousoundali’lunsure’boutthat.”MommagivesChrisaquickhug.AllthewhileDaddymean-mugsthehellouttahim.“Howareyou

doing,sweetie?”sheasks.“I’mfine.Ididn’tmeanto interruptanything.Isawyourcar,andStarrwasn’tatschool today,soI

wantedtocheckonher.”“It’sfine,”saysMomma.“TellyourmomanddadIsaidhello.Howarethey?”“Holdup,”Daddysays.“Y’allact like thisdudebeenaroundaminute.”Daddy turns tome.“Why

ain’tIneverheard’bouthim?”It’s gonna take a hell of a lotta boldness to putmyself out there forKhalil. Like “I once toldmy

militantblackdaddyaboutmywhiteboyfriend”kindaboldness.IfIcan’tstanduptomydadaboutChris,howcanIstandupforKhalil?

Daddyalwaystellsmetoneverbitemytongueforanyone.Thatincludeshim.SoIsayit.“He’smyboyfriend.”“Boyfriend?”Daddyrepeats.“Yeah,herboyfriend!”Nanapipesupagainfromwhereversheis.“Hey,Chrisbaby.”Chrisglancesaround,allconfused.“Uh,hey,Ms.Montgomery.”Nanawas the first to find out aboutChris, thanks to hermaster snooping skills. She toldme, “Go

’head,getyourswirlon,baby,”thenproceededtotellmeaboutallofherswirlingadventures,whichIdidn’tneedtoknow.

“Thehell,Starr?”Daddysays.“Youdatingawhiteboy?”“Maverick!”Mommasnaps.“Calmdown,Maverick,”UncleCarlossays.“He’sagoodkid,andhetreatsherwell.That’sallthat

matters,isn’tit?”“Youknew?”Daddysays.Helooksatme,andIdon’tknowif that’sangerorhurt inhiseyes.“He

knew,andIdidn’t?”

Thishappenswhenyouhavetwodads.Oneofthem’sboundtogethurt,andyou’reboundtofeellikeshitbecauseofit.

“Let’sgooutside,”Mommasaystightly.“Now.”DaddyglaresatChrisandfollowsMommatothepatio.Thedoorshavethickglass,butIstillhearher

gooffonhim.“C’mon,DeVante,”UncleCarlossays.“Gonnashowyouthebasementandthelaundryroom.”DeVantesizesChrisup.“Boyfriend,”hesayswithaslightlaugh,andlooksatme.“Ishould’veknown

you’dhaveawhiteboy.”HeleaveswithUncleCarlos.Whatthehellthat’ssupposedtomean?“Sorry,”ItellChris.“Mydadshouldn’thavegoneofflikethat.”“Itcould’vebeenworse.Hecould’vekilledme.”True.ImotionhimtositatthecounterwhileIgetussomedrinks.“Whowasthatguywithyouruncle?”heasks.AuntPamain’tgotonesodaupinhere.Juice,water,andsparklingwater.IbetNanahasastashof

SpriteandCokeinherroomthough.“DeVante,”Isay,grabbingtwoapplejuiceboxes.“HegotcaughtupinsomeKingLordstuff,andDaddybroughthimtolivewithUncleCarlos.”

“Whywashelookingatmelikethat?”“Getoverit,Maverick.He’swhite!”Mommashoutsonthepatio.“White,white,white!”Chrisblushes.Andblushes,andblushes,andblushes.Ihandhimajuicebox.“That’swhyDeVantewaslookingatyouthatway.You’rewhite.”“Okay?”heasksmorethansays.“IsthisoneofthoseblackthingsIwon’tunderstand?”“Okay,babe,realtalk?IfyouweresomebodyelseI’dside-eyetheshitoutofyouforcallingitthat.”“Callingitwhat?Ablackthing?”“Yeah.”“Butisn’tthatwhatitis?”“Not really,” I say. “It’s not like this kinda stuff is exclusive to black people, you know? The

reasoningmaybedifferent,butthat’saboutit.Yourparentsdon’thaveaproblemwithusdating?”“Iwouldn’tcallitaproblem,”Chrissays,“butwedidtalkaboutit.”“Soit’snotjustablackthingthen,huh?”“Pointmade.”Wesitatthecounter,andIlistentohisplay-by-playofschooltoday.Nobodywalkedoutbecausethe

policewerethere,waitingforanydrama.“HaileyandMayaaskedaboutyou,”hesays.“Itoldthemyouweresick.”“Theycould’vetextedmeandaskedthemselves.”“Ithinktheyfeelguiltyaboutyesterday.EspeciallyHailey.Whiteguilt.”Hewinks.Icrackup.Mywhiteboyfriendtalkingaboutwhiteguilt.Mommayells,“AndIlovehowyouinsistongettingsomebodyelse’schildoutofGardenHeights,but

youwantourstostayinthathellhole!”“Youwanttheminthesuburbswithallthisfakeshit?”Daddysays.“Ifthisisfake,baby,I’lltakeitoverrealanyday.I’msickofthis!Thekidsgotoschoolouthere,I

takethemtochurchouthere,theirfriendsareouthere.Wecanaffordtomove.Butyouwannastayinthatmess!”

“’CauseatleastinGardenHeightspeopleain’tgonnatreatthemlikeshit.”“Theyalreadydo!AndwaituntilKingcan’tfindDeVante.Whodoyouthinkhe’sgonnalookat?Us!”“ItoldyouI’llhandlethat,”Daddysays.“Weain’tmoving.Itain’tevenupfordiscussion.”

“Oh,really?”“Really.”Chrisgivesmeabitofasmile.“Thisisawkward.”Mycheeksarehot,andI’mgladI’mtoobrownforittoshow.“Yeah.Awkward.”He takesmyhand and taps his fingertips againstmy fingertips, one at a time.He laces his fingers

throughmine,andweletourarmsswingtogetherinthespacebetweenus.Daddy comes in and slams the door behind him.He zeroes straight in on our joined hands.Chris

doesn’tletgo.Pointformyboyfriend.“We’lltalklater,Starr.”Daddymarchesout.“Ifthiswerearom-com,”Chrissays,“you’dbeZoeSaldanaandI’dbeAshtonKutcher.”“Huh?”Hesipshisjuice.“Thisoldmovie,GuessWho.IcaughtitwhenIhadthefluafewweeksago.Zoe

SaldanadatedAshtonKutcher.Herdaddidn’tlikethatshewasseeingawhiteguy.That’sus.”“Exceptthisisn’tfunny,”Isay.“Itcanbe.”“Nah.What’sfunnythoughisthatyouwatchedarom-com.”“Hey!”hecries.“Itwashilarious.Moreofacomedythanarom-com.BernieMacwasherdad.That

guywashilarious,oneoftheKingsofComedy.Idon’tthinkitcanbecalledarom-comsimplybecausehewasinit.”

“Okay,yougetpointsforknowingBernieMacandthathewasaKingofComedy—”“Everyoneshouldknowthat.”“True,butyoudon’tgetapass.Itwasstillarom-com.Iwon’ttellanyonethough.”Ileanovertokisshischeek,buthemoveshishead,givingmenochoicebuttokisshimonthemouth.

Soonwe’remakingout,rightthereinmyuncle’skitchen.“Hem-hem!”Somebodyclearstheirthroat.ChrisandIseparatesofast.I thought embarrassmentwas havingmyboyfriendhearmyparents argue.Nope.Embarrassment is

havingmymomwalkinonmeandChrismakingout.Again.“Don’ty’allthinky’allshouldleteachotherbreathe?”shesays.ChrisblushesdowntohisAdam’sapple.“Ishouldgo.”Heleaveswithaquickgood-byetoMomma.Sheraiseshereyebrowsatme.“Areyoutakingyourbirthcontrolpills?”“Mommy!”“Answermyquestion.Areyou?”“Yeeees,”Igroan,puttingmyfaceonthecountertop.“Whenwasyourlastcycle?”Oh.My.Lord.Iliftmyheadandflashthefakestoffakesmiles.“We’refine.Promise.”“Y’allgotsomenerve.Yourdaddywasbarelyoutthedriveway,andy’allslobberingallovereach

other.YouknowhowMaverickis.”“Arewestayingoutheretonight?”Thequestioncatchesheroffguard.“Whywouldyouthinkthat?”“BecauseyouandDaddy—”“Hadadisagreement,that’sall.”“Adisagreementthewholeneighborhoodheard.”Plusonetheothernight.“Starr,we’reokay.Don’tworryaboutit.Yourfather’sbeing...yourfather.”Outside,somebodyhonkshiscarhornabunchoftimes.

Momma rolls her eyes. “Speaking of your father, I guessMr. I’m-Gonna-Slam-Doors needsme tomovemycarsohecanleave.”Sheshakesherheadandheadstowardthefront.

IthrowChris’sjuiceawayandsearchthecabinets.AuntPammaybepickywhenitcomestodrinks,but she always buys good snacks, andmy stomach is talking. I get some graham crackers and slatherpeanutbutteronthem.Sogood.

DeVantecomesinthekitchen.“Can’tbelieveyoudatingawhiteboy.”Hesitsnexttomeandstealsagrahamcrackersandwich.“Awiggaatthat.”

“Excuseyou?”Isaywithamouthfullofpeanutbutter.“Heisnotawigga.”“Please!DudewearingJ’s.WhiteboyswearConverseandVans,notnoJ’sunlesstheytryingtobe

black.”Really?“Mybad.Ididn’tknowshoesdeterminedsomebody’srace.”Hecan’tsayanythingtothat.LikeIthought.“Whatyouseeinhimanyway?Forreal?Allthemdudes

inGardenHeightswhowouldgetwithyouinasecond,andyoulookingatJustinBieber?”Ipointinhisface.“Don’tcallhimthat.Andwhatdudes?NobodyinGardenHeightsischeckingfor

me.Hardly anybody knowsmy name.Hell, even you calledmeBigMav’s daughterwhowork in thestore.”

“’Causeyoudon’tcomearound,”hesays.“Iain’tneverseenyouataparty,nothing.”Without thinking, I say,“Youmeanpartieswherepeopleget shotat?”Andassoonas it leavesmy

mouth,Ifeellikeshit.“OhmyGod,I’msorry.Ishouldn’thavesaidthat.”Hestaresatthecountertop.“It’scool.Don’tworryaboutit.”Wequietlynibbleongrahamcrackers.“Um . . .” I say.The silence isbrutal. “UncleCarlos andAuntPamare cool. I thinkyou’ll like it

here.”Hebitesanothergrahamcracker.“Theycanbecornysometimes,butthey’resweet.They’lllookoutforyou.KnowingAuntPam,she’ll

treatyoulikeAvaandDaniel.UncleCarloswillprobablybetougher.Ifyoufollowtherules,you’llbeokay.”

“Khaliltalked’boutyousometimes,”DeVantesays.“Huh?”“Yousaidnobodyknowsyou,butKhaliltalked’boutyou.Iain’tknowyouwasBigMav’sdaughter

who—Iain’tknow thatwasyou,”hesays.“Buthe talked ’bouthis friendStarr.Hesaidyouwere thecoolestgirlheknew.”

Somepeanutbuttergetsstuckinmythroat,butit’snottheonlyreasonIswallow.“Howdidyouknow—oh.Yeah.Bothofy’allwereKingLords.”

IsweartoGodwheneverIthinkaboutKhalilfallingintothatlife,it’slikewatchinghimdiealloveragain.Yeah,Khalilmattersandnotthestuffhedid,butIcan’tlieandsayitdoesn’tbothermeorit’snotdisappointing.Heknewbetter.

DeVantesays,“Khalilwasn’taKingLord,Starr.”“Butatthefuneral,Kingputthebandanaonhim—”“Tosaveface,”DeVantesays.“HetriedtogetKhaliltojoin,butKhalilsaidnah.Thenacopkilled

him,soyouknow,allthehomiesridingforhimnow.Kingnot’bouttoadmitthatKhalilturnedhimdown.SohegotfolksthinkingthatKhalilreppedKingLords.”

“Wait,”Isay.“HowdoyouknowheturnedKingdown?”“Khaliltoldmeintheparkoneday.Wewaspostedup.”“Soy’allsolddrugstogether?”

“Yeah.ForKing.”“Oh.”“Hedidn’twannaselldrugs,Starr,”DeVantesays.“Nobodyreallywannado thatshit.Khalilain’t

havemuchofachoicethough.”“Yeah,hedid,”Isaythickly.“No,hedidn’t.Look,hismommastolesomeshitfromKing.Kingwantedherdead.Khalilfoundout

andstartedsellingtopaythedebt.”“What?”“Yeah.That’stheonlyreasonhestarteddoingthatshit.Tryingtosaveher.”Ican’tbelieveit.Thenagain,Ican.ThatwasclassicKhalil.Nomatterwhathismommadid,hewasstillherknightand

hewasstillgonnaprotecther.Thisisworsethandenyinghim.Ithoughttheworstofhim.Likeeverybodyelse.“Don’tbemadathim,”DeVantesays,and it’s funnybecauseIcanhearKhalilaskingmenot tobe

madtoo.“I’mnot—”Isigh.“Okay,Iwasalittlemad.Ijusthatehowhe’sbeingcalledathugandshitwhen

peopledon’tknowthewholestory.Yousaidit,hewasn’tagangbanger,andifeverybodyknewwhyhesolddrugs,then—”

“Theywouldn’tthinkhewasathuglikeme?”Oh,damn.“Ididn’tmean...”“It’scool,”hesays.“Igetit.IguessIamathug,Idon’tknow.IdidwhatIhadtodo.KingLordswas

theclosestthingmeandDalvinhadtoafamily.”“Butyourmomma,”Isay,“andyoursisters—”“Theycouldn’t lookout forus likeKingLordsdo,”hesays.“MeandDalvin lookedout for them.

WithKingLords,wehad awholebunchof folkswhohadour backs, nomatterwhat.Theybought usclothesandshitourmommacouldn’taffordandalwaysmadesureweate.”Helooksatthecounter.“Itwasjustcooltohavesomebodytakecareofusforachange,insteadoftheotherwayaround.”

“Oh.”Ashittyresponse,Iknow.“LikeIsaid,nobodylikessellingdrugs,”hesays.“Ihatedthatshit.Forreal.ButIhatedseeingmy

mommaandmysistersgohungry,youknow?”“Idon’tknow.”I’veneverhadtoknow.Myparentsmadesureofthat.“Yougotitgoodthen,”hesays.“I’msorrytheytalking’boutKhalillikethatthough.Hereallywasa

gooddude.Hopefullyonedaytheycanfindoutthetruth.”“Yeah,”Isayquietly.DeVante.Khalil.Neitheroneofthemthoughttheyhadmuchofachoice.IfIwerethem,I’mnotsure

I’dmakeamuchbetterone.Guessthatmakesmeathugtoo.“I’mgoingforawalk,”Isay,gettingup.Myhead’sallovertheplace.“Youcanhavetherestofthe

grahamcrackersandpeanutbutter.”Ileave.Idon’tknowwhereI’mgoing.Idon’tknowmuchofanythinganymore.

FOURTEEN

IendupatMaya’shouse.Truthbetold,that’sthefarthestIcangoinUncleCarlos’sneighborhoodbeforethehousesstartlookingthesame.

It’sthatweirdtimebetweendayandnightwhentheskylookslikeit’sonfireandmosquitoesareonthehunt; all of the lights at theYanghousearealreadyon,which is a lotof lights.Theirhouse isbigenough forme andmy family to livewith them and have a littlewiggle room.There’s a blue InfinitiCoupewithadentedbumperinthecirculardriveway.Haileycan’tdriveforshit.

Nolie,itstingsalittleknowingtheyhangoutwithoutme.That’swhathappenswhenyoulivesofarawayfromyourfriends.Ican’tgetmadaboutit.Jealousmaybe.Notmad.

Thatprotestshit though?Nowthatmakesmemad.Madenoughtoringthedoorbell.Besides,I toldMayathethreeofuscouldtalk,sofine,we’lltalk.

Mrs.Yanganswers,herBluetoothheadsetaroundherneck.“Starr!”Shebeamsandhugsme.“Sogoodtoseeyou.Howiseveryone?”“Good,”Isay.SheannouncesmyarrivaltoMayaandletsmein.ThearomaofMrs.Yang’sseafood

lasagnagreetsmeinthefoyer.“Ihopeit’snotabadtime,”Isay.“Notatall,sweetie.Maya’supstairs.Haileytoo.You’remorethanwelcometojoinusfordinner....

No,George,Iwasn’ttalkingtoyou,”shesaysintoherheadset,thenmouthsatme,“Myassistant,”androllshereyesalittle.

IsmileandtakeoffmyNikeDunks.IntheYanghouse,shoeremovalispartChinesetradition,partMrs.Yanglikespeopletobecomfy.

Mayaracesdownthestairs,wearinganoversizedT-shirtandbasketballshortsthatalmosthangtoherankles.“Starr!”

Shereachesthebottom,andthere’sthisawkwardmomentwhereherarmsareoutlikeshewantstohugme,butshestartsloweringthem.Ihugheranyway.It’sbeenawhilesinceIgotagoodMayahug.Herhairsmellslikecitrus,andshehugsalltightandmotherly.

Maya leadsme to her bedroom.White Christmas lights hang from the ceiling. There’s a shelf forvideogames,AdventureTimememorabiliaallaround,andHaileyinabeanbagchair,concentratingonthebasketballplayersshe’scontrollingonMaya’sflat-screen.

“Lookwho’shere,Hails,”Mayasays.Haileyglancesupatme.“Hey.”“Hey.”It’sAwkwardCentralinhere.IstepoveranemptySpritecanandabagofDoritosandsitintheotherbeanbagchair.Mayacloses

herdoor.Anold-schoolposterofMichaelJordan,inhisfamousJumpmanpose,isontheback.Mayabellyflopsontoherbedandgrabsacontrolleroffthefloor.“Youwannajoinin,Starr?”“Yeah,sure.”

She hands me a third controller, and we start a new game—the three of us against a computer-controlledteam.It’salotlikewhenweplayinreallife,acombinationofrhythm,chemistry,andskill,buttheawkwardnessintheroomissothickit’shardtoignore.

They keep glancing atme. I keepmy eyes on the screen. The animated crowd cheers asHailey’splayermakesathree-pointer.“Niceshot,”Isay.

“Okay,cutthecrap.”HaileygrabstheTVremoteandflicksthegameoff,turningtoadetectiveshowinstead.“Whyareyoumadatus?”

“Whydidyouprotest?”Sinceshewantstocutthecrap,mayaswellgetrighttoit.“Because,”shesays,likethat’sreasonenough.“Idon’tseewhatthebigdealis,Starr.Yousaidyou

didn’tknowhim.”“Whydoesthatmakeadifference?”“Isn’taprotestagoodthing?”“Notifyou’reonlydoingittocutclass.”“Soyouwantustoapologizeforiteventhougheverybodyelsedidittoo?”Haileyasks.“Justbecauseeveryoneelsediditdoesn’tmeanit’sokay.”Shit.Isoundlikemymother.“Guys,stop!”Mayasays.“Hailey,ifStarrwantsustoapologize,fine,wecanapologize.Starr,I’m

sorryforprotesting.Itwasstupidtouseatragedyjusttogetoutofclass.”WelookatHailey.Shesitsbackandfoldsherarms.“I’mnotapologizingwhenIdidn’tdoanything

wrong.Ifanything,sheshouldapologizeforaccusingmeofbeingracistlastweek.”“Wow,”Isay.OnethingthatirksthehelloutofmeaboutHailey?Thewayshecanturnanargument

aroundandmakeherselfthevictim.She’samasteratthisshit.Iusedtofallforit,butnow?“I’mnotapologizingforwhatIfelt,”Isay.“Idon’tcarewhatyourintentionwas,Hailey.Thatfried

chickencommentfeltracisttome.”“Fine,”shesays.“JustlikeIfeltitwasfinetoprotest.SinceIwon’tapologizeforwhatIfelt,andyou

won’tapologizeforwhatyoufelt,Iguesswe’lljustwatchTV.”“Fine,”Isay.Mayagruntslikeit’stakingeverythinginhernottochokeus.“Youknowwhat?Ifyoutwowanttobe

thisstubborn,fine.”Mayaflicksthroughchannels.HaileydoesthatBSmovewhereyoulookatsomeoneoutthecornerof

youreye,butyoudon’twantthemtoknowthatyoucareenoughtolook,soyouavertyoureyes.Atthispointit’swhatever.IthoughtIcametotalk,butyeah,Ireallywantanapology.

IlookatTV.Asingingcompetition,arealityshow,One-Fifteen,acelebritydance—wait.“Backup,backup,”ItellMaya.Sheflicksthroughthechannels,andwhenheappearsagain,Isay,“Rightthere!”I’vepicturedhisfacesomuch.Actuallyseeingitagainisdifferent.Mymemoryisprettyspot-on—a

thin,jaggedscarabovehislip,burstsoffrecklesthatcoverhisfaceandneck.Mystomachchurnsandmyskincrawls,andIwannagetawayfromOne-Fifteen.Myinstinctdoesn’t

care that it’s a photograph being shown on TV.A silver cross pendant hangs from his neck, like he’ssayingJesusendorseswhathedid.WemustbelieveinadifferentJesus.

Whatlookslikeanolderversionofhimappearsonthescreen,butthismandoesn’thavethescaronhis lip,and therearemorewrinklesonhisneck than freckles.Hehaswhitehair, although there’s stillsomestreaksofbrowninit.

“Mysonwasafraidforhislife,”hesays.“Heonlywantedtogethometohiswifeandkids.”Picturesflashonthescreen.One-Fifteensmileswithhisarmsdrapedaroundablurred-outwoman.

He’sonafishingtripwithtwosmall,blurred-outchildren.Theyshowhimwithasmileygoldenretriever,withhispastorandsomefellowdeaconswhoareallblurredout,andtheninhispoliceuniform.

“OfficerBrianCruiseJr.hasbeenontheforceforsixteenyears,”thevoice-oversays,andmorepicsofhimasacopareshown.He’sbeenacopforaslongasKhalilwasalive,andIwonderifinsomesicktwistoffateKhalilwasonlybornforthismantokill.

“AmajorityofthoseyearshavebeenspentservinginGardenHeights,”thevoice-overcontinues,“aneighborhoodnotoriousforgangsanddrugdealers.”

Itenseasfootageofmyneighborhood,myhome,isshown.It’sliketheypickedtheworstparts—thedrug addicts roaming the streets, the broken-down Cedar Grove projects, gangbangers flashing signs,bodies on the sidewalkswithwhite sheets over them.What aboutMrs.Rooks and her cakes?OrMr.Lewisandhishaircuts?Mr.Reuben?Theclinic?Myfamily?

Me?IfeelHailey’sandMaya’seyesonme.Ican’tlookatthem.“My son lovedworking in the neighborhood,”One-Fifteen’s father claims. “He alwayswanted to

makeadifferenceinthelivesthere.”Funny.Slavemastersthoughttheyweremakingadifferenceinblackpeople’slivestoo.Savingthem

fromtheir“wildAfricanways.”Sameshit,differentcentury.Iwishpeoplelikethemwouldstopthinkingthatpeoplelikemeneedsaving.

One-FifteenSr.talksabouthisson’slifebeforetheshooting.Howhewasagoodkidwhonevergotintotrouble,alwayswantedtohelpothers.AlotlikeKhalil.ButthenhetalksaboutthestuffOne-FifteendidthatKhalilwillnevergettodo,likegotocollege,getmarried,haveafamily.

Theinterviewerasksaboutthatnight.“Apparently,Brianpulledthekidover’causehehadabrokentaillightandwasspeeding.”Khalilwasn’tspeeding.“Hetoldme,‘Pop,soonasIpulledhimover,Ihadabadfeeling,’”saysOne-FifteenSr.“Whyisthat?”theinterviewerasks.“Hesaidthekidandhisfriendimmediatelystartedcursinghimout—”Wenevercursed.“Andtheykeptglancingateachother,liketheywereuptosomething.Briansaysthat’swhenhegot

scared,’causetheycould’vetakenhimdowniftheyteamedup.”I couldn’t have taken anyonedown. Iwas too afraid.Hemakesus sound likewe’re superhumans.

We’rekids.“Nomatterhowafraidheis,myson’sstillgonnadohisjob,”hesays.“Andthat’sallhesetouttodo

thatnight.”“There have been reports that Khalil Harris was unarmed when the incident took place,” the

interviewersays.“Hasyoursontoldyouwhyhemadethedecisiontoshoot?”“Briansayshehadhisbacktothekid,andheheardthekidsay,‘I’mgon’showyourasstoday.’”No,no,no.KhalilaskedifIwasokay.“Brianturnedaroundandsawsomethinginthecardoor.Hethoughtitwasagun—”Itwasahairbrush.Hislipsquiver.Mybodyshakes.Hecovershismouthtoholdbackasob.Icoverminetokeepfrom

puking.“Brian’sagoodboy,”hesays, in tears.“Heonlywanted togethometohis family,andpeopleare

makinghimouttobeamonster.”That’sallKhalilandIwanted,andyou’remakingusouttobemonsters.

Ican’tbreathe,likeI’mdrowninginthetearsIrefusetoshed.Iwon’tgiveOne-Fifteenorhisfatherthesatisfactionofcrying.Tonight,theyshotmetoo,morethanonce,andkilledapartofme.Unfortunatelyforthem,it’sthepartthatfeltanyhesitationaboutspeakingout.

“Howhasyourson’slifechangedsincethishappened?”theinterviewerasks.“Allofourliveshavebeenhell,honestly,”hisfatherclaims.“Brian’sapeopleperson,butnowhe’s

afraid to go out in public, even for something as simple as getting a gallon ofmilk. There have beenthreatsonhis life,our family’s lives.Hiswifehad toquither job.He’sevenbeenattackedby fellowofficers.”

“Physicallyorverbally?”theinterviewerasks.“Both,”hesays.Ithitsme.UncleCarlos’sbruisedknuckles.“Thisisawful,”Haileysays.“Thatpoorfamily.”She’slookingatOne-FifteenSr.withsympathythatbelongstoBrendaandMs.Rosalie.Iblinkseveraltimes.“What?”“Hissonlosteverythingbecausehewastryingtodohisjobandprotecthimself.Hislifematterstoo,

youknow?”Icannotrightnow.Ican’t.IstanduporotherwiseIwillsayordosomethingreallystupid.Likepunch

her.“Ineedto...yeah.”IsayallthatIcanandstartforthedoor,butMayagrabsthetailofmycardigan.“Whoa,whoa.Youguyshaven’tworkedthisoutyet,”shesays.“Maya,”Isay,ascalmlyaspossible.“Pleaseletmego.Icannottalktoher.Didyounothearwhatshe

said?”“Areyouseriousrightnow?”Haileyasks.“What’swrongwithsayinghislifematterstoo?”“Hislifealwaysmattersmore!”Myvoiceisgruff,andmythroatistight.“That’stheproblem!”“Starr!Starr!”Mayasays, trying tocatchmyeye. I lookather.“What’sgoingon?You’reHarry in

OrderofthePhoenixangrylately.”“Thankyou!”Haileysays.“She’sbeeninbitchmodeforweeksbutwantstoblameme.”“Excuseyou?”There’saknockonthedoor.“Girls,iseverythingokay?”Mrs.Yangasks.“We’re fine,Mom.Videogamestuff.”Maya looksatmeand lowershervoice. “Please, sitdown.

Please?”Isitonherbed.CommercialsreplaceOne-FifteenSr.ontheTVandfillinthegapofsilencewe’ve

created.Iblurtout,“WhydidyouunfollowmyTumblr?”Haileyturnstowardme.“What?”“YouunfollowedmyTumblr.Why?”SheglancesatMaya—quickly,butInotice—andgoes,“Idon’tknowwhatyou’retalkingabout.”“Cutthebullshit,Hailey.Youunfollowedme.Monthsago.Why?”Shedoesn’tsayanything.Iswallow.“IsitbecauseoftheEmmettTillpicture?”“OhmyGod,”shesays,standingup.“Herewegoagain.Iamnotgonnastayhereandletyouaccuse

meofsomething,Starr—”“Youdon’ttextmeanymore,”Isay.“Youfreakedoutaboutthatpicture.”“Doyouhearher?”HaileysaystoMaya.“Onceagain,callingmeracist.”“I’mnotcallingyouanything.I’maskingaquestionandgivingyouexamples.”

“You’reinsinuating!”“Ineverevenmentionedrace.”Silencecomesbetweenus.Haileyshakesherhead.Herlipsarethin.“Unbelievable.”ShegrabsherjacketoffMaya’sbedand

starts for the door.She stops, andher back is tome. “Youwanna really knowwhy I unfollowedyou,Starr?BecauseIdon’tknowwhothehellyouareanymore.”

Sheslamsthedooronherwayout.Thenewsprogramreturnsonthetelevision.Theyshowfootageofprotestsalloverthecountry,not

justinGardenHeights.HopefullynoneofthemusedKhalil’sdeathtoskipclassorwork.Outofnowhere,Mayasays,“That’snotwhy.”She’sstaringathercloseddoor,hershouldersabitstiff.“Huh?”Isay.“She’slying,”Mayasays.“That’snotwhysheunfollowedyou.Shesaidshedidn’twannaseethatshit

onherdashboard.”Ifigured.“ThatEmmettTillpicture,right?”“No.Allthe‘blackstuff,’shecalledit.Thepetitions.TheBlackPantherpictures.Thatpostonthose

four littlegirlswhowerekilled in thatchurch.Thestuffabout thatMarcusGarveyguy.TheoneaboutthoseBlackPantherswhowereshotbythegovernment.”

“FredHamptonandBobbyHutton,”Isay.“Yeah.Them.”Wow.She’sbeenpayingattention.“Whydidn’tyoutellme?”She stares at her plush Finn on the floor. “I hoped she’d change hermind before you found out. I

should’veknownbetterthough.It’snotlikethat’sthefirstfucked-upthingshe’ssaid.”“Whatareyoutalkingabout?”Mayaswallowshard.“DoyourememberthattimesheaskedifmyfamilyateacatforThanksgiving?”“What?When?”Hereyesareglossy.“Freshmanyear.Firstperiod.Mrs.Edwards’sbiologyclass.We’d justgotten

back from Thanksgiving break. Class hadn’t started yet, and we were talking about what we did forThanksgiving. I told you guys my grandparents visited, and it was their first time celebratingThanksgiving.Haileyaskedifweateacat.Becausewe’reChinese.”

Ho-lyshit. I’mwrackingmybrainrightnow.Freshmanyear issoclosetomiddleschool; there’sahugepossibilityIsaidordidsomethingextremelystupid.I’mafraidtoknow,butIask,“WhatdidIsay?”

“Nothing.Youhadthislookonyourfacelikeyoucouldn’tbelieveshesaidthat.Sheclaimeditwasajokeandlaughed.Ilaughed,andthenyoulaughed.”Mayablinks.Alot.“IonlylaughedbecauseIthoughtIwassupposedto.Ifeltlikeshittherestoftheweek.”

“Oh.”“Yeah.”Ifeellikeshitrightnow.Ican’tbelieveIletHaileysaythat.Orhasshealwaysjokedlikethat?DidI

alwayslaughbecauseIthoughtIhadto?That’stheproblem.Weletpeoplesaystuff,andtheysayitsomuchthatitbecomesokaytothemand

normalforus.What’sthepointofhavingavoiceifyou’regonnabesilentinthosemomentsyoushouldn’tbe?

“Maya?”Isay.“Yeah?”“Wecan’tlethergetawaywithsayingstufflikethatagain,okay?”

Shecracksasmile.“Aminorityalliance?”“Hell,yeah,”Isay,andwelaugh.“Allright.Deal.”

AgameofNBA2K15later(IwhoopedMaya’sbutt),I’mwalkingbacktoUncleCarlos’shousewithafoil-wrappedplate of seafood lasagna.Mrs.Yangnever letsme leave empty-handed, and I never turndownfood.

Ironstreetlamps line thesidewalks,andIseeUncleCarlos fromafewhousesdown,sittingonhisfrontstepsinthedark.He’schuggingbacksomething,andasIgetcloser,IcanseetheHeineken.

Iputmyplateonthestepsandsitbesidehim.“Youbetternothavebeenatyourli’lboyfriend’shouse,”hesays.Lord.Chris is always “li’l” to him, and they’re almost the same height. “No. Iwas atMaya’s.” I

stretch my legs forward and yawn. It’s been a long-ass day. “I can’t believe you’re drinking,” I saythroughmyyawn.

“I’mnotdrinking.It’sonebeer.”“IsthatwhatNanasaid?”Hecutsmealook.“Starr.”“UncleCarlos,”Isayasfirmly.Webattleitout,hardstareversushardstare.Hesetsthebeerdown.Here’sthething—Nana’sanalcoholic.She’snotasbadassheusedtobe,but

allittakesisoneharddrinkandshe’sthe“other”Nana.I’veheardstoriesofherdrunkenragesfrombackintheday.She’dblameMommaandUncleCarlosthattheirdaddywentbacktohiswifeandotherkids.She’dlockthemoutthehouse,cussatthem,allkindsofstuff.

So,no.Onebeerisn’tonebeertoUncleCarlos,who’salwaysbeenanti-alcohol.“Sorry,”hesays.“It’soneofthosenights.”“Yousawtheinterview,didn’tyou?”Iask.“Yeah.Iwashopingyoudidn’t.”“Idid.Didmymomsee—”“Ohyeah,shesawit.SodidPam.Andyourgrandma.I’veneverbeeninaroomwithsomanypissed-

offwomeninmylife.”Helooksatme.“Howareyoudealingwithit?”Ishrug.Yeah,I’mpissed,buthonestly?“Iexpectedhisdadtomakehimthevictim.”“Ididtoo.”Herestshischeekinhispalm,hiselbowproppedonhisknee.It’snot toodarkonthe

steps.Iseethebruisingonhishandfine.“So...,”Isay,pattingmyknees.“Onleave,huh?”Helooksatmelikehe’stryingtofigureoutwhatI’mgettingat.“Yeah?”Silence.“Didyoufighthim,UncleCarlos?”Hestraightensup.“No,Ihadadiscussionwithhim.”“Youmeanyourfisttalkedtohiseye.Didhesaysomethingaboutme?”“Hepointedhisgunatyou.Thatwasmorethanenough.”Hisvoicehasaforeignedgetoit.It’stotallyinappropriate,butIlaugh.IhavetoholdmysideIlaugh

sohard.“What’ssofunny?”hecries.“UncleCarlos,youpunchedsomebody!”“Hey,I’mfromGardenHeights.Iknowhowtofight.Icangetdown.”

I’mholleringrightnow.“It’snotfunny!”hesays.“Ishouldn’thavelostmycoollikethat.Itwasunprofessional.NowI’veset

abadexampleforyou.”“Yeah,youhave,MuhammadAli.”I’mstilllaughing.Nowhe’slaughing.“Hush,”hesays.Ourlaughterdiesdown,andit’srealquietouthere.Nothingtodobutlookattheskyandallthestars.

