The Hate U Give by Angie Thomas
“Did Khalil comply?” Gomez asks.
“He asked the officer why he pulled us over first. Then he showed his license and registration.”
“Did Khalil seem irate during this exchange?”
“Annoyed, not irate,” I say. “He felt that the cop was harassing him.”
“Did he tell you this?”
“No, but I could tell. I assumed the same thing myself.”
Shit.
Gomez scoots closer. Maroon lipstick stains her teeth, and her breath smells like coffee. “And why was that?”
Breathe.
The room isn’t hot. You’re nervous.
“Because we weren’t doing anything wrong,” I say. “Khalil wasn’t speeding or driving recklessly. It didn’t seem like he had a reason to pull us over.”
“I see. What happened next?”
“The officer forced Khalil out the car.”
“Forced?” she says.
“Yes, ma’am. He pulled him out.”
“Because Khalil was hesitant, right?”
Momma makes this throaty sound, like she was about to say something but stopped herself. She purses her lips and rubs my back in circles.
I remember what Daddy said—“Don’t let them put words in your mouth.”
“No, ma’am,” I say to Gomez. “He was getting out on his own, and the officer yanked him the rest of the way.”
She says “I see” again, but she didn’t see it so she probably doesn’t believe it. “What happened next?” she asks.
“The officer patted Khalil down three times.”
“Three?”
Yeah. I counted. “Yes, ma’am. He didn’t find anything. He then told Khalil to stay put while he ran his license and registration.”
“But Khalil didn’t stay put, did he?” she says.
“He didn’t pull the trigger on himself either.”
Shit. Your fucking big mouth.
The detectives glance at each other. A moment of silent conversation.
The walls move in closer. The grip around my lungs returns. I pull my shirt away from my neck.
“I think we’re done for today,” Momma says, taking my hand as she starts to stand up.
“But Mrs. Carter, we’re not finished.”
“I don’t care—”
“Mom,” I say, and she looks down at me. “It’s okay. I can do this.”
She gives them a glare similar to the one she gives me and my brothers when we’ve pushed her to her limit. She sits down but holds on to my hand.
“Okay,” Gomez says. “So he patted Khalil down and told him he would check his license and registration. What next?”
“Khalil opened the driver’s side door and—”
Pow!
Pow!
Pow!
Blood.
Tears crawl down my cheeks. I wipe them on my arm. “The officer shot him.”
“Do you—” Gomez starts, but Momma holds a finger toward her.
“Could you please give her a second,” she says. It sounds more like an order than a question.
Gomez doesn’t say anything. Wilkes scribbles some more.
My mom wipes some of my tears for me. “Whenever you’re ready,” she says.
I swallow the lump in my throat and nod.
“Okay,” Gomez says, and takes a deep breath. “Do you know why Khalil came to the door, Starr?”
“I think he was coming to ask if I was okay.”
“You think?”
I’m not a telepath. “Yes, ma’am. He started asking but didn’t finish because the officer shot him in the back.”
More salty tears fall on my lips.
Gomez leans across the table. “We all want to get to the bottom of this, Starr. We appreciate your cooperation. I understand this is hard right now.”
I wipe my face on my arm again. “Yeah.”
“Yeah.” She smiles and says in that same sugary, sympathetic tone, “Now, do you know if Khalil sold narcotics?”
Pause.
What the fuck?
My tears stop. For real, my eyes get dry with the quickness. Before I can say anything, my mom goes, “What does that have to do with anything?”
“It’s only a question,” Gomez says. “Do you, Starr?”
All the sympathy, the smiles, the understanding. This chick was baiting me.
Investigating or justifying?
I know the answer to her question. I knew it when I saw Khalil at the party. He never wore new shoes. And jewelry? Those little ninety-nine-cent chains he bought at the beauty supply store didn’t count. Ms. Rosalie just confirmed it.
But what the hell does that have to do with him getting murdered? Is that supposed to make all of this okay?
Gomez tilts her head. “Starr? Can you please answer the question?”
