Does it matter though? He didn’t deserve to die.
Sekani and Brickz start breathing deeply around the same time, fast asleep. That’s not an option for me with the helicopters, the gunshots, and the sirens. Momma and Seven stay up too. Around four in the morning, when it’s quieted down, Daddy comes in bleary-eyed and yawning.
“They didn’t hit Marigold,” he says between bites of pot roast at the kitchen table. “Looks like they keeping it mostly on the east side, near where he was killed. For now at least.”
“For now,” Momma repeats.
Daddy runs his hand over his face. “Yeah. I don’t know what’s gon’ stop them from coming this way. Shit, much as I understand it, I dread it if they do.”
“We can’t stay here, Maverick,” she says, and her voice is shaky, like she’s been holding something in this entire time and is just now letting it out. “This won’t get better. It’ll get worse.”
Daddy reaches for her hand. She lets him take it, and he pulls her onto his lap. Daddy wraps his arms around her and kisses the back of her head.
“We’ll be a’ight.”
He sends me and Seven to bed. Somehow I fall asleep.
Natasha runs into the store again. “Starr, come on!”
Her braids have dirt in them, and her once-fat cheeks are sunken. Blood soaks through her clothes.
I step back. She runs up to me and grabs my hand. Hers feels icy like it did in her coffin.
“Come on.” She tugs at me. “Come on!”
She pulls me toward the door, and my feet move against my will.
“Stop,” I say. “Natasha, stop!”
A hand extends through the door, holding a Glock.
Bang!
I jolt awake.
Seven bangs his fist against my door. He doesn’t text normal, and he doesn’t wake people up normal either. “We’re leaving in ten.”
My heart beats against my chest like it’s trying to get out. You’re fine, I remind myself. It’s Seven’s stupid butt. “Leaving for what?” I ask him.
“Basketball at the park. It’s the last Saturday of the month, right? Isn’t this what we always do?”
“But—the riots and stuff?”
“Like Pops said, that stuff happened on the east. We’re good over here. Plus the news said it’s quiet this morning.”
What if somebody knows I’m the witness? What if they know that it’s my fault that cop hasn’t been arrested? What if we come across some cops and they know who I am?
“It’ll be all right,” Seven says, like he read my mind. “I promise. Now get your lazy butt up so I can kill you on the court.”
If it’s possible to be a sweet asshole, that’s Seven. I get out of bed and put on my basketball shorts, LeBron jersey, and my Thirteens like Jordan wore before he left the Bulls. I comb my hair into a ponytail. Seven waits for me at the front door, spinning the basketball between his hands.
I snatch it from him. “Like you know what to do with it.”
“We’ll see ’bout that.”
I holler to let Momma and Daddy know we’ll be back later and leave.
At first Garden Heights looks the same, but a couple of blocks away at least five police cars speed by. Smoke lingers in the air, making everything look hazy. It stinks too.
We make it to Rose Park. Some King Lords sit in a gray Escalade across the street, and a younger one’s on the park merry-go-round. Long as we don’t bother them, they won’t bother us.
Rose Park occupies a whole block, and a tall chain-link fence surrounds it. I’m not sure what it’s protecting—the graffiti on the basketball court, the rusting playground equipment, the benches that way too many babies have been made on, or the liquor bottles, cigarette butts, and trash that litter the grass.
We’re right near the basketball courts, but the entrance to the park is on the other side of the block. I toss the ball to Seven and climb the fence. I used to jump down from the top, but one fall and a sprained ankle stopped me from doing that again.
When I get over the fence Seven tosses the ball to me and climbs. Khalil, Natasha, and I used to take a shortcut through the park after school. We’d run up the slides, spin on the merry-go-round till we were dizzy, and try to swing higher than one another.
I try to forget all that as I check the ball to Seven. “First to thirty?”
“Forty,” he says, knowing damn well he’ll be lucky if he gets twenty points. He can’t play ball just like Daddy can’t play ball.
As if to prove it, Seven dribbles using the palm of his hand. You’re supposed to use your fingertips. Then this fool shoots for a three.
The ball bounces off the rim. Of course. I grab it and look at him. “Weak! You knew that shit wasn’t going in.”
“Whatever. Play the damn game.”
Five minutes in, I have ten points to his two, and I basically gave him those. I fake left, make a quick right in a smooth crossover, and go for the three. That baby goes in nicely. This girl’s got game.
Seven makes a T with his hands. He pants harder than I do, and I’m the one who used to have asthma. “Time out. Water break.”
I wipe my forehead with my arm. The sun glares on the court already. “How about we call it?”
“Hell no. I got some game in me. I gotta get my angles right.”
“Angles? This is ball, Seven. Not selfies.”
“Ay, yo!” some boy calls.
We turn around, and my breath catches. “Shit.”
There are two of them. They look thirteen, fourteen years old and are wearing green Celtics jerseys. Garden Disciples, no doubt. They cross the courts, coming straight for us.
The tallest one steps to Seven. “Nigga, you Kinging?”
I can’t even take this fool seriously. His voice squeaks. Daddy says there’s a trick to telling OGs from Young Gs, besides their age. OGs don’t start stuff, they finish it. Young Gs always start stuff.
“Nah, I’m neutral,” Seven says.
“Ain’t King your daddy?” the shorter one asks.
“Hell, no. He just messing with my momma.”
“It don’t even matter.” The tall one flicks out a pocket knife. “Hand your shit over. Sneakers, phones, everything.”
Rule of the Garden—if it doesn’t involve you, it doesn’t have shit to do with you. Period. The King Lords in the Escalade see everything going down. Since we don’t claim their set, we don’t exist.
But the boy on the merry-go-round runs over and pushes the GDs back. He lifts up his shirt, flashing his piece. “We got a problem?”
They back up. “Yeah, we got a problem,” the shorter one says.
“You sure? Last time I checked, Rose Park was King territory.” He looks toward the Escalade. The King Lords inside nod at us, a simple way of asking if things are cool. We nod back.
“A’ight,” the tall GD says. “We got you.”
The GDs leave the same way they came.
The younger King Lord slaps palms with Seven. “You straight, bruh?” he asks.
“Yeah. Good looking out, Vante.”
I can’t lie, he’s kinda cute. Hey, just ’cause I have a boyfriend doesn’t mean I can’t look, and as much as Chris drools over Nicki Minaj, Beyoncé, and Amber Rose, I dare him to get mad at me for looking.
On a side note—my boyfriend clearly has a type.
This Vante guy’s around my age, a little taller, with a big Afro puff and the faint signs of a mustache. He has some nice lips too. Real plump and soft.
I’ve looked at them too long. He licks them and smiles. “I had to make sure you and li’l momma were okay.”
And that ruins it. Don’t call me by a nickname if you don’t know me. “Yeah, we’re fine,” I say.
“Them GDs helped you out anyway,” he tells Seven. “She was killing you out here.”
“Man, shut up,” Seven says. “This is my sister, Starr.”
“Oh yeah,” the guy says. “You the one who work up in Big Mav’s store, ain’t you?”
Like I said, I get that all. The. Time. “Yep. That’s me.”
“Starr, this is DeVante,” Seven says. “He’s one of King’s boys.”
“DeVante?” So this is the dude Kenya fought over.
“Yeah, that’s me.” He looks at me from head to toe and licks his lips again. “You heard ’bout me or something?”
All that lip licking. Not cute. “Yeah, I’ve heard about you. And you may wanna get some Chapstick if your lips that dry, since you’re licking them so much.”