There’ssomanyof them tonight. It’spossible that Idon’tnotice themathomebecauseofall theotherstuff.Sometimesit’shardtobelieveGardenHeightsandRivertonHillssharethesamesky.

“YourememberwhatIusedtotellyou?”UncleCarlossays.Iscootclosertohim.“ThatI’mnotnamedafterthestars,butthestarsarenamedafterme.Youwere

reallytryingtogivemeabighead,huh?”Hechuckles.“No.Iwantedyoutoknowhowspecialyouare.”“Specialornot,youshouldn’thaveriskedyourjobforme.Youloveyourjob.”“ButIloveyoumore.You’reonereasonIevenbecameacop,babygirl.BecauseIloveyouandall

thosefolksintheneighborhood.”“Iknow.That’swhyIdon’twantyoutoriskit.Weneedtheoneslikeyou.”“Theoneslikeme.”Hegivesahollowlaugh.“Youknow,Igotpissedlisteningtothatmantalkabout

youandKhalil like that, but itmademeconsider the comments Imade aboutKhalil that night inyourparents’kitchen.”

“Whatcomments?”“Iknowyouwereeavesdropping,Starr.Don’tactbrand-new.”Ismirk.UncleCarlossaid“brand-new.”“YoumeanwhenyoucalledKhaliladrugdealer?”Henods.“Evenifhewas,Iknewthatboy.Watchedhimgrowupwithyou.Hewasmorethananybad

decisionhemade,”hesays.“IhatethatIletmyselffallintothatmind-setoftryingtorationalizehisdeath.Andat theendoftheday,youdon’tkillsomeoneforopeningacardoor.Ifyoudo,youshouldn’tbeacop.”

Itearup.It’sgoodtohearmyparentsandMs.Ofrahsaythatorseealltheprotestorsshoutaboutit.Frommyunclethecopthough?It’sarelief,evenifitmakeseverythinghurtalittlemore.

“ItoldBrianthat,”hesays,lookingathisknuckles.“AfterIclockedhim.Toldthechieftoo.Actually,IthinkIscreameditloudenoughforeverybodyintheprecincttohear.Itdoesn’ttakeawayfromwhatIdidthough.IdroppedtheballonKhalil.”

“No,youdidn’t—”“Yes,Idid,”hesays.“Iknewhim,knewhisfamily’ssituation.Afterhestoppedcomingaroundwith

you,hewasoutofsightandoutofmindtome,andthere’snoexcuseforthat.”There’snoexcuseformeeither.“Ithinkallofusfeellikethat,”Imutter.“That’sonereasonDaddy’s

determinedtohelpDeVante.”“Yeah,”hesays.“Metoo.”Ilookatallthestarsagain.DaddysayshenamedmeStarrbecauseIwashislightinthedarkness.I

needsomelightinmyowndarknessrightaboutnow.“Iwouldn’thavekilledKhalil,bytheway,”UncleCarlossays.“Idon’tknowalotofstuff,butIdo

knowthat.”Myeyessting,andmythroattightens.I’veturnedintosuchadamncrybaby.IsnuggleclosertoUncle

CarlosandhopeitsayseverythingIcan’t.

FIFTEEN

IttakesanuntouchedstackofpancakesforMommatosay,“Allright,Munch.What’sup?”WehaveatabletoourselvesinIHOP.It’searlymorning,andtherestaurant’salmostemptyexceptfor

usandthesebig-bellied,beardedtruckersstuffingtheirfacesinabooth.Thankstothem,countrymusicplaysonthejukebox.

Ipokemyforkatmypancakes.“Notrealhungry.”Somewhatalie,somewhatthetruth.I’mhavingaseriousemotionalhangover.There’sthatinterview.

UncleCarlos.Hailey.Khalil.DeVante.Myparents.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 firstsemipeacefulnightintheGarden.Justprotests,noriots.Copswerestillthrowingteargasthough.

Anyway,ifIbringupmyparents’fight,Momma’sgonnatellme,“Stayouttagrownfolks’business.”You’dthinksinceit’spartiallymyfaulttheyfought,itismybusiness,butnope.

“Idon’tknowwho’ssupposedtobelievethatyou’renothungry,”Mommasays.“You’vealwaysbeengreedy.”

Irollmyeyesandyawn.ShegotmeuptooearlyandsaidweweregoingtoIHOP,justthetwoofuslikeweused todobeforeSekani camealongand ruinedeverything.HehasanextrauniformatUncleCarlos’sandcangotoschoolwithDaniel.IonlyhadsomesweatsandaDrakeT-shirt—notDAofficeappropriate.Igottagohomeandchange.

“Thanksforbringingmehere,”Isay.Withmyawfulmood,Ioweherthat.“Anytime,baby.Wehaven’thungoutinawhile.SomebodydecidedIwasn’tcoolanymore.IthoughtI

wasstillcool, sowhatever.”Shesips fromhersteamingmugofcoffee.“Areyouscared to talk to theDA?”

“Notreally.”AlthoughIdonoticetheclockisonlythreeandahalfhoursawayfromournine-thirtymeeting.

“IsitthatBSofaninterview?Thatbastard.”Herewegoagain.“Momma—”“GothisdamndaddygoingonTV,tellinglies,”shesays.“Andwho’ssupposedtobelieveagrown

manwasthatscaredoftwochildren?”Peopleon the internetaresaying thesame thing.BlackTwitter’sbeengoing inonOfficerCruise’s

dad,claiminghisnameshouldbeTomCruisewiththatperformanceheputon.Tumblrtoo.I’msuretherearepeoplewhobelievehim—Haileydid—butMs.Ofrahwasright: itbackfired.FolkswhonevermetmeorKhalilarecallingBS.

Sowhiletheinterviewbothersme,itdoesn’tbothermethatmuch.“It’snotreallytheinterview,”Isay.“It’sotherstufftoo.”“Like?”“Khalil,”Isay.“DeVantetoldmesomestuffabouthim,andIfeelguilty.”

“Stufflikewhat?”shesays.“Whyhesolddrugs.HewastryingtohelpMs.BrendapayadebttoKing.”Momma’seyeswiden.“What?”“Yeah.Andhewasn’taKingLord.KhalilturnedKingdown,andKing’sbeenlyingtosaveface.”Mommashakesherhead.“WhyamInotsurprised?Kingwoulddosomemesslikethat.”Istareatmypancakes.“Ishould’veknownbetter.Should’veknownKhalilbetter.”“Youhadnowayofknowing,baby,”shesays.“That’sthething.IfIwould’vebeenthereforhim,I—”“Couldn’thavestoppedhim.Khalilwasalmostasstubbornasyou.Iknowyoucaredabouthimalot,

evenasmorethanafriend,butyoucan’tblameyourselfforthis.”Ilookupather.“Whatyoumean‘caredabouthimasmorethanafriend’?”“Don’tplaydumb,Starr.Y’alllikedeachotherforalongtime.”“Youthinkhelikedmetoo?”“Lord!”Mommarollshereyes.“Betweenthetwoofus,I’mtheoldone—”“Youjustcalledyourselfold.”“Olderone,”shecorrects,andshootsmeaquickstank-eye,“andIsawit.Howintheworlddidyou

missit?”“Idunno.Healwaystalkedaboutothergirls,notme.It’sweirdthough.IthoughtIwasovermycrush,

butsometimesIdon’tknow.”Momma traces the rim of her mug. “Munch,” she says, and it’s followed by a sigh. “Baby, look.

You’regrieving,okay?Thatcanamplifyyouremotionsandmakeyoufeelthingsyouhaven’tfeltinalongtime.EvenifyoudohavefeelingsforKhalil,there’snothingwrongwiththat.”

“EventhoughI’mwithChris?”“Yes.You’resixteen.You’reallowedtohavefeelingsformorethanoneperson.”“Soyou’resayingIcanbeaho?”“Girl!”Shepointsatme.“Don’tmakemekickyouunderthistable.I’msayingdon’tbeatyourselfup

about it. Grieve Khalil all you want.Miss him, allow yourself tomiss what could’ve been, let yourfeelingsgetoutofwhack.ButlikeItoldyou,don’tstopliving.Allright?”

“Allright.”“Good.Sothat’stwothings,”shesays.“Whatelseisup?”Whatisn’tup?Myheadistightlikemybrainisoverloaded.I’mguessingemotionalhangoversfeela

lotlikeactualhangovers.“Hailey,”Isay.Sheslurpshercoffee.Loudly.“Whatthatli’lgirldonow?”Hereshegoeswiththis.“Momma,you’veneverlikedher.”“No,I’veneverlikedhowyou’vefollowedherlikeyoucan’tthinkforyourself.Difference.”“Ihaven’t—”“Don’tlie!Rememberthatdrumsetyoubeggedmetobuy.Whydidyouwantit,Starr?”“Haileywantedtostartaband,butIlikedtheideatoo.”“Holdup, though.Didn’t you tellmeyouwanted toplayguitar in this ‘band,’butHailey saidyou

shouldplaydrums?”“Yeah,but—”“Themli’lJonasboys,”shesays.“Whichonedidyoureallylike?”“Joe.”“Butwhosaidyoushouldbewiththecurly-headedoneinstead?”

“Hailey,butNickwasstillfineasallget-out,andthisismiddleschoolstuff—”“Uh-uh!Lastyearyoubeggedmetoletyoucoloryourhairpurple.Why,Starr?”“Iwanted—”“No.Why,Starr?”shesays.“Therealwhy.”Damn.There’sapatternhere.“BecauseHaileywantedme,her,andMayatohavematchinghair.”“E-xact-damn-ly. Baby, I love you, but you have a history of putting your wants aside and doing

whateverthatli’lgirlwants.ExcusemeifIdon’tlikeher.”Withallmyreceiptsputouttherelikethat,Isay,“Icanseewhy.”“Good.Realizingisthefirststep.Sowhatshedonow?”“We had an argument yesterday,” I say. “Really though, things have been weird for a while. She

stoppedtextingmeandunfollowedmyTumblr.”Mommareachesherforkontomyplateandbreaksoffapieceofpancake.“WhatisTumblranyway?

IsitlikeFacebook?”“No,andyou’reforbiddentogetone.Noparentsallowed.YouguysalreadytookoverFacebook.”“Youhaven’trespondedtomyfriendrequestyet.”“Iknow.”“IneedCandyCrushlives.”“That’swhyI’llneverrespond.”Shegivesme“thelook.”Idon’tcare.TherearesomethingsIabsolutelyrefusetodo.“SosheunfollowedyourTumblrthingy,”Mommasays,provingwhyshecanneverhaveone.“Isthat

all?”“No.Shesaidanddidsomestupidstufftoo.”Irubmyeyes.LikeIsaid,it’stooearly.“I’mstartingto

wonderwhywe’refriends.”“Well, Munch”—she gets another freaking piece of my pancakes—“you have to decide if the

relationship isworth salvaging.Make a list of the good stuff, thenmake a list of the bad stuff. If oneoutweighstheother,thenyouknowwhatyougottado.Trustme,thatmethodhasn’tfailedmeyet.”

“IsthatwhatyoudidwithDaddyafterIeshagotpregnant?”Iask.“’CauseI’llbehonest,Iwould’vekickedhimtothecurb.Nooffense.”

“It’sallright.Alotofpeoplecalledmeafoolforgoingbacktoyourdaddy.Shoot,theymaystillcallmea foolbehindmyback.Yournanawouldhaveastroke ifsheknewthis,butshe’s thereal reasonIstayedwithyourdaddy.”

“IthoughtNanahatedDaddy?”IthinkNanastillhatesDaddy.SadnesscreepsintoMomma’seyes,butshegivesmeasmallsmile.“WhenIwasgrowingup,your

grandmotherwoulddoandsayhurtfulthingswhenshewasdrunk,andapologizethenextmorning.AtanearlyageI learnedthatpeoplemakemistakes,andyouhavetodecide if theirmistakesarebigger thanyourloveforthem.”

Shetakesadeepbreath.“Seven’snotamistake,Ilovehimtodeath,butMaverickmadeamistakeinhisactions.However,allofhisgoodandtheloveweshareoutweighsthatonemistake.”

“EvenwithcrazyIeshainourlives?”Iask.Mommachuckles.“Evenwithcrazy,messy,annoyingIesha.It’salittledifferent,yeah,butifthegood

outweighsthebad,keepHaileyinyourlife,baby.”Thatmightbetheproblem.Alotofthegoodstuffisfromthepast.TheJonasBrothers,HighSchool

Musical,oursharedgrief.Ourfriendshipisbasedonmemories.Whatdowehavenow?“Whatifthegooddoesn’toutweighthebad?”Iask.“Thenlethergo,”Mommasays.“Andifyoukeepherinyourlifeandshekeepsdoingthebad,lether

go.BecauseIpromiseyou,hadyourdaddypulledsomemesslikethatagain,I’dbemarriedtoIdrisElbaandsaying,‘Maverickwho?’”

Ibustoutlaughing.“Noweat,”shesays,andhandsmeherfork.“BeforeIhavenochoicebuttoeatthesepancakesfor

you.”

I’m so used to seeing smoke inGardenHeights, it’sweirdwhenwe go back and there isn’t any. It’sdreary because of a late-night storm, butwe can ridewith thewindows down. Even though the riotsstopped,wepassasmanytanksaswepasslowriders.

Butathomesmokegreetsusatthefrontdoor.“Maverick!”Mommahollers,andwehurrytowardthekitchen.Daddypourswaterona skillet at the sink, and the skillet respondswitha loud sizzleandawhite

cloud.Whateverheburned,heburneditbad.“Hallelujah!”Seventhrowshishandsupatthetable.“Somebodywhocanactuallycook.”“Shutup,”Daddysays.Mommatakestheskilletandexaminestheunidentifiableremains.“Whatwasthis?Eggs?”“Gladtoseeyouknowhowtocomehome,”hesays.Hewalksrightbymewithoutaglanceoragood

morning.He’sstillpissedaboutChris?Mommagetsaforkandstabsatthecharredfoodstucktotheskillet.“Youwantsomebreakfast,Seven

baby?”Hewatchesherandgoes,“Um,nah.Bytheway,theskilletdidn’tdoanything,Ma.”“You’reright,”shesays,butshekeepsstabbing.“Seriously,Icanfixyousomething.Eggs.Bacon.”

Shelookstowardthehallandshouts,“Theporkkind!Pig!Swine!All’athat!”Somuchfor thegoodoutweighingthebad.SevenandI lookateachother.Wehatewhentheyfight

because we always get stuck in the middle of their wars. Our appetites are the greatest casualty. IfMomma’smadandnotcooking,wehavetoeatDaddy’sstrugglemeals,likespaghettiwithketchupandhotdogsinit.

“I’llgrabsomethingatschool.”Sevenkisseshercheek.“Thanksthough.”Hegivesmeafistbumponhiswayout,theSevenwayofwishingmegoodluck.

Daddyreturnswearingabackwardscap.Hegrabshiskeysandabanana.“WehavetobeattheDA’sofficeatninethirty,”Mommasays.“Areyoucoming?”“Oh,Carloscan’tdoit?Sincehetheoney’allletinonsecretsandstuff.”“Youknowwhat,Maverick—”“I’llbethere,”hesays,andleaves.Mommastabstheskilletsomemore.

TheDApersonallyescortsustoaconferenceroom.HernameisKarenMonroe,andshe’samiddle-agedwhiteladywhoclaimssheunderstandswhatI’mgoingthrough.

Ms.Ofrahisalreadyin theconferenceroomalongwithsomepeoplewhoworkat theDA’soffice.Ms.Monroegivesa long speechabouthowmuch shewants justice forKhalil andapologizes that it’stakenthislongforustomeet.

“Twelvedays,tobeexact,”Daddypointsout.“Toolong,ifyouaskme.”Ms.Monroelooksabituncomfortableatthat.Sheexplainsthegrandjuryproceedings.Thensheasksaboutthatnight.IprettymuchtellherwhatI

toldthecops,exceptshedoesn’taskanystupidquestionsaboutKhalil.ButwhenIgettothepartwhenI

describethenumberofshots,howtheyhitKhalilinhisback,thelookonhisface—Mystomachbubbles,bilepoolsinmymouth,andIgag.Mommajumpsupandgrabsagarbagebin.

Sheputsitinfrontofmequickenoughtocatchthevomitthatspewsfrommymouth.AndIcryandpuke.Cryandpuke.It’sallIcando.TheDAgetsmeasodaandsays,“That’llbealltoday,sweetie.Thankyou.”DaddyhelpsmetoMomma’scar,andpeopleinthehallsgawk.IbettheyknowI’mthewitnessfrom

myteary,snottyface,andareprobablygivingmeanewname—PoorThing.Asin,“Oh,thatpoorthing.”Thatmakesitworse.

Igetinthecarawayfromtheirpityandrestmyheadagainstthewindow,feelinglikeshit.

Mommaparks in frontof the store, andDaddypullsupbehindus.Hegetsouthis truckandcomes toMomma’ssideofthecar.Sherollsherwindowdown.

“I’mgoingtotheschool,”shetellshim.“Theyneedtoknowwhat’sgoingon.Canshestaywithyou?”“Yeah,that’sfine.Shecanrestintheoffice.”Anotherthingpukingandcryinggetsyou—peopletalkaboutyoulikeyou’renotthereandmakeplans

foryou.PoorThingapparentlycan’thear.“Yousure?”Mommaaskshim.“OrdoIneedtotakehertoCarlos?”Daddysighs.“Lisa—”“Maverick,Idon’tgiveaflyingmonkey’sasswhatyourproblemis,justbethereforyourdaughter.

Please?”Daddymovestomysideofthecarandopensthedoor.“Comehere,baby.”Iclimbout,blubberinglikealittlekidwhoskinnedherknee.Daddypullsmeintohischest,rubbing

mybackandkissingmyhair.Mommadrivesoff.“I’msorry,baby,”hesays.Thecrying,thepukingdon’tmeananythinganymore.Mydaddy’sgotme.Wegointhestore.Daddyturnsonthelightsbutkeepstheclosedsigninthewindow.Hegoestohis

officeforasecond,thencomesbacktomeandholdsmychin.“Openyourmouth,”hesays.Iopenit,andhisfacescrunchesup.“Ill.Wegottagetyouawholebottle

ofmouthwash.’Bouttoraisethedeadwiththatbreath.”Ilaughwithtearsinmyeyes.LikeIsaid,Daddy’stalentedthatway.Hewipesmyfacewithhishands,whichareroughassandpaper,butI’musedtothem.Heframesmy

face.Ismile.“Theregomybaby,”hesays.“You’llbea’ight.”Ifeelnormalenoughtosay,“NowI’myourbaby?Youhaven’tbeenactinglikeit.”“Don’tstart!”Hegoesdownthemedicineaisle.“Soundinglikeyourmomma.”“I’mjustsaying.You’vebeenextrasaltytoday.”HereturnswithabottleofListerine.“Here.Beforeyoukillmyproducewithyourbreath.”“Likeyoukilledthoseeggsthismorning?”“Ay,thosewereblackenedeggs.Y’alldon’tknow’boutthat.”“Nobodyknows’boutthat.”A couple of rinses in the restroom transformmymouth from a swamp of puke residue to normal.

Daddywaitson thewoodenbenchat the frontof thestore.Ouroldercustomerswhocan’twalkmuchusuallysitthereasDaddy,Seven,orIgettheirgroceriesforthem.

Daddypatsthespotnexttohim.Isit.“You’regonnaopenbackupsoon?”“Inali’lbit.Whatyouseeinthatwhiteboy?”

Damn.Iwasn’texpectinghimtogorightintoit.“Besidesthefacthe’sadorable—”Isay,andDaddymakesagaggingsound,“he’ssmart,funny,andhecaresaboutme.Alot.”

“Yougotaproblemwithblackboys?”“No. I’ve had black boyfriends.” Three of them. One in fourth grade, although that doesn’t really

count,andtwoinmiddleschool,whichdon’tcounteither’causenobodyknowsshitaboutarelationshipinmiddleschool.Oraboutanythingreally.

“What?”hesays.“Iain’tknow’boutthem.”“BecauseIknewyou’dactcrazy.Putahitonthemorsomething.”“Youknow,thatain’tabadidea.”“Daddy!”Ismackhisarmashecracksup.“DidCarlosknow’boutthem?”heasks.“No.Hewould’veranbackgroundchecksonthemorarrestedthem.Notcool.”“Sowhyyoutellhim’boutthewhiteboy?”“Ididn’ttellhim,”Isay.“Hefoundout.Chrislivesdownthestreetfromhim,soitwashardertohide.

Andlet’sberealhere,Daddy.I’veheardthestuffyou’vesaidaboutinterracialcouples.Ididn’twantyoutalkingaboutmeandChrislikethat.”

“Chris,”hemocks.“Whatkindaplain-assnameisthat?”He’ssopetty.“Sinceyouwannaaskmequestions,doyouhaveaproblemwithwhitepeople?”“Notreally.”“Notreally?”“Ay,I’mbeinghonest.Mythingis,girlsusuallydateboyswhoareliketheirdaddies,andIain’tgon’

lie,whenIsawthatwhite—Chris,”hecorrects,andIsmile.“Igotworried.ThoughtIturnedyouagainstblackmenordidn’tsetagoodexampleofablackman.Icouldn’thandlethat.”

I restmyheadonhisshoulder.“Nah,Daddy.Youhaven’tsetagoodexampleofwhatablackmanshouldbe.You’vesetagoodexampleofwhatamanshouldbe.Duh!”

“Duh,”hemocks,andkissesthetopofmyhead.“Mybaby.”AgrayBMWcomestoasuddenstopinfrontofthestore.Daddynudgesmeoffthebench.“C’mon.”Hepullsme tohisofficeandshovesme in. IcatchaglimpseofKinggettingout theBMWbefore

Daddyclosesthedoorinmyface.Handsshaking,Icrackopenthedoor.Daddystandsguardintheentranceofthestore.Hishanddriftstohiswaist.Hispiece.ThreeotherKingLordshopouttheBMW,butDaddycallsout,“Nah.Ifyouwannatalk,wedothis

alone.”Kingnodsathisboys.Theywaitbesidethecar.Daddystepsaside,andKinglumbersin.I’mashamedtoadmitit,butIdon’tknowifDaddystandsa

chanceagainstKing.Daddyisn’tskinnyorshort,butcomparedtoKing,who’spuremuscleatsixfeet,helookstiny.It’sdamnnearblasphemoustothinklikethatthough.

“Whereheat?”Kingasks.“Wherewhoat?”“Youknowwho.Vante.”“HowI’msupposedtoknow?”Daddysays.“Hewasworkinghere,wasn’the?”“Foradayortwo,yeah.Iain’tseenhimtoday.”KingpacesandpointshiscigaratDaddy.Sweatglistensontherollsoffatonthebackofhishead.

“Youlying.”“WhyIgottalie,King?”“AlltheshitIdidforyou,”Kingsays,“andthishowyourepayme?Whereheat,BigMav?”“Idon’tknow.”“Whereheat?”Kingyells.“IsaidIdon’tknow!Heaskedmeforacouplehundreddollars theotherday.I toldhimhehadto

work for it.Sohedid. Ihadsomemercyandpaid itallup front likeadumbass.Hewassupposed tocomeintodayanddidn’t.Endofstory.”

“WhyheneedmoneyfromyouwhenhestolefiveGsfromme?”“HellifIknow,”Daddysays.“IfIfindoutyoulying—”“Youain’tgottaworry’boutthat.Gottoomanyproblemsofmyown.”“Oh,yeah.Iknow’boutyourproblems,”Kingsays,alaughbubblingfromhim.“IheardStarr-Starr

the witness they been talking ’bout on the news. Hope she know to keep her mouth shut when shesupposedto.”

“Whatthehellisthatsupposedtomean?”“Thesecasesalwaysinteresting,”Kingsays.“Theydigforinformation.Shit,theytrytofindoutmore

’boutthepersonwhodiedthanthepersonwhoshotthem.Makeitseemlikeagoodthingtheygotkilled.They already saying Khalil sold drugs. That could mean problems for anybody who may have beeninvolvedinhishustle.SopeoplegottabecarefulwhentheytalkingtotheDA.Wouldn’twantthemtobeindanger’causetheyrantheirmouth.”

“Nah,”Daddysays.“Thefolkswhowereinvolvedinthehustleneedtobecareful’boutwhattheysayoreventhink’boutdoing.”

ThereareseveralagonizingsecondsofDaddyandKingstaringeachotherdown.Daddy’shandisathiswaistlikeit’sgluedthere.

Kingleaves,pushingthedoorhardenoughtonearlybreakthehinges,thebellclangingwildly.HegetsinhisBMW.Hisminionsfollow,andhepeelsout,leavingthetruthbehind.

He’sgonnamessmeupifIratonhim.Daddysinksontotheoldpeople’sbench.Hisshouldersslump,andhetakesadeepbreath.

WecloseearlyandpickupdinnerfromReuben’s.Duringtheshortdrivehome,Inoticeeverycarbehindus,especiallyifit’sgray.“Iwon’tlethimdoanythingtoyou,”Daddysays.Iknow.Butstill.Momma’sbeatingthehelloutofsomesteakswhenwegethome.Firsttheskilletandnowredmeat.

Nothinginthekitchenissafe.Daddyholdsupthebagsforhertosee.“Igotdinner,baby.”Itdoesn’tstopherfrombeatingthesteaks.Weall sit around thekitchen table,but it’s thequietestdinner inCarter familyhistory.Myparents

aren’ttalking.Seven’snottalking.I’mdefinitelynottalking.Oreating.BetweenthedisasterattheDA’sofficeandKing,myribsandbakedbeanslookdisgusting.Sekanican’tsitstill,likehe’sitchingtogiveeverydetailofhisday.Iguesshecantellnobody’sinthemood.Brickzchompsandslobbersoversomeribsinhiscorner.

Afterward,Mommacollectsourplatesandsilverware.“Allright,guys,finishyourhomework.Anddon’tworry,Starr.Yourteachersgavemeyours.”

WhywouldIworryaboutthat?“Thanks.”ShestartstopickupDaddy’splate,buthetouchesherarm.“Nah.Igotit.”Hetakesalloftheplatesfromher,dumpstheminthesink,andturnsthewateron.“Maverick,youdon’thavetodothat.”Hesquirtswaytoomuchdishwashingliquidinthesink.Healwaysdoes.“It’scool.Whattimeyou

gottabeattheclinicinthemorning?”“I’llbeoffagaintomorrow.Ihaveajobinterview.”Daddyturnsaround.“Anotherone?”Anotherone?“Yeah.MarkhamMemorialagain.”“That’swhereAuntPamworks,”Isay.“Yeah.Herdadisontheboardandrecommendedme.It’sthePediatricsNursingManager.Thisismy

secondinterviewforitactually.Theywantsomeofthehigher-upstointerviewmethistime.”“Baby,that’samazing,”Daddysays.“Thatmeansyou’reclosetogettingit,huh?”“Hopefully,”shesays.“Pamthinksit’sasgoodasmine.”“Whydidn’tyouguystellus?”Sevenasks.“’Causeit’snoneofy’allbusiness,”Daddysays.“Andwedidn’twanttogetyourhopesup,”Mommaadds.“It’sacompetitiveposition.”“Howmuchdoesitpay?”Seven’srudeselfasks.“MorethanwhatImakeattheclinic.Sixfigures.”“Six?”SevenandIsay.“Momma’sgonnabeamillionaire!”Sekanishouts.Iswearhedoesn’tknowanything.“Sixfiguresisthehundredthousands,Sekani,”Isay.“Oh.It’sstillalot.”“Whattimeisyourinterview?”Daddyasks.“Eleven.”“Okay,good.”Heturnsaroundandwipesaplate.“Wecanlookatsomehousesbeforeyougotoit.”Momma’shandgoesacrossherchest,andshestepsback.“What?”Helooksatme,thenather.“I’mgettingusouttaGardenHeights,baby.Yougotmyword.”Theideaisascrazyasafour-pointshot.LivingsomewhereotherthanGardenHeights?Yeah,right.

I’dneverbelieveitifitwasn’tDaddysayingit.Daddyneversayssomethingunlesshemeansit.King’sthreatmust’vereallygottohim.

HescrubstheskilletthatMommastabbedthismorning.Shetakesitfromhim,setsitdown,andgrabshishand.“Don’tworryaboutthat.”“Itoldyouit’scool.Icangetthedishes.”“Forgetthedishes.”Andshepullshimtotheirbedroomandclosesthedoor.Suddenly,theirTVblaresrealloud,andJodecisingsoveritfromthestereo.Ifthatwomanendsup

withafetusinheruterus,Iwillbecompletelydone.Done.“Ill,man,”Sevensays,knowingthedealtoo.“They’retoooldforthat.”“Toooldforwhat?”Sekaniasks.“Nothing,”SevenandIsaytogether.“YouthinkDaddymeantthatthough?”IaskSeven.“We’removing?”Hetwistsoneofhisdreadsattheroot.Idon’tthinkherealizeshe’sdoingit.“Soundslikey’allare.

EspeciallyifMagetsthisjob.”

“Y’all?”Isay.“You’renotstayinginGardenHeights.”“Imean,I’llvisit,butIcan’tleavemymommaandmysisters,Starr.Youknowthat.”“Yourmommaputyouout,”Sekanisays“Whereelseyougonnago,stupid?”“Whoyoucallingstupid?”Sevenstickshishandunderhisarmpit,thenrubsitinSekani’sface.The

onetimehedidittomeIwasnine.Hegotabustedlip,andIgotawhooping.“You’re not gonna be at your momma’s house anyway,” I say. “You’re going away to college,

hallelujah,thankBlackJesus.”Sevenraiseshisbrows.“Youwantanarmpithandtoo?AndI’mgoingtoCentralCommunitysoIcan

stayatmymomma’shouseandwatchoutformysisters.”Thatstings.Alittle.I’mhissistertoo,notjustthem.“House,”Irepeat.“Younevercallithome.”“Yeah,Ido,”hesays.“No,youdon’t.”“Yeah.”“Shutthehellup.”Iendthatargument.“Ooh!”Sekaniholdshishandout.“Gimmemydollar!”“Hellno,”Isay.“Thatshitdoesn’tworkwithme.”“Threedollars!”“Okay,fine.I’llgiveyouathree-dollarbill.”“I’veneverseenathree-dollarbill,”hesays.“Exactly.Andyou’llneverseemythreedollars.”

PART2

FIVEWEEKSAFTERIT

SIXTEEN

Ms.Ofraharrangedformetodoaninterviewwithoneofthenationalnewsprogramstoday—exactlyaweekbeforeItestifybeforethegrandjurynextMonday.

It’saroundsixo’clockwhenthe limothat thenewsprogramsentarrives.Myfamily’scomingwithme.Idoubtmybrotherswillbeinterviewed,butSevenwantstosupportme.Sekaniclaimshedoestoo,butreallyhe’shopinghe’llget“discovered”somehowwithallthosecamerasaround.

Myparentstoldhimabouteverything.Asmuchashegetsonmynerves,itwassweetwhenhegavemeahandmadecardthatsaid“Sorry.”UntilIopenedit.TherewasdrawingofmecryingoverKhalil,andIhaddevilhorns.Sekanisaidhewantedittobe“real.”Littleasshole.

Weallheadouttothelimo.Someneighborswatchcuriouslyfromtheirporchesandyards.Mommamadeallofus,includingDaddy,dressuplikewe’regoingtoChristTemple—notquiteEasterformalbutnot“diversechurch”casual.Shesayswe’renotgonnahavethenewspeoplethinkingwe’re“hoodrats.”

Soaswe’rewalking to thecar,she’sall,“Whenweget there,don’t touchanythingandonlyspeakwhensomebodyspeakstoyou.It’s‘yes,ma’am’and‘yes,sir,’or‘no,ma’am’and‘no,sir.’DoImakemyselfclear?”

“Yes,ma’am,”thethreeofussay.“All right now, Starr,” one of our neighbors calls out. I get that just about every day in the

neighborhoodnow.Word’s spreadingaround theGarden that I’m thewitness. “All rightnow” ismorethanagreeting.It’sasimplewaypeopleletmeknowtheygotmyback.

The best part though? It’s never “All right now,BigMav’s daughterwhoworks in the store.” It’salwaysStarr.

Weleaveinthelimo.IdrummyfingersonmykneeasIwatchtheneighborhoodpassby.I’vetalkedtodetectivesandtheDA,andnextweekI’lltalktothegrandjury.I’vetalkedaboutthatnightsomuchIcanrepeatitbackinmysleep.Butthewholeworldwillseethis.

Myphonevibratesinmyblazerpocket.AcoupleoftextsfromChris.Mymomwantstoknowwhatcoloryourpromdressis.SomethingaboutthetailorneedstoknowASAP.Oh,shit.TheJunior-SeniorPromisSaturday.Ihaven’tboughtadress.WithallthisKhalilstuff,I’m

notsureIwannago.MommasaidIneedtogetmymindoffthings.Isaidno.Shegaveme“thelook.”SoI’mgoingtothedamnprom.Thisdictatorshipshe’son?Notcool.ItextChrisback.Uh...lightblue?Heresponds:Youdon’thaveadressyet?I’vegotplentyoftime,Iwriteback.Justbeenbusy.It’s true.Ms.Ofrahpreparedme for this intervieweverydayafter school.Somedayswe finished

early, and I helped out around JustUs for Justice.Answered phones, passed out flyers, anything theyneededmetodo.SometimesIlistenedinontheirstaffmeetingsastheydiscussedpolicereformideasand

theimportanceoftellingthecommunitytoprotestnotriot.IaskedDr.DavisifJustUscouldhavearoundtablediscussionatWilliamsonliketheydoatGarden

High.Hesaidhedidn’tseetheneed.Chrisrepliestomypromtext:Okay,ifyousaysoBtwVantesayssup.AbouttokillhimonMaddenHeneedstostopcallingmeBieberthoAfterallthat“whiteboytryingtobeblack”shitDeVantesaidaboutChris,latelyhe’satChris’shouse

morethanIam.ChrisinvitedhimovertoplayMadden,andallofasuddenthey’re“bros.”AccordingtoDeVante,Chris’smassivevideogamecollectionmakesupforhiswhiteness.

ItoldDeVantehe’savideogamethot.Hetoldmetoshutup.We’recoollikethatthough.Wearriveatafancyhoteldowntown.Awhiteguyinahoodiewaitsundertheawningleadingupto

thedoor.HehasaclipboardunderhisarmandaStarbuckscupinhishand.Still,hesomehowmanages toopenthe limodoorandshakeourhandswhenwegetout.“John, the

producer. It’s a pleasure tomeet you.”He shakesmy hand a second time. “And letme guess, you’reStarr.”

“Yes,sir.”“Thankyousomuchforhavingthebraverytodothis.”There’s that word again. Bravery. Brave peoples’ legs don’t shake. Brave people don’t feel like

puking.Bravepeoplesuredon’thavetoremindthemselveshowtobreatheiftheythinkaboutthatnighttoohard.Ifbraveryisamedicalcondition,everybody’smisdiagnosedme.

Johnleadsusthroughallofthesetwistsandturns,andI’msogladI’mwearingflats.Hecan’tstoptalkingabouthowimportant theinterviewisandhowmuchtheywannaget thetruthout there.He’snotexactlyaddingtomy“bravery.”

