“Are you for real?”
“Hell yeah,” she says. “You dropped him for them bougie-ass kids, and you know it. You probably would’ve dropped me if I didn’t come around ’cause of my brother.”
“That’s not true!”
“You sure?”
I’m not.
Kenya shakes her head. “Fucked-up part about this? The Khalil I know would’ve jumped on TV in a hot second and told everybody what happened that night if it meant defending you. And you can’t do the same for him.”
It’s a verbal slap. The worst kind too, because it’s the truth.
Kenya gets her bags. “I’m just saying, Starr. If I could change what happens at my house with my momma and daddy, I would. Here you are, with a chance to help change what happens in our whole neighborhood, and you staying quiet. Like a coward.”
Kenya leaves. Tim and Mr. Lewis aren’t far behind her. Tim gives me the black power fist on his way out. I don’t deserve it though.
I head to Daddy’s office. Seven’s standing in the doorway, and Daddy’s sitting on his desk. Sekani’s next to him, nodding along to whatever Daddy’s saying but looking sad. Reminds me of the time Daddy and Momma had the talk with me. Guess Daddy decided not to wait until Sekani’s twelve.
Daddy sees me. “Sev, go cover the cash register. Take Sekani with you. ’Bout time he learned.”
“Aww, man,” Sekani groans. Don’t blame him. The more you learn to do at the store, the more you’re expected to do at the store.
Daddy pats the now-empty spot beside him on the desk. I hop up on it. His office has just enough space for the desk and a file cabinet. Framed photographs crowd the walls, like the one of him and Momma at the courthouse the day they got married, her belly (a.k.a. me) big and round; pictures of me and my brothers as babies, and this one picture from about seven years ago when my parents took the three of us to the mall for one of those J. C. Penney family portraits. They dressed alike in baseball jerseys, baggy jeans, and Timberlands. Tacky.
“You a’ight?” Daddy asks.
“Are you?”
“I will be,” he says. “Just hate that you and your brothers had to see that shit.”
“They only did it ’cause of me.”
“Nah, baby. They started that before they knew ’bout you.”
“But that didn’t help.” I stare at my J’s as I kick my feet back and forth. “Kenya called me a coward for not speaking out.”
“She didn’t mean it. She going through a lot, that’s all. King throwing Iesha around like a rag doll every single night.”
“But she’s right.” My voice cracks. I’m this close to crying. “I am a coward. After seeing what they did to you, I don’t wanna say shit now.”
“Hey.” Daddy takes my chin so I have no choice but to look at him. “Don’t fall for that trap. That’s what they want. If you don’t wanna speak out, that’s up to you, but don’t let it be because you’re scared of them. Who do I tell you that you have to fear?”
“Nobody but God. And you and Momma. Especially Momma when she’s extremely pissed.”
He chuckles. “Yeah. The list ends there. You ain’t got nothing or nobody else to fear. You see this?” He rolls up his shirt sleeve, revealing the tattoo of my baby picture on his upper arm. “What it say at the bottom?”
“Something to live for, something to die for,” I say, without really looking. I’ve seen it my whole life.
“Exactly. You and your brothers are something to live for, and something to die for, and I’ll do whatever I gotta do to protect you.” He kisses my forehead. “If you’re ready to talk, baby, talk. I got your back.”
TWELVE
I’m luring Brickz inside when it passes out front.
I watch it crawl down the street for the longest time till I get the sense to alert somebody. “Daddy!”
He looks up from pulling weeds around his bell peppers. “Are they for real with that?”
The tank resembles the ones they show on the news when talking about war in the Middle East. It’s the size of two Hummers. The blue-and-white lights on the front make the street almost as bright as it is in daytime. An officer is positioned on top, wearing a vest and a helmet. He points his rifle ahead.
A voice booms from the armored vehicle, “All persons found violating the curfew will be subject to arrest.”
Daddy pulls more weeds. “Some bullshit.”
Brickz follows the piece of bologna I dangle in front of him all the way to his spot in the kitchen. He sits there all content, chomping on it and the rest of his food. Brickz won’t act crazy as long as Daddy’s home.
All of us are kinda like Brickz, really. Daddy being home means Momma won’t sit up all night, Sekani won’t flinch all the time, and Seven won’t have to be the man of the house. I’ll sleep better too.
Daddy comes in, dusting caked dirt off his hands. “Them roses dying. Brickz, you been pissing on my roses?”
Brickz’s head perks up. He locks his eyes with Daddy’s but eventually lowers his head.
“I bet’ not catch you doing it,” Daddy says. “Or we gon’ have a problem.”
Brickz lowers his eyes too.
I grab a paper towel and a slice of pizza from the box on the counter. This is like my fourth slice tonight. Momma bought two huge pies from Sal’s on the other side of the freeway. Italians own it, so the pizza is thin, herby (is that a word?), and good.
“You finished your homework?” Daddy asks.
“Yep.” A lie.
He washes his hands at the kitchen sink. “Got any tests this week?”
“Trig on Friday.”
“You studied for it?”
“Yep.” Another lie.
“Good.” He gets the grapes out the refrigerator. “You still got that old laptop? The one you had before we bought you that expensive-ass fruit one?”
I laugh. “It’s an Apple MacBook, Daddy.”
“It damn sure wasn’t the price of an apple. Anyway, you got the old one?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Give it to Seven. Tell him to look over it and make sure it’s a’ight. I want DeVante to have it.”
“Why?”
“You pay bills?”
“No.”
“Then I ain’t gotta answer that.”
That’s how he gets out of almost every argument with me. I should buy one of those cheap magazine subscriptions and say, “Yeah, I pay a bill, and what?” It won’t matter though.
I head to my room after I finish my pizza. Daddy’s already gone to his and Momma’s room. Their TV’s on, and they’re both lying on their stomachs on the bed, one of her legs on his as she types on her laptop. It’s oddly adorable. Sometimes I watch them to get an idea of what I want one day.
“You still mad at me ’bout DeVante?” Daddy asks her. She doesn’t answer, keeping her eyes on her laptop. He scrunches up his nose and gets all in her face. “You still mad at me? Huh? You still mad at me?”
She laughs and playfully pushes at him. “Move, boy. No, I’m not mad at you. Now give me a grape.”
He grins and feeds her a grape, and I just can’t. The cuteness is too much. Yeah, they’re my parents, but they’re my OTP. Seriously.
Daddy watches whatever she’s doing on the computer, feeding her a grape every time he eats one. She’s probably uploading the latest family snapshots on Facebook for our out-of-town relatives. With everything that’s going on, what can she say? “Sekani saw cops harass his daddy, but he’s doing so well in school. #ProudMom.” Or, “Starr saw her best friend die, keep her in your prayers, but my baby made the honor roll again. #Blessed.” Or even, “Tanks are rolling by outside, but Seven’s been accepted into six colleges so far. #HeIsGoingPlaces.”