I refuse to make them feel better about killing my friend.
I straighten up, look Gomez dead in her eyes, and say, “I never saw him sell drugs or do drugs.”
“But do you know if he sold them?” she asks.
“He never told me he did,” I say, which is true. Khalil never flat-out admitted it to me.
“Do you have knowledge of him selling them?”
“I heard things.” Also true.
She sighs. “I see. Do you know if he was involved with the King Lords?”
“No.”
“The Garden Disciples?”
“No.”
“Did you consume any alcohol at the party?” she asks.
I know that move from Law & Order. She’s trying to discredit me. “No. I don’t drink.”
“Did Khalil?”
“Whoa, wait one second,” Momma says. “Are y’all putting Khalil and Starr on trial or the cop who killed him?”
Wilkes looks up from his notes.
“I—I don’t quite understand, Mrs. Carter?” Gomez sputters.
“You haven’t asked my child about that cop yet,” Momma says. “You keep asking her about Khalil, like he’s the reason he’s dead. Like she said, he didn’t pull the trigger on himself.”
“We just want the whole picture, Mrs. Carter. That’s all.”
“One-Fifteen killed him,” I say. “And he wasn’t doing anything wrong. How much of a bigger picture do you need?”
Fifteen minutes later, I leave the police station with my mom. Both of us know the same thing:
This is gonna be some bullshit.
SEVEN
Khalil’s funeral is Friday. Tomorrow. Exactly one week since he died.
I’m at school, trying not to think about what he’ll look like in the coffin, how many people will be there, what he’ll look like in the coffin, if other people will know I was with him when he died . . . what he’ll look like in the coffin.
I’m failing at not thinking about it.
On the Monday night news, they finally gave Khalil’s name in the story about the shooting, but with a title added to it—Khalil Harris, a Suspected Drug Dealer. They didn’t mention that he was unarmed. They said that an “unidentified witness” had been questioned and that the police were still investigating.
After what I told the cops, I’m not sure what’s left to “investigate.”
In the gym everyone’s changed into their blue shorts and gold Williamson T-shirts, but class hasn’t started yet. To pass time, some of the girls challenged some of the boys to a basketball game. They’re playing on one end of the gym, the floor squeaking as they run around. The girls are all “Staawp!” when the guys guard them. Flirting, Williamson style.
Hailey, Maya, and I are in the bleachers on the other end. On the floor, some guys are supposedly dancing, trying to get their moves ready for prom. I say supposedly because there’s no way that shit can be called dancing. Maya’s boyfriend, Ryan, is the only one even close, and he’s just doing the dab. It’s his go-to move. He’s a big, wide-shouldered linebacker, and it looks a little funny, but that’s an advantage of being the sole black guy in class. You can look silly
Chris is on the bottom bleacher, playing one of his mixes on his phone for them to dance to. He glances over his shoulder at me.
I have two bodyguards who won’t allow him near me—Maya on one side, cheering Ryan on, and Hailey, who’s laughing her ass off at Luke and recording him. They’re still pissed at Chris.
I’m honestly not. He made a mistake, and I forgive him. The Fresh Prince theme and his willingness to embarrass himself helped with that.
But that moment he grabbed my hands and I flashed back to that night, it’s like I suddenly really, really realized that Chris is white. Just like One-Fifteen. And I know, I’m sitting here next to my white best friend, but it’s almost as if I’m giving Khalil, Daddy, Seven, and every other black guy in my life a big, loud “fuck you” by having a white boyfriend.
Chris didn’t pull us over, he didn’t shoot Khalil, but am I betraying who I am by dating him?
I need to figure this out.
“Oh my God, that’s sickening,” says Hailey. She’s stopped recording to watch the basketball game. “They’re not even trying.”
They’re really not. The ball sails past the hoop from an attempted shot by Bridgette Holloway. Either homegirl’s hand-eye coordination is way off or she missed that on purpose, because now Jackson Reynolds is showing her how to shoot. Basically, he’s all up on her. And shirtless.