Hetakesustothehotelcourtyard,wheresomecameraoperatorsandothershowpeoplearesettingup.Inthemiddleofthechaos,theinterviewer,DianeCarey,isgettinghermakeupdone.

It’sweirdseeingherinthefleshandnotasabunchofpixelsonTV.WhenIwasyounger,everysingletime I spent the night at Nana’s house shemademe sleep in one of her long-ass nightgowns, saymybedtime prayers for at least five minutes, and watch Diane Carey’s news report so I could be“knowledgeableoftheworld.”

“Hi!”Mrs.Carey’sfacelightsupwhensheseesus.Shecomesover,andIgottagivethemakeupladyprops’causeshefollowsherandkeepsworkinglikeapro.Mrs.Careyshakesourhands.“Diane.Soniceto meet you all. And you must be Starr,” she says to me. “Don’t be nervous. This will simply be aconversationbetweenthetwoofus.”

Thewholetimeshetalks,someguysnapsphotosofus.Yeah,thiswillbeanormalconversation.“Starr, we were thinking we could get shots of you and Diane walking and talking around the

courtyard,”Johnsays.“Thenwe’llgouptothesuiteanddotheconversationsbetweenyouandDiane;you,Diane,andMs.Ofrah;andfinallyyouandyourparents.Afterthat,we’llbeallset.”

OneoftheproductionpeoplemicsmeupasJohngivesmearundownofthiswalkandtalkthing.“It’sonlyatransitionalshot,”hesays.“Simplestuff.”

Simplemyass.Thefirsttime,Ipracticallypower-walk.Thesecondtime,IwalklikeI’minafuneralprocessionalandcan’tanswerMrs.Carey’squestions.Ineverrealizedwalkingandtalkingrequiredsomuchcoordination.

Oncewegetthatright,wetakeanelevatortothetopfloor.Johnleadsustoahugesuite—seriously,it

looks like a penthouse—overlooking downtown. About a dozen people are setting up cameras andlighting.Ms.Ofrah’sthereinoneofherKhalilshirtsandaskirt.Johnsaysthey’rereadyforme.

I sit in the loveseat across fromMrs.Carey. I’ve never been able to crossmy legs, forwhateverreason,sothat’soutthequestion.Theycheckmymic,andMrs.Careytellsmetorelax.Soon,thecamerasarerolling.

“Millions of people around theworld have heard the nameKhalilHarris,” she says, “and they’vedevelopedtheirownideasofwhohewas.Whowashetoyou?”

Morethanhemayhaveeverrealized.“Oneofmybestfriends,”Isay.“Wekneweachothersincewewerebabies.Ifhewerehere,he’dpointoutthathewasfivemonths,twoweeks,andthreedaysolderthanme.”Webothchuckleatthat.“Butthat’swhoKhalilis—was.”

Damn.Ithurtstocorrectmyself.“Hewasajokester.Evenwhenthingswerehard,he’dsomehowfindsomelightinit.Andhe...”My

voicecracks.Iknowit’scorny,butIthinkhe’shere.HisnosyasswouldshowuptomakesureIsaytherightthings.

ProbablycallingmehisnumberonefanorsomeannoyingtitlethatonlyKhalilcanthinkof.Imissthatboy.“Hehadabigheart,” I say. “Iknow that somepeoplecallhima thug,but ifyouknewhim,you’d

knowthatwasn’tthecaseatall.I’mnotsayinghewasanangeloranything,buthewasn’tabadperson.Hewasa...”Ishrug.“Hewasakid.”

Shenods.“Hewasakid.”“Hewasakid.”“Whatdoyouthinkaboutpeoplewhofocusonthenot-so-goodaspectofhim?”sheasks.“Thefact

thathemayhavesolddrugs?”Ms.OfrahoncesaidthatthisishowIfight,withmyvoice.SoIfight.“Ihateit,”Isay.“Ifpeopleknewwhyhesolddrugs,theywouldn’ttalkabouthimthatway.”Mrs.Careysitsupalittle.“Whydidhesellthem?”IglanceatMs.Ofrah,andsheshakesherhead.Duringallourprepmeetings,sheadvisedmenottogo

intodetailsaboutKhalilsellingdrugs.Shesaidthepublicdoesn’thavetoknowaboutthat.ButthenIlookatthecamera,suddenlyawarethatmillionsofpeoplewillwatchthisinafewdays.

Kingmaybeoneofthem.Althoughhisthreatisloudinmyhead,it’snotnearlyasloudaswhatKenyasaidthatdayinthestore.

Khalilwoulddefendme.Ishoulddefendhim.SoIgearuptothrowapunch.“Khalil’smom is adrugaddict,” I tellMrs.Carey. “Anybodywhoknewhimknewhowmuch that

botheredhimandhowmuchhehateddrugs.Heonly sold them to help her out of a situationwith thebiggestdrugdealerandgangleaderintheneighborhood.”

Ms.Ofrahnoticeablysighs.Myparentshavewideeyes.It’sdrysnitching,but it’ssnitching.AnybodywhoknowsanythingaboutGardenHeightswillknow

exactlywhoI’mtalkingabout.Hell,iftheywatchMr.Lewis’sinterviewtheycanfigureitout.Buthey,sinceKingwantstogoaroundtheneighborhoodlyingandsayingKhalilreppedhisset,Ican

lettheworldknowKhalilwasforcedtoselldrugsforhim.“Hismom’slifewasindanger,”Isay.“That’stheonlyreasonhe’deverdosomethinglikethat.Andhewasn’tagangmember—”

“Hewasn’t?”“No,ma’am.Heneverwantedtofallintothattypeoflife.ButIguess—”IthinkaboutDeVantefor

somereason.“Idon’tunderstandhoweveryonecanmakeitseemlikeit’sokayhegotkilledifhewasadrugdealerandagangbanger.”

Ahookstraighttothejaw.“Themedia?”sheasks.“Yes,ma’am.Itseemslike theyalways talkaboutwhathemayhavesaid,whathemayhavedone,

whathemaynothavedone.Ididn’tknowadeadpersoncouldbechargedinhisownmurder,youknow?”ThemomentIsayit,Iknowit’smyjabtothemouth.Mrs.Careyasksformyaccountofthatnight.Ican’tgointoalotofdetails—Ms.Ofrahtoldmenotto

—butItellherwedideverythingOne-Fifteenaskedandneveroncecussedathimlikehisfatherclaims.ItellherhowafraidIwas,howKhalilwassoconcernedaboutmethatheopenedthedoorandaskedifIwasokay.

“Sohedidn’tmakeathreatonOfficerCruise’slife?”shequestions.“No,ma’am.Hisexactwordswere,‘Starr,areyouokay?’Thatwasthelastthinghesaid,and—”I’muglycrying,describingthemomentwhentheshotsrangoutandKhalillookedatmeforthelast

time;howIheldhiminthestreetandsawhiseyesglossover.ItellherOne-Fifteenpointedhisgunatme.“Hepointedhisgunatyou?”sheasks.“Yes,ma’am.Hekeptitonmeuntiltheotherofficersarrived.”Behindthecameras,Mommaputsherhandoverhermouth.FurysparksinDaddy’seyes.Ms.Ofrah

looksstunned.It’sanotherjab.See,IonlytoldUncleCarlosthatpart.Mrs. Carey givesmeKleenex and amoment to get myself together. “Has this situationmade you

fearfulofcops?”sheeventuallyasks.“Idon’tknow,”Isaytruthfully.“Myuncle’sacop.Iknownotallcopsarebad.Andtheyrisktheir

lives, youknow? I’malways scared formyuncle.But I’m tiredof themassuming.Especiallywhen itcomestoblackpeople.”

“Youwishthatmorecopswouldn’tmakeassumptionsaboutblackpeople?”sheclarifies.“Right.Thisallhappenedbecausehe”—Ican’tsayhisname—“assumedthatwewereuptonogood.

Becausewe’reblackandbecauseofwherewelive.Wewerejust twokids,mindingourbusiness,youknow?HisassumptionkilledKhalil.Itcould’vekilledme.”

Akickstraighttotheribs.“IfOfficerCruiseweresittinghere,”Mrs.Careysays,“whatwouldyousaytohim?”Iblinkseveraltimes.Mymouthwaters,butIswallow.NowayI’mgonnaletmyselfcryorthrowup

fromthinkingaboutthatman.Ifheweresittinghere, Idon’thaveenoughBlackJesus inmeto tellhimIforgivehim.InsteadI’d

probablypunchhim.Straightup.ButMs.Ofrahsaysthis interviewis thewayIfight.Whenyoufight,youputyourselfout there,not

caringwhoyouhurtorifyou’llgethurt.SoIthrowonemoreblow,rightatOne-Fifteen.“I’daskhimifhewishedheshotmetoo.”

SEVENTEEN

My interview aired yesterday on Diane Carey’sFriday Night News Special. This morning, John theproducercalledandsaidit’soneofthemost-watchedinterviewsinthenetwork’shistory.

Amillionaire,whowishestoremainanonymous,offeredtopaymycollegetuition.Johnsaidtheofferwas made right after the interview aired. I think it’s Oprah, but that’s just me because I’ve alwaysimaginedshe’smyfairygodmotherandonedayshe’llcometomyhousesaying,“Yougetacar!”

The network’s already got a bunch of emails in support of me. I haven’t seen any of them, but IreceivedthebestmessageinatextfromKenya.

Bouttimeyouspokeout.Don’tletthisfamegotoyourheadtho.Theinterviewtrendedonline.WhenI lookedthismorning,peoplewerestill talkingabout it.Black

TwitterandTumblrhavemyback.Someassholeswantmedead.King’snottoohappyeither.Kenyatoldmehe’sheatedthatIdrysnitched.TheSaturdaynewsprogramsdiscussedtheinterviewtoo,dissectingmywordslikeI’mthepresident

orsomething.Thisonenetworkisoutragedbymy“disregardforcops.”I’mnotsurehowtheygotthatouttheinterview.It’snotlikeIwasonsomeNWA“FuckthePolice”typeshit.IsimplysaidI’daskthemanifhewishedheshotmetoo.

Idon’tcare.I’mnotapologizingforhowIfeel.Peoplecansaywhattheywant.But it’sSaturday, and I’m sitting in aRolls-Royceonmyway topromwith aboyfriendwho isn’t

sayingmuchofanythingtome.Chrisismoreinterestedinhisphone.“You looknice,” I tell him.Which he does.His black tuxwith a light-blue vest and tiematch the

straplesstea-lengthgownIhaveon.HisblackleatherChuckTaylorsarealsoagoodmatchtomysilversequinedones.Thedictator,a.k.a.mymom,boughtmyoutfit.Shehasprettygoodtaste.

Chrissays,“Thanks.Youtoo,”butit’ssorobotic,likehe’ssayingwhathe’ssupposedtoandnotwhathewantsto.AndhowdoesheknowwhatIlooklike?He’sbarelylookedatmesincehepickedmeupfromUncleCarlos’shouse.

Ihavenocluewhat’swrongwithhim.Thingshavebeenfinebetweenus,asfarasIknow.Now,outofnowhere,he’sallmoodyandsilent.IwouldaskthedrivertotakemebacktoUncleCarlos’s,butIlooktoocutetogohome.

Thedrivewayatthecountryclubislitwithbluelights,andgoldenballoonarcheshangoverit.We’reintheonlyRolls-Royceamongaseaoflimos,soofcoursepeoplelookwhenwepulluptotheentrance.

Thedriveropensthedoorforus.Mr.Silentclimbsoutfirstandactuallyhelpsmeout.Ourclassmateswhoop and cheer andwhistle. Chris wraps his arm aroundmywaist, andwe smile for pictures likeeverything’sallgood.Christakesmyhandandwordlesslyescortsmeinside.

Loudmusicgreets us.Chandeliers and flashingparty lights light up theballroom.Somecommitteedecided the theme shouldbeMidnight inParis, so there’s a hugeEiffelTowermadeout ofChristmaslights.LookslikejustabouteveryjuniorandsenioratWilliamsonisonthedancefloor.

Letmesayit.AGardenHeightspartyandaWilliamsonpartyaretwoverydifferent things.AtBigD’sparty,peopleNae-Naed,Hit theQuan, twerkedandstuff.Atprom,Ihonestlydon’tknowwhat thehellsomeofthemaredoing.Lotsofjumpingandfistpumpingandattemptsattwerking.It’snotbad.Justdifferent.Waydifferent.

It’s weird though—I’m not as hesitant to dance here as I was at Big D’s party. Like I said, atWilliamsonI’mcoolbydefaultbecauseI’mblack.IcangooutthereanddoasillydancemoveImadeup,andeveryonewillthinkit’sthenewthing.Whitepeopleassumeallblackpeopleareexpertsontrendsandshit.There’snowayinhellI’dtrythatataGardenHeightspartythough.Youmakeafoolofyourselfonetime,andthat’sit.Everybodyintheneighborhoodwillknowandnobodywillforget.

InGardenHeights,Ilearnhowtobedopebywatching.AtWilliamson,Iputmylearneddopenessondisplay.I’mnoteventhatdope,butthesewhitekidsthinkIamandthatgoesalongwayinhighschoolpolitics.

IstarttoaskChrisifhewantstodance,butheletsmyhandgoandheadstowardsomeofhisboys.WhydidIcometopromagain?“Starr!”somebodycalls.IlookaroundacoupleoftimesandfinallyspotMayawavingatmefroma

table.“Girl-lee!”shesayswhenIgetthere.“Youlookgood!IknowChriswentcrazywhenhesawyou.”No.Henearlydrovemecrazy.“Thanks,”Isay,andgiveheraonce-over.She’swearingapinkknee-

length strapless dress. A pair of sparkly silver stilettos gives her about fivemore inches of height. Iapplaudherformakingitthisfarinthem.Ihateheels.“Butifanybody’slookinggoodtonight,it’syou.Youcleanupnice,Shorty.”

“Don’tcallmethat.EspeciallysinceSheWhoMustNotBeNamedgavemethatnickname.”Damn.SheVoldemortedHailey.“Maya,youdon’thavetotakesides,youknow.”“She’stheonenotspeakingtous,remember?”Hailey’sbeenonsomesilenttreatmentshitsincetheincidentatMaya’shouse.Imeandamn,Icallyou

outonsomething,soI’mwronganddeservethecoldshoulder?Nah,she’snotguilt-trippingmelikethat.AndwhenMayaadmittedtoHaileythatshetoldmewhyHaileyunfollowedmyTumblr,HaileystoppedspeakingtoMaya,claimingshewon’ttalktoeitherofusuntilweapologize.She’snotusedtobothofusturningonherlikethis.

Whatever.SheandChriscanformaclubforallIcare.CallittheSilentTreatmentLeagueofYoung,RichBrats.

I’minmyfeelingsjustatad.IhatethatMayagotpulledintoitthough.“Maya,I’msorry—”“Noneed,”shesays.“Don’tknowifItoldyou,butIbroughtupthecatthingtoher.AfterItoldher

aboutTumblr.”“Really?”“Yeah.Andshetoldmetogetoverit.”Mayashakesherhead.“I’mstillmadatmyselfforlettingher

sayitinthefirstplace.”“Yeah.I’mmadatmyselftoo.”Wegetquiet.Mayanudgesmyside.“Hey.Weminoritieshavetosticktogether,remember?”Ichuckle.“Okay,okay.Where’sRyan?”“Gettingsomesnacks.Helooksgoodtonight,ifIsaysomyself.Where’syourguy?”“Don’tknow,”Isay.Anddon’tcareatthemoment.Thebeautifulthingaboutbestfriends?Theycantellwhenyoudon’twannatalk,andtheydon’tpush

it.Mayahooksherarmthroughmine.“C’mon.Ididnotgetdresseduptostandaround.”

Wehead for thedance floorand jumpand fist-pumpalongwith the restof them.Maya takes thoseheelsoffandbarefootsit.Jess,Britt,andsomeoftheothergirlsfromtheteamjoinus,andwemakeourown littledancingcircle.We loseourmindswhenmycousin-through-marriage,Beyoncé,comeson. (IswearI’mrelatedtoJay-Zsomehow.Samelastname—wehavetobe.)

WesingloudlywithCousinBeyuntilwealmostgohoarse,andMayaandIarereallyintoit.ImaynothaveKhalil,Natasha,orevenHailey,butIhaveMaya.She’senough.

Aftersixsongs,weheadbacktoourtable,ourarmsdrapedaroundeachother.IcarryoneofMaya’sshoes,andtheotheronedanglesfromherwristbythestrap.

“DidyouseeMr.Warrendotherobot?”Mayaasksbetweenlaughs.“DidI?Ididn’tknowhehaditinhim.”Mayastops.Shelooksaroundwithoutlookingatanythingatall.“Don’tlook,butlooktotheleft,”she

mutters.“Thehell?Whichoneisit?”“Looktotheleft,”shesaysthroughherteeth.“Butquickly.”HaileyandLukearearminarmintheentrance,posingforpictures,andIcan’teventhrowshade—

withhergold-and-whitedressandhiswhitetux,they’recute.Imean,just’causewe’vegotbeefdoesn’tmeanIcan’tcomplimenther,youknow?I’mevenhappyshe’swithLuke.Ittooklongenough.

HaileyandLukewalkinourdirectionbutbrushrightpastus,hershoulderacoupleofinchesawayfrommine.Sheflashesusstank-eye.Thischick.Iprobablyshootoneback.SometimesIgivestank-eyesanddon’trealizeI’mgivingthem.

“Yeah,that’sright,”MayasaystoHailey’sback.“Youbetterkeepwalking.”Lord.Mayacangofromzerotoonehundredalittletooquick.“Let’sgetsomethingtodrink,”Isay,

pullingherwithme.“Beforeyouhurtyourself.”We get some punch and join Ryan at our table. He’s stuffing his facewith finger sandwiches and

meatballs,crumbsfallingontohistux.“Wherey’allbeen?”heasks.“Dancing,”Mayasays.Shestealsoneofhisshrimp.“Youdidn’teatallday,didyou?”“Nope.Iwasabouttostarvetodeath.”Henodsatme.“What’sup,BlackGirlfriend?”We joke around about that whole “only two black kids in the class are supposed to date” thing.

“What’sup,BlackBoyfriend?”Isay,andIstealashrimptoo.Whatdoyouknow,Chrisremembershecamewithsomebodyandwalksovertoourtable.Hesays

heytoMayaandRyan,thenasksme,“Youwannatakepicturesorsomething?”Histoneisallroboticagain.Onascaleofonetotenonthe“I’mdone”meter,I’mataboutfifty.“No

thanks,”Itellhim.“I’mnottakingpictureswithsomebodywhodoesn’twannabeherewithme.”Hesighs.“Whydoyouhavetohaveanattitude?”“Me?You’retheonegivingmethecoldshoulder.”“Dammit,Starr!Doyouwannatakeafuckingpictureornot?”The“done”meterblowsup.Ka-boom.Blowntopieces.“Hellno.Gotakeoneandshoveitupyour

ass.”Imarchoff,ignoringMaya’scallsformetocomeback.Chrisfollowsme.Hetriestograbmyarm,

butIsnatchawayandkeepwalking.It’sdarkoutside,butIeasilyfindtheRolls-Royceparkedalongthedriveway.Thechauffeurisn’taround,orotherwiseIwouldaskhimtotakemehome.Ihopinthebackandlockthedoors.

Chris knocks on the window. “Starr, c’mon.” He puts his hands against the window like they’rebinocularsandhe’stryingtolookthroughthetint.“Canwetalk?”

“Oh,nowyouwannatalktome?”

“You’retheonewhowouldn’ttalktome!”Hebowshishead,pressinghisforeheadagainsttheglass.“Whydidn’tyoutellmeyouwerethewitnessthey’vebeentalkingabout?”

Heasksitsoftly,butit’shardasasuckerpunchinthegut.Heknows.Iunlockthedoorandscootover.Chrisclimbsinnexttome.“Howdidyoufindout?”Iask.“Theinterview.Watcheditwithmyparents.”“Theydidn’tshowmyfacethough.”“Iknewyourvoice,Starr.Andthentheyshowedthebackofyouasyouwalkedwiththatinterview

lady,andI’vewatchedyouwalkawayenoughtoknowwhatyoulooklikefromtheback,and...Isoundlikeapervert,don’tI?”

“Soyouknewmebymyass?”“I...yeah.”Hisfacegoesred.“Butthatwasn’tall.Everythingmadesense,likehowupsetyougot

abouttheprotestandaboutKhalil.Notthatthatwasn’tstufftogetupsetabout,’causeitwas,butit—”Hesighs.“I’msinkinghere,Starr.Ijustknewitwasyou.Anditwas,wasn’tit?”

Inod.“Babe,youshould’vetoldme.Whywouldyoukeepsomethinglikethatfromme?”Itiltmyhead.“Wow.Isawsomeonegetmurdered,andyou’reactinglikeabrat’causeIdidn’ttell

you?”“Ididn’tmeanitlikethat.”“Butyouthinkaboutthatforasecond,”Isay.“Tonightyoucouldhardlysaytwowordstomebecause

Ididn’ttellyouaboutoneoftheworstexperiencesofmylife.Youeverseensomebodydie?”“No.”“I’veseenittwice.”“AndIdidn’tknowthat!”hesays.“I’myourboyfriend,andIdidn’tknowanyofthat.”Helooksat

me, thesamehurt inhiseyes like therewaswhen I snatchedmyhandsawayweeksago.“There’s thiswholepartofyourlifethatyou’vekeptfromme,Starr.We’vebeentogetheroverayearnow,andyou’venevermentionedKhalil,whoyouclaimwasyourbestfriend,orthisotherpersonyousawdie.Youdidn’ttrustmeenoughtotellme.”

Mybreathcatches.“It’s—it’snotlikethat.”“Really?”hesays.“Thenwhatisitlike?Whatarewe?JustFreshPrinceandfoolingaround?”“No.”Mylipstremble,andmyvoiceissmall.“I...Ican’tsharethatpartofmehere,Chris.”“Whynot?”“Because,”Icroak.“Peopleuseitagainstme.EitherI’mpoorStarrwhosawherfriendgetkilledina

drive-by,orStarrthecharitycasewholivesintheghetto.That’showtheteachersact.”“Okay, I get not tellingpeople around school,” he says. “But I’mnot them. Iwouldnever use that

againstyou.YouoncetoldmeI’mtheonlypersonyoucouldbeyourselfaroundatWilliamson,but thetruthisyoustilldidn’ttrustme.”

I’monesecondawayfromuglycrying.“You’reright,”Isay.“Ididn’ttrustyou.Ididn’twantyoutojustseemeasthegirlfromtheghetto.”

“Youdidn’tevengivemethechancetoproveyouwrong.Iwannabethereforyou.Yougottaletmein.”

God. Being two different people is so exhausting. I’ve taught myself to speak with two differentvoicesandonlysaycertainthingsaroundcertainpeople.I’vemasteredit.AsmuchasIsayIdon’thavetochoosewhichStarrIamwithChris,maybewithoutrealizingit,Ihavetoanextent.Partofmefeelslike

Ican’texistaroundpeoplelikehim.Iamnotgonnacry,Iamnotgonnacry,Iamnotgonnacry.“Please?”hesays.Thatdoesit.Everythingstartsspillingout.“Iwas ten.Whenmyother frienddied,” Isay,staringat theFrench tipsonmynails.“Shewas ten

too.”“Whatwashername?”heasks.“Natasha.Itwasadrive-by.It’soneofthereasonsmyparentsputmeandmybrothersinWilliamson.

Itwas theclosest theycouldget toprotectingusa littlemore.Theybust theirbutts forus togo to thatschool.”

Chrisdoesn’tsayanything.Idon’tneedhimto.I takeashakybreathandlookaround.“Youdon’tknowhowcrazyit is thatI’mevensittinginthis

car,”Isay.“ARollsfreakingRoyce.Iusedtoliveintheprojectsinaone-bedroomapartment.Isharedtheroomwithmybrothers,andmyparentssleptonafold-outcouch.”

Thedetailsoflifebackthenaresuddenlyfresh.“Theapartmentsmelledlikecigarettesallthedamntime,” I say. “Daddy smoked. Our neighbors above us and next to us smoked. I had somany asthmaattacks,itain’tfunny.Weonlykeptcannedgoodsinthecabinets’causeoftheratsandroaches.Summerswerealwaystoohot,andwinterstoocold.Wehadtowearcoatsinsideandoutside.

“SometimesDaddy sold food stamps to buy clothes for us,” I say. “He couldn’t get a job for thelongesttime,’causehe’sanex-con.Whenhegothiredatthegrocerystore,hetookustoTacoBell,andweorderedwhateverwewanted.Ithoughtitwasthegreatestthingintheworld.Almostbetterthanthedaywemovedouttheprojects.”

Chriscracksasmallsmile.“TacoBellisprettyawesome.”“Yeah.”Ilookatmyhandsagain.“HeletKhalilcomewithustoTacoBell.Wewerestruggling,but

Khalilwaslikeourcharitycase.Everybodyknewhismommawasacrackhead.”Ifeelthetearscoming.Fuck,I’msickofthis.“Wewererealclosebackthen.Hewasmyfirstkiss,

firstcrush.Beforehedied,weweren’tascloseanymore.Imean,Ihadn’tseenhiminmonthsand...”I’muglycrying.“Andit’skillingmebecausehewasgoingthroughsomuchshit,andIwasn’tthereforhimanymore.”

Christhumbsmytearsaway.“Youcan’tblameyourself.”“ButIdo,”Isay.“Icould’vestoppedhimfromsellingdrugs.Thenpeoplewouldn’tbecallinghima

thug.AndI’msorryIdidn’ttellyou;Iwantedto,buteverybodywhoknowsIwasinthecaractslikeI’mmadeoutofglass.Youtreatedmenormal.Youweremynormal.”

I’manabsolutemessrightnow.ChristakesmyhandandpullsmeontohislapsoI’mstraddlinghim.Iburymyfaceinhisshoulderandcrylikeabig-assbaby.Histuxiswet,mymakeupisruined.Awful.

“I’msorry,”hesays,rubbingmyback.“Iwasanasstonight.”“Youwere.Butyou’remyass.”“I’vebeenwatchingmyselfwalkaway?”Ilookathimandseriouslypunchhisarm.Helaughsandthesoundofitmakesmelaugh.“Youknow

whatImean!You’remynormal.Andthat’sallthatmatters.”“Allthatmatters.”Hesmiles.Iholdhischeekandletmylipsreintroducethemselvestohis.Chris’saresoftandperfect.Theytaste

likefruitpunchtoo.Chrispullsbackwithagentletugtomybottomlip.Hepresseshisforeheadagainstmineandlooksat

me.“Iloveyou.”

The“I”hasappeared.Myresponseiseasy.“Iloveyoutoo.”Twoloudknocksagainstthewindowstartleus.Sevenpresseshisfaceagainsttheglass.“Y’allbet’

notbedoingnothing!”Thebestwaytogetturnedallthewayoff?Haveyourbrothershowup.“Seven,leavethemalone,”Laylawhinesbehindhim.“Wewereabouttodance,remember?”“Thatcanwait.Igottamakesurehe’snotgettingsomefrommysister.”“Youwon’tgetanyifyoudon’tstopactingsoridiculous!”shesays.“Idon’tcare.Starr,getoutthiscar.Iain’tplaying!”Chrislaughsintomybareshoulder.“Didyourdadtellhimtokeepaneyeonyou?”KnowingDaddy...“Probablyso.”Hekissesmyshoulderandhislipslingerthereafewseconds.“Arewegoodnow?”Ipeckhimbackonthelips.“We’regood.”“Good.Let’sgodance.”Wegetoutthecar,andSevenyellsaboutussneakingoffandthreatenstotellDaddy.Laylapullshim

back inside as he says, “And if she push out a little Chris in ninemonths, we gon’ have a problem,partna!”

Ridiculous.Re-damn-diculous.Themusicisstillbumpinginside.ItrynottolaughasChrisreallydoesturntheNae-NaeintoaNo-

No.MayaandRyanjoinusonthedancefloor,andtheygivemethese“Whatthehell?”looksatChris’smoves.Ishrugandgowithit.

Towardtheendofasong,Chrisleansdowntomyearandsays,“I’llberightback.”Hedisappears into thecrowd. Idon’t thinkanythingof ituntilaboutaminute laterwhenhisvoice

comesoverthespeakers,andhe’snexttotheDJinthebooth.“Hey,everybody,”hesays.“MygirlandIhadafightearlier.”Oh,Lord.He’stellingallofourbusiness.IlookatmyChucksandshieldmyface.“AndIwantedtodothissong,oursong,toshowyouhowmuchIloveyouandcareaboutyou,Fresh

Princess.”Abunchofgirlsgo, “Awww!”Hisboyswhoopandcheer. I’m thinking,pleasedon’t lethimsing.

Please.Butthere’sthisfamiliarboomp...boomp,boomp,boomp.“Nowthisisastoryallabouthowmylifegotflippedturnedupsidedown,”Chrisraps.“AndI’dlike

totakeaminute,justsitrightthere,I’lltellyouhowIbecametheprinceofatowncalledBel-Air.”Ismilewaytoohard.Oursong.Irapalongwithhim,andmostlyeveryonejoinsin.Eventheteachers.

Attheend,Icheerlouderthananybody.Chris comes back down, and we laugh and hug and kiss. Then we dance and take silly selfies,

floodingdashboardsandtimelinesaroundtheworld.Whenpromisover,weletMaya,Ryan,Jess,andsomeofourotherfriendsridewithustoIHOP.Everybodyhassomebodyontheirlap.AtIHOP,weeatwaytoomanypancakesanddancetosongsonthejukebox.Idon’tthinkaboutKhalilorNatasha.

It’soneofthebestnightsofmylife.

EIGHTEEN

OnSunday,myparentstakemeandmybrothersonatrip.ItseemslikeanormalvisittoUncleCarlos’shouseuntilwepasshisneighborhood.Alittleoverfive

minuteslater,abricksignsurroundedbycolorfulshrubswelcomesustoBrookFalls.Single-storybrickhouseslinefreshlypavedstreets.Blackkids,whitekids,andeverythinginbetween

playonthesidewalksandinyards.Opengaragedoorsshowallofthejunkinside,andbikesandscooterslayabandonedinyards.Nobody’sworriedabouttheirstuffgettingstoleninthemiddleoftheday.

ItremindsmeofUncleCarlos’sneighborhoodyetit’sdifferent.Forone,there’snogatearoundit,sothey’renotkeepinganyoneoutorin,butobviouslypeoplefeelsafe.Thehousesaresmaller,morehomeylooking. And straight up? There are more people who look like us compared to Uncle Carlos’sneighborhood.

Daddypullsintothedrivewayofabrown-brickhouseattheendofacul-de-sac.Bushesandsmalltreesdecoratetheyard,andacobblestonewalkwayleadsuptothefrontdoor.

“C’mon,y’all,”Daddysays.Wehopout,stretchingandyawning.Thoseforty-five-minutedrivesaren’tajoke.Achubbyblackman

wavesatusfromthedrivewaynextdoor.Wewavebackandfollowmyparentsupthewalkway.Throughtheglassofthefrontdoor,thehouseappearsempty.

“Whosehouseisthis?”Sevenasks.Daddyunlocksthedoor.“Hopefullyours.”Whenwegoinside,we’restandinginthelivingroom.There’sastrongstenchofpaintandpolished

hardwoodfloors.Twohalls,oneoneachside,leadawayfromthelivingroom.Thekitchenisrightofffromthelivingroomwithwhitecabinets,granitecountertops,andstainless-steelappliances.

“Wewantedyouguystoseeit,”Mommasays.“Lookaround.”Ican’tlie,I’mafraidtomove.“Thisisourhouse?”“LikeIsaid,wehopeso,”Daddyreplies.“We’rewaitingforthemortgagetobeapproved.”“Canweaffordit?”Sevenasks.Mommaraisesaneyebrow.“Yes,wecan.”“Butlikedownpaymentsandstuff—”“Seven!”Ihiss.He’salwaysinsomebody’sbusiness.“Wegoteverythingtakencareof,”Daddysays.“We’llrentthehouseintheGardenout,sothat’sgon’

helpwiththemonthlypayments.Plus...”HelooksatMommawiththisslygrinthat’skindaadorable,Igottaadmit.

“IgotthenursemanagerjobatMarkham,”shesays,smiling.“Istartintwoweeks.”“Forreal?”Isay,andSevengoes,“Whoa,”whileSekanishouts,“Momma’srich!”“Boy,ain’tnobodyrich,”Daddysays.“Calmdown.”“Butthishelps,”saysMomma.“Alot.”“Daddy,you’reokaywithuslivingoutherewiththefakepeople?”Sekaniasks.

“Whereyougetthatfrom,Sekani?”Mommasays.“Well,that’swhathealwayssays.Thatpeopleoutherearefake,andthatGardenHeightsisreal.”“Yeah,hedoessaythat,”saysSeven.Inod.“All.The.Time.”Mommafoldsherarms.“Caretoexplain,Maverick?”“Idon’tsayitthatmuch—”“Yeah,youdo,”therestofussay.“A’ight,Isayitalot.Imaynothavebeenonehundredpercentrightonallofthis—”Mommacoughs,butthere’sa“Ha”hiddeninit.Daddyglaresather.“ButIrealizebeingrealain’tgotanythingtodowithwhereyoulive.Therealest

thingIcandoisprotectmyfamily,andthatmeansleavingGardenHeights.”“Whatelse?”Mommaquestions,likehe’sbeinggrilledinfrontoftheclass.“Andthatlivinginthesuburbsdon’tmakeyouanylessblackthanlivinginthehood.”“Thankyou,”shesayswithasatisfiedsmile.“Nowarey’allgon’lookaroundorwhat?”Daddyasks.Sevenhesitatestomove,andsincehe’shesitant,Sekaniistoo.Butshoot,Iwantfirstdibsonaroom.

“Wherearethebedrooms?”Mommapointstothehallontheleft.IguessSevenandSekanirealizewhyIasked.Thethreeofus

exchangelooks.Werushforthehall.Sekanigetstherefirst,andit’snotmybestmoment,butIslinghisscrawnybutt

back.“Mommy,shethrewme!”hewhines.IbeatSeventothefirstroom.It’sbiggerthanmycurrentroombutnotasbigasIwant.Sevenreaches

thesecondone,looksaround,andIguesshedoesn’tlikeit.Thatleavesthethirdroomasthebiggestone,andit’sattheendofthehall.

SevenandIraceforit,andit’slikeHarryPotterversusCedricDiggorytryingtogettotheGobletofFire.IgrabSeven’sshirt,stretchingituntilIhaveagoodenoughgriptopullhimbackandgetaheadofhim.Ibeathimtotheroomandopenthedoor.

