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 and still be cool.
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?”