“I don’t know what’s worse,” Hailey says. “The fact that they’re going soft on them because they’re girls, or that the girls are letting them go soft on them.”
“Equality in basketball. Right, Hails?” Maya says with a wink.
“Yes! Wait.” She eyes Maya suspiciously. “Are you making fun of me or are you serious, Shorty?”
“Both,” I say, leaning back on my elbows, my belly pooching out my shirt—a food baby. We just left lunch, and the cafeteria had fried chicken, one of the foods Williamson gets right. “It’s not even a real game, Hails,” I tell her.
“Nope.” Maya pats my stomach. “When are you due?”
“Same day as you.”
“Aww! We can raise our food offspring as siblings.”
“I know, right? I’m naming mine Fernando,” I say.
“Why Fernando?” Maya asks.
“Dunno. It sounds like a food baby name. Especially when you roll the r.”
“I can’t roll my r’s.” She tries, but she makes some weird noise, spit flying, and I’m cracking up.
Hailey points at the game. “Look at that! It’s that whole ‘play like a girl’ mind-set the male gender uses to belittle women, when we have as much athleticism as they do.”
Oh my Lord. She’s seriously upset over this.
“Take the ball to the hole!” she hollers to the girls.
Maya catches my eye, hers glimmering sneakily, and it’s middle school déjà vu.
“And don’t be afraid to shoot the outside J!” Maya shouts.
“Just keep ya head in the game,” I say. “Just keep ya head in the game.”
“And don’t be afraid to ‘shoot the outside J,’” Maya sings.
“‘Just get’cha head in the game,’” I sing.
We bust out with “Get’cha Head in the Game” from High School Musical. It’ll be stuck in my head for days. We were obsessed with the movies around the same time as our Jonas Brothers obsession. Disney took all our parents’ money.
We’re loud with it now. Hailey’s trying to glare at us. She snorts.
“C’mon.” She gets up and pulls me and Maya up too. “Get’cha head in this game.”
I’m thinking, Oh, so you can drag me to play basketball during one of your feminist rages, but you can’t follow my Tumblr because of Emmett Till? I don’t know why I can’t make myself bring it up. It’s Tumblr.
But then, it’s Tumblr.
“Hey!” Hailey says. “We wanna play.”
“No we don’t,” Maya mutters. Hailey nudges her.
I don’t wanna play either, but for some reason Hailey makes decisions and Maya and I follow along. It’s not like we planned it to be this way. Sometimes the shit just happens, and one day you realize there’s a leader among you and your friends and it’s not you.
“Come on in, ladies.” Jackson beckons us into the game. “There’s always room for pretty girls. We’ll try not to hurt you.”
Hailey looks at me, I look at her, and we have the same deadpan expression that we’ve had mastered since fifth grade, mouths slightly open, eyes ready to roll at any moment.
“Alrighty then,” I say. “Let’s play.”
“Three on three,” Hailey says as we take our positions. “Girls versus boys. Half court. First to twenty. Sorry, ladies, but me and my girls are gonna handle this one, mm-kay?”
Bridgette gives Hailey some serious stank-eye. She and her friends move to the sideline.
The dance party stops and those guys come over, Chris included. He whispers something to Tyler, one of the boys who played in the previous game. Chris takes Tyler’s place on the court.
Jackson checks the ball to Hailey. I run around my guard, Garrett, and Hailey passes to me. No matter what’s going on, when Hailey, Maya, and I play together, it’s rhythm, chemistry, and skill rolled into a ball of amazingness.
Garrett’s guarding me, but Chris runs up and elbows him aside. Garrett goes, “The hell, Bryant?”
“I’ve got her,” Chris says.
He gets in his defensive stance. We’re eye to eye as I dribble the ball.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
I do a chest-pass to Maya, who’s wide open for a jump shot.
She makes it.
Two to zero.