Andit’ssmallerthanthefirstone.“Icalldibs!”Sekanishouts.Heshimmiesinthedoorwayofthefirstroom,thebiggestofthethree.Seven and I rock, paper, scissor it for the second-biggest room. Seven always goes with rock or

paper,soIeasilywin.Daddy leaves toget lunch, andMomma showsus the rest of thehouse.Mybrothers and I have to

shareabathroomagain.Sekani’sfinallylearnedaimetiquetteandtheartofflushing,soit’sfine,Iguess.Themastersuiteisontheotherhallway.There’salaundryroom,anunfinishedbasement,andatwo-cargarage.Mommasayswe’llgetabasketballhooponwheels.Wecankeepitinthegarage,rollitinfrontofthehouse,andplayinthecul-de-sacsometimes.Awoodenfencesurroundsthebackyard,andthere’splentyofspaceforDaddy’sgardenandBrickz.

“Brickzcancomeouthere,right?”Iask.“Ofcourse.Wearen’tgonnaleavehim.”Daddybringsburgersandfries,andweeatonthekitchenfloor.It’ssuperquietouthere.Dogsbark

sometimes,butwall-rattlingmusicandgunshots?Nothappening.“So,we’re gonna close in the next fewweeks or so,”Momma says, “but since it’s the end of the

schoolyear,we’llwaituntilyouguysareoutforsummertomove.”“’Causemovingain’tnojoke,”Daddyadds.

“Hopefully,wecangetsettledinbeforeyougoofftocollege,Seven,”Mommasays.“Plusitgivesyouachancetomakeyourroomyours,soyoucanhaveitforholidaysandthesummer.”

Sekani slurps his milk shake and says with a mouth full of froth, “Seven said he’s not going tocollege.”

Daddysays,“What?”SevenglaresatSekani.“Ididn’tsayIwasn’tgoingtocollege.IsaidIwasn’tgoingawaytocollege.

I’mgoingtoCentralCommunitysoIcanbearoundforKenyaandLyric.”“Oh,hellno,”Daddysays.“Youcan’tbeserious,”saysMomma.CentralCommunityisthejuniorcollegeontheedgeofGardenHeights.SomepeoplecallitGarden

HeightsHigh2.0’causesomanypeoplefromGardenHighgothereandtakethesamedramaandbullshitwiththem.

“Theyhaveengineeringclasses,”Sevenargues.“Buttheydon’thavethesameopportunitiesasthoseschoolsyouappliedto,”Mommasays.“Doyou

realizewhatyou’repassingup?Scholarships,internships—”“ThechanceformetofinallyhaveaSeven-freelife,”Iadd,andslurpmymilkshake.“Whoaskedyou?”Sevensays.“Yo’momma.”Lowblow,Iknow,butthatresponsecomesnaturally.Sevenflicksafryatme.Iblockitandcomethis

closetoflippinghimoff,butMommasays,“Youbet’not!”andIlowermyfinger.“Look,younot responsibleforyoursisters,”Daddysays,“but I’mresponsibleforyou.AndIain’t

lettingyoupassupopportunitiessoyoucandowhattwogrown-asspeoplesupposedtodo.”“Adollar,Daddy,”Sekanipointsout.“IlovethatyoulookoutforKenyaandLyric,”DaddytellsSeven,“butthere’sonlysomuchyoucan

do.Youcanchoosewhatevercollegeyouwant,andyou’llbesuccessful.Butyouchoosebecausethat’swhereyouwannabe.Notbecauseyoutryingtodosomebodyelse’sjob.Youhearme?”

“Yeah,”Sevensays.DaddyhookshisarmaroundSeven’sneckandpullshimcloser.Daddykisseshistemple.“Iloveyou.

AndIalwaysgotyourback.”Afterlunchwegatherinthelivingroom,joinhands,andbowourheads.“BlackJesus, thankyoufor thisblessing,”Daddysays.“Evenwhenweweren’tsocrazyabout the

ideaofmoving—”Mommaclearsherthroat.“Okay,whenIwasn’tsocrazyabout the ideaofmoving,”Daddycorrects,“youworkedthingsout.

ThankyouforLisa’snewjob.Pleasehelpherandcontinuetobewithherwhenshedoesextrashiftsatthe clinic. Help Sekani with his end-of-the-year tests. And thank you, Lord, for helping Seven dosomethingIdidn’t,getahighschooldiploma.Guidehimashechoosesacollegeandlethimknowyou’reprotectingKenyaandLyric.

“Now,Lord,tomorrowisabigdayformybabygirlasshegoesbeforethisgrandjury.Pleasegiveher peace and courage.Asmuch as Iwanna ask you towork this case out a certainway, I knowyoualreadygotaplan.Iaskforsomemercy,God.That’sall.MercyforGardenHeights,forKhalil’sfamily,forStarr.Helpallofusthroughthis.Inyourpreciousname—”

“Wait,”Mommasays.Ipeekoutwithoneeye.Daddydoestoo.Mommanever,everinterruptsprayer.“Uh,baby,”saysDaddy,“Iwasfinishingup.”

“Ihavesomethingtoadd.Lord,blessmymom,andthankyouthatshewentintoherretirementfundandgaveusthemoneyforthedownpayment.Helpusturnthebasementintoasuitesoshecanstayheresometimes.”

“No,Lord,”Daddysays.“Yes,Lord,”saysMomma.“No,Lord.”“Yes.”“No,amen!”

Wegethomeintimetocatchaplayoffsgame.Basketballseasonequalswarinourhouse.I’maLeBronfanthroughandthrough.Miami,Cleveland,

it doesn’tmatter. I ride with him. Daddy hasn’t jumped off the Lakers ship yet, but he likes LeBron.Seven’s all about the Spurs.Momma’s an “anybody but LeBron” hater, and Sekani is a “whoever iswinning”fan.

It’sClevelandversusChicagotonight.Thebattlelinesaredrawn—meandDaddyversusSevenandMomma.Sevenjumpsonthat“anybodybutLeBron”bandwagonofhaterationtoo.

Ichange intomyLeBron jersey.Every timeIdon’twear it,his teamloses.Seriously, I’mnotevenlying. I can’twash it either.Mommawashedmy last jersey right beforeFinals, andMiami lost to theSpurs.Ithinkshediditonpurpose.

Itakemyluckyspotinthedeninfrontofthesectional.Sevencomesinandstepsoverme,puttinghisbigbarefootnearmyface.Ismackitaway.“Getyourcrustyfootouttamyface.”

“We’llseewho’sjokinglater.Readyforabuttwhooping?”“YoumeanamIreadytogiveone?Yep!”Mommapeeksaroundthedoorway.“Munch,youwantsomeicecream?”Igapeather.SheknowsIdon’teatdairyproductsduringgames.Dairygivesmegas,andgasisbad

luck.Shegrins.“Howaboutasundae?Sprinkles,strawberrysyrup,whippedcream.”Icovermyears.“La-la-la-la-la,goaway,LeBronhater.La-la-la-la-la.”LikeIsaid,basketballseasonequalswar,andmyfamilyhasthedirtiesttactics.Mommareturnswithabigbowl, shoveling icecreamintohermouth.Shesitson thesectionaland

lowersherbowlintomyface.“Yousureyoudon’twantsome,Munch?It’syourfavoritetoo.Cakebatter.Sogood!”

Bestrong,Itellmyself,butdamn,thaticecreamlooksgood.Strawberrysyrupglistensonitandabigdollopofwhippedcreamsitsprettyontop.Iclosemyeyes.“Iwantachampionshipmore.”

“Well,youaren’tgettingthat,soyoumayaswellenjoysomeicecream.”“Ha!”Sevengoes.“What’sallthissmackupinhere?”Daddyasks.Hetakesthereclineronthesectional,hisluckyspot.Sekaniscurriesinandsitsbehindme,propping

hisbarefeetonmyshoulders.Idon’tmind.Theyhaven’tmaturedandfunkifiedyet.“IwasofferingMunchsomeofmysundae,”Mommasays.“Youwantsome,baby?”“Heck,nah.YouknowIdon’teatdairyduringgames.”See?It’sserious.“YouandSevenmayaswellget ready for thisbuttwhoopingCleveland ’bout togivey’all,” says

Daddy.“Imean,itain’tgon’beaKobebuttwhooping,butit’sgon’beagoodone.”“Amen!”Isay.ExcepttheKobepart.

“Boy,bye,”Mommatellshim.“You’realwayspickingsorryteams.FirsttheLakers—”“Ay,athree-peatain’tasorryteam,baby.AndIdon’talwayspicksorryteams.”Hegrins.“Ipicked

yourteam,didn’tI?”Mommarollshereyes,butshe’sgrinningtoo,andIhatetoadmititbutthey’rekindacuterightnow.

“Yeah,”shesays,“that’stheonlytimeyoupickedright.”“Uh-huh,”Daddysays.“See,yourmommaplayedforSaintMary’sbasketball team,and theyhada

gameagainstGardenHigh,myschool.”“Andwewhooped theirbutts too,”Mommasays, licking icecreamoffherspoon.“Themli’lgirls

ain’thaveanythingonus.I’mjustsaying.”“Anyway,I’mtheretowatchsomeofthehomeboysplayafterthegirls’game,”Daddysays,lookingat

Momma.Thisissoadorable,Ican’tstandit.“Igotthereearlyandsawthefinestgirlever,andshewasplayingherassoffonthecourt.”

“Tellthemwhatyoudid,”saysMomma,althoughweknow.“Ay,Iwastryingto—”“Nah,nah,tellthemwhatyoudid,”shesays.“Itriedtogetyourattention.”“Uh-uh!”Mommasays,gettingup.ShehandsmeherbowlandstandsinfrontoftheTV.“Youwere

likethisonthesideline,”shesays,andshekindaleanstotheside,holdinghercrotchandlickingherlips.Wecrackup.IcansoseeDaddydoingthattoo.

“Duringthemiddleofagame!”shesays.“Standingtherelookinglikeapervert,justwatchingme.”“Butyounoticedme,”Daddysays.“Right?”“’Causeyoulookedlikeafool!Then,duringhalftime,I’monthebench,andhe’sbehindme,talking

about”—shedeepenshervoice—“‘Ay!Ay, shorty.What’syourname?Youknowyou lookinggoodoutthere.CanIgetyournumber?’”

“Dang,Pops,youdidn’thaveanygame,”Sevensays.“Ihadgame!”Daddyargues.“Didyougethernumberthatnightthough?”Sevensays.“Imean,Iwasworkingonit—”“Didyougethernumber?”IrepeatSeven’squestion.“Nah,”headmits,andwe’reholleringlaughing.“Man,whatever.Hateally’allwant.Ieventuallydid

somethingright.”“Yeah,”Mommaadmits,runningherfingersthroughmyhair.“Youdid.”

BythesecondquarterofClevelandversusChicago,we’reyellingandshoutingattheTV.WhenLeBronstealstheball,Ijumpup,andbam!Hedunksit.

“Inyo’face!”IyellatMommaandSeven.“Inyo’face!”Daddygivesmeahighfiveandclaps.“That’swhatI’mtalking’bout!”MommaandSevenrolltheireyes.Isitinmy“gametime”position—kneespulledin,rightarmdrapedovermyheadandholdingmyleft

ear,andmy left thumb inmymouth.Don’thate. Itworks.Cleveland’soffenseanddefense isonpoint.“Let’sgo,Cavs!”

Glassshatters.Then,pop,pop,pop,pop.Gunshots.“Getdown!”Daddyyells.I’malreadydown.Sekanicomesdownnexttome,thenMommaontopofus,andshewrapsherarms

aroundus.Daddy’sfeetthudtowardthefrontofthehouseandthehingesonthefrontdoorsqueakasit

swingsopen.Tiresscreechoff.“Mothaf—”GunshotscutDaddyoff.Myheartstops.Forasplitsecond,Ivisitaworldwithoutmydad,anditdoesn’tseemlikemuchofa

worldatall.Buthisfootstepsrushbackin.“Y’alla’ight?”Theweightontopofmelifts.Mommasaysshe’sokay,andSekanisaysheistoo.Sevenechoesthem.Daddy’sholdinghisGlock.“Ishotatthemfools,”hesaysbetweenheavybreaths.“IthinkIhitatire.

Ain’tneverseenthatcarbefore.”“Didtheyshootinthehouse?”Mommaasks.“Yeah,acoupleshotsthroughthefrontwindow,”hesays.“Theythrewsomethingtoo.Landedinthe

livingroom.”Iheadforthefront.“Starr!Getbackhere!”Mommacalls.I’mtoocuriousandtoohardheaded.GlassshardsglistenalloverMomma’sgoodsofa.Abricksitsin

themiddleofthefloor.

MommacallsUncleCarlos.Hegetstoourhouseinhalfanhour.Daddyhasn’tstoppedpacingtheden,andhehasn’tputhisGlockdown.SeventakesSekanitobed.

Mommahasherarmaroundmeonthesectionalandwon’tletgo.Someofourneighborscheckedin,likeMrs.PearlandMs.Jones.Mr.Charlesfromnextdoorrushed

over,holdinghisownpiece.Noneofthemsawwhodidit.Doesn’tmatterwhodidit.Itwasclearlyamessageforme.IhavethissickfeelinglikeIgotwhenIateicecreamandplayedinhotweathertoolongwhenIwas

younger.Ms.Rosaliesaidtheheat“boiled”mystomachandthatsomethingcoolwouldsettleit.Nothingcoolcansettlethis.

“Didyoucallthepolice?”UncleCarlosasks.“Hellnah!”saysDaddy.“HowIknowitwasn’tthem?”“Maverick,youstillshould’vecalled,”UncleCarlossays.“Thisneedstoberecorded,andtheycan

sendsomeonetoguardthehouse.”“Oh,Igotsomebodytoguardthehouse.Don’tworryaboutthat.Itdefinitelyain’tgon’benocrooked

pigwhomayhavebeenbehindthis.”“King Lords could’ve done this!” says Uncle Carlos. “Didn’t you say King made a veiled threat

againstStarrbecauseofherinterview?”“I’mnotgoingtomorrow,”Isay,butIhaveabetterchanceofbeingheardataDrakeconcert.“Itain’tnodamncoincidencethatsomebody’stryingtoscareusthenightbeforeshetestifiestothe

grandjury,”Daddysays.“That’ssomeshityourbuddieswoulddo.”“You’dbesurprisedathowmanyofuswantjusticeinthiscase,”saysUncleCarlos.“Butofcourse,

classicMaverick.Everycopisautomaticallyabadcop.”“I’mnotgoingtomorrow,”Irepeat.“Iain’tsayeverycopisabadcop,butIain’tgon’standherelikeafool,thinkingthatsomeofthem

don’tdodirtyshit.Hell,theymademelayface-downonthesidewalk.Andforwhat?’Causetheycould!”“It could’ve been either one of them,”Momma says. “Trying to figure out who did it will get us

nowhere.ThemainthingismakingsureStarrissafetomorrow—”“IsaidI’mnotgoing!”Ishout.Theyfinallyhearme.Mystomachholdsaroilingboil.“Yeah,itcould’vebeenKingLords,butwhat

ifitwasthecops?”IlookatDaddyandrememberthatmomentweeksagoinfrontofthestore.“Ithoughttheyweregonnakillyou,”Icroak.“Becauseofme.”

HekneelsinfrontofmeandsitstheGlockbesidemyfeet.Heliftsmychin.“PointoneoftheTen-PointProgram.Sayit.”

MybrothersandIlearnedtorecitetheBlackPanthers’Ten-PointProgramthesamewayotherkidslearnthePledgeofAllegiance.

“‘Wewantfreedom,’”Isay.“‘Wewantthepowertodeterminethedestinyofourblackandoppressedcommunities.’”

“Sayitagain.”“‘We want freedom. We want the power to determine the destiny of our black and oppressed

communities.’”“Pointseven.”“‘Wewant an immediate end to police brutality,’” I say, “‘and themurder of black people, other

peopleofcolor,andoppressedpeople.’”“Again.”“‘Wewantanimmediateendtopolicebrutalityandthemurderofblackpeople,otherpeopleofcolor,

andoppressedpeople.’”“AndwhatdidBrotherMalcolmsayisourobjective?”SevenandIcouldreciteMalcolmXquotesbythetimewewerethirteen.Sekanihasn’tgottenthere

yet.“‘Completefreedom,justice,andequality,’”Isay,“‘byanymeansnecessary.’”“Again.”“‘Completefreedom,justice,andequality,byanymeansnecessary.’”“Sowhyyougon’bequiet?”Daddyasks.BecausetheTen-PointProgramdidn’tworkforthePanthers.HueyNewtondiedacrackhead,andthe

governmentcrushedthePanthersonebyone.Byanymeansnecessarydidn’tkeepBrotherMalcolmfromdying,possiblyatthehandsofhisownpeople.Intentionsalwayslookbetteronpaperthaninreality.Therealityis,Imaynotmakeittothecourthouseinthemorning.

Twoloudknocksatthefrontdoorstartleus.Daddy straightensup,grabshisGlock, and leaves to answer.He sayswhat’sup to somebody, and

there’sasoundlikepalmsslapping.Thenamalevoicesays,“Youknowwegotyou,BigMav.”Daddyreturnswithsometall,wide-shoulderedguysdressedingrayandblack.It’salightergraythan

whatKingandhisfolkswear.Ittakesahood-trainedeyetonoticeitandunderstand.ThisisadifferentsetofKingLords.

“ThisisGoon.”Daddypointstotheshortestone,infrontwiththeponytails.“Himandhisboysgon’providesecurityforustonightandtomorrow.”

UncleCarlosfoldshisarmsandgivestheKingLordsahardlook.“YouaskedKingLordstoguardthehousewhenKingLordsmayhaveputusinthisposition?”

“Theydon’tmesswithKing,”Daddysays.“TheyCedarGroveKingLords.”Shit, theymay aswell beGDs then. Setsmake all the difference in gangbanging, not colors. The

CedarGroveKingLordshavebeenbeefingwithKing’sset,theWestSideKingLords,forawhilenow.“Youneedustofallback,BigMav?”Goonasks.“Nah,don’tworryabouthim,”Daddysays.“Y’alldowhaty’allcametodo.”“Nothingbutathang,”Goonsays,andgivesDaddydap.Himandhisboysheadbackoutside.“Areyouseriousrightnow?”UncleCarlosyells.“Youreallythinkgangbangerscanprovideadequate

security?”“Theystrapped,ain’tthey?”Daddysays.“Ridiculous!”UncleCarloslooksatMomma.“Look,I’llgowithyoutothecourthousetomorrowas

longastheyaren’tcomingtoo.”“Punkass,”Daddysays.“Can’tevenprotectyourniece’causeyouscaredofwhatit’ll lookliketo

yourfellowcopsifyou’reworkingwithgangbangers.”“Oh,youwannagothere,Maverick?”UncleCarlossays.“Carlos,calmdown.”“No,Lisa.IwannamakesureIgotthisright.DoeshemeanthesamenieceI tookcareofwhilehe

waslockedup?Huh?TheoneItooktoherfirstdayofschoolbecausehetookachargeforhisso-calledboy?TheoneIheldwhenshecriedforherdaddy?”

He’sloud,andMommastandsinfrontofhimtokeephimfromDaddy.“Youcancallmeasmanynamesasyouwant,Maverick,butdon’tyoueversayIdon’tcareaboutmy

nieceandnephews!Yeah,that’sright,nephews!Seventoo.Whenyouwerelockedup—”“Carlos,”Mommasays.“No,heneedstohearthis.Whenyouwerelockedup,IhelpedLisaeverytimeyoursorry-assbaby

mommadroppedSevenoffonherforweeksatatime.Me!Iboughtclothes,food,providedshelter.MyUncleTomass!Hell no, I don’twannaworkwith criminals, butdon’t youever insinuate I don’t careaboutanyofthosekids!”

Daddy’smouthmakesaline.He’ssilent.UncleCarlos snatcheshiskeysoff thecoffee table,givesmy forehead twopecks, and leaves.The

frontdoorslamsshut.

NINETEEN

Thesmellofhickorybaconandthesoundofwaytoomanyvoiceswakemeup.I blink to soothemy eyes from the assaultmy neon-bluewalls are giving them. It takesme a few

minuteslyingheretorememberit’sgrandjuryday.TimetoseeifI’llfailKhalilornot.Iputmyfeetinmyslippersandheadtowardtheunfamiliarvoices.SevenandSekaniareatschoolby

now,plustheirvoicesaren’tthatdeep.Ishouldbeworriedaboutsomeunknowndudesseeingmeinmypajamas,butthat’sthebeautyofsleepingintanksandbasketballshorts.Theywon’tseemuch.

The kitchen’s standing-room-only. Guys in black slacks, white shirts, and ties are at the table orstandingagainstthewall,shovelingfoodintheirmouths.Theyhavetattoosontheirfacesandhands.Acoupleofthemgivemequicknodsandmumble“S’up”throughmouthsfulloffood.

TheCedarGroveKingLords.Damn,theycleanupnicely.MommaandAuntPamworkthestoveasskilletsfullofbaconandeggssizzle,blueflamesdancing

beneaththem.Nanapoursjuiceandcoffeeandrunshermouth.Mommabarelylooksoverhershoulderandsays,“Morning,Munch.Yourplate’sinthemicrowave.

Comegetthesebiscuitsoutforme,please.”SheandAuntPammovetotheendsofthestove,stirringtheeggsandturningthebacon.Igrabatowel

andopentheoven.Thearomaofbutterybiscuitsandaheatwavehitmehead-on.Ipickthepanupwiththetowel,andthatthingisstilltoohottoholdforlong.

“Overhere,li’lmomma,”Goonsaysatthetable.I’mglad toput itdown.Noteven twominutesafter I set iton the table,every lastbiscuit isgone.

Goddamn.Igrabmypapertowel–coveredplatefromthemicrowavebeforetheKingLordsinhaleittoo.“Starr, get those other plates for your dad and your uncle,” Aunt Pam says. “Take them outside,

please.”UncleCarlosishere?ItellAuntPam,“Yes,ma’am,”stacktheirplatesontopofmine,grabthehot

sauceandsomeforks,andleaveasNanastartsoneofher“backinmytheaterdays”stories.Outside,thesunlight’ssobrightitmakesthepaintonmywallsseemdim.Isquintandlookaroundfor

DaddyorUncleCarlos.ThehatchonDaddy’sTahoeisup,andthey’resittingonthebackofit.Myslippersscuffagainsttheconcrete,soundinglikebroomssweepingthefloor.Daddylooksaround

thetruck.“Theregomybaby.”IhandhimandUncleCarlos aplate andget akiss to the cheek fromDaddy in return. “You sleep

okay?”heasks.“Kinda.”Uncle Carlos moves his pistol from the space between them and pats the empty spot. “Keep us

companyforabit.”I hop up next to them.Weunwrap the plates that have enough biscuits, bacon, and eggs for a few

people.

“Ithinkthisone’syours,Maverick,”UncleCarlossays.“It’sgotturkeybacon.”“Thanks,man,”Daddysays,andtheyexchangeplates.IshakehotsauceonmyeggsandpassDaddythebottle.UncleCarlosholdshishandoutforittoo.Daddysmirksandpassesitdown.“Iwould’vethoughtyouweretoorefinedforsomehotsauceon

youreggs.”“YoudorealizethisisthehouseIgrewupin,right?”Hecovershiseggscompletelyinhotsauce,sets

the bottle down, and licks his fingers for the sauce that got on them. “Don’t tell Pam I ate all of thisthough.She’salwaysonmeaboutwatchingmysodium.”

“Iwon’ttellifyouwon’ttell,”Daddysays.Theybumpfiststosealthedeal.Iwokeuponanotherplanetorinanalternatereality.Something.“Y’allcoolallofasudden?”“Wetalked,”Daddysays.“It’sallgood.”“Yep,”saysUncleCarlos.“Somethingsaremoreimportantthanothers.”Iwantdetails,butIwon’tgetthem.Ifthey’regoodthough,I’mgood.Andhonestly?It’saboutdamn

time.“SinceyouandAuntPamarehere,where’sDeVante?”IaskUncleCarlos.“Athomeforonceandnotplayingvideogameswithyourli’lboyfriend.”“WhydoesChrisalwayshavetobe‘li’l’toyou?”Iask.“He’snotlittle.”“Youbetterbetalkingabouthisheight,”saysDaddy.“Amen,”UncleCarlosadds,andtheyfist-bumpagain.Sothey’vefoundcommoncomplainingground—Chris.Figures.Ourstreetisquietforthemostpartthismorning.Itusuallyis.Thedramaalwayscomesfrompeople

who don’t live here. Two houses down,Mrs. Lynn andMs.Carol talk inMrs. Lynn’s yard. Probablygossiping.Can’ttelleitheroneofthemanythingifyoudon’twantitspreadaroundGardenHeightslikeacold.Mrs.PearlworksinherflowerbedacrossthestreetwithalittlehelpfromFo’tyOunce.Everybodycallshimthat’causehealwaysasksformoneytobuya“Fo’tyouncefromthelickasto’realquick.”Hisrusty shopping cartwith all of his belongings is inMrs. Pearl’s driveway, a big bag ofmulch on thebottomofit.Apparentlyhehasagreenthumb.HelaughsatsomethingMrs.Pearlsays,andpeopletwostreetsoverprobablyhearthatguffawofhis.

“Can’tbelievethatfool’salive,”UncleCarlossays.“Would’vethoughthedrankhimselftodeathbynow.”

“Who?Fo’tyOunce?”Iask.“Yeah!HewasaroundwhenIwasakid.”“Nah,heain’tgoingnowhere,”saysDaddy.“Heclaimstheliquorkeepshimalive.”“DoesMrs.Rookslivearoundthecorner?”UncleCarlosasks.“Yep,”Isay.“Andshestillmakesthebestredvelvetcakesyoueverhadinyourlife.”“Wow.ItoldPamIhaveyettotastearedvelvetcakeasgoodasMrs.Rooks’s.Whataboutum...”

Hesnapshisfingers.“Themanwhofixedcars.Livedatthecorner.”“Mr.Washington,”saysDaddy.“Stillkickingitandstilldoesbetterworkthananyautomotiveshop

around.Gothissonhelpinghimtoo.”“Li’lJohn?”UncleCarlosasks.“Theonethatplayedbasketballbutgotonthatstuff?”“Yep,”saysDaddy.“Hebeencleanforaminutenow.”“Man.”UncleCarlospusheshisredeggsaroundhisplate.“Ialmostmisslivingheresometimes.”IwatchFo’tyOuncehelpMrs.Pearl.Peoplearoundheredon’thavemuch,buttheyhelpeachother

out as best they can. It’s this strange, dysfunctional-as-hell family, but it’s still a family.More than Irealizeduntilrecently.

“Starr!”Nanacalls from the frontdoor.People two streetsoverprobablyhearher like theyheardFo’tyOunce.“Yourmommasaidhurryup.Yougottagetready.Hey,Pearl!”

Mrs.Pearlshieldshereyesand looksourway.“Hey,Adele!Haven’tseenyou inawhile.Youallright?”

“Hanginginthere,girl.Yougotthatflowerbedlookinggood!I’mcomingbylatertogetsomeofthatBirdsofParadise.”

“Allright.”“Younotgon’sayheytome,Adele?”Fo’tyOunceasks.Whenhetalks,itjumbledtogetherlikeone

longword.“Hellnah,youoldfool,”Nanasays.Thedoorslamsbehindher.Daddy,UncleCarlos,andIcrackup.

TheCedarGroveKingLordstrailusintwocars,andUncleCarlosdrivesmeandmyparents.Oneofhisoff-dutybuddiesoccupiesthepassenger’sseat.NanaandAuntPamtrailustoo.

Allthesepeoplethough,andnoneofthemcangointhegrandjuryroomwithme.It takesfifteenminutes toget todowntownfromGardenHeights.There’salwaysconstructionwork

going on for some new building.GardenHeights has dope boys on corners, but downtown people inbusinesssuitswaitforcrossinglights tochange.Iwonderif theyeverhear thegunshotsandshit inmyneighborhood.

Weturnontothestreetwherethecourthouseis,andIhaveoneofthoseweirddéjà-vumoments.I’mthree,andUncleCarlosdrivesMomma,Seven,andmetothecourthouse.Mommacriestheentiredrive,andIwishDaddywereherebecausehecanalwaysgether tostopcrying.SevenandIholdMomma’shandsaswewalkintoacourtroom.SomecopsbringDaddyoutinanorangejumpsuit.Hecan’thugusbecausehe’shandcuffed.ItellhimIlikehisjumpsuit;orangeisoneofmyfavoritecolors.Buthelooksatmerealseriously,andsays,“Don’tyoueverwearthis,youhearme?”

All I remember after that is the judge saying something,Momma sobbing, andDaddy telling us helovesusasthecopshaulhimoff.ForthreeyearsIhatedthecourthousebecauseittookDaddyfromus.

I’mnot thrilled to see itnow.Newsvansand trucksareacross the street from thecourthouse, andpolicebarricadesseparatethemfromeverybodyelse.Inowknowwhypeoplecallita“mediacircus.”Itseriouslylookslikethecircusissettingupintown.

Twotraffic lanesseparate thecourthousefromthemediafrenzy,but Iswear they’reaworldaway.Hundredsofpeoplequietlykneelonthecourthouselawn.Menandwomeninclericalcollarsstandatthefrontofthecrowd,theirheadsbowed.

Toavoidtheclownsandtheircameras,UncleCarlosturnsontothestreetalongsidethecourthouse.Wegointhroughthebackdoor.GoonandanotherKingLordjoinus.Theyflankmeanddon’thesitatetoletsecuritycheckthemforweapons.

Anothersecurityguardleadsusthroughthecourthouse.Thefartherwego,thefewerpeoplewepassinthehalls.Ms.OfrahwaitsbesideadoorwithabrassplatethatsaysGrandJuryRoom.

Shehugsmeandasks,“Ready?”ForonceIam.“Yes,ma’am.”“I’llbeoutherethewholetime,”shesays.“Ifyouneedtoaskmesomething,youhavethatright.”She

looksatmyentourage.“I’msorry,butonlyStarr’sparentsareallowedtowatchintheTVroom.”UncleCarlosandAuntPamhugme.Nanapatsmyshoulderassheshakesherhead.Goonandhisboy

givemequicknodsandleavewiththem.Momma’s eyes brim with tears. She pulls me into a tight hug, and it’s at that moment, of all the

moments,thatIrealizeI’vegottenaninchortwotallerthansheis.Sheplantskissesallovermyfaceandhugsmeagain.“I’mproudofyou,baby.Youaresobrave.”

Thatword.Ihateit.“No,I’mnot.”“Yeah,youare.”Shepullsbackandpushesastrandofhairawayfrommyface.Ican’texplainthe

lookinhereyes,butitknowsmebetterthanIknowmyself.Itwrapsmeupandwarmsmefromtheinsideout. “Bravedoesn’tmeanyou’re not scared,Starr,” she says. “Itmeans yougoon even thoughyou’rescared.Andyou’redoingthat.”

Sheleansupslightlyonher tiptoesandkissesmyforeheadas if thatmakes it true.Formeitkindadoes.

Daddywrapshisarmsaroundbothofus.“Yougotthis,babygirl.”Thedoortothegrandjuryroomcreaksopen,andtheDA,Ms.Monroe,looksout.“We’rereadyifyou

are.”Iwalkintothegrandjuryroomalone,butsomehowmyparentsarewithme.Theroomhaswood-paneledwallsandnowindows.AbouttwentyorsomenandwomenoccupyaU-

shapedtable.Someofthemareblack,someofthemaren’t.TheireyesfollowusasMs.Monroeleadsmetoatableinfrontofthemwithamiconit.

OneofMs.Monroe’scolleaguesswearsmein,andIpromiseontheBibletotellthetruth.IsilentlypromiseittoKhaliltoo.

Ms. Monroe says from the back of the room, “Could you please introduce yourself to the grandjurors?”

Iscootclosertothemicandclearmythroat.“Myname—”Mysmallvoicesoundslikeafive-year-old’s.Isitupstraightandtryagain.“MynameisStarrCarter.I’msixteenyearsold.”

“The mic is only recording you, not projecting your voice,”Ms.Monroe says. “As we have ourconversation,weneedyoutospeakloudenoughforeveryonetohear,okay?”

“Yes—”Mylipsbrushthemic.Tooclose.Imovebackandtryagain.“Yes,ma’am.”“Good.Youcamehereonyourownfreewill,isthatcorrect?”“Yes,ma’am.”“Youhaveanattorney,Ms.AprilOfrah,correct?”shesays.“Yes,ma’am.”“Youunderstandyouhavetherighttoconsultwithher,correct?”“Yes,ma’am.”“Youunderstandyou’renotthefocusofanycriminalcharges,correct?”Bullshit.KhalilandIhavebeenontrialsincehedied.“Yes,ma’am.”“Today,wewanttohearinyourownwordswhathappenedtoKhalilHarris,okay?”Ilookatthejurors,unabletoreadtheirfacesandtelliftheyreallywanttohearmywords.Hopefully

theydo.“Yes,ma’am.”“Now,sincewehavethatunderstanding,let’stalkaboutKhalil.Youwerefriendswithhim,right?”Inod,butMs.Monroesays,“Pleasegiveaverbalresponse.”Ileantowardthemicandsay,“Yes,ma’am.”Shit.Iforgotthejurorscan’thearmeonitandit’sonlyforrecording.Itdoesn’tmakeanysensethat

I’msonervous.“HowlongdidyouknowKhalil?”Thesamestory,alloveragain.IbecomearobotwhorepeatshowIknewKhalilsinceIwasthree,

howwegrewuptogether,thekindofpersonhewas.WhenIfinish,Ms.Monroesays,“Okay.We’regoingtodiscussthenightoftheshootingindetail.Are

youokaywiththat?”Theun-bravepartofme,whichfeelslikemostofme,shoutsno.Itwantstocrawlupinacornerand

act as if none of this ever happened.But all those people outside are praying forme.Myparents arewatchingme.Khalilneedsme.

Istraightenupandallowthetinybravepartofmetospeak.“Yes,ma’am.”

PART3

EIGHTWEEKSAFTERIT

TWENTY

Threehours.That’showlongIwasinthegrandjuryroom.Ms.Monroeaskedmeallkindsofquestions.WhatanglewasKhalilatwhenhewasshot?Wheredidhepullhislicenseandregistrationfrom?HowdidOfficerCruiseremovehimfromthecar?DidOfficerCruiseseemangry?Whatdidhesay?

Shewantedeverysingledetail.IgaveherasmuchasIcould.It’sbeenovertwoweekssinceItalkedtothegrandjury,andnowwe’rewaitingfortheirdecision,

whichissimilartowaitingforameteortohit.Youknowit’scoming,you’rejustnotexactlysurewhenandwhereit’llhit,andthereain’tshityoucandointhemeantimebutkeepliving.

Sowe’reliving.Thesunisouttoday,buttherainfellinsheetsassoonaswepulledintotheparkinglotofWilliamson.

Whenitrainslikethatwhilethesun’sout,Nanasaysthedevilisbeatinghiswife.Plus,it’sFridaythethirteenth, a.k.a. the devil’s day, according to Nana. She’s probably holed up in the house like it’sdoomsday.

