Momma stands and kisses Nana’s forehead. “You’ll be all right.”
Nana waves her off. When Momma leaves, she looks at me. “You okay, li’l girl? Carlos told me you were in the car with that boy when he was killed.”
“Yes, ma’am, I’m okay.”
“Good. And if you’re not, you will be. We’re strong like that.”
I nod, but I don’t believe it. At least not about myself.
The doorbell rings up front. I say, “I’ll get it,” put Ava’s doll down, and go inside.
Crap. Chris is on the other side of the door. I wanna apologize to him, but dammit, I need time to prepare.
Weird though. He’s pacing. The same way he does when we study for tests or before a big game. He’s afraid to talk to me.
I open the door and lean against the frame. “Hey.”
“Hey.” He smiles, and despite everything I smile too.
“I was washing one of my dad’s cars and saw you guys pull up,” he says. That explains his tank top, flip-flops, and shorts. “Are you okay? I know you said you were in your text, but I wanted to be sure.”
“I’m okay,” I say.
“Your dad’s store didn’t get hit, did it?” he asks.
“Nope.”
“Good.”
Staring and silence.
He sighs. “Look, if this is about the condom stuff, I’ll never buy one again.”
“Never?”
“Well, only when you want me to.” He quickly adds, “Which doesn’t have to be anytime soon. Matter of fact, you don’t have to ever sleep with me. Or kiss me. Hell, if you don’t want me to touch you, I—”
“Chris, Chris,” I say, my hands up to get him to slow down, and I’m fighting a laugh. “It’s okay. I know what you mean.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
Another round of staring and silence.
“I’m sorry, actually,” I tell him, shifting my weight from foot to foot. “For giving you the silent treatment. It wasn’t about the condom.”
“Oh . . .” His eyebrows meet. “Then what was it about?”
I sigh. “I don’t feel like talking about it.”
“So you can be mad at me, but you can’t even tell me why?”
“It has nothing to do with you.”
“Yeah, it does if you’re giving me the silent treatment,” he says.
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Maybe you should let me determine that myself?” he says. “Here I am, calling you, texting you, everything, and you can’t tell me why you’re ignoring me? That’s kinda shitty, Starr.”
I give him this look, and I have a strong feeling I look like Momma and Nana right now with their “I know you didn’t just say that” glare.
“I told you, you wouldn’t understand. So drop it.”
“No.” He folds his arms. “I came all the way down here—”
“All the way? Bruh, all what way? Down the street?”
Garden Heights Starr is all up in my voice right now.
“Yeah, down the street,” he says. “And guess what? I didn’t have to do that. But I did. And you can’t even tell me what’s going on!”
“You’re white, okay?” I yell. “You’re white!”
Silence.
“I’m white?” he says, like he’s just hearing that for the first time. “What the fuck’s that got to do with anything?”
“Everything! You’re white, I’m black. You’re rich, I’m not.”
“That doesn’t matter!” he says. “I don’t care about that kinda stuff, Starr. I care about you.”
“That kinda stuff is part of me!”
“Okay, and . . . ? It’s no big deal. God, seriously? This is what you’re pissed about? This is why you’re giving me the silent treatment?”
I stare at him, and I know, I know, I’m straight up looking like Lisa Janae Carter. My mouth is slightly open like hers when I or my brothers “get smart,” as she calls it, I’ve pulled my chin back a little, and my eyebrows are raised. Shit, my hand’s even on my hip.
Chris takes a small step back, just like my brothers and I do. “It just . . . it doesn’t make sense to me, okay? That’s all.”
“So like I said, you don’t understand. Do you?”
Bam. If I am acting like my mom, this is one of her “see, I told you” moments.
“No. I guess I don’t,” he says.
Another round of silence.
Chris puts his hands in his pockets. “Maybe you can help me understand? I don’t know. But I do know that not having you in my life is worse than not making beats or playing basketball. And you know how much I love making beats and playing basketball, Starr.”
I smirk. “You call that a line?”
He bites his bottom lip and shrugs. I laugh. He does too.
“Bad line, huh?” he asks.
“Awful.”
We go silent again, but it’s the type of silence I don’t mind. He puts his hand out for mine.
I still don’t know if I’m betraying who I am by dating Chris, but I’ve missed him so much it hurts. Momma thinks coming to Uncle Carlos’s house is normal, but Chris is the kind of normal I really want. The normal where I don’t have to choose which Starr to be. The normal where nobody tells you how sorry they are or talks about “Khalil the drug dealer.” Just . . . normal.
That’s why I can’t tell Chris I’m the witness.
I take his hand, and everything suddenly feels right. No flinching and no flashbacks.
“C’mon,” I say. “Uncle Carlos should have the burgers ready.”
We go into the backyard, hand in hand. He’s smiling, and surprisingly I am too.
TEN
We spend the night at Uncle Carlos’s house because the riots started again as soon as the sun went down. Somehow the store got spared. We should go to church and thank God for that, but Momma and I are too tired to sit through less than an hour of anything. Sekani wants to spend another day at Uncle Carlos’s, so Sunday morning we return to Garden Heights without him.
Right as we get off the freeway, we’re met by a police roadblock. Only one lane of traffic isn’t blocked by a patrol car, and officers talk to drivers before letting them pass through.
Suddenly it’s as if someone grabbed my heart and twisted it. “Can we—” I swallow. “Can we get around them?”
“Doubt it. They probably got these all around the neighborhood.” Momma glances over at me and frowns. “Munch? You okay?”
I grab my door handle. They can easily grab their guns and leave us like Khalil. All the blood in our bodies pooling on the street for everybody to see. Our mouths wide open. Our eyes staring at the sky, searching for God.
“Hey.” Momma cups my cheek. “Hey, look at me.”
I try to, but my eyes are filled with tears. I’m so sick of being this damn weak. Khalil may have lost his life, but I lost something too, and it pisses me off.
“It’s okay,” Momma says. “We got this, all right? Close your eyes if you have to.”
I do.
Keep your hands visible.
No sudden moves.
Only speak when spoken to.
The seconds drag by like hours. The officer asks Momma for her ID and proof of insurance, and I beg Black Jesus to get us home, hoping there won’t be a gunshot as she searches through her purse.
We finally drive off. “See, baby,” she says. “Everything’s fine.”
Her words used to have power. If she said it was fine, it was fine. But after you’ve held two people as they took their last breaths, words like that don’t mean shit anymore.
I haven’t let go of the car door handle when we pull into our driveway.
Daddy comes out and knocks on my window. Momma rolls it down for me. “There go my girls.” He smiles, but it fades into a frown. “What’s wrong?”
“You about to go somewhere, baby?” Momma asks, meaning they’ll talk later.
“Yeah, gotta run to the warehouse and stock up.” He taps my shoulder. “Ay, wanna hang out with your daddy? I’ll get you some ice cream. One of them big fat tubs that’ll last ’bout a month.”
I laugh even though I don’t feel like it. Daddy’s talented like that. “I don’t need all that ice cream.”
“I ain’t say you needed it. When we get back, we can watch that Harry Potter shit you like so much.”
“Noooooooo.”
“What?” he asks.
“Daddy, you’re the worst person to watch Harry Potter with. The whole time you’re talking about”—I deepen my voice—“‘Why don’t they shoot that nigga Voldemort?’”