“Good job, Yang!” says Coach Meyers. She’s come out her office. All it takes is a hint of a real game, and she’s in coaching mode. She reminds me of a fitness trainer on a reality TV show. She’s petite yet muscular, and God that woman can yell.
Garrett’s at the baseline with the ball.
Chris runs to get open. Stomach full, I have to push harder to stay on him. We’re hip to hip, watching Garrett try to decide who to pass to. Our arms brush, and something in me is activated; my senses are suddenly consumed by Chris. His legs look so good in his gym shorts. He’s wearing Old Spice, and even just from that little brush, his skin feels so soft.
“I miss you,” he says.
No point in lying. “I miss you too.”
The ball sails his way. Chris catches it. Now I’m in my defensive stance, and we’re eye to eye again as he dribbles. My gaze lowers to his lips; they’re a little wet and begging me to kiss them. See, this is why I can never play ball with him. I get too distracted.
“Will you at least talk to me?” Chris asks.
“Defense, Carter!” Coach yells.
I focus on the ball and attempt to steal. Not quick enough. He gets around me and goes straight for the hoop, only to pass it to Jackson, who’s open at the three-point line.
“Grant!” Coach shouts for Hailey.
Hailey runs over. Her fingertips graze the ball as it leaves Jackson’s hand, changing its course.
The ball goes flying. I go running. I catch it.
Chris is behind me, the only thing between me and the hoop. Let me clarify—my butt is against his crotch, my back against his chest. I’m bumping up against him, trying to figure out how to get the ball in the hole. It sounds way dirtier than it actually is, especially in this position. I understand why Bridgette missed shots though.
“Starr!” Hailey calls.
She’s open at the three. I bounce-pass it to her.
She shoots. Nails it.
Five to zero.
“C’mon, boys,” Maya taunts. “Is that all you can do?”
Coach claps. “Good job. Good job.”
Jackson’s at the baseline. He passes to Chris. Chris chest-passes it back to him.
“I don’t get it,” Chris says. “You practically freaked out the other day in the hall. What’s going on?”<
Garrett passes to Chris. I get in my defensive stance, eyes on the ball. Not on Chris. Cannot look at Chris. My eyes will give me away.
“Talk to me,” he says.
I attempt to steal again. No luck.
“Play the game,” I say.
Chris goes left, quickly changes direction, and goes right. I try to stay on him, but my heavy stomach slows me down. He gets to the hoop and makes the layup. It’s good.
Five to two.
“Dammit, Starr!” Hailey yells, recovering the ball. She passes it to me. “Hustle! Pretend the ball is some fried chicken. Bet you’ll stay on it then.”
What.
The.
Actual.
Fuck?
The world surges forward without me. I hold the ball and stare at Hailey as she jogs away, blue-streaked hair bouncing behind her.
I can’t believe she said . . . She couldn’t have. No way.
The ball falls out my hands. I walk off the court. I’m breathing hard, and my eyes burn.
The smell of postgame funk lingers in the girls’ locker room. It’s my place of solace when we lose a game, where I can cry or cuss if I want.
I pace from one side of the lockers to the other.
Hailey and Maya rush in, out of breath. “What’s up with you?” Hailey asks.
“Me?” I say, my voice bouncing off the lockers. “What the hell was that comment?”
“Lighten up! It was only game talk.”
“A fried chicken joke was only game talk? Really?” I ask.
“It’s fried chicken day!” she says. “You and Maya were just joking about it. What are you trying to say?”
I keep pacing.
Her eyes widen. “Oh my God. You think I was being racist?”
I look at her. “You made a fried chicken comment to the only black girl in the room. What do you think?”
“Ho-ly shit, Starr! Seriously? After everything we’ve been through, you think I’m a racist? Really?”
“You can say something racist and not be a racist!”
“Is something else going on, Starr?” Maya says.
“Why does everyone keep asking me that?” I snap.
“Because you’re acting so weird lately!” Hailey snaps back. She looks at me and asks, “Does this have something to do with the police shooting that drug dealer in your neighborhood?”