SevenandIdashfromthecarintotheschool.Theatrium’sbusyasusualwithpeopletalkingtotheirlittlecliquesorplayingaround.Theschoolyear’salmostover,soeverybody’sgoof-offlevelsareattheirhighest,andwhite-kidgoofingoff isacategoryof itsown. I’msorry,but it is.Yesterdayasophomorerodedownthestairsinthejanitor’sgarbagecan.Hisdumbassgotsuspensionandaconcussion.Stupid.

Iwigglemytoes.TheonedayIwearChucksitdecidestorain.They’remiraculouslydry.“You’regood?”Seven asks, and I doubt it’s about the rain.He’sbeenwaymoreprotective lately,

eversincewegotwordthatKing’sstillpissedIdrysnitched.IheardUncleCarlostellDaddyitgavethecopsanotherreasontowatchKingclosely.

UnlessKingthrewthebrick,hehasn’tdoneanything.Yet.SoSeven’salwaysonguard,evenall thewayouthereatWilliamson.

“Yeah,”Itellhim.“I’mgood.”“Allright.”Hegivesmedapandgoesofftohislocker.Iheadformine.HaileyandMayaaretalkingatMaya’slockernearby.Actually,Maya’sdoingmostof

thetalking.Hailey’sgotherarmsfoldedandrollshereyesalot.Sheseesmedownthehallandgetsthissmugexpression.

“Perfect,”shesayswhenIgetcloser.“Theliarishere.”“Excuseme?”It’swaytooearlyforthisbullshit.“Whydon’tyoutellMayahowyouflat-outliedtous?”“What?”Haileyhandsmetwopictures.OneisKhalil’sthugshot,asDaddycallsit.Oneofthepicturesthey’ve

shownonthenews.Haileyprinteditofftheinternet.Khalilwearsasmirk,grippingahandfulofmoneyandthrowingupasidewayspeacesign.

Theotherpicture,he’stwelve.IknowbecauseI’mtwelveinittoo.It’smybirthdaypartyatthislaser

tagplacedowntown.Khalil’sononesideofme,shovelingstrawberrycakeintohismouth,andHailey’sonmyotherside,grinningforthecameraalongwithme.

“Ithoughthelookedfamiliar,”Haileysaysassmuglyasshelooks.“HeistheKhalilyouknew.Isn’the?”

IstareatthetwoKhalils.Thepicturesonlyshowsomuch.Forsomepeople,thethugshotmakeshimlookjustlikethat—athug.ButIseesomebodywhowashappytofinallyhavesomemoneyinhishand,damnwhereitcamefrom.Andthebirthdaypicture?IrememberhowKhalilatesomuchcakeandpizzahegotsick.Hisgrandmahadn’tgottenpaidyet,andfoodwaslimitedintheirhouse.

IknewthewholeKhalil.That’swhoI’vebeenspeakingupfor.Ishouldn’tdenyanypartofhim.NotevenatWilliamson.

IhandthepicturesbacktoHailey.“Yeah,Iknewhim.Sowhat?”“Don’tyouthinkyouoweusanexplanation?”shesays.“Youowemeanapologytoo.”“Um,what?”“You’vebasicallypickedfightswithmebecauseyouwereupsetaboutwhathappenedtohim,”she

says.“Youevenaccusedmeofbeingracist.”“But you have said and done some racist stuff. So . . .”Maya shrugs. “Whether Starr lied or not

doesn’tmakeitokay.”Minorityallianceactivated.“So,sinceIunfollowedherTumblrbecauseIdidn’twannaseeanymorepicturesofthatmutilatedkid

onmydashboard—”“HisnamewasEmmettTill,”saysMaya.“Whatever.SobecauseIdidn’twanttoseethatdisgustingshit,I’mracist?”“No,”Maya says. “What you said about itwas racist.And yourThanksgiving jokewas definitely

racist.”“OhmyGod,you’restillupsetaboutthat?”Haileysays.“Thatwassolongago!”“Doesn’tmakeitokay,”Isay.“Andyoucan’tevenapologizeforit.”“I’mnotapologizingbecause itwasonlya joke!”sheshouts.“Itdoesn’tmakemearacist. I’mnot

lettingyouguysguilttripmelikethis.What’snext?Youwantmetoapologizebecausemyancestorswereslavemastersorsomethingstupid?”

“Bitch—”I takeadeepbreath.Waytoomanypeoplearewatching.Icannotgoangryblackgirlonher.“Yourjokewashurtful,”Isay,ascalmlyasIcan.“IfyougiveadamnaboutMaya,you’dapologizeandatleasttrytoseewhyithurther.”

“It’snotmyfaultshecan’tgetoverajokefromfreakingfreshmanyear!Justlikeit’snotmyfaultyoucan’tgetoverwhathappenedtoKhalil.”

“SoI’msupposedto‘getover’thefacthewasmurdered?”“Yes,getoverit!Hewasprobablygonnaendupdeadanyway.”“Areyouserious?”Mayasays.“Hewasadrugdealerandagangbanger,”Haileysays.“Somebodywasgonnakillhimeventually.”“Getoverit?”Irepeat.She foldsherarmsanddoes this littleneckmovement.“Um,yeah? Isn’t thatwhat I said?Thecop

probablydideveryoneafavor.Onelessdrugdealeronthe—”ImoveMayaoutthewayandslammyfistagainstthesideofHailey’sface.Ithurts,butdamnitfeels

good.Haileyholdshercheek,hereyeswideandhermouthopenforseveralseconds.“Bitch!”sheshrieks.Shegoesstraightformyhairlikegirlsusuallydo,butmyponytailisreal.She’s

notpullingitout.IhitatHaileywithmyfists,andsheslapsandclawsmeupsidemyhead.Ipushheroff,andshehits

thefloor.Herskirtgoesup,andherpinkdrawersareoutforeverybodytosee.Laughtereruptsaroundus.Somepeoplehavetheirphonesout.

I’mnolongerWilliamsonStarrorevenGardenHeightsStarr.I’mpissed.IkickandhitatHailey,cusswords flyingoutmymouth.Peoplegatheraroundus,chanting“Fight!

Fight!”andonefoolevenshouts,“WorldStar!”Shit.I’mgonnaenduponthatratchetsite.Somebodyyanksmyarm,andIturn,face-to-facewithRemy,Hailey’solderbrother.“Youcrazybi—”Beforehecanfinish“bitch,”ablurofdreadlockschargesatusandpushesRemyback.“Getyourhandsoffmysister!”Sevensays.Andthenthey’refighting.Seventhrowsblowslikenobody’sbusiness,knockingRemyupsidehishead

withseveralgoodhooksandjabs.Daddyusedtotakebothofustotheboxinggymafterschool.Twosecurityguardsrunover.Dr.Davis,theheadmaster,marchestowardus.

Anhourlater,I’minMomma’scar.SeventrailsusinhisMustang.All four of us have been sentenced to three days’ suspension, despiteWilliamson’s zero-tolerance

policy.HaileyandRemy’sdad,aWilliamsonboardmember, thought itwasoutrageous.HesaidSevenandIshouldbeexpelledbecausewe“startedit,”andthatSevenshouldn’tbeallowedtograduate.Dr.Davistoldhim,“Giventhecircumstances”—andhelookedstraightatme—“suspensionwillsuffice.”

HeknowsIwaswithKhalil.“ThisisexactlywhatTheyexpectyoutodo,”Mommasays.“TwokidsfromGardenHeights,acting

likeyouain’tgotanysense!”Theywith a capitalT. There’sThem and then there’sUs. SometimesThey look likeUs and don’t

realizeTheyareUs.“Butshewasrunninghermouth,sayingKhalildeserved—”“Idon’tcareifshesaidsheshothimherself.Peoplearegonnasayawholelot,Starr.Itdoesn’tmean

youhitsomebody.Yougottawalkawaysometimes.”“YoumeanwalkawayandgetshotlikeKhalildid?”Shesighs.“Baby,Iunderstand—”“Noyoudon’t!”Isay.“Nobodyunderstands!Isawthebulletsripthroughhim.Isatthereinthestreet

ashetookhislastbreath.I’vehadtolistentopeopletrytomakeitseemlikeit’sokayhewasmurdered.Asifhedeservedit.Buthedidn’tdeservetodie,andIdidn’tdoanythingtodeserveseeingthatshit!”

WebMDcallsitastageofgrief—anger.ButIdoubtI’llevergettotheotherstages.Thisoneslicesmeintomillionsofpieces.EverytimeI’mwholeandbacktonormal,somethinghappenstotearmeapart,andI’mforcedtostartalloveragain.

Therainletsup.Thedevilstopsbeatinghiswife,butIbeatthedashboard,punchingitoverandover,numbtothepainofit.Iwannabenumbtothepainofallofthis.

“Letitout,Munch.”Mymomrubsmyback.“Letitout.”Ipullmypoloovermymouthandscreamuntiltherearen’tanyscreamsleftinme.Ifthereareany,I

don’t have the energy to get themout. I cry forKhalil, forNatasha, even forHailey, ’cause damn if Ididn’tjustloseherforgoodtoo.

Whenweturnonourstreet,I’msnot-nosedandwet-eyed.Finallynumb.AgraypickupandagreenChrysler300areparkedbehindDaddy’s truckin thedriveway.Momma

andSevenhavetoparkinfrontofthehouse.“Whatisthismanupto?”Mommasays.Shelooksoveratme.“Youfeelbetter?”Inod.WhatotherchoicedoIhave?Sheleansoverandkissesmytemple.“We’llgetthroughthis.Ipromise.”Wegetout.I’monehundredpercentsurethecarsinthedrivewaybelongtoKingLordsandGarden

Disciples.InGardenHeightsyoucan’tdriveacar that’sgrayorgreenunlessyouclaimaset.IexpectyellingandcussingwhenIgetinside,butallIhearisDaddysaying,“Itdon’tmakenosense,man.Forreal,itdon’t.”

It’sstanding-room-onlyinthekitchen.Wecan’tevengetin’causesomeguysareinthedoorway.Halfof them have green somewhere in their outfits. Garden Disciples. The others have light gray onsomewhere.CedarGroveKingLords.Mr.Reuben’snephew,Tim, sitsbesideDaddyat the table. I’venevernoticedthatcursiveGDtattooonhisarm.

“Wedon’tknowwhenthegrandjurygon’maketheirdecision,”Daddysays.“Butiftheydecidenottoindict,y’allgottatelltheseli’ldudesnottoburnthisneighborhooddown.”

“Whatyouexpectthemtodothen?”saysaGDatthetable.“Folkstiredofthebullshit,Mav.”“Straightup,”saystheKingLordGoon,who’satthetabletoo.Hislongplaitshaveponytailholders

onthemlikeIusedtowearwaybackintheday.“Nothingwecando’boutit.”“That’sbullshit,”saysTim.“Wecandosomething.”“Wecanallagreetheriotsgotouttahand,right?”saysDaddy.Hegetsabunchof“yeahs”and“rights.”“Thenwecanmake sure it doesn’tgodown like that again.Talk to thesekids.Get in theirheads.

Yeah,theymad.Weallmad,butburningdownourneighborhoodain’tgon’fixit.”“Our?”saystheGDatthetable.“Nigga,yousaidyoumoving.”“Tothesuburbs,”Goonmocks.“Yougettingaminivantoo,Mav?”Theyalllaughatthat.Daddydoesn’t though.“I’mmoving,sowhat? I’ll stillhaveastorehere,andI’ll stillgiveadamn

what happens here.Who is it gon’ benefit if the whole neighborhood burns down?Damn sure won’tbenefitnoneofus.”

“Wegottabemoreorganizednexttime,”saysTim.“Forone,makesureourbrothersandsistersknowtheycan’tdestroyblack-ownedbusinesses.Thatmessesitupforallofus.”

“Forreal,”saysDaddy.“AndIknow,meandTimoutthegame,sowecan’tspeakonsomethings,butalltheseterritorywarsgottabeputasidesomehow.Thisisbiggerthansomestreetshit.Andhonestlyallthestreetshitgotthesecopsthinkingtheycandowhatevertheywant.”

“Yeah,Ifeelyouonthat,”saysGoon.“Y’allgottacometogethersomehow,man,”Daddysays.“ForthesakeoftheGarden.Thelastthing

they’deverexpectissomeunityaroundhere.A’ight?”Daddy slaps palmswithGoon and theGardenDisciple.ThenGoon and theGardenDisciple slap

palmswitheachother.“Wow,”Sevensays.It’shugethatthesetwogangsareinthesameroomtogether,andformydaddytobetheonebehindit?

Crazy.Henoticesusinthedoorway.“Whaty’alldoinghere?”Mommainchesintothekitchen,lookingaround.“Thekidsgotsuspended.”“Suspended?”Daddysays.“Forwhat?”Sevenpasseshimhisphone.

“It’sonlinealready?”Isay.“Yeah,somebodytaggedmeinit.”Daddytapsthescreen,andIhearHaileyrunninghermouthaboutKhalil,thenaloudsmack.Someof thegangmemberswatchoverDaddy’sshoulder.“Damn, li’lmomma,”onesays,“yougot

hands.”“Youcrazybi—,”Remysaysonthephone.Abunchofsmacksandoohsfollow.“Lookatmyboy!”Daddysays.“Lookathim!”“Iain’tknowyourli’lnerdyasshaditinyou,”aKingLordteases.Mommaclearsherthroat.Daddystopsthevideo.“A’ight,y’all,”hesays,seriousallofasudden.“Igottahandlesomefamilybusiness.We’llmeetback

uptomorrow.”Timandallthegangmembersclearout,andcarscrankupoutside.Stillnogunshotsorarguing.They

could’vebrokenoutintoagangstarenditionof“Kumbaya”andIwouldn’tbeanymoreshockedthanIam.“Howdidyougetalloftheminhereandkeepthehouseinonepiece?”Mommaasks.“Igotitlikethat.”Mommakisseshimonthelips.“Youcertainlydo.Myman,theactivist.”“Uh-huh.”Hekissesherback.“Yourman.”Sevenclearshisthroat.“We’restandingrighthere.”“Ay,y’allcan’tcomplain,”Daddysays.“Ifyouwouldn’thavebeenfighting,youwouldn’thavetosee

that.”Hereachesoverandpinchesmycheekalittle.“Youa’ight?”Thedampnesshasn’tleftmyeyesyet,andI’mnotexactlysmiling.Imutter,“Yeah.”Daddypullsmeontohislap.Hecradlesmeandswitchesbetweenkissingmycheekandpinchingit,

goingoverandoverinarealdeepvoice,“What’swrongwithyou?Huh?What’swrongwithyou?”AndI’mgigglingbeforeIcanstopmyself.Daddygivesmeasloppy,wetkiss tomycheekandletsmeup.“IknewI’dgetyoulaughing.Now

whathappened?”“Yousawthevideo.Haileyranhermouth,soIpoppedher.Simpleasthat.”“That’syourchild,Maverick,”Mommasays.“Gottahitsomebodybecauseshedidn’tlikewhatthey

said.”“Mine?Uh-uh,baby.That’sallyou.”HelooksatSeven.“Whywereyoufighting?”“Dudecameatmysister,”Sevensays.“Iwasn’tgonnalethim.”AsmuchasSeventalksaboutprotectingKenyaandLyric,it’snicethathehasmybacktoo.Daddyreplaysthevideo,startingwithHaileysaying,“Hewasprobablygonnaendupdeadanyway.”“Wow,”Mommasays.“Thatli’lgirlhasalotofnerve.”“Spoiledassdon’tknowadamnthingandrunninghermouth,”saysDaddy.“So,what’sourpunishment?”Sevenasks.“Godoyourhomework,”Mommasays.“That’sit?”Isay.“You’llalsohavetohelpyourdadat thestorewhileyou’resuspended.”Shedrapesherarmsover

Daddyfrombehind.“Soundokay,baby?”Hekissesherarm.“Soundsgoodtome.”Ifyoucan’ttranslateParentish,thisiswhattheyreallysaid:Momma:Idon’tcondonewhatyoudid,andI’mnotsayingit’sokay,butIprobablywould’vedoneit

too.Whataboutyou,baby?Daddy:Hellyeah,Iwould’ve.

Ilovethemforthat.

PART4

TENWEEKSAFTERIT

TWENTY-ONE

Stillnodecisionfromthegrandjury,sowe’restillliving.It’sSaturday,andmyfamilyisatUncleCarlos’shouseforaMemorialDayweekendbarbecue,which

is also serving as Seven’s birthday/graduation party. He turns eighteen tomorrow, and he officiallybecameahighschoolgraduateyesterday.I’veneverseenDaddycrylikehedidwhenDr.DavishandedSeventhatdiploma.

The backyard smells like barbecue, and it’s warm enough that Seven’s friends swim in the pool.SekaniandDanielrunaroundintheirtrunksandpushunsuspectingpeoplein.TheygetJess.Shelaughsaboutitandthreatenstogetthemlater.TheytryitoncewithmeandKenyaandneveragain.Allittakesissomeswiftkickstotheirasses.

ButDeVantecomesupbehindusandpushesmein.Kenyashrieksas Igounder,gettingmyfreshlydonecornrowssoakedandmyJ’s too. Ihaveonboard shorts anda tankini,but they’renewandcute,meaningthey’resupposedtobelookedat,notswamin.

Ibreakthesurfaceofthewaterandgulpinair.“Starr,youokay?”Kenyacalls.She’srunaboutfivefeetawayfromthepool.“Younotgon’helpmegetout?”Isay.“Girl,nah.Andmessupmyoutfit?Youseemallright.”Sekani and Daniel whoop and cheer for DeVante like he’s the greatest thing since Spide-Man.

Bastards.Iclimboutthatpoolsofast.“Uh-oh,” DeVante says, and the three of them take off in separate directions. Kenya goes after

DeVante.IrunafterSekanibecausedammit,bloodissupposedtobethickerthanpoolwater.“Momma!”hesqueals.Icatchhimbyhistrunksandpullthemwayup,almosttohisneck,untilhehastheworstwedgieever.

Hegivesahigh-pitchedscream.Iletgo,andhefallsonthegrass,histrunkssofaruphisbuttitlookslikehe’swearingathong.That’swhathegets.

KenyabringsDeVante tome,holdinghis armsbehindhim likehe’sunderarrest. “Apologize,” shesays.

“No!”Kenyayanksonhisarms.“Okay,okay,I’msorry!”Sheletsgo.“Betterbe.”DeVanterubshisarmwithasmirk.“Violentass.”“Punkass,”shesnipsback.Heflickshistongueather,andshegoes,“Boy,bye!”Thisisflirtingforthem,believeitornot.IalmostforgetDeVante’shidingfromherdaddy.Theyact

likethey’veforgottentoo.DeVantegetsmeatowel.IsnatchitanddrymyfaceasIheadtothepoolsideloungerswithKenya.

DeVantesitsbesideheronone.Avaskipsoverwithherbabydollandacomb,andInaturallyexpecthertoshovethemintomyhands.

ShehandsthemtoDeVanteinstead.“Here!”shetellshim,andskipsoff.Andhestartscombingthedoll’shair!KenyaandIstareathimforthelongest.“What?”hesays.Webustoutlaughing.“Shegotyoutrained!”Isay.“Man.”Hegroans.“Shecute,okay?Ican’ttellherno.”Hebraidsthedoll’shair,andhislongthin

fingersmovesoquickly,theylooklikethey’llgettangled.“Myli’lsistersdidmelikethisallthetime.”Histonedipswhenhementionsthem.“Youheardfromthemoryourmomma?”Iask.“Yeah,aboutaweekago.Theyatmycousin’shouse.Sheliveinlikethemiddleofnowhere.Mom’s

beenamess’causeshedidn’tknowifIwasokay.Sheapologizedforleavingmeandforbeingmad.Shewantmetocomestaywiththem.”

Kenyafrowns.“Youleaving?”“Idon’tknow.Mr.CarlosandMrs.PamsaidIcanstaywiththemformysenioryear.Mymommasaid

she’d be okaywith that, if itmeans I stay outta trouble.”He examines his handiwork.The doll has aperfectFrenchbraid.“Igottathinkaboutit.Ikindalikeitouthere.”

Salt-N-Pepa’s “Push It” blasts from the speakers. That’s one songDaddy shouldn’t play.The onlythingworsewouldbethatoldsong“BackThatThangUp.”Mommalosesherdamnmindwhenitcomeson. Really, just say, “CashMoney Records, takin’ over for the ’99 and the 2000,” and she suddenlybecomesratchetashell.

SheandAuntPambothgo,“Heeey!”toSalt-N-Pepaanddoalltheseolddancemoves.Ilikeninetiesshowsandmovies,butIdonotwannaseemymomandauntiereenactthatdecadeindance.Sevenandhisfriendscirclearoundthemandcheerthemon.

Seven’stheloudest.“Go,Ma!Go,AuntPam!”Daddy jumps in themiddle of the circle behindMomma.He puts both hands behind his head and

moveshishipsinacircle.SevenpushesDaddyawayfromMomma,going,“Nooo!Stooop!”Daddygetsaroundhim,anddances

behindMomma.“Uh-uh,”Kenyalaughs.“That’stoomuch.”DeVantewatchesthemwithasmile.“Youwererightaboutyourauntanduncle,Starr.Theyain’ttoo

bad.Yourgrandmakindacooltoo.”“Who?Iknowyoudon’tmeanNana.”“Yeah, her. She found out I play spades. The other day, she tookme to a game after she finished

tutoringme.Shecalleditextra-creditwork.Webeencooleversince.”Figures.ChrisandMayawalk through thegate,andmystomachgetsall jittery. I shouldbeused tomy two

worldscolliding,butIneverknowwhichStarrIshouldbe.Icanusesomeslang,butnottoomuchslang,someattitude,butnottoomuchattitude,soI’mnota“sassyblackgirl.”IhavetowatchwhatIsayandhowIsayit,butIcan’tsound“white.”

Shitisexhausting.Chris and his new “bro” DeVante slap palms, then Chris kisses my cheek. Maya and I do our

handshake.DeVantenodsather.Theymetafewweeksago.Mayasitsbesidemeonthelounger.Chrissqueezeshisbigbuttbetweenus,pushingbothofusasidea

little.Mayaflasheshimastinkeye.“Seriously,Chris?”

“Hey,she’smygirlfriend.Igettositnexttoher.”“Um,no?Bestiesbeforetestes.”KenyaandIsnicker,andDeVantegoes,“Damn.”Thejitterseaseupabit.“Soyou’reChris?”Kenyasays.She’sseenpicturesonmyInstagram.“Yep.Andyou’reKenya?”He’sseenpicturesonmyInstagramtoo.“Theoneandonly.”Kenyaeyesmeandmouths,Heisfine!LikeIdidn’tknowthatalready.KenyaandMayalookateachother.TheirpathslastcrossedalmostayearagoatmySweetSixteen,if

you can consider that path-crossing.Hailey andMayawere at one table,Kenya andKhalil at anothertablewithSeven.Theynevertalked.

“Maya,right?”Kenyasays.Mayanods.“Theoneandonly.”Kenya’slipscurlup.“Yourkicksarecute.”“Thanks,”Maya says, checking them out for herself. NikeAirMax 95s. “They’re supposed to be

runningshoes.Ineverruninthem.”“Idon’truninmineneither,”Kenyasays.“Mybrother’stheonlypersonIknowwhoactuallyrunsin

them.”Mayalaughs.Okay.Thisisgoodsofar.Nothingtoworryabout.UntilKenyagoes,“Sowhereblondieat?”Chrissnorts.Maya’seyeswiden.“Kenya,thatain’t—that’snothername,”Isay.“YouknewwhoIwastalkingaboutthough,didn’tyou?”“Yep!”Mayasays.“She’sprobablysomewherelickingherwoundsafterStarrkickedherass.”“What?”Kenyashouts.“Starr,youain’ttellmeaboutthat!”“Itwas,like,twoweeksago,”Isay.“Wasn’tworthtalking’bout.Ionlyhither.”“Onlyhither?”Mayasays.“YouMayweatheredher.”ChrisandDeVantelaugh.“Wait,wait,”Kenyasays.“Whathappened?”SoItellheraboutit,withoutreallythinkingaboutwhatIsayorhowIsound.Ijusttalk.Mayaaddsto

thestory,makingitsoundworsethanitwas,andKenyaeatsitup.WetellherhowSevengaveRemyacouple of hits, which hasKenya beaming, talking about, “My brother don’t play.” Like he’s only herbrother,butwhatever.MayaeventellsherabouttheThanksgivingcatthing.

“ItoldStarrweminoritiesgottasticktogether,”Mayasays.“Sotrue,”saysKenya.“Whitepeoplebeenstickingtogetherforever.”“Well...”Chrisblushes.“Thisisawkward.”“You’llgetoverit,boo,”Isay.MayaandKenyacrackup.Mytwoworldsjustcollided.Surprisingly,everything’sallright.Thesongchangesto“Wobble.”Mommarunsoverandpullsmeup.“C’mon,Munch.”Ican’tdigmyfeetinthegrassfastenough.“Mommy,no!”“Hush,girl.C’mon.Y’alltoo!”shehollersbacktomyfriends.Everybodylinesuponthegrassyareathat’sbecomethemakeshiftdancefloor.Mommapullsmeto

thefrontrow.“Show’emhowit’sdone,baby,”shesays.“Show’emhowit’sdone!”Istaystillonpurpose.Dictatorornot,she’snotgonnamakemedance.KenyaandMayaeggheronin

eggingmeon.Neverthoughtthey’dteamupagainstme.Shoot,beforeIknowit,I’mwobbling.Ihaveducklipstoo,soyouknowI’mfeelingit.ItalkChristhroughthesteps,andhekeepsup.Ilovehimfortrying.Nanajoinsin,doingashoulder

shimmythat’snottheWobble,butIdoubtshecares.The“CupidShuffle”comeson,andmyfamilyleadseverybodyelseonthefrontrow.Sometimeswe

forget which way is right and which is left, and we laugh way too hard at ourselves. Embarrassingdancinganddysfunctionaside,myfamily’snotsobad.

Afterallthatwobblingandshuffling,mystomachbegsforsomefood.Ileaveeverybodyelsedoingthe“BikersShuffle,”which isawholenewlevelofshuffling,andmostofourpartyguestsare lostashell.

Aluminumservingtrayscrowdthekitchencounter.Istackaplatewithsomeribs,wings,andcornonthecob.Iscoopaniceamountofbakedbeansontheresomehow.Nopotatosalad.That’sthedevil’sfood.Allthatmayonnaise.Idon’tcareifMommamadeit,I’mnottouchingthatmess.

Irefusetoeatoutside,toomanybugsthatcouldgetonmyfood.Iplopdownatthediningroomtable,andI’mabouttogoinonmyplate.

Butthedamnphonerings.Everybody else is outside, leavingme to answer. I shove a chickenwing inmymouth. “Hello?” I

chompintheotherperson’sear.Rude?Definitely.AmIstarving?Hellyeah.“Hi,thisisthefrontsecuritygate.IeshaRobinsonisaskingtovisityourresidence.”Istopchewing.IeshawasMIAatSeven’sgraduation,whichshewasinvitedto,sowhydidsheshow

uptothepartyshewasn’tinvitedto?Howdidsheevenfindoutaboutit?Sevendidn’ttellher,andKenyasworeshewouldn’t.Sheliedandtoldhermommaanddaddyshewashangingwithsomeotherfriendstoday.

ItakethephoneoutsidetoDaddybecause,shit,Idon’tknowwhattodo.Igooutatagoodtimetoo.He’strying—andfailing—toNae-Nae.Ihavetocallhimasecondtimeforhimtostopthatatrocityandcomeover.

Hegrins.“Youain’tknowyourdaddyhaditinhim,didyou?”“Istilldon’t.Here.”Ihandhimthephone.“That’sneighborhoodsecurity.Iesha’satthesecuritygate.”Hisgrindisappears.Heplugsoneearandputsthephonetotheother.“Hello?”Thesecurityguardtalksforamoment.DaddymotionsSeventothepatio.“Holdon.”Hecoversthe

receiver.“Yourmommaatthegate.Shewannaseeyou.”Seven’seyebrowsknittogether.“Howdidsheknowwe’rehere?”“Yourgrandma’swithher.Didn’tyouinviteher?”“Yeah,butnotIesha.”“Look,man,ifyouwanthertocomebackforali’lbit,it’scool,”Daddysays.“I’llmakeDeVantego

insidesoshewon’tseehim.Whatyouwannado?”“Pops,canyoutellher—”“Nah,man.That’syourmomma.Youhandlethat.”Sevenbiteshislipforamoment.Hesighsthroughhisnose.“Allright.”

Ieshapullsupout front. I followSeven,Kenya,andmyparents to thedriveway.Sevenalwayshasmyback.Ifigureheneedsmetohavehistoo.

SeventellsKenyatostaybackwithusandgoestowardIesha’spinkBMW.Lyric jumps out the car. “Sevvie!” She runs to him, the ball-shaped ponytail holders on her hair

bouncing.Ihatedwearingthosethings.Allittakesisonehittingyoubetweenyoureyesandyou’redone.

LyriclaunchesintoSeven’sarms,andheswingsheraround.Ican’tlie,IalwaysgetalittlejealouswhenIseeSevenwithhisothersisters.Itdoesn’tmakesense,I

know.Buttheyshareamomma,anditmakesthingsdifferentbetweenthem.It’sliketheyhaveastrongerbondorsomething.

Butthere’snowayinhellI’dtradeMommaforIesha.Nope.SevenkeepsLyriconhishipandhugshisgrandmawithonearm.Ieshagetsout.Abobhaircuthasreplacedherdown-to-the-assIndianimport.Shedoesn’teventryto

tugherhot-pinkdressdownthatobviouslyrodeupherthighsduringthedrive.Ormaybeitdidn’trideupandthat’swhereitalwayswas.

Nope.Wouldn’ttradeMommaforanything.“Soyougon’haveapartyandnotinviteme,Seven?”Ieshaasks.“Abirthdaypartyatthat?I’mthe

onewhogavebirthtoyourass!”Sevenglancesaround.AtleastoneofUncleCarlos’sneighborsislooking.“Notnow.”“Oh,hellyesnow. Ihad to findout frommymommabecausemyownsoncouldn’tbebothered to

inviteme.”ShesetshersharpglareonKenya.“Andthisli’lfastthangliedtomeaboutit!Ioughtawhoopyourass.”

KenyaflincheslikeIeshaalreadyhither.“Momma—”“Don’tblameKenya,”saysSeven,settingLyricdown.“Iaskedhernottotellyou,Iesha.”“Iesha?”sheechoes,allinhisface.“Whothehellyouthinkyoutalkingtolikethat?”What happens next is like when you shake a soda can real hard. From the outside, you can’t tell

anythingisgoingon.Butthenyouopenit,anditexplodes.“ThisiswhyIdidn’tinviteyou!”Sevenshouts.“This!Rightnow!Youdon’tknowhowtoact!”“Oh,soyouashamedofme,Seven?”“You’refuckingrightI’mashamedofyou!”“Whoa!” Daddy says. Stepping between them, he puts his hand on Seven’s chest. “Seven, calm

down.”“Nah,Pops!LetmetellherhowIdidn’tinviteherbecauseIdidn’twannaexplaintomyfriendsthat

mystepmomisn’tmymomlike they think.OrhowIneveroncecorrectedanybodyatWilliamsonwhomadetheassumption.Hell,itwasn’tlikesheevercametoanyofmystuff,sowhybother?Youcouldn’tevenshowuptomygraduationyesterday!”

“Seven,”Kenyapleads.“Stop.”“No,Kenya!”hesays,hissightssquareontheirmomma.“I’lltellherhowIdidn’tthinkshegavea

damnaboutmybirthday,’causeguesswhat?Sheneverhas!‘Youdidn’tinviteme,youdidn’tinviteme,’”hemocks.“Hellno,Ididn’t.AndwhythefuckshouldI?”

Ieshablinksseveraltimesandsaysinavoicelikebrokenglass,“AfterallI’vedoneforyou.”“All you’ve done forme?What? Puttingme out the house?Choosing aman overme every single

chanceyougot?RememberwhenItriedtostopKingfromwhoopingyourass,Iesha?Whodidyougetmadat?”

“Seven,”Daddysays.“Me!Yougotmadatme!SaidImadehimleave.That’swhatyoucall‘doing’forme?Thatwoman

rightthere”—hestretcheshisarmtowardMomma—“dideverythingyouweresupposedtoandthensome.Howdareyoustandthereandtakecreditforit.AllIeverdidwasloveyou.”Hisvoicecracks.“That’sit.Andyoucouldn’tevengivethatbacktome.”

Themusichasstopped,andheadspeekoverthebackyardfence.Laylaapproacheshim.Shehooksherarmthroughhis.Heallowshertotakehiminside.Ieshaturnson

herheelsandstartsforhercar.“Iesha,wait,”Daddysays.“Nothing to wait for.” She throws her door open. “You happy,Maverick? You and that trick you

marriedfinallyturnedmysonagainstme.Can’twaittillKingfucky’allupforlettingthatgirlsnitchonhimonTV.”

Mystomachclenches.“Tellhimtryitifhewantsandseewhathappens!”saysDaddy.It’sonethingtoheargossipthatsomebodyplansto“fuckyouup,”butit’sawholedifferentthingto

hearitfromsomebodywhowouldactuallyknow.ButIcan’tworryaboutKingrightnow.Ihavetogotomybrother.Kenya’satmyside.Wefindhimonthebottomofthestaircase.Hesobslikeababy.Laylarestsher

headonhisshoulder.Seeinghimcrylikethat...Iwannacry.“Seven?”Helooksupwithred,puffyeyesthatI’veneverseenonmybrotherbefore.Mommacomesin.Laylagetsup,andMommatakesherspotonthesteps.“Comehere,baby,”shesays,andtheysomehowhug.DaddytouchesmyshoulderandKenya’s.“Gooutside,y’all.”Kenya’sfaceisscruncheduplikeshe’sgonnacry.Igrabherarmandtakehertothekitchen.Shesits

atthecounterandburiesherfaceinherhands.Iclimbontothestoolanddon’tsayanything.Sometimesit’snotnecessary.

Afterafewminutes,shesays,“I’msorrymydaddy’smadatyou.”Thisisthemostawkwardsituationever—myfriend’sdadpossiblywantstokillme.“Notyourfault,”

Imumble.“Iunderstandwhymybrotherdidn’tinvitemymomma,but...”Hervoicecracks.“Shegoingthrough

alot,Starr.Withhim.”Kenyawipesherfaceonherarm.“Iwishshe’dleavehim.”“Maybesheafraidto?”Isay.“Lookatme.IwasafraidtospeakoutforKhalil,andyouwentoffon

meaboutit.”“Ididn’tgooff.”“Yeah,youdid.”“Trustme,no,Ididn’t.You’llknowwhenIgooffonyou.”“Anyway! I know it’s not the same, but . . .” Good Lord, I never thought I’d say this. “I think I

understandIesha.It’shardtostandupforyourselfsometimes.Shemayneedthatpushtoo.”“Soyouwantmetogooffonher?Ican’tbelieveyouthinkIwentoffonyou.Sensitiveass.”Mymouthfliesopen.“Youknowwhat?I’mgonnaletthatslide.Nah,Iain’tsayyouneedtogooffon

her,thatwouldbestupid.Just...”Isigh.“Idon’tknow.”“Idon’teither.”Wegosilent.Kenyawipesherfaceagain.“I’mgood.”Shegetsup.“I’mgood.”“Yousure?”“Yes!Stopaskingmethat.C’mon,let’sgobackoutthereandstopthemfromtalkingaboutmybrother,

’causeyouknowthey’retalking.”Sheheadsforthedoor,butIsay,“Ourbrother.”Kenyaturnsaround.“What?”“Ourbrother.He’sminetoo.”I didn’t say it in ameanwayor evenwith an attitude, I swear. She doesn’t respond.Not even an

“okay.”Not that I expected her to suddenly go, “Of course, he’sour brother, I’m extremely sorry foractinglikehewasn’tyourstoo.”Ihopedforsomethingthough.

Kenyagoesoutside.

SevenandIeshaunknowinglyhitthepausebuttonontheparty.Themusic’soff,andSeven’sfriendsstandaround,talkinginhushedtones.

ChrisandMayawalkuptome.“IsSevenokay?”Mayaasks.“Whoturnedthemusicoff?”Iask.Chrisshrugs.IpickupDaddy’s iPodfromthepatio table,ourDJfor theafternoonthat’shookedupto thesound

system.Scrollingthroughtheplaylist,IfindthisKendrickLamarsongSevenplayedformeoneday,rightafterKhalildied.Kendrickrapsabouthoweverythingwillbeallright.Sevensaidit’sforbothofus.

Ihitplayandhopehehearsit.It’sforKenyatoo.Midwaythroughthesong,SevenandLaylacomebackout.Hiseyesarepuffyandpinkbutdry.He

smilesatmealittleandgivesaquicknod.Ireturnit.MommaleadsDaddyoutside.They’rebothwearingcone-shapedbirthdayhats,andDaddycarriesa

hugesheetcakewithcandleslitontopofit.“Happy birthday to ya!” they sing, and Momma does this not-as-embarrassing shoulder bounce.

“Happybirthdaytoya!Happybirth-day!”Sevensmilesfromeartoear.Iturnthemusicdown.Daddy sets the cake on the patio table, and everybody crowds around it and Seven. Our family,

Kenya,DeVante,andLayla—basically,alltheblackpeople—singtheStevieWonderversionof“HappyBirthday.”Maya seems to know it. A lot of Seven’s friends look lost. Chris does too. These culturaldifferencesarecrazysometimes.

Nana takes the song way too far and hits notes that don’t need to be hit.Momma tells her, “Thecandlesareabouttogoout,Momma!”

She’ssodamndramatic.Sevenleansdowntoblowthecandlesout,butDaddysays,“Wait!Man,youknowyoudon’tblowno

candlesouttillIsaysomething.”“Aww,Pops!”“Hecan’ttellyouwhattodo,Seven,”Sekanichirps.“You’regrownnow!”DaddyshootsSekanianup-and-downlook.“Boy—”HeturnstoSeven.“I’mproudofyou,man.Like

Itoldyou,Inevergotadiploma.Alotofyoungbrothersdon’tgettheirs.Andwherewecomefrom,alotofthemdon’tmakeittoeighteen.Somedomakeit,butthey’remessedupbythetimetheygetthere.Notyouthough.You’regoingplaces,nodoubt.Ialwaysknewthat.

“See,Ibelieveingivingmykidsnamesthatmeansomething.Sekani,thatmeansmerrimentandjoy.”Isnort.Sekaniside-eyesme.“InamedyoursisterStarrbecauseshewasmylightinthedarkness.Seven,that’saholynumber.The

numberofperfection.Iain’tsayingyou’reperfect,nobodyis,butyou’retheperfectgiftGodgaveme.Iloveyou,man.Happybirthdayandcongratulations.”

DaddyaffectionatelyclaspsSeven’sneck.Sevengrinswider.“Loveyoutoo,Pops.”ThecakeisoneofMrs.Rooks’sredvelvets.Everybodygoesonandonabouthowgooditis.Uncle

Carlospigsoutonatleastthreeslices.There’smoredancing,laughing.Allinall,it’sagoodday.Gooddaysdon’tlastforeverthough.

PART5

THIRTEENWEEKSAFTERIT—THEDECISION

TWENTY-TWO

InournewneighborhoodIcansimplytellmyparents“I’mgoingforawalk”andleave.WejustgotoffthephonewithMs.Ofrah,whosaidthegrandjurywillannouncetheirdecisionina

fewhours.Sheclaimsonlythegrandjurorsknowthedecision,butI’vegotasinkingfeelingIknowit.It’salwaysthedecision.

Istickmyhandsinthepocketsofmysleevelesshoodie.Somekidsracepastonbikesandscooters.Nearlyknockmeover.Doubtthey’reworriedaboutthegrandjury’sdecision.Theyaren’thurryinginsidelikethekidsbackhomeareprobablydoing.

Home.Westartedmovingintoournewhousethispastweekend.Fivedayslater,thisplacedoesn’tfeellike

homeyet.ItcouldbealltheunpackedboxesorthestreetnamesIdon’tknow.Andit’salmosttooquiet.NoFo’tyOunceandhiscreakycartorMrs.Pearlholleringagreetingfromacrossthestreet.

Ineednormal.ItextChris.Lessthantenminuteslater,hepicksmeupinhisdad’sBenz.TheBryantsliveintheonlyhouseontheirstreetthathasaseparatehouseattachedtoitforabutler.

Mr.Bryantownseightcars,mostlyantiques,andagaragetostorethemall.Chrisparksinoneofthetwoemptyspots.“Yourparentsgone?”Iask.“Yep.Datenightatthecountryclub.”MostofChris’shouselookstoofancytolivein.Statues,oilpaintings,chandeliers.Amuseummore

thanahome.Chris’ssuiteonthethirdfloorismorenormallooking.There’saleathercouchinhisroom,right in front of the flat-screen TV and video game systems. His floor is painted to look like a halfbasketballcourt,andhecanplayonanactualhooponhiswall.

HisCaliforniaKing–sizebedhasbeenmade,araresight.Ineverknewtherewasanythinglargerthanaking-sizebedbeforeImethim.IpullmyTimbsoffandgrabtheremotefromhisnightstand.AsIthrowmyselfontohisbed,IflicktheTVon.

Chris steps out hisChucks and sits at his desk,where a drumpad, a keyboard, and turntables arehookeduptoaMac.“Checkthisout,”hesays,andplaysabeat.

Ipropmyselfuponmyelbowsandnodalong.It’sgotanold-schoolfeeltoit,likesomethingDreandSnoopwould’veusedbackintheday.“Nice.”

“Thanks.IthinkIneedtotakesomeofthatbassoutthough.”Heturnsaroundandgetstowork.Ipickataloosethreadonhiscomforter.“Doyouthinkthey’regonnachargehim?”“Doyou?”“No.”Chrisspinshischairbackaround.Myeyesarewatery,andIlieonmyside.Heclimbsinnexttome

sowe’refacingeachother.Chrispresseshisforeheadagainstmine.“I’msorry.”

“Youdidn’tdoanything.”“ButIfeellikeIshouldapologizeonbehalfofwhitepeopleeverywhere.”“Youdon’thaveto.”“ButIwantto.”LyinginhisCaliforniaKing–sizebedinhissuiteinhisgigantichouse,Irealizethetruth.Imean,it’s

beenthereallalong,butinthismomentlightsflasharoundit.“Weshouldn’tbetogether,”Isay.“Whynot?”“MyoldhouseinGardenHeightscouldfitinyourhouse.”“So?”“Mydadwasagangbanger.”“Mydadgambles.”“Igrewupintheprojects.”“Igrewupwitharoofovermyheadtoo.”Isighandstarttoturnmybacktohim.HeholdsmyshouldersoIwon’t.“Don’tletthisstuffgetinyourheadagain,Starr.”“Youevernoticehowpeoplelookatus?”“Whatpeople?”“People,”Isay.“Ittakesthemasecondtorealizewe’reacouple.”“Whogivesafuck?”“Me.”“Why?”“BecauseyoushouldbewithHailey.”Herecoils.“WhythehellwouldIdothat?”“NotHailey.Butyouknow.Blond.Rich.White.”“Iprefer:Beautiful.Amazing.Starr.”Hedoesn’tget it,but Idon’twanna talkabout itanymore. Iwannagetsocaughtup inhimthat the

grandjury’sdecisionisn’tevenathing.Ikisshislips,whichalwayshaveandalwayswillbeperfect.Hekissesmeback,andsoonwe’remakingoutlikeit’stheonlythingweknowhowtodo.

It’s not enough.My hands travel below his chest, and he’s bulging in more than his arms. I startunzippinghisjeans.

Hegrabsmyhand.“Whoa.Whatareyoudoing?”“Whatdoyouthink?”Hiseyessearchmine.“Starr,Iwantto,Ido—”“Iknowyoudo.Andit’stheperfectopportunity.”Itrailkissesalonghisneck,gettingeachofthose

perfectlyplacedfreckles.“Nobody’sherebutus.”“Butwecan’t,”hesays,voicestrained.“Notlikethis.”“Whynot?”Islipmyhandinhispants,headingforthebulge.“Becauseyou’renotinagoodplace.”Istop.He looksatme,andI lookathim.Myvisionblurs.Chriswrapshisarmsaroundmeandpullsme

closer.Iburymyfaceinhisshirt.HesmellslikeaperfectcombinationofLeversoapandOldSpice.Thethumpofhisheartisbetterthananybeathe’severmade.Mynormal,intheflesh.

Chrisrestshischinontopofmyhead.“Starr...”HeletsmecryasmuchasIneedto.

Myphonevibratesagainstmythigh,wakingmeup.It’salmostpitch-blackinChris’sroom—theredskyshines a bit of light through hiswindows.He sleeps soundly and holdsme like that’s howhe alwayssleeps.

Myphonebuzzesagain.IuntanglemyselfoutofChris’sarmsandcrawltothefootofthebed.Ifishmyphonefrommypocket.Seven’sfacelightsupmyscreen.

Itrynottosoundtoogroggy.“Hello?”“Wherethehellareyou?”Sevenbarks.“Hasthedecisionbeenannounced?”“No.Answermyquestion.”“Chris’shouse.”Sevensuckshisteeth.“Idon’tevenwannaknow.IsDeVanteoverthere?”“No.Why?”“UncleCarlossaidhewalkedoutawhileago.Nobody’sseenhimsince.”Mystomachclenches.“What?”“Yeah.Ifyouweren’tfoolingaroundwithyourboyfriend,you’dknowthat.”“You’rereallymakingmefeelguiltyrightnow?”He sighs. “Iknowyou’regoing througha lot, butdamn,Starr.Youcan’tdisappearonus like that.

Ma’slookingforyou.She’sworriedsick.AndPopshadtogoprotectthestore,incase...youknow.”IcrawlbacktoChrisandshakehisshoulder.“Comegetus,”ItellSeven.“We’llhelpyoulookfor

DeVante.”

IsendMommaatexttoletherknowwhereIam,whereI’mgoing,andthatI’mokay.Idon’thavethegutstocallher.Andhavehergooffonme?Nah,nothanks.

Sevenistalkingonhisphonewhenhepullsintothedriveway.Bythelookonhisface,somebody’sgottabedead.

Ithrowopenthepassengerdoor.“What’swrong?”“Kenya, calm down,” he says. “What happened?” Seven listens and looks more horrified by the

second.Thenhesuddenlysays,“I’monmyway,”andtossesthephoneonthebackseat.“It’sDeVante.”“Whoa,wait.”I’mholdingthedoor,andhe’srevvinguphisengine.“Whathappened?”“Idon’tknow.Chris,takeStarrhome—”“And let you go to Garden Heights by yourself?” But shoot, actions are louder. I climb in the

passengerseat.“I’mcomingtoo,”Chrissays.Iletmyseatforward,andheclimbsintheback.Luckily,orunluckily,Sevendoesn’thavetimetoargue.Wepulloff.

Sevencutstheforty-five-minutedrivetoGardenHeightstothirty.TheentiredriveIpleadwithGodtoletDeVantebeokay.

Thesun’sgonebythetimewegetoffthefreeway.IfighttheurgetotellSeventoturnaround.ThisisChris’sfirsttimeinmyneighborhood.

ButIhavetotrusthim.Hewantsmetolethimin,andthisisthemost“in”hecouldget.At the Cedar Grove Projects there’s graffiti on the walls and broken-down cars in the courtyard.

UndertheBlackJesusmuralattheclinic,grassgrowsupthroughthecracksinthesidewalk.Trashlitterseverycurbwepass.Twojunkiesargueloudlyonacorner.There’slotsofhoopties,carsthatshould’vebeeninthejunkyardalongtimeago.Thehousesareold,small.

WhateverChristhinksdoesn’tcomeouthismouth.

Seven parks in front of Iesha’s house. The paint is peeling, and thewindows have sheets in theminsteadofblindsandcurtains.Iesha’spinkBMWandKing’sgrayonemakeanLshapeontheyard.Thegrassiscompletelygonefromyearsofthemparkingthere.Graycarsfittedwithrimssitinthedrivewayandalongthestreet.

Seven turns his ignition off. “Kenya said they’re all in the backyard. I should be good.Y’all stayhere.”

Judgingbythosecars,foroneSeventhere’saboutfiftyKingLords.Idon’tcareifKingispissedatme,I’mnotlettingmybrothergointherealone.“I’mcomingwithyou.”

“No.”“IsaidI’mcoming.”“Starr,Idon’thavetimefor—”Ifoldmyarms.“Tryandmakemestay.”Hecan’t,andhewon’t.Sevensighs.“Fine.Chris,stayhere.”“Hellno!I’mnotstayingoutherebymyself.”Weallgetout.Musicechoesfromthebackyardalongwithrandomshoutsandlaughter.Apairofgray

high-tops dangle by their laces from the utility line in front of the house, telling everybody who candecipherthecodethatdrugsaresoldhere.

Seventakesthestepstwoatatimeandthrowsthefrontdooropen.“Kenya!”Comparedtotheoutside,theinsideisfive-star-hotelnice.Theyhaveadamnchandelierintheliving

roomandbrand-new leather furniture.Aflat-screenTV takesupawholewall,and tropical fishswimaroundinatankonanotherwall.Thedefinitionof“hoodrich.”

“Kenya!”Sevenrepeats,goingdownthehall.From the front door I see the back door. A whole lot of King Lords dance with women in the

backyard.King’sinthemiddleinahigh-backedchair,histhrone,puffingonacigar.Ieshasitsonthearmofthechair,holdingacupandmovinghershoulderstothemusic.Thankstothedarkscreenonthedoor,Icanseeoutsidebutchancesaretheycan’tseeinside.

Kenyapeeksintothehallfromoneofthebedrooms.“Inhere.”DeVanteliesonthefloorinthefetalpositionatthefootofaking-sizebed.Theplushwhitecarpetis

stainedwithhisbloodas it trickles fromhisnoseandmouth.There’sa towelbesidehim,buthe’snotdoinganythingwithit.Oneofhiseyeshasafreshbruisearoundit.Hegroans,clutchinghisside.

SevenlooksatChris.“Helpmegethimup.”Chrishaspaled.“Maybeweshouldcall—”“Chris,man,c’mon!”Chris inches over, and the two of them sit DeVante up against the bed. His nose is swollen and

bruised,andhisupperliphasanastycut.Chrispasseshimthetowel.“Dude,whathappened?”“IwalkedintoKing’sfist.Man,whatyouthinkhappened?Theyjumpedme.”“I couldn’t stop them,” Kenya says, all stuffed-up sounding like she’s been crying. “I’m so sorry,

DeVante.”“Thisshitain’tyourfault,Kenya,”DeVantesays.“Areyoua’ight?”Shesniffsandwipeshernoseonherarm.“I’mokay.Heonlypushedme.”Seven’seyesflash.“Whopushedyou?”“Shetriedtostopthemfrombeatingmyass,”DeVantesays.“Kinggotmadandpushedheroutthe—”Sevenmarchestothedoor.Icatchhisarmanddigmyfeetintothecarpettokeephimfrommoving,

butheendsuppullingmewithhim.Kenyagrabshisotherarm.Inthismoment,he’sourbrother,notjustmineorhers.

“Seven,no,”Isay.Hetriestopullaway,butmygripandKenya’sgriparesteel.“Yougooutthereandyou’redead.”

Hisjawishard,hisshouldersaretense.Hisnarrowedeyesaresetonthedoorway.“Let.Me.Go,”hesays.“Seven,I’mokay.Ipromise,”Kenyasays.“ButStarr’sright.WegottagetVanteouttaherebeforethey

killhim.Theyjustwaitingforthesuntoset.”“Heputhishandsonyou,”Sevensnarls.“IsaidIwouldn’tletthathappenagain.”“Weknow,”Isay.“Butpleasedon’tgobackthere.”IhatestoppinghimbecauseIpromise,IwantsomebodytowhoopKing’sass.Itcan’tbeSeven.No

wayinhell.Ican’tlosehimtoo.I’dneverbenormalagain.He snatches away from us, and the sting that would usually come with that gesture is missing. I

understandhisfrustrationlikeit’smine.Thebackdoorsqueaksandslamsclosed.Shit.Wefreeze.Feetthumpagainstthefloor,drawingnearer.Ieshaappearsinthedoorway.Nobodyspeaks.Shestaresatus,sippingfromaredplasticcup.Herlipiscurledupslightly,andshetakeshersweet

timetospeak,likeshe’sgettingakickoutofourfear.Chompingonsomeice,shelooksatChrisandsays,“Whothisli’lwhiteboyy’alldonebroughtupin

myhouse?”Ieshasmirksandeyesme.“Ibetheyours,ain’the?That’swhathappenswhenyougotothemwhite

folks’schools.”Sheleansagainstthedoorframe.Hergoldbraceletsjingleassheliftshercuptoherlipsagain.“Iwould’vepaid toseeMaverick’s face thedayyoubrought thisonehome.Shit, I’msurprisedSevengotablackgirl.”

AthisnameSevensnapsouthistrance.“Canyouhelpus?”“Helpyou?”sheechoeswithalaugh.“What?WithDeVante?WhatIlooklikehelpinghim?”“Momma—”“NowI’mMomma?”shesays.“Whathappenedtothat‘Iesha’shitfromtheotherweek?Huh,Seven?

See, baby, you don’t know how the game work. Let Momma explain something to you, okay?WhenDeVantestolefromKing,heearnedanasswhooping.Hegotone.Anybodywhohelpshimisaskingforittoo,andtheybetterbeabletohandleit.”Shelooksatme.“Thatgoesfordrysnitchestoo.”

AllittakesisherholleringforKing...Hereyesflick toward thebackdoor.Themusicandlaughterrise in theair.“I telly’allwhat,”she

says,andturnstous.“Y’allbettergetDeVante’ssorryassoutmybedroom.Bleedingonmycarpetandshit.And got the nerve to use one ofmy damn towels?Matter of fact, get him and that snitch outmyhouse.”

Sevensays,“What?”“Youdeaftoo?”shesays.“Isaidgetthemoutmyhouse.Andtakeyoursisters.”“WhatIgottatakethemfor?”Sevensays.“BecauseIsaidso!Takethemtoyourgrandma’sorsomething,Idon’tcare.Getthemoutmyface.I’m

tryingtogetmypartyon,shit.”Whennoneofusmoves,shesays,“Go!”“I’llgetLyric,”Kenyasays,andleaves.ChrisandSeveneachtakeoneofDeVante’shandsandpullhimup.DeVantewincesandcussesthe

whole way. Once on his feet, he bends over, holding his side, but slowly straightens up and takessteadyingbreaths.Henods.“I’mgood.Justsore.”

“Hurryup,”Ieshasays.“Damn.I’mtiredoflookingaty’all.”Seven’sglaresayswhathedoesn’t.DeVanteinsistshecanwalk,butSevenandChris lendtheirshouldersforsupportanyway.Kenya’s

alreadyatthefrontdoorwithLyriconherhip.Iholdthedooropenforallofthemandlooktowardthebackyard.

Shit.King’srisingoffhisthrone.Iesha goes out the back door, and she’s in his face before he can fully stand up. She grabs his

shouldersandguideshimbackdown,whispering inhisear.Hesmileswidelyand leansback intohischair.Sheturnsaroundsoherbackistohim,theviewhereallywants,andstartsdancing.Hesmacksherass.Shelooksmyway.

Idoubtshecanseeme,butIdon’t thinkI’moneof thepeopleshe’s tryingtoseeanyway.They’vegonetothecar.

SuddenlyIgetit.“Starr,c’mon,”Sevencalls.I jumpoff theporch.Sevenholdshis seat forward formeandChris to climb in thebackwithhis

sisters.Oncewe’rein,hedrivesoff.“Wegottagetyoutothehospital,Vante,”hesays.DeVantepressesthetowelagainsthisnoseandlooksatthebloodstainingit.“I’llbea’ight,”hesays,

likethatquickobservationtellshimwhatadoctorcan’t.“WeluckyIeshahelpedus,man.Forreal.”Sevensnorts.“Shewasn’thelpingus.Somebodycouldbebleedingtodeath,andshewouldbemore

worriedabouthercarpetandgettingherpartyon.”Mybrotherissmart.Sosmartthathe’sdumb.He’sbeenhurtbyhismommasomuchthatwhenshe

doessomethingrighthe’sblindtoit.“Seven,shedidhelpus,”Isay.“Thinkaboutit.Whydidshetellyoutotakeyoursisterstoo?”

“’Causeshedidn’twannabebothered.Asalways.”“No.SheknowsKingwillgooffwhenheseesDeVante’sgone,”Isay.“IfKenya’snotthere,Lyric’s

notthere,whodoyouthinkhe’sgon’takeitouton?”Hesaysnothing.Then,“Shit.”Thecarmakesanabruptstop,lurchingusforwardthensidewaysasSevenmakesawideU-turn.He

hitsthegas,andhousesblurpastus.“Seven,no!”Kenyasays.“Wecan’tgoback!”“I’msupposedtoprotecther!”“No,you’renot!”Isay.“She’ssupposedtoprotectyou,andshe’stryingtodothatnow.”Thecarslowsdown.ItcomestoacompletestopafewhousesawayfromIesha’s.“Ifhe—”Sevenswallows.“Ifshe—he’llkillher.”“Hewon’t,”Kenyasays.“She’slastedthislong.Letherdothis,Seven.”A Tupac song on the radio makes up for our silence. He raps about how we gotta start making

changes.Khalilwasright.’Pac’sstillrelevant.“Allright,”Sevensays,andhemakesanotherU-turn.“Allright.”The song fadesoff. “This is thehottest station in thenation,Hot105,” theDJ says. “Ifyou’re just

tuningin,thegrandjuryhasdecidednottoindictOfficerBrianCruiseJr.inthedeathofKhalilHarris.OurthoughtsandprayersarewiththeHarrisfamily.Staysafeoutthere,y’all.”

TWENTY-THREE

It’saquietridetoSeven’sgrandma’shouse.I told the truth. Idideverything Iwassupposed todo,and itwasn’t fuckinggoodenough.Khalil’s

deathwasn’thorribleenoughtobeconsideredacrime.Butdamn,whatabouthislife?Hewasonceawalking,talkinghumanbeing.Hehadfamily.Hehad

friends.Hehaddreams.Noneofitfuckingmattered.Hewasjustathugwhodeservedtodie.Car horns honk around us. Drivers shout the decision to the rest of the neighborhood. Some kids

aroundmyagestandontopofacarastheyshout,“JusticeforKhalil!”Sevenmaneuversarounditallandparksinhisgrandma’sdriveway.He’ssilentandunmovingatfirst.

Suddenlyhepunchesthesteeringwheel.“Fuck!”DeVanteshakeshishead.“Thissomebullshit.”“Fuck!”Sevencroaks.Hecovershiseyesandrocksbackandforth.“Fuck,fuck,fuck!”Iwannacrytoo.Justcan’t.“Idon’tunderstand,”Chrissays.“HekilledKhalil.Heshouldgotoprison.”“Theyneverdo,”Kenyamutters.Sevenhastilywipeshisface.“Fuckthis.Starr,whateveryouwannado,I’mdown.Youwannaburn

someshitup,we’llburnsomeshitup.Givetheword.”“Dude,areyoucrazy?”Chrissays.Seventurnsaround.“Youdon’tgetit,soshutup.Starr,whatyouwannado?”Anything.Everything.Scream.Cry.Puke.Hitsomebody.Burnsomething.Throwsomething.Theygavemethehate,andnowIwannafuckeverybody,evenifI’mnotsurehow.“Iwannadosomething,”Isay.“Protest,riot,Idon’tcare—”“Riot?”Chrisechoes.“Hellyeah!”DeVantegivesmedap.“That’swhatI’mtalking’bout!”“Starr,thinkaboutthis,”Chrissays.“Thatwon’tsolveanything.”“Andneitherdidtalking!”Isnap.“Idideverythingright,anditdidn’tmakeafuckingdifference.I’ve

gottendeath threats, copsharassedmy family, somebody shot intomyhouse, all kindsof shit.And forwhat?JusticeKhalilwon’tget?Theydon’tgiveafuckaboutus,sofine.Inolongergiveafuck.”

“But—”“Chris,Idon’tneedyoutoagree,”Isay,mythroattight.“JusttrytounderstandhowIfeel.Please?”Heclosesandopenshismouthacoupleoftimes.Noresponse.Sevengetsoutandholdshisseatforward.“C’mon,Lyric.Kenya,youstayinghereoryoucomingwith

us?”“Staying,”Kenyasays,hereyeswetfromearlier.“IncaseMommashowsup.”Sevennodsheavily.“Goodidea.She’llneedsomebody.”LyricclimbsoffKenya’slapandrunsupthewalkway.Kenyahesitates.Shelooksbackatme.“I’m

sorry,Starr,”shesays.“Thisain’tright.”

ShefollowsLyrictothefrontdoor,andtheirgrandmaletstheminside.Sevenreturnstothedriver’sseat.“Chris,youwantmetotakeyouhome?”“I’mstaying.”Chrisnods,asifhe’ssettlingwithhimself.“Yeah,I’mstaying.”“Yousureyouupforthis?”DeVanteasks.“It’sgon’getwildouthere.”“I’msure.”Heeyesme.“Iwanteveryonetoknowthatdecisionisbullshit.”Heputshishandontheseatwithhispalmfacingup.Iputmyhandonhis.Seven cranks up the car and backs out the driveway. “Somebody check Twitter, find out where

everything’sgoingdown.”“I got you.” DeVante holds up his phone. “Folks headed toMagnolia. That’s where a lot of shit

happenedlast—”Hewincesandgrabshisside.“Areyouupforthis,Vante?”Chrisasks.DeVantestraightensup.“Yeah.IgotbeatworsethanthiswhenIgotinitiated.”“How’dtheygetyouanyway?”Iask.“Yeah.UncleCarlossaidyouwalkedoff,”saysSeven.“That’salong-asswalk.”“Man,”DeVantegroansinthatDeVanteway.“IwantedtovisitDalvin,a’ight?I tookthebustothe

cemetery.IhatethathebyhimselfintheGarden.Ididn’twanthimtobelonely,ifthatmakesense.”ItrynottothinkaboutKhalilbeingaloneinGardenHeights,nowthatMs.RosalieandCameronare

goingtoNewYorkwithMs.TammyandI’mleavingtoo.“Itmakessense.”DeVantepressesthetowelagainsthisnoseandlip.Thebleeding’sslackedup.“BeforeIcouldcatch

thebusback,King’sboyssnatchedmeup.IthoughtI’dbedeadbynow.Forreal.”“Well,I’mgladyou’renot,”Chrissays.“GivesmemoretimetobeatyouinMadden.”DeVantesmirks.“Youacrazy-asswhiteboyifyouthinkthat’sgon’happen.”

CarsareupanddownMagnolialikeit’saSaturdaymorningandthedopeboysareshowingoff.Musicblasts,hornsblare,peoplehangoutcarwindows,standonthehoods.Thesidewalksarepacked.It’shazyout,andflameslicktheskyinthedistance.

ItellSeventoparkatJustUsforJustice.Thewindowsareboardedupand“Blackowned”isspray-paintedacrossthem.Ms.Ofrahsaidtheywouldbeleadingprotestsaroundthecityifthegrandjurydidn’tindict.

Weheaddown the sidewalk, justwalkingwithnoparticularplace togo. It’smorecrowded than Irealized.About half the neighborhood is out here. I throwmyhoodie overmyhair and keepmyheaddown.Nomatterwhatthatgrandjurydecided,I’mstill“StarrwhowaswithKhalil,”andIdon’twannabeseentonight.Justheard.

AcoupleoffolksglanceatChriswiththat“whatthehellisthiswhiteboydoingouthere”look.Hestuffshishandsinhispockets.

“GuessI’mnoticeable,huh?”hesays.“You’resureyouwannabeouthere?”Iask.“ThisiskindahowitisforyouandSevenatWilliamson,right?”“Alotlikethat,”Sevensays.“ThenIcandeal.”Thecrowdsaretoothick.Weclimbontopofabusstopbenchtogetabetterviewofeverythinggoing

on.KingLords ingraybandanasandGardenDisciples ingreenbandanas standonapolicecar in themiddleofthestreet,chanting,“JusticeforKhalil!”Peoplegatheredaroundthecarrecordthescenewiththeirphonesandthrowrocksatthewindows.

“Fuckthatcop,bruh,”aguysays,grippingabaseballbat.“Killedhimovernothing!”

Heslamsthebatintothedriver’ssidewindow,shatteringtheglass.It’son.TheKingLordsandGDsstompoutthefrontwindow.Thensomebodyyells,“Flipthatmothafucka!”The gangbangers jump off. People line up on one side of the car. I stare at the lights on the top,

rememberingtheonesthatflashedbehindmeandKhalil,andwatchthemdisappearastheyflipthecarontoitsback.

Someoneshouts,“Watchout!”AMolotovcocktailsailstowardthecar.Then—whoompf!Itburstsintoflames.Thecrowdcheers.Peoplesaymiserylovescompany,butIthinkit’slikethatwithangertoo.I’mnottheonlyonepissed

—everyonearoundme is.Theydidn’thave tobesitting in thepassenger’s seatwhen ithappened.Myangeristheirs,andtheirsismine.

Acarstereoloudlyplaysarecord-scratchingsound, thenIceCubesays,“Fuck thepolice,comingstraightfromtheunderground.Ayoungniggagotitbad’causeI’mbrown.”

You’dthinkitwasaconcertthewaypeoplereact,rappingalongandjumpingtothebeat.DeVanteandSevenyelloutthelyrics.Chrisnodsalongandmumblesthewords.HegoessilenteverytimeCubesays“nigga.”Asheshould.

When that hook hits, a collective “Fuck the police” thunders offMagnoliaAvenue, probably loudenoughtoreachtheheavens.

Iyellitouttoo.Partofmeislike,“WhataboutUncleCarlosthecop?”Butthisisn’tabouthimorhiscoworkers who do their jobs right. This is about One-Fifteen, those detectives with their bullshitquestions,andthosecopswhomadeDaddylieontheground.Fuckthem.

Glassshatters.Istoprapping.A block away, people throw rocks and garbage cans at the windows of theMcDonald’s and the

drugstorenexttoit.OnetimeIhadareallybadasthmaattackthatputmeintheemergencyroom.MyparentsandIdidn’t

leavethehospitaluntil likethreein themorning,andwewerestarvingbythen.MommaandIgrabbedhamburgersatthatMcDonald’sandatewhileDaddygotmyprescriptionfromthepharmacy.

Theglassdoorsatthedrugstoreshattercompletely.Peoplerushinandeventuallycomebackoutwitharmsfullofstuff.

“Stop!”Iyell,andotherssaythesame,butlooterscontinuetorunin.Aglowoforangeburstsinside,andallthosepeoplerushout.

“Holyshit,”Chrissays.Innotimethebuildingisinflames.“Hellyeah!”saysDeVante.“Burnthatbitchdown!”IrememberthelookonDaddy’sfacethedayMr.Wyatthandedhimthekeystothegrocerystore;Mr.

Reubenandall thosepicturesonhiswalls, showingyearsandyearsofa legacyhe’sbuilt;Ms.Yvettewalking intohershopeverymorning,yawning;evenpain-in-the-assMr.Lewiswithhis top-of-the-linehaircuts.

Glassshattersatthepawnshoponthenextblock.Thenatthebeautysupplystorenearit.Flamespouroutboth,andpeoplecheer.Anewbattlecrystartsup:Theroof,theroof,theroofisonfire!Wedon’tneednowater,letthatmothafuckaburn!I’mjustaspissedasanybody,butthis...thisisn’tit.Notforme.DeVante’srighttherewiththem,yellingoutthenewchant.Ibackhandhisarm.“What?”hesays.

Chrisnudgesmyside.“Guys...”Afewblocksaway,alineofcopsinriotgearmarchdownthestreet,followedcloselybytwotanks

withbrightlights.“Thisisnotapeacefulassembly,”anofficeronaloudspeakersays.“Dispersenow,oryouwillbe

subjecttoarrest.”Theoriginalbattlecrystartsupagain:“Fuckthepolice!Fuckthepolice!”Peoplehurlrocksandglassbottlesatthecops.“Yo,”Sevensays.“Stopthrowingobjectsatlawenforcement,”theofficersays.“Exitthestreetsimmediatelyoryouwill

besubjecttoarrest.”Therocksandbottlescontinuetofly.Sevenhopsoffthebench.“C’mon,”hesays,asChrisandIclimbofftoo.“Weneedtogetouttahere.”“Fuckthepolice!Fuckthepolice!”DeVantecontinuestoshout.“Vante,man,c’mon!”saysSeven.“Iain’tscaredofthem!Fuckthepolice!”There’saloudpop.Anobjectsailsintotheair, landsinthemiddleofthestreet,andexplodesina

balloffire.“Ohshit!”DeVantesays.Hehopsoffthebench,andwerun.It’sdamnnearastampedeonthesidewalk.Carsspeedawayinthe

street.ItsoundsliketheFourthofJulybehindus;popafterpopafterpop.Smokefillstheair.Moreglassshatters.Thepopsgetcloser,andthesmokethickens.Flameseatawayatthecashadvanceplace.JustUsforJusticeisfinethough.Soisthecarwashonthe

othersideofit,“blackowned”spray-paintedononeofitswalls.WehopintoSeven’sMustang.HespeedsoutthebackentranceoftheoldTacoBellparkinglot,hitting

thenextstreetover.“Thehelljusthappened?”hesays.Chrisslumpsinhisseat.“Idon’tknow.Idon’twantittohappenagainthough.”“Niggastiredoftakingshit,”DeVantesays,betweenheavybreaths.“LikeStarrsaid,theydon’tgivea

fuckaboutus,sowedon’tgiveafuck.Burnthisbitchdown.”“Buttheydon’tlivehere!”Sevensays.“Theydon’tgiveadamnwhathappenstothisneighborhood.”“What we supposed to do then?” DeVante snaps. “All that ‘Kumbaya’ peaceful shit clearly don’t

work.Theydon’tlistentillwetearsomethingup.”“Thosebusinessesthough,”Isay.“What about them?”DeVante asks. “Mymommaused toworkat thatMcDonald’s, and theybarely

paidher.Thatpawnshoprippedusoffahellofalotoftimes.Nah,Idon’tgiveafuckaboutneitheroneofthembitches.”

Igetit.Daddyalmostlosthisweddingringtothatpawnshoponce.Heactuallythreatenedtoburnitdown.Kindaironicit’sburningnow.

Butif thelootersdecidetoignorethe“blackowned”tags, theycouldenduphittingourstore.“WeneedtogohelpDaddy.”

“What?”Sevensays.“WeneedtogohelpDaddyprotectthestore!Incaselootersshowup.”Sevenwipeshisface.“Shit,you’reprobablyright.”“Ain’tnobodygon’touchBigMav,”saysDeVante.“You don’t know that,” I say. “People are pissed,DeVante. They’re not thinking shit out. They’re

doingshit.”DeVanteeventuallynods.“A’ight,fine.Let’sgohelpBigMav.”“Thinkhe’llbeokaywithmehelpingout?”Chrisasks.“Hedidn’tseemtolikemelasttime.”“Seemto?”DeVanterepeats.“Hestraightupmean-muggedyourass.Iwasthere.Iremember.”Sevensnickers.IsmackDeVanteandtellhim,“Shush.”“What?It’strue.HewasmadashellthatChrisiswhite.Butay?YouspitthatNWAshitlikeyoudid

backthere,maybehe’llthinkyou’rea’ight.”“What?SurprisedawhiteboyknowsNWA?”Christeases.“Man,youain’twhite.Youlight-skinned.”“Agreed!”Isay.“Wait,wait,”Sevensaysoverourlaughter,“wegottatesthimtoseeifhereallyisblack.Chris,you

eatgreenbeancasserole?”“Hellno.Thatshit’sdisgusting.”Therestofusloseit,saying,“He’sblack!He’sblack!”“Wait,onemore,”Isay.“Macaroniandcheese.Fullmealorasidedish?”“Uh...”Chris’seyesdartaroundatus.DeVantemimicstheJeopardy!music.“Howtoearnablackcardforthreehundred,Alex,”Sevensaysinanannouncer’svoice.Chrisfinallyanswers,“Fullmeal.”“Aww!”therestofusgroan.“Whomp-whomp-whomp!”DeVanteadds.“Guys,itis!Thinkaboutit.Yougetprotein,calcium—”“Protein is meat,” DeVante says. “Not no damn cheese. I wish somebody would give me some

macaroni,callingitameal.”“It’sliketheeasiest,quickestmealeverthough,”Chrissays.“Onebox,andyou’re—”“And that’s the problem,” I say. “Real macaroni and cheese doesn’t come from a box, babe. It

eventuallycomesfromanovenwithacrustbubblingontop.”“Amen.”Sevenholdshisfisttome,andIbumpit.“Ohhh,”Chrissays.“Youmeanthekindwithbreadcrumbs?”“What?”DeVanteyells,andSevengoes,“Breadcrumbs?”“Nah,”Isay.“Imeanthere’slikeacrustofcheeseontop.Wegottagetyoutoasoulfoodrestaurant,

babe.”“Thisfoolsaidbreadcrumbs.”DeVantesoundsseriouslyoffended.“Breadcrumbs.”Thecarstops.UpaheadaRoadClosedsignblocksthestreetwithacopcarinfrontofit.“Damn,”Sevensays,backingupandturningaround.“Gottafindanotherwaytothestore.”“Theyprobablygotalotofroadblocksaroundtheneighborhoodtonight,”Itellhim.“Fuckingbreadcrumbs.”DeVante still can’t get over it. “I swear, I don’t understandwhite people.

Breadcrumbsonmacaroni,kissingdogsonthemouth—”“Treatingtheirdogslikethey’retheirkids,”Iadd.“Yeah!”saysDeVante.“Purposelydoingshitthatcouldkillthem,likebungeejumping.”“CallingTarget‘Tar-jay,’likethatmakesitfancier,”saysSeven.“Fuck,”Chrismutters.“That’swhatmymomcallsit.”SevenandIbustoutlaughing.“Sayingdumbshittotheirparents,”DeVantecontinues.“Splittingupinsituationswhentheyclearly

needtosticktogether.”

Chrisgoes,“Huh?”“Babe, c’mon,” I say. “White people always wanna split up, and when they do something bad

happens.”“That’sonlyinhorrormoviesthough,”hesays.“Nah!Shitlikethatisalwaysonthenews,”saysDeVante.“Theygoonahikingtrip,splitup,anda

bearkillssomebody.”“Carbreaksdown,theysplituptofindhelp,andaserialkillermurderssomebody,”Sevenadds.“Like,havey’alleverheardthatthere’spowerinnumbers?”DeVanteasks.“Forrealthough.”“Okay, fine,”Chrissays.“Sinceyouguyswant togo therewithwhitepeople,can Iaskaquestion

aboutblackpeople?”Cuetherecordscratching.Nolie,allthreeofusturnandlookathim,includingSeven.Thecarveers

offtothesideoftheroad,scrapingagainstthecurb.Sevencussesandgetsitbackonthestreet.“Imean,it’sonlyfair,”Chrismumbles.“Guys,he’sright,”Isay.“Heshouldbeabletoask.”“Fine,”saysSeven.“Goahead,Chris.”“Okay.Why do some black people give their kids odd names? I mean, look at you guys’ names.

They’renotnormal.”“Mynamenormal,”DeVantesays,allpuffed-upsounding.“Idon’tknowwhatyoutalkingabout.”“Man,younamedafteradudefromJodeci,”Sevensays.“Andyounamedafteranumber!What’syourmiddlename?Eight?”“Anyway,Chris,”Sevensays,“DeVante’sgotapoint.Whatmakeshisnameorournamesany less

normalthanyours?Whoorwhatdefines‘normal’toyou?Ifmypopswerehere,he’dsayyou’vefallenintothetrapofthewhitestandard.”

ColorcreepsintoChris’sneckandface.“Ididn’tmean—okay,maybe‘normal’isn’ttherightword.”“Nope,”Isay.“Iguessuncommonisthewordinstead?”heasks.“Youguyshaveuncommonnames.”“Iknow’boutthreeotherDeVantesintheneighborhoodthough,”saysDeVante.“Right.It’saboutperspective,”saysSeven.“Plus,mostofthenameswhitepeoplethinkareunusual

actuallyhavemeaningsinvariousAfricanlanguages.”“And let’s be real, somewhite people give their kids ‘uncommon’ names too,” I say. “That’s not

limitedtoblackpeople.Just’causeitdoesn’thaveaDe-oraLa-onthefrontdoesn’tmakeitokay.”Chrisnods.“Trueenough.”“Whyyouhavetouse‘De-’asanexamplethough?”DeVanteasks.Westopagain.Anotherroadblock.“Shit,”Sevenhisses.“Igottagothelongway.Throughtheeastside.”“Eastside?”DeVantesays.“That’sGDterritory!”“Andthat’swheremostoftheriotshappenedlasttime,”Iremindthem.Chrisshakeshishead.“Nope.Can’tgotherethen.”“Nobody’s thinking about gangbanging tonight,” Seven says. “And as long as I stay away from the

majorstreets,we’llbeallright.”Gunshotsgooffcloseby—alittletoocloseby—andallofusjump.Chrisactuallyyelps.Sevenswallows.“Yeah.We’llbeallright.”

TWENTY-FOUR

BecauseSevensaidwe’dbeallright,everythinggoeswrong.Mostoftheroutesthroughtheeastsideareblockedoffbypolice,andittakesSevenforevertofind

onethatisn’t.Abouthalfwaytothestorethecargruntsandslowsdown.“C’mon,”Sevensays.Herubsthedashboardandpumpsthegas.“C’mon,baby.”Hisbabybasicallysays“fuckit”andstops.“Shit!”Sevenrestshisheadonthesteeringwheel.“We’reoutofgas.”“You’rekidding,right?”Chrissays.“Iwish,man.Itwaslowwhenweleftyourhouse,butIthoughtIcouldwaitawhilebeforeIgotgas.I

knowmycar.”“Youobviouslydon’tknowshit,”Isay.We’renexttosomeduplexhouses.Idon’tknowwhatstreetthisis.I’mnotfamiliarwiththeeastside

likethat.Sirensgooffnearby,andit’sashazyandsmokyastherestoftheneighborhood.“There’sagasstationnottoofarfromhere,”Sevensays.“Chris,canyouhelpmepushit?”“Asin,getouttheprotectionofthiscarandpushit?”Chrisasks.“Yeah,that.It’llbeallright.”Sevenhopsout.“That’swhatyousaidbefore,”Chrismumbles,butheclimbsout.DeVantesays,“Icanpushtoo.”“Nah,man.Youneedtorestup,”saysSeven.“Justsitback.Starr,getbehindthewheel.”Thisisthefirsttimehe’severletanyoneelsedrivehis“baby.”Hetellsmetoputthecarinneutral

and guide it with the steering wheel. He pushes next to me. Chris pushes on the passenger side. Heconstantlyglancesoverhisshoulder.

Thesirensgetlouder,andthesmokethickens.SevenandChriscoughandcovertheirnoseswiththeirshirts.Apickuptruckfullofmattressesandpeoplespeedsby.

Wereachaslighthill,andSevenandChrisjogtokeepupwiththecar.“Slowdown,slowdown!”Sevenyells.Ipumpthebrakes.Thecarstopsatthebottomofthehill.Sevencoughsintohisshirt.“Holdon.Ineedaminute.”Iputthecarinpark.Chrisbendsover,tryingtocatchhisbreath.“Thissmokeiskillingme,”hesays.Sevenstraightensupandslowlyblowsairouthismouth.“Shit.We’llgettothegasstationfasterifwe

leavethecar.Thetwoofuscan’tpushitalltheway.”Thehell?I’msittingrighthere.“Icanpush.”“Iknowthat,Starr.Evenifyoudid,we’llstillbefasterwithoutit.Damn,Idon’twannaleaveithere

though.”“Howaboutwesplitup?”Chrissays.“Twoofusstayhere,twoofusgogetsomegas—andthisis

thatwhite-peopleshityouguysweretalkingabout,isn’tit?”“Yes,”therestofussay.“Toldyou,”saysDeVante.

Sevenfoldshishandsandreststhemontopofhisdreads.“Fuck,fuck,fuck.Wegottaleaveit.”IgetSeven’skeys,andhegrabsagascanfromthetrunk.Hecaressesthecarandwhisperssomething

toit.Ithinkhesayshelovesitandpromisestocomeback.Lord.Thefourofusstartdownthesidewalkandpullourshirtsoverourmouthsandnoses.DeVantelimps

butswearshe’sallright.Avoiceinthedistancesayssomething,Ican’tmakeitout,andthere’sathunderousresponselikefrom

acrowd.ChrisandIwalkbehindtheothertwo.Hishandfallstohisside,andhebrushesupagainstme,hissly

wayoftryingtoholdmyhand.Ilethim.“Sothisiswhereyouusedtolive?”hesays.I forgot this ishis first time inGardenHeights.“Yeah.Well,not thissideof theneighborhood. I’m

fromthewestside.”“Westsiiiiiide!”Sevensays,asDeVantethrowsupaW.“Thebestsiiiiiide!”“Onmymomma!”DeVanteadds.Irollmyeyes.Peoplegotoofarwiththat“whatsideoftheneighborhoodyoufrom”mess.“Yousaw

thatbigapartmentcomplexwepassed?ThosearetheprojectswelivedinwhenIwasyounger.”Chrisnods.“Thatplacewhereweparked—wasthattheTacoBellyourdadtookyouandSevento?”“Yeah.Theyopenedanewoneclosertothefreewayafewyearsago.”“Maybewecangotheretogetheroneday,”hesays.“Bruh,”DeVantebutts in. “Please tellmeyouain’t considering takingyourgirl toTacoBell for a

date.TacoBell?”Sevenhollerslaughing.“Excuseme,wasanybodytalkingtoy’all?”Iask.“Ay,youmyfriend,I’mtryingtohelpyouout,”saysDeVante.“Yourboyain’tgotnogame.”“Ihavegame!”Chrissays.“I’mlettingmygirlknowI’mhappytogowithheranywhere,nomatter

whatneighborhoodit’sin.Aslongasshe’sthere,I’mgood.”Hesmilesatmewithoutshowinghisteeth.Idotoo.“Psh!It’sstillTacoBell,”saysDeVante.“Bytheendofthenightit’llbeTacoHellwiththembubble

guts.”Thevoiceisabitloudernow.Notclearyet.Amanandawomanrunbyonthesidewalk,pushingtwo

shoppingcartswithflat-screenTVsinthem.“Theywildingouthere,”DeVantesayswithachuckle,butgrabshisside.“Kingkickedyou,didn’the?”Sevensays.“Withthosebig-assTimbson,right?”DeVantewhistlesabreathout.Henods.“Yeah,hedidthattomymommaonce.Brokemostofherribs.”ARottweileronaleashinafenced-inyardbarksandstrugglestocomeafterus.Istompmyfootatit.

Itsquealsandjumpsback.“She’sallright,”Sevensays,thoughitseemslikehe’stryingtoconvincehimself.“Yeah.She’sfine.”Ablockaway,peoplestandaroundinafour-wayintersection,watchingsomethingononeoftheother

streets.“Youneed toexit the street,”avoiceannounces froma loudspeaker. “Youareunlawfullyblocking

traffic.”“Ahairbrush isnot agun!Ahairbrush isnot agun!” avoicechants fromanother loudspeaker. It’s

echoedbackbyacrowd.Wegettotheintersection.Ared,green,andyellowschoolbusisparkedonthestreettoourright.It

saysJustUsforJusticeontheside.Alargecrowdisgatheredinthestreettoourleft.Theypointblackhairbrushesintotheair.

TheprotestorsareonCarnation.Whereithappened.Ihaven’tbeenbackheresincethatnight.KnowingthisiswhereKhalil...Istaretoohard,thecrowd

disappears,andIseehimlyinginthestreet.Thewholethingplaysoutbeforemyeyeslikeahorrormovieonrepeat.Helooksatmeforthelasttimeand—

“Ahairbrushisnotagun!”Thevoicesnapsmefrommydaze.Aheadof thecrowda ladywith twists standson topofapolicecar,holdingabullhorn.She turns

towardus,herfistraisedforblackpower.KhalilsmilesonthefrontofherT-shirt.“Ain’tthatyourattorney,Starr?”Sevenasks.“Yeah.”NowIknewMs.Ofrahwasaboutthatradicallife,butwhenyouthink“attorney”youdon’t

reallythink“personstandingonapolicecarwithabullhorn,”youknow?“Disperseimmediately,”theofficerrepeats.Ican’tseehimforthecrowd.Ms.Ofrahleadsthechantagain.“Ahairbrushisnotagun!Ahairbrushisnotagun!”It’scontagiousandechoesallaroundus.Seven,DeVante,andChrisjoinin.“Ahairbrushisnotagun,”Imutter.Khalildropsitintothesideofthedoor.“Ahairbrushisnotagun.”HeopensthedoortoaskifI’mokay.Thenpow-pow—“Ahairbrushisnotagun!”IscreamloudasIcan,fisthighintheair,tearsinmyeyes.“I’mgoing to inviteSisterFreeman tocomeupandgiveawordabout the injustice that tookplace

tonight,”Ms.Ofrahsays.Shehands thebullhorn to a ladywho’s also in aKhalil shirt, and shehopsoff thepatrol car.The

crowdletsherthrough,andMs.Ofrahheadstowardanothercoworkerwho’sstandingnearthebusattheintersection.Shespotsmeanddoesadouble-take.

“Starr?”shesays,makingherwayover.“Whatareyoudoingouthere?”“We . . . I . . .When they announced the decision, Iwanted to do something. Sowe came to the

neighborhood.”Sheeyesbeat-upDeVante.“OhmyGod,didyougetcaughtintheriots?”DeVantetoucheshisface.“Damn,Ilookthatbad?”“That’snotwhyhelookslikethat,”Itellher.“ButwedidgetcaughtintheriotsonMagnolia.Itgot

crazyoverthere.Looterstookover.”Ms.Ofrahpursesherlips.“Yeah.Weheard.”“JustUsforJusticewasfinewhenweleft,”Sevensays.“Evenifit’snot,it’sokay,”saysMs.Ofrah.“Youcandestroywoodandbrick,butyoucan’tdestroya

movement.Starr,doesyourmotherknowyou’reouthere?”“Yeah.”Don’tevensoundconvincingtomyself.“Really?”“Okay,no.Pleasedon’ttellher.”“Ihaveto,”shesays.“AsyourattorneyIhavetodowhat’sinyourbestinterest.Yourmomknowing

you’reouthereisinyourbestinterest.”No, it’s not, ’cause she’ll kill me. “But you’re my attorney. Not hers. Can’t this be a client

confidentialitything?”

“Starr—”“Please?Duringtheotherprotests,Iwatched.Andtalked.SonowIwannadosomething.”“Who said talking isn’t doing something?” she says. “It’smoreproductive than silence.Remember

whatItoldyouaboutyourvoice?”“Yousaidit’smybiggestweapon.”“AndImeanthat.”Shestaresatmeasecond,thensighsouthernose.“Youwanttofightthesystem

tonight?”Inod.“C’monthen.”Ms.Ofrahtakesmyhandandleadsmethroughthecrowd.“Fireme,”shesays.“Huh?”“Tellmeyounolongerwantmetorepresentyou.”“Inolongerwantyoutorepresentme?”Iask.“Good.AsofnowI’mnotyourattorney.Soifyourparentsfindoutaboutthis,Ididn’tdoitasyour

attorneybutasanactivist.Yousawthatbusneartheintersection?”“Yeah.”“Iftheofficersreact,runstraighttoit.Gotit?”“Butwhat—”Shetakesmetothepatrolcarandmotionsathercolleague.TheladyclimbsoffandhandsMs.Ofrah

thebullhorn.Ms.Ofrahpassesitovertome.“Useyourweapon,”shesays.Anotheroneofhercoworkersliftsmeandsetsmeontopofthecopcar.About ten feetaway there’sashrine forKhalil in themiddleof thestreet; litcandles, teddybears,

framedpictures,andballoons. It separates theprotestors fromaclusterofofficers in riotgear. It’snotnearlyasmanycopsasitwasonMagnolia,butstill...they’recops.

Iturntowardthecrowd.Theywatchmeexpectantly.Thebullhornisasheavyasagun.IronicsinceMs.Ofrahsaidtousemyweapon.Ihavethehardest

timeliftingit.Shit,Ihavenoideawhattosay.Iputitnearmymouthandpressthebutton.“My—”Itmakesaloud,earsplittingnoise.“Don’tbescared!”somebodyinthecrowdyells.“Speak!”“Youneedtoexitthestreetimmediately,”thecopsays.Youknowwhat?Fuckit.“MynameisStarr.I’mtheonewhosawwhathappenedtoKhalil,”Isayintothebullhorn.“Andit

wasn’tright.”Igetabunchof“yeahs”and“amens”fromthecrowd.“Weweren’tdoinganythingwrong.NotonlydidOfficerCruiseassumewewereuptonogood,he

assumedwewerecriminals.Well,OfficerCruiseisthecriminal.”Thecrowdcheersandclaps.Ms.Ofrahsays,“Speak!”Thatampsmeup.Iturntothecops.“I’msickofthis!Justlikey’allthinkallofusarebadbecauseofsomepeople,we

thinkthesameabouty’all.Untilyougiveusareasontothinkotherwise,we’llkeepprotesting.”Morecheers,andIcan’tlie,iteggsmeon.Forgettriggerhappy—speakerhappyismoremything.“Everybodywants to talkabouthowKhalildied,”Isay.“But this isn’tabouthowKhalildied. It’s

about the fact that he lived.His lifemattered.Khalil lived!” I look at the cops again. “You hearme?

Khalillived!”“Youhaveuntilthecountofthreetodisperse,”theofficerontheloudspeakersays.“Khalillived!”wechant.“One.”“Khalillived!”“Two.”“Khalillived!”“Three.”“Khalillived!”Thecanofteargassailstowardusfromthecops.Itlandsbesidethepatrolcar.Ijumpoffandpickupthecan.Smokewhizzesouttheendofit.Anysecondit’llcombust.Iscreamatthetopofmylungs,hopingKhalilhearsme,andchuckitbackatthecops.Itexplodesand

consumestheminacloudofteargas.Allhellbreaksloose.ThecopsstampedeoverKhalil’sshrine,andthecrowdruns.Someonegrabsmyarm.Ms.Ofrah.“Gotothebus!”shesays.IgetabouthalfwaytherewhenChrisandSevencatchme.“C’mon!”Sevensays,andtheypullmewiththem.Itrytotellthemaboutthebus,butexplosionsgooffandthickwhitesmokeengulfsus.Mynoseand

throatburnasifIswallowedfire.Myeyesfeellikeflameslickthem.Somethingwhizzesoverhead,thenanexplosiongoesoffinfrontofus.Moresmoke.“DeVante!”Chriscroaks,lookingaround.“DeVante!”Wefindhimleaningagainstaflickeringstreetlight.Hecoughsandheaves.Sevenletsmegoandgrabs

himbythearm.“Shit,man!Myeyes!Ican’tbreathe.”Werun.ChrisgripsmyhandastightasIgriphis.Therearescreamsandloudpopsineverydirection.

Can’tseeathingforthesmoke,noteventheJustUsbus.“Ican’trun.Myside!”DeVantesays.“Shit!”“C’mon,man,”Sevensays,pullinghim.“Keepgoing!”Bright lightsbarreldown thestreet through thesmoke.Agraypickup truckonoversizedwheels. It

stopsbesideus, thewindowrollsdown,andmyheart stops,waiting for thegun tocomepointingout,courtesyofaKingLord.

ButGoon, theCedarGroveKingLordwiththeponytails, looksatusfromthedriver’sseat,agraybandanaoverhisnoseandmouth.“Getintheback!”hesays.

Twoguysandagirlaroundourage,wearingwhitebandanasontheirfaces,helpusintothebackofthe truck. It’sanopen invitationandotherpeopleclimb in, like thiswhiteman inashirtand tieandaLatinoholdingacameraonhisshoulder.Thewhitemanlooksoddlyfamiliar.Goondrivesoff.

DeVanteliesinthebedofthetruck.Heholdshiseyesandrollsinagony.“Shit,man!Shit!”“Bri,gethimsomemilk,”Goonsaysthroughthebackwindow.Milk?“We’reout,Unc,”saysthegirlinthebandana.“Fuck!”Goonhisses.“Holdon,Vante.”Tearsandsnotdripdownmyface.Myeyesaredamnnearnumbfromburning.Thetruckslowsdown.“Getli’lhomie,”Goonsays.Thetwoguysinthebandanasgrabsomekidonthestreetbyhisarmsandlifthimintothetruck.The

kidlooksaroundthirteen.Hisshirtiscoveredinsoot,andhecoughsandheaves.Igetintoacoughingfit.Snortingislikehackinguphotcoals.Themanintheshirtandtiehandsmehis

dampenedhandkerchief.“It’llhelpsome,”hesays.“Putitagainstyournoseandbreathethroughit.”Itgivesmeasmallamountofcleanair.IpassittoChris,heusesit,passesittoSevenbesidehim.

Sevenusesitandpassesittosomeoneelse.“As you can see, Jim,” the man says, looking at the camera, “there are a lot of youth out here

protestingtonight,blackandwhite.”“I’mthetoken,huh?”Chrismutterstomebeforecoughing.I’dlaughifitdidn’thurt.“Andyou have people like this gentlemen, going around the neighborhood, helping outwhere they

can,”thewhitemansays.“Driver,what’syourname?”TheLatinoturnsthecameratowardGoon.“Nunya,”Goonsays.“Thankyou,Nunya,forgivingusaride.”Woooow.Irealizewhyhelooksfamiliarthough.He’sanationalnewsanchor,Briansomebody.“Thisyoungladyheremadeapowerfulstatementearlier,”hesays,andthecamerapointstowardme.

“Areyoureallythewitness?”Inod.Nopointhidinganymore.“Wecaughtwhatyousaidbackthere.Anythingelseyou’dliketoaddforourviewers?”“Yeah.Noneofthismakessense.”Istartcoughingagain.Heleavesmealone.Whenmyeyesaren’tclosedIseewhatmyneighborhoodhasbecome.Moretanks,morecopsinriot

gear,more smoke. Businesses ransacked. Streetlights are out, and fires keep everything from being incompletedarkness.People runoutof theWalmartandcarryarmfulsof items, looking likeants rushingfrom an anthill. The untouched businesses have boarded-up windows and graffiti that says “blackowned.”

WeeventuallyturnontoMarigoldAvenue,andevenwiththefireinmylungsItakeadeepbreath.Ourstoreisinonepiece.Thewindowsareboardedupwiththatsame“blackowned”tagonthem,likeit’slamb’sbloodprotectingthestorefromtheplagueofdeath.Thestreetisprettystill.TopShelfSpiritsandWineistheonlybusinesswithbrokenwindows.Itdoesn’thavea“blackowned”tageither.

Goonstopsinfrontofourstore.Hejumpsout,comestothebackofthetruck,andhelpseveryoneout.“Starr,Sev,y’allgotakey?”

IpatmypocketsforSeven’skeysandtossthemtoGoon.Hetrieseachkeyuntiloneunlocksthedoor.“Inhere,y’all,”hesays.

Everyone including the cameraman and reporter go in the store. Goon and one of the guys in thebandanagetDeVanteandcarryhiminside.NosignofDaddy.

Icrawlontothefloorandfallonmystomach,blinkingfast.Myeyesburnandfillwithtears.GoonsetsDeVanteontheoldpeople’sbenchbeforerunningtowardtherefrigerator.Herushesbackwithagallonofmilkandpours itontoDeVante’sface.Themilkmomentarily turns

himwhite.DeVantecoughsandsputters.Goonpoursmore.“Stop!”DeVantesays.“You’bouttodrownme!”“Ibetyoureyesain’thurtingnomorethough,”Goonreplies.Ihalf-crawl,half-runtotherefrigeratorsandgetagallonformyself.Ipouritonmyface.Therelief

comesinseconds.Peoplepourmilkonto their faceswhile thecameramanrecords itall.Anolder ladydrinks froma

gallon.Milkpoolsonthefloor,andacollege-agedguyliesface-downinitandgaspsforair.Whenpeoplegettherelieftheyneed,theyleave.Goongrabsabunchofcartonsofmilkandasks,“Ay,

canwetakethisincasesomebodyneedsitonthestreet?”Sevennodsandsipsfromacarton.“Thanks,li’lhomie.IfIseeyourpopsagainI’lltellhimy’allhere.”“Yousawour—”Icoughandsipsomemilk,dousingtheflamesinmylungs.“Yousawourdad?”“Yeah,ali’lwhileago.Hewaslookingfory’all.”Oh,shit.“Sir,”thereportersaystoGoon,“canweridealong?We’dliketoseemoreoftheneighborhood.”“Ain’t no thang, homie. Hop in the back.” He turns to the camera and twists his fingers so they

resembleaKandanL.“CedarGroveKings,baby!Crownsup!Addi-o!”HegivestheKingLordcall.LeaveittoGoontothrowgangsignsonliveTV.

They leave us alone in the store. Seven,Chris, I are in the pool ofmilkwith our knees up to ourchests.DeVante’sarmsandlegsdangleofftheoldpeople’sbench.Hechugsbacksomemilk.

Seventakeshisphonefromhispocket.“Damn.Myphone’sdead.Starr,yougotyours?”“Yeah.”Ihavewaytoomanyvoicemailsandwaytoomanytexts,mostofthemfromMomma.Iplaythevoicemailsfirst.TheystartoutsafeenoughwithMommasaying,“Starrbaby,callmeas

soonasyougetthis,okay?”But they soon become, “Starr Amara, I know you’re getting these messages. Call me. I’m not

playing.”Theyprogressto,“See,you’vetakenthistoofar.CarlosandIareheadingoutthedoorrightnow,

andyoubetterpraytoGodwedon’tfindyou!”Andonthelastmessage,leftafewminutesago,Mommasays,“Oh,soyoucan’treturnmycalls,but

youcanleadprotests,huh?MommatoldmeshesawyouonliveTV,givingspeechesandthrowingteargasatcops!IswearI’mgon’snatchyourlifeifyoudon’tcallme!”

“Weindeepshit,man,”DeVantesays.“Deepshit.”Sevenglancesathiswatch.“Damn.We’vebeengoneaboutfourhours.”“Deepshit,”DeVanterepeats.“MaybethefourofuscangetaplaceinMexico?”saysChris.Ishakemyhead.“Notfarenoughforourmom.”Sevenpicksathisface.Themilkhasdriedandformedacrust.“Allright,weneedtocallthem.And

ifwecallfromtheofficephone,MawillseeitonthecallerIDandknowwe’renotlyingwhenwesaywe’rehere.That’llhelp,right?”

“We’reatleastthreehourstoolateforanyhelp,”Isay.SevenstandsandgivesmeandChrisahandup.HehelpsDeVanteoffthebench.“C’mon.Makesure

y’allsoundremorseful,allright?”WeheadforDaddy’soffice.Thefrontdoorcreaks.Somethingthudsontothefloor.Iturnaround.Aglassbottlewithflamingcloth—Whoomf!Thestoreissuddenlylitbrightorange.Aheatwavehitslikethesundroppedin.Flameslick

theceilingandblockthedoor.

TWENTY-FIVE

Anentireaisleisalreadyengulfed.“Thebackdoor,”Sevensays,chokedup.“Thebackdoor!”ChrisandDeVantefollowusdownthenarrowhallnearDaddy’soffice.Itleadstotherestroomand

thebackdoorwheredeliveriesareunloaded.Smoke’salreadyfillingthehall.Seven pushes the door. It doesn’t budge. He and Chris ram their shoulders against it, but it’s

bulletproof,shoulder-proof,everything-proof.Theburglarbarswon’tletusoutanyway.“Starr,mykeys,”Sevencroaks.Ishakemyhead.IgavethemtoGoon,andthelasttimeIsawthemhelefttheminthefrontdoor.DeVantecoughs. It’sgettingharder tobreathewithall the smoke.“Man,wecan’tdieup inhere. I

don’twannadie.”“Shutup!”Chrissays.“We’renotgonnadie.”I cough into the crook ofmy arm. “Daddymayhave a spare,” I say, andmyvoice is thin. “In his

office.”Werushbackdownthehall,buttheofficedoorislockedtoo.“Fuck!”Sevenscreams.Mr. Lewis limps into the middle of the street. He grips a baseball bat in each hand. He glances

around,likehe’stryingtofigureoutwherethesmokeiscomingfrom.Withtheboardsonthewindows,hecan’tseetheinfernointhestoreunlesshelooksthroughthefrontdoor.

“Mr.Lewis!”IscreamasloudasIcan.Theguysjoinin.Thesmokestranglesourvoices.Theflamesdancefeetaway,butIswearit’s like

I’mstandinginthem.Mr.Lewis limps toward the store, squintinghis eyes.Theywidenashe looks in through thedoor,

straightatusontheothersideoftheflames.“OhLord!”He limps into the street faster than I’ve ever seen himmove. “Help!These kids stuck up in here!

Help!”There’saloudcracklingtoourright.Thefiretakesoutanothershelf.Mr.Reuben’snephew,Tim,runsoverandopensthefrontdoor,buttheflamesaretoomuch.“Gotothebackdoor!”hecallstous.Tim almost beats us getting there.He yanks hard on the door, and the glass rattles. Theway he’s

pulling,thedoorwillcomeoffeventually.Wedon’thaveeventuallytimethough.Tiresscreechoutside.Momentslater,Daddyrunsuptothebackdoor.“Watchout,”hetellsTim,movinghimouttheway.Daddyfumblesforhiskeysandsticksseveralinthelockwhilemuttering,“Please,God.Please.”IcanbarelyseeSeven,Chris,orDeVanteforallthesmoke,andthey’recoughingandwheezingnext

tome.

Aclick.Theknobturns.Thedoorfliesopen.Werushout.Freshairfillsmylungs.DaddypullsmeandSeventhroughthealley,aroundthecorner,andacrossthestreettoReuben’s.Tim

getsDeVanteandChris.Theymakeussitonthesidewalk.Tiresscreechagain,andMommagoes,“OhmyGod!”Sherunsover,UncleCarlosonherheels.Sheholdsmyshouldersandhelpsmelieonthesidewalk.“Breathe,baby,”shesays.“Breathe.”ButIhavetosee.Isitup.Daddyattempts to run into thestore forGodknowswhat.Theflamesswathimback.Timrushesa

bucketofwaterfromhisuncle’srestaurant.Herunsintoourstoreanddousesitontheflames,buthe’sforcedtojumpbacktoo.

Peopletrickleontothestreet,andmorebucketsofsloshingwaterarehauledintothestore.Ms.Yvettecarries one fromher beauty shop.Tim tosses it onto the fire. Flames eat away at the roof, and smokebillowsfromthewindowsofthebarbershopnextdoor.

“Myshop!”Mr.Lewiscries.Mr.Reubenstopshimfromrunningtowardit.“Myshop!”Daddystandsinthemiddleofthestreet,breathinghard,lookinghelpless.Acrowdhasgathered,and

peoplewatchwiththeirhandspressedtotheirmouths.Bassrattlesnearby.Daddyslowlyturnshishead.ThegrayBMWisparkedintheintersectionneartheliquorstore.Kingleansupagainstit.Someother

KingLordsstandalongsidehimandsitonthehoodofthecar.Theylaughandpoint.KingstaresstraightatDaddyandtakesouthiscigarettelighter.Hesparksaflame.IeshasaidKingwasgonnafuckusupbecauseIdrysnitched.Thatmeantmywholefamily.Thisisit.“Yousonofabitch!”Daddymarches towardKing,andKing’sboysadvance towardDaddy.Uncle

Carlosstopshim.TheKingLordsreachfortheirpiecesandtellDaddytobringit.Kinglaughslikeit’sacomedyshow.

“Youthinkthisshitfunny?”Daddyyells.“Punkass,alwayshidingbehindyourboys!”Kingstopslaughing.“Yeah,Isaidit!Iain’tscaredofyou!Youain’tshittobescaredof!Tryingtoburnupsomekids,you

fuckingcoward!”“Ohuh-uh!”MommastartsforKing,andUncleCarloshastoworkovertimetoholdherbacktoo.“He burnedMaverick’s store down!”Mr. Lewis announces to everybody, in casewe didn’t hear.

“KingburnedMaverick’sstoredown!”Itbubblesaroundthecrowd,andnarrowedeyessetonKing.Ofcourse,that’swhenthecopsandthefiretruckdecidetoshowup.Ofcourse.Becausethat’showit

worksinGardenHeights.UncleCarlos convincesmyparents to back away.King lifts his cigar to his lips, eyes gleaming. I

wannagetoneofMr.Lewis’sbaseballbatsandknockhimupsidehishead.The firefighters get to work. The cops order the crowd to back up. King and his boys are really

amusednow.Shit,it’slikethecopsarehelpingthemout.“Youneedtobegettingthem!”Mr.Lewissays.“Theytheoneswhostartedthefire!”“Thatoldmandon’tknowwhathetalkingabout,”Kingsays.“Allthissmokedonegottohim.”Mr.LewisstartstochargeatKing,andanofficerhastoholdhimback.“Iain’tcrazy!Youdidstartit!

Everybodyknowit!”King’sfacetwitches.“Youbetterwatchyourself,lyingonfolks.”Daddyglancesbackatme,andthere’sthisexpressiononhisfacethatI’veneverseenbefore.Heturns

aroundtothecopwho’sholdingMr.Lewisandsays,“Heain’tlying.Kingdidstartit,Officer.”Ho-lyshit.Daddysnitched.“It’smystore,”hesays.“Iknowhestartedthefire.”“Didyouseehimdoit?”thecopasks.No.That’stheproblem.WeknowKingdidit,butifnobodysawit...“Isawhim,”Mr.Reubensays.“Hedidit.”“Isawhimtoo,”Timsays.“SodidI,”Ms.Yvetteadds.Andshit,nowthecrowdisechoingthesamething,pointingatKingandhisboys.Imean,everybody’s

snitching.Therulesnofuckinglongerapply.Kingreachesforhiscardoor,butsomeoftheofficersdrawtheirgunsandorderhimandhisboysto

theground.An ambulance arrives.Momma tells them about our smoke inhalation. I snitch and tell them about

DeVante,althoughhisblackeyemakesitobviousheneedshelp.Theyletthefourofussitonthecurb,andtheyputoxygenmasksonus.IthoughtIwasn’tthatbadanymore,butIforgothownicecleanairis.I’vebeenbreathinginsmokesinceIgottoGardenHeights.

TheylookatDeVante’sside.It’spurple-looking,andtheytellhimhe’llneedtogoinforX-rays.Hedoesn’twannagointheambulance,andMommaassurestheparamedicsthatshe’lltakehiminherself.

IrestmyheadonChris’sshoulderasweholdhands,oxygenmasksonbothofus.I’mnotgonnalieandsaytonightwasbetterbecausehewashere—franklythishasbeenonefucked-upnight,nothingcouldmakeitbetter—butitdoesn’thurtthatwewentthroughittogether.

Myparentscomeourway.Daddy’slipsthin,andhemumblessomethingtoMomma.Sheelbowshimandsays,“Benice.”

ShesitsbetweenChrisandSeven.DaddyhoversovermeandChrisatfirst,asifhe’sexpectingustomakeroomforhim.

“Maverick,”Mommasays.“A’ight,a’ight.”Hesitsontheothersideofme.Wewatchthefirefightersputouttheflames.Nopointthough.They’reonlysavingashellofthestore.Daddysighs,rubbinghisbaldhead.“Damn,man.”Myheart aches.We’re losing a familymember, for real. I’ve spentmost ofmy life in that store. I

movemyheadoffChrisandrestitonDaddy’sshoulder.Heputshisarmaroundmeandkissesmyhair.Idon’tmissthatsmuglookthatcrosseshisface.Petty.

“Waitaminute.”Hepullsaway.“Wherethehelly’allbeen?”“That’swhatIwannaknow,”Mommasays.“Actinglikeyoucan’tanswermytextsorcalls!”Really?SevenandIalmostdiedinafire,andthey’remad’causewedidn’tcallthem?Iliftmymask

andsay,“Longnight.”“Oh, I’msure itwas,”Mommasays. “Wegotourselves a li’l radical,Maverick.Allon thenews,

throwingteargasatthecops.”“Aftertheythrewitatus,”Ipointout.“Whaaat?”Daddysays,butinthatimpressedway.Mommacutshimaside-eye,andhesaysinamore

sterntone,“Imean,what?Whatyoudothatfor?”“Iwasmad.” I foldmyarmsontomykneesandstareatmyTimbs through thegap.“Thatdecision

wasn’tright.”Daddyputshis armaroundmeagain and restshisheadagainstmine.ADaddy-snuggle. “Nah,”he

says.“Itwasn’t.”“Hey,”Mommabeckonsmetolookather.“Thedecisionmaynothavebeenright,but it’snotyour

fault.RememberwhatIsaid?Sometimesthingswillgowrong—”“But thekeyis tokeepdoingright.”Myeyesdrift tomyTimbsagain.“Khalilstilldeservedbetter

thanthat.”“Yeah.”Hervoicethickens.“Hedid.”Daddylookspastmeatmyboyfriend.“So...Plain-AssChris.”Sevensnorts.DeVantesnickers.Mommagoes,“Maverick!”asIsay,“Daddy!”“Atleastit’snotwhiteboy,”Chrissays.“Exactly,”Daddysays.“It’sastepup.Yougottaearnmytoleranceinincrementsifyougon’datemy

daughter.”“Lord.”Mommarollshereyes.“Chris,baby,you’vebeenouthereallnight?”Thewayshesaysit,Ican’thelpbutlaugh.She’sbasicallyaskinghim,“Youdorealizeyou’reinthe

hood,right?”“Yes,ma’am,”Chrissays.“Allnight.”Daddygrunts.“Maybeyoudogotsomeballsthen.”Mymouthdrops,andMommasays,“MaverickCarter!”SevenandDeVantecrackup.ButChris?Chrissays,“Yes,sir,I’dliketothinkIdo.”“Daaaaamn,”saysSeven.HereachestogiveChrisdap,butDaddycutshimahardeyeandhepulls

hishandback.“A’ight,Plain-AssChris,”Daddysays.“Boxinggym,nextSaturday,youandme.”Chrisliftshisoxygenmasksofast.“I’msorry,Ishouldn’thavesaid—”“Calmdown,I’mnotgon’fightyou,”Daddysays.“Wegon’train.Gettoknoweachother.Youbeen

seeingmydaughterforaminutenow.Igottaknowyou,andyoucanlearnalotaboutamanataboxinggym.”

“Oh...”Chris’sshouldersrelax.“Okay.”Heputstheoxygenmaskbackon.Daddygrins.It’salittletoomischievousformyliking.He’sgonnakillmypoorboyfriend.ThecopsloadKingandhisboysintopatrolcars,andthecrowdclapsandcheers.Finally,something

tocelebratetonight.UncleCarlos strolls over.He’s got on awifebeater and shorts,which is so notUncleCarlos, yet

somethingabouthimstilllooksdetectivey.He’sbeenincopmodesincehiscolleaguesarrived.UncleCarlosgives thisold-mangruntashe lowershimselfonto the sidewalknext toDeVante.He

grabsthebackofDeVante’sneckthesamewayDaddygrabsSeven’s.Manhugs,Icallthem.“I’mgladyou’resafe,kid,”hesays.“Evenifyoudolooklikeatruckranoveryoutwice.”“YounotmadIleftwithouttellingy’all?”“OfcourseI’mmad.I’mactuallypissed.ButI’mhappierthatyou’resafe.Now,mymomandPam,

that’sawholedifferentstory.Ican’tsaveyoufromtheirwrath.”“Areyouputtingmeout?”“No.You’regrounded,probablyfortherestofyourlife,butthat’sonlybecauseweloveyou.”DeVantecracksasmile.UncleCarlospatshisknees.“Sooo...thankstoallthesewitnesses,weshouldgetKingforarson.”“Oh,forreal?”Daddysays.“Yep.It’sastart,butnotreallyenough.He’llbeoutbytheendoftheweek.”Andbacktothesameol’shit.Withtargetsthistime.“Ify’allknewwhereKing’sstashwas,”DeVantesays,“wouldthathelp?”

UncleCarlossays,“Probably,yeah.”“Ifsomebodyagreedtoratonhim,wouldthathelp?”UncleCarlosturnscompletelytowardhim.“Areyousayingyouwanttoturnwitness?”“Imean...”DeVantepauses.“WillithelpKenya,hermomma,andhersister?”“IfKingwenttojail?”saysSeven.“Yeah.Alot.”“It’llhelpthewholeneighborhood,honestly,”Daddysays.“AndI’llbeprotected?”DeVanteasksUncleCarlos.“Absolutely.Ipromise.”“AndUncleCarlosalwayskeepshispromises,”Isay.DeVantenodsforamoment.“ThenIguessIwillturnwitness.”Ho-lyshitagain.“You’resureaboutthat?”Iask.“Yeah.Afterseeingyoufacethosecopsthewayyoudid,Idon’tknow,man.Thatdidsomethingto

me,”hesays.“Andthatladysaidourvoicesareweapons.Ishouldusemine,right?”“Soyou’rewillingtobecomeasnitch,”Chrissays.“OnKing,”Sevenadds.DeVanteshrugs.“Ialreadyneedthestitches.Mightaswellsnitch.”

TWENTY-SIX

It’saroundeleventhenextmorning,andI’mstillinbed.AfterthelongestnighteverIhadtoseriouslygetreacquaintedwithmypillow.

Mymomflicksonthe lights inmynewroom—goodLord, it’s toomanylights inhere.“Starr,yourpartnerincrimeisonthephone,”shesays.

“Who?”Imumble.“Yourprotestpartnerincrime.MommatoldmeshesawherhandyouthatbullhornonTV.Puttingyou

indangerlikethat.”“Butshedidn’tmeantoputmein—”“Oh,I’vedealtwithheralready,don’tworry.Here.Shewantstoapologizetoyou.”Ms.Ofrahdoes apologize for puttingme in a bad situation and for theway things turned outwith

Khalil,butshesaysshe’sproudofme.ShealsosaysshethinksIhaveafutureinactivism.Mommaleaveswiththephone,andIturnontomyside.Tupacstaresbackatmefromaposter,asmirk

onhisface.TheThugLifetattooonhisstomachlooksbolderthantherestofthephoto.ItwasthefirstthingIputinmynewroom.KindalikebringingKhalilwithme.

HesaidThugLifestoodfor“TheHateUGiveLittleInfantsFucksEverybody.”Wedidallthatstufflastnightbecausewewerepissed,anditfuckedallofus.Nowwehavetosomehowun-fuckeverybody.

Isitupandgrabmyphoneoffmynightstand.TherearetextsfromMaya,whosawmeonthenewsandthinksI’mdopepersonified,andtextsfromChris.Hisparentsgroundedhim,buthesaysitwassoworthit.Itreallywas.

There’sanothertext.FromHailey,ofallpeople.Twosimplewords:I’msorry.NotwhatIexpected;notthatIexpectedtogetanythingfromher;notthatIevenwannadealwithher.

Thisisthefirsttimeshe’sspokentomesinceourfight.I’mnotcomplaining.She’sbeennonexistenttometoo.Irespondanyway.

Sorryforwhat?I’mnotbeingpetty.Pettywouldbesaying,“Newnumber,whodis?”There’sadamnnearendlesslist

ofthingsshecouldbeapologizingfor.Aboutthedecision,shesays.Andthatyou’reupsetwithme.Haven’tbeenmyselflately.Justwanteverythingtobehowitusedtobe.Thesympathyforthecaseisnice,butshe’ssorryI’mupset?That’snotthesameasapologizingforher

actionsorthegarbageshesaid.She’ssorryIreactedthewayIdid.Oddlyenough,Ineededtoknowthat.You see, it’s likemymom said—if the good outweighs the bad, I should keepHailey as a friend.

There’sashittonofbadnow,anoverloadofbad.Ihatetoadmitthatateeny-tinypartofmehopedHaileywouldseehowwrongshewas,butshehasn’t.Shemaynoteverseethat.

Andyouknowwhat?That’sfine.Okay,maybenotfine,becauseitmakesherashitty-assperson,butIdon’thavetowaitaroundforhertochange.Icanletgo.Ireply:

Thingswillneverbethewaytheyusedtobe.Ihitsend,waitforthetexttogothrough,anddeletetheconversation.IdeleteHailey’snumberfrom

myphonetoo.IstretchandyawnasIcreepdownthehall.Thelayoutofournewhouseiswaydifferentthanourold

one,butIthinkIcangetusedtoit.Daddyclips some roses at thekitchencounter.Next tohimSekani inhales a sandwich, andBrickz

standsonhishindlegswithhispawsonSekani’slap.Hewatchesthesandwichthesamewayhewatchesasquirrel.

Momma flips switches on thewall.One causes a grinding noise in the sink, and another turns thelightsoffandon.

“Toomanyswitches,”shemumbles,andnoticesme.“Ohlook,Maverick.It’sourli’lrevolutionary.”Brickzscuttlesovertomeandjumpsupmylegs,tonguewagging.“Morning,” I tell him, and scratch behind his ears. He gets down and returns to Sekani and the

sandwich.“Domeafavor,Starr,”Sevensays,searchingthroughaboxthathas“KitchenStuff”writtenonitin

myhandwriting. “Next time,bemore specific aboutwhat typeofkitchen stuff is in thebox. I’vegonethroughthree,tryingtofindplates.”

Iclimbontoastoolatthecounter.“Lazybutt,isn’tthatwhatpapertowelsarefor?”Sevennarrowshiseyes.“Hey,Pops,guesswhereIpickedStarrupfromyester—”“Theplatesareinthebottomofthatbox,”Isay.“Thoughtso.”Mymiddlefingerwantstoextendsobad.Daddysays,“Youbet’nothavebeenatthatboy’shouse,Iknowthat.”Iforceasmile.“No.Ofcoursenot.”I’mgonnakillSeven.Daddy sucks his teeth. “Uh-huh.” He goes back to work on his roses. An entire bush lies on the

counter.Therosesaredry,andsomeofthepetalshavefallenoff.Daddysetsthebushinaclaypotandpoursdirtovertheroots.

“Willtheybeallright?”Iask.“Yeah.Ali’ldamaged,butalive.I’mgon’trysomethingdifferentwiththem.Puttingtheminnewsoil

canbelikehittingaresetbutton.”“Starr,”Sekanisays,mouthfullofwetbreadandmeat.Nasty.“You’reinthenewspaper.”“Stoptalkingwithyourmouthfull,boy!”Mommascolds.Daddynodstowardthenewspaperonthecounter.“Yeah.Checkitout,Li’lBlackPanther.”I’monthefrontpage.Thephotographercaughtmemid-throw.Thecanofteargassmokesinmyhand.

Theheadlinereads“TheWitnessFightsBack.”Momma restsher chinonmy shoulder. “They’vediscussedyouoneverynews show thismorning.

Yournanacallseveryfiveminutes,tellingusanewchanneltowatch.”Shekissesmycheek.“Iknowyoubetternotscaremelikethatagain.”

“Iwon’t.Whataretheysayingonthenews?”“Theycallingyoubrave,”Daddysays.“Butyouknow,thatonenetworkgottacomplain,sayingyou

putthemcopsindanger.”“Ididn’thaveaproblemwith thosecops. Ihadaproblemwith that teargascan,andthey threwit

first.”“Iknow,baby.Don’tevenstressit.Thatwholenetworkcankissmy—”“Dollar,Daddy.”Sekanigrinsupathim.“Roses.Theycankissmyroses.”HesmudgesdirtonSekani’snose.“Youain’tgettinganotherdollar

outtame.”“Heknows,”Sevensays,glaringatSekani.Sekanigetsguiltypuppy-dogeyesthatcouldgiveBrickz

somecompetition.Mommamovesherchinoffmyshoulder.“Okay.What’sthatabout?”“Nothing.ItoldSekaniwegottabecarefulwithmoneynow.”“HesaidwemighthavetogobacktoGardenHeightstoo!”Sekanirats.“Dowe?”“No,ofcoursenot,”Mommasays.“Guys,we’llmakethiswork.”“Exactly,”Daddy says. “If Ihave to sellorangeson the sideof the street like theNationbrothers,

we’llmakeit.”“Isitokaytoleavethough?”Iask.“Imean,theneighborhoodismessedup.Whatarepeoplegonna

thinkaboutusleavinginsteadofhelpingfixit?”Never, ever thought I’d say something like that, but last night hasme thinking about all of this so

differently,aboutmedifferently.AboutGardenHeightsdifferently.“Westillcanhelpfixit,”Daddysays.“Right.I’mgonnadoextrashiftsattheclinic,”Mommasays.“AndI’mgon’figuresomethingouttodoaboutthestoretillIgetitrenovated,”saysDaddy.“Weain’t

gottalivetheretochangethings,baby.Wejustgottagiveadamn.A’ight?”“Allright.”Mommakissesmy cheek and runs a handovermyhair. “Look at you.Communityminded all of a

sudden.Maverick,whattimedidtheclaimsagentsayhewascoming?”Daddycloseshiseyesandpinchesthespacebetweenthem.“Inacoupleofhours.Idon’tevenwanna

seeit.”“It’sokay,Daddy,”Sekanisays,withamouth fullofsandwich.“Youdon’thave togobyyourself.

We’llgowithyou.”Sowedo.TwopolicecarsblockofftheentrancetoGardenHeights.DaddyshowsthemhisIDand

explainswhyweneedtogoin.I’mabletobreatheduringthewholeexchange,andtheyletusthrough.Damn,Iseewhytheyaren’tlettingpeopleinthough.Smokehastakenupapermanentresidence,and

glass and all kinds of trash litter the streets.We pass somany blackened frames of what used to bebusinesses.

Thestoreisthehardesttosee.Theburnedrooffoldsintoitselfliketheslightestwindwillknockitover.Thebricksandburglarbarsprotectcharredrubble.

Mr.Lewissweepsthesidewalkinfrontofhisshop.It’snotasbadoffasthestore,butabroomandadustpanwon’tmakeitbetter.

Daddyparksinfrontofthestore,andwegetout.MommarubsandsqueezesDaddy’sshoulder.“Starr,”Sekaniwhispers,andlooksbackatme.“Thestore—”Hiseyeshavetearsinthem,andthenminedotoo.Idrapemyarmsoverhisshouldersandhughimto

me.“Iknow,man.”Aloudcreakingsoundapproachesandsomebodywhistlesa tune.Fo’tyOuncepusheshisshopping

cartdownthesidewalk.Ashotasitis,he’swearinghiscamouflagecoat.

Hecomestoanabruptstopinfrontofthestore,likehejustnoticedit.“Goddamn,Maverick,” he says in that fast, Fo’ty Ounce way where it all sounds like one word.

“Whatthehellhappened?”“Man,wherewereyoulastnight?”Daddysays.“Mystoregotburnedup.”“Iwentontheothersideofthefreeway.Couldn’tstayhere.Ohnooo,Iknewthesefoolswouldgo

crazy.Yougotinsurance?Ihopeyoudo.Igotinsurance.”“Whatfor?”Iask,becauseseriously?“Mylife!”hesays,likeit’sobvious.“Yougon’rebuild,Maverick?”“Idon’tknow,man.Igottathinkaboutit.”“Youhaveto’causenowwewon’thavenostore.Everybodyelsegon’leaveandnevercomeback.”“I’llthinkaboutit.”“Okay.Ifyouneedanything,letmeknow.”Andhepusheshiscartdownthesidewalkbutcomestoan

abruptstopagain.“Theliquorstoregonetoo?Ohnooo!”Isnicker.OnlyFo’tyOunce.Mr.Lewis limpsoverwithhisbroom.“That foolgotapoint.Folkswillneedastorearoundhere.

Everybodyelsegon’leave.”“Iknow,”Daddysays.“It’sjust—it’salot,Mr.Lewis.”“Iknowitis.Butyoucanhandleit.ItoldClarencewhathappened,”hesaysofMr.Wyatt,hisfriend

whousedtoownthestore.“Hethinksyououghtastickaround.Andweweretalking,andIthinkit’sabouttimeformetodolikehim.Sitonabeach,watchsomeprettywomen.”

“You’reclosingtheshop?”Sevenasks.“Who’sgonnacutmyhair?”Sekaniadds.Mr. Lewis looks down at him. “Not my problem. Since you gon’ be the only store around here,

Maverick,you’llneedmorespacewhenyourebuild.Iwannagiveyoutheshop.”“What?”Mommasputters.“Whoa,now,waitaminute,Mr.Lewis,”Daddysays.“Waitnothing.Igotinsurance,andI’mgonnagetmorethanenoughfromthat.Ain’tnothingIcando

withaburned-upshop.Youcanbuildanicestore,givefolkssomethingtobeproudtoshopin.AllIaskisthatyouputupsomepicturesofDr.KingalongsideyourNeweyWhoever-He-Was.”

Daddychuckles.“HueyNewton.”“Yeah.Him.Iknowy’allmoving,andI’mglad,buttheneighborhoodstillneedsmoremenlikeyou.

Evenifyoujustrunningastore.”

The insurancemanarrivesa little later, andDaddygiveshima tourofwhat’s left.Mommagets someglovesandgarbagebagsfromthetruck,passesthemtomeandmybrothers,andtellsustogettowork.It’skindahardwithpeopledrivingbyandhonkingtheirhorns.Theyyelloutstufflike“Keepy’allheadsup”or“Wegotyourback!”

Someofthemcomeandhelpout,likeMrs.RooksandTim.Mr.Reubenbringsusice-coldbottlesofwater,’causethissunain’tnojoke.Isitonthecurb,sweating,tired,andonehundredpercentreadytobedone.Wearen’tanywherenearfinished.

Ashadowcastsoverme,andsomebodysays,“Hey.”IshieldmyeyesasIlookup.Kenya’swearinganoversizedT-shirtandsomebasketballshorts.They

looklikeSeven’s.“Hey.”Shesitsnext tomeandpullsherkneesuptoherchest.“IsawyouonTV,”shesays.“I toldyouto

speakout,butdamn,Starr.Youtookitkindafar.”“Itgotpeopletalkingthough,didn’tit?”“Yeah.Sorryaboutthestore.Iheardmydaddydidit.”“Hedid.”Nopointindenyingit,shoot.“How’syourmomma?”Kenyapullsherkneescloser.“Hebeather.Sheendedupinthehospital.Theykeptherovernight.She

gotaconcussionandawholebunchofotherstuff,butshe’llbeokay.Wesawherali’lwhileago.Thecopscame,andwehadtoleave.”

“Really?”“Yeah.Theyraidedourhouseearlierandwantedtoaskhersomequestions.MeandLyricgottastay

withGrandmarightnow.”DeVantestruckalready.“Youokaywiththat?”“I’mrelieved,actually.Messedup,huh?”“Nah,notreally.”Shescratchesoneofhercornrows,whichsomehowmakesallof themmoveinthesameback-and-

forthmotion.“I’msorryforcallingSevenmybrotherandnotourbrother.”“Oh.”Ikindaforgotaboutthat.Itseemsminoraftereverythingthat’shappened.“It’sallright.”“IguessIcalledhimmybrother’cause...itmadeitfeellikehereallywasmybrother,youknow?”“Um, he is your brother,Kenya. I honestly get jealous of howmuch hewants to bewith you and

Lyric.”“Becausehe thinkshehas tobe,” she says. “Hewants tobewithy’all. Imean, Igetwhy.Heand

Daddydon’tgetalong.ButIwishhewantedtobemybrothersometimesanddidn’tfeellikehehadtobe.Heashamedofus.’Causeofourmommaandmydaddy.”

“No,he’snot.”“Yeah,heis.Youashamedofmetoo.”“I’veneversaidthat.”“Youdidn’thaveto,Starr,”shesays.“Youneverinvitedmetohangoutwithyouandthemgirls.They

wereneveratyourhousewhenIwas.Likeyouain’twantthemtoknowIwasyourfriendtoo.Youwereashamedofme,Khalil,eventheGarden,andyouknowit.”

I go quiet. If I face the truth, as ugly as it is, she’s right. I was ashamed of Garden Heights andeverythinginit.Itseemsstupidnowthough.Ican’tchangewhereIcomefromorwhatI’vebeenthrough,sowhyshouldIbeashamedofwhatmakesme,me?That’slikebeingashamedofmyself.

Nah.Fuckthat.“Maybe I was ashamed,” I admit. “But I’m not anymore. And Seven’s not ashamed of you, your

momma,orLyric.Helovesy’all,Kenya.SolikeIsaid,ourbrother.Notjustmine.Trust,I’mmorethanhappytoshareifitmeansgettinghimoffmyback.”

“Hecanbeapainintheass,can’the?”“Girl,yes.”Welaughtogether.AsmuchasI’velost,I’vegainedsomegoodstufftoo.LikeKenya.“Yeah,allright,”shesays.“Iguesswecansharehim.”“Chop-chop,Starr,”Mommacalls,clappingherhandsasifthat’llmakememovefaster.Stillonher

dictatorship,Iswear.“We’vegotworktodo.Kenya,Igotabagandsomegloveswithyournameonthemifyouwannahelpout.”

Kenyaturnstomelike,seriously?“Icansharehertoo,”Isay.“Matteroffact,pleasetakeher.”We laugh and stand up. Kenya glances around at the rubble. More neighbors have joined in on

cleaningup,andtheyformalinethatmovestrashoutthestoreandintothetrashcansonthecurb.“Sowhaty’allgon’donow?”Kenyaasks.“Withthestore,Imean.”Acarhonksatus,andthedriveryellsouttoletusknowhehasourback.Theanswercomeseasily.“We’llrebuild.”

Onceuponatimetherewasahazel-eyedboywithdimples.IcalledhimKhalil.Theworldcalledhimathug.

Helived,butnotnearlylongenough,andfortherestofmylifeI’llrememberhowhedied.Fairytale?No.ButI’mnotgivinguponabetterending.Itwouldbeeasytoquitifitwasjustaboutme,Khalil,thatnight,andthatcop.It’saboutwaymore

thanthatthough.It’saboutSeven.Sekani.Kenya.DeVante.It’salsoaboutOscar.Aiyana.Trayvon.Rekia.Michael.Eric.Tamir.John.Ezell.Sandra.Freddie.Alton.Philando.It’sevenaboutthatlittleboyin1955whonobodyrecognizedatfirst—Emmett.Themessed-uppart?Therearesomanymore.YetI thinkit’llchangeoneday.How?Idon’tknow.When?Idefinitelydon’tknow.Why?Because

therewillalwaysbesomeonereadytofight.Maybeit’smyturn.Others are fighting too, even in theGarden, where sometimes it feels like there’s not a lot worth

fightingfor.Peoplearerealizingandshoutingandmarchinganddemanding.They’renotforgetting.Ithinkthat’sthemostimportantpart.

Khalil,I’llneverforget.I’llnevergiveup.I’llneverbequiet.Ipromise.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

There’sachancethatthiswillsoundlikearapper’sawardacceptancespeech,sointruerapperfashionIfirsthave to thankmyLordandSavior, JesusChrist. I’mnotworthyofall thatyouhavedone forme.Thankyouforallthepeopleyouplacedinmylifewhomadethisbookpossible:

Brooks Sherman, superhero agent extraordinaire, friend, and the ultimate “Gangster in a V-NeckSweater.”Fromdayone,you’vebeenmybiggestcheerleaderandapsychologisteverynowandthen,andyouhavegonegangsteronmybehalfwhennecessary.OnlyatrueGcouldhandleathirteen-houseauctionthewayyoudid.YouaretheDopest,withacapitalD.Starrisluckytohaveyouinhercorner,andI’mevenluckier.

DonnaBray,whenpeoplelookupbadass,yourpictureshouldappearnexttothedefinition.Itshouldalsoappearnexttogeniusandbrilliant.Thisbookissomuchstrongerbecauseofyou.I’mhumbledtohaveaneditorwhonotonlybelieves inStarrandherstoryasmuchasyoudo,butaneditorwhoalsobelievesinme.Thankyoufor“getting”it.

ThephenomenalteamattheBentAgency,includingJennyBent,VictoriaCappello,CharleeHoffman,JohnBowers,andallofmyinternationalco-agents,especiallyMollyKerHawn,UKagentextraordinaire—Cookie Lyonwishes shewas you. If I could, I’d give you all the caramel cake in theworld and amillionthank-yous.

AHUGEthank-youtoeveryoneatBalzer+Bray/HarperCollinsforyourhardworkandenthusiasmfor this book. You are truly a dream team. Special thanks to Alessandra Balzer, Viana Siniscalchi,CarolineSun,JillAmack,BethanyReis,JennaStempel,AlisonDonalty,NellieKurtzman,BessBraswell,andPattyRosati.DebraCartwright,thankyouforyourincredibleartwork.YoutrulyhelpedbringStarrandKhaliltolifeevenmore.

Mary Pender-Coplan, the best film agent on the planet. I owe you my firstborn and my eternalgratitude.NancyTaylor,thebestfilmagentassistantontheplanet,andeveryoneatUTA.

ChristyGarner,thankyouforoftenbeinglightindarknessandforalwaysseeinggoodinmystories(andme),evenwhenthey’re(andI’m)amess.Yourfriendshipisablessing.

TeamDoubleStuf:BeckyAlbertalli,StefaniSloma,andNicStone.YouladiesmayhavequestionabletasteinOreos,butthere’snoquestionthatIloveyou.It’sanhonortocallyoumyfriends.

All my B-Team siblings, with special shout-outs to Sarah Cannon, Golden Oreo partner-in-crimeAdamSilvera, LianneOelke,Heidi Schulz, JessicaCluess, BradMcLelland, RitaMeade, andMercyBrown.

TheentireWeNeedDiverseBookscrew,especiallytheWalterDeanMyersGrantCommittee.EllenOh,youareagemtochildren’slitandageminmylife.

TupacShakur,Inevermetyou,butyourwisdomandyourwordsinspiremedaily.Whetheryou’rein“ThugzMansion”orhidingoutinCubasomewhere,Ihopethisstorydoesyourmessagejustice.

MyentireBelhavenfamily,especiallyDr.RogerParrot,Dr.RandySmith,Dr.DonHubele,“Uncle”HowardBahr,Mrs.RoseMaryFoncree,Dr.TracyFord,andMs.SheilaLyons.

JoeMaxwell,thankyouforyourguidanceandyourlove.Many,many,MANYblessingstoyou.MyphenomenalCPs,betareaders,andhomies:MichelleHulse,ChrisOwens,LanaWoodJohnson,

Linda Jackson, Dede Nesbitt, Katherine Webber, S.C., Ki-Wing Merlin, Melyssa Mercado, BronwynDeaver, JeniChappelle,MartyMayberry (a.k.a. oneof the first people to ever read thequery for thisbook),JeffZentner(Hov!),allmyTweeps,andeveryoneatSubItClub,AbsoluteWrite,andKidlitAOC.MyapologiesifIdidn’tnameyou.Iloveyouall.

MyWakandaladies:CamrynGarrett,L.L.McKinney,andAdrianneRussell.Youareblackgirlmagicpersonified.

JuneHardwick,thankyouforyourinsight,expertise,andforbeingyou.Youinspirememorethanyouknow.

Christyl Rosewater and Laura Silverman, thank you for supporting me and for supporting themovement.You’reproofthatonesimpleactcancausechange!

TheTeamCoffeehouseQueens:BrendaDrake,NikkiRoberti,andKimberlyChase.Youweresomeofthefirstpeopleoutsideoffriendsandfamilywholovedmywords.Ioweyousomuch.Brenda,thankyouinparticularforbeingsuchapillarforthewritingcommunity.

The#ownvoicesgang(since,youknow,peoplesaywe’reagang).Keepfighting,keepwriting,andkeepgoing.Yourvoicesmatter.

My#WordSmithscrew,yourock!StephanieDayton andLisa “LeftEye”Lopes, throughone small act you changed fourteen-year-old

Angie’slifeandinsomewayssavedit.Thankyou.BishopCrudupandtheNewHorizonfamily,thankyouforyourprayers,support,andlove.My family and all ofmy loved ones, especiallyHazel, LuSheila, and all ofmy aunts, uncles, and

cousins.Althoughnotallofyouare“blood”family,you’re“love”family.IfIdidn’tmentionyourname,noshadeisintended.Basically,thankstoerrybody.

UncleCharles,forallofthosefive-dollarbills.Iwishtheworldcould’vereadyourwordsandthatyoucould’vereadmine.Thisisforyou.

Tomyfather,CharlesR.Orr.Ifeelyourpresenceeverysingleday.Iforgiveyou,andIloveyou.Ihopeyou’reproudofme.

Tomybiggestchampion,Mom/Ma/Momma/JuliaThomas:Youaretheultimatelightinthedarkness;atrue“Starr.” I’mblessed thatyou’remymomandhope tobehalf thewomanyouare.WhenDr.MayaAngeloudescribeda“PhenomenalWoman,”shedescribedyou.ThankyouforlovingmeasIam.

And to every kid inGeorgetown and in all “theGardens” of theworld: your voicesmatter, yourdreamsmatter,yourlivesmatter.Berosesthatgrowintheconcrete.

BACKAD

DISCOVERyournextfavoriteread

MEETnewauthorstolove

WINfreebooks

SHAREinfographics,playlists,quizzes,andmore

WATCHthelatestvideos

www.epicreads.com

ABOUTTHEAUTHOR

PhotobyAnissaHidouk

ANGIETHOMAS was born, raised, and still resides in Jackson,Mississippi. She is a former teenrapperwhosegreatestaccomplishmentwashavinganarticleaboutherinRightOn!magazine.Sheholdsa BFA in creative writing. The Hate U Give is her first novel. You can find her online atwww.angiethomas.com.

Discovergreatauthors,exclusiveoffers,andmoreathc.com.

CREDITS

Coverart©2017byDebraCartwrightCoverdesignbyJennaStempel

COPYRIGHT

Balzer+BrayisanimprintofHarperCollinsPublishers.

THEHATEUGIVE.Copyright©2017byAngelaThomas.AllrightsreservedunderInternationalandPan-AmericanCopyrightConventions.Bypaymentoftherequiredfees,youhavebeengrantedthenonexclusive,nontransferablerighttoaccessandreadthetextofthise-bookon-screen.Nopartofthistextmaybereproduced,transmitted,downloaded,decompiled,reverse-engineered,orstoredinorintroducedintoanyinformationstorageandretrievalsystem,inanyformorbyanymeans,whetherelectronicormechanical,nowknownorhereafterinvented,

withouttheexpresswrittenpermissionofHarperCollinse-books.www.epicreads.com

LibraryofCongressControlNumber:2016950333ISBN978-0-06-249853-3

EPubEdition©February2017ISBN9780062498557

1718192021PC/LSCH10987654321

FIRSTEDITION

ABOUTTHEPUBLISHER

AustraliaHarperCollinsPublishersAustraliaPty.Ltd.

Level13,201ElizabethStreetSydney,NSW2000,Australiawww.harpercollins.com.au

CanadaHarperCollinsCanada

2BloorStreetEast-20thFloorToronto,ONM4W1A8,Canada

www.harpercollins.ca

NewZealandHarperCollinsPublishersNewZealand

UnitD1,63ApolloDriveRosedale0632

Auckland,NewZealandwww.harpercollins.co.nz

UnitedKingdomHarperCollinsPublishersLtd.

1LondonBridgeStreetLondonSE19GF,UK

www.harpercollins.co.uk

UnitedStatesHarperCollinsPublishersInc.

195BroadwayNewYork,NY10007www.harpercollins.com