“Two dollars, Daddy,” Sekani says.
When Momma hangs up, I say, “It wouldn’t kill me to miss one day of school. I don’t wanna be there if they try that protest mess again.” I wouldn’t be surprised if Remy tried to get a whole week off because of Khalil. “I need two days, that’s all.” Momma raises her brows. “Okay, one and a half. Please?”
She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “We’ll see. But not a word of this to your brothers, you hear me?”
Basically, she said yes without saying yes outright. I can deal with that.
Pastor Eldridge once preached that “Faith isn’t just believing but taking steps toward that belief.” So when my alarm goes off Tuesday morning, by faith I don’t get up, believing that Momma won’t make me go to school.
And to quote Pastor Eldridge, hallelujah, God shows up and shows out. Momma doesn’t make me get up. I stay in bed, listening as everybody else gets ready for the day. Sekani makes it his business to tell Momma I’m not up yet.
“Don’t worry about her,” she says. “Worry about yourself.”
The TV in the den blares some morning news show, and Momma hums around the house. When Khalil and One-Fifteen are mentioned, the volume lowers a whole lot and doesn’t go back up until a political story comes on.
My phone buzzes under my pillow. I take it out and look. Kenya finally texted me back about my new Tumblr. She would make me wait hours for a response, and her comment is short as hell: It’s aight
I roll my eyes. That’s about as close as I’m gonna get to a compliment from her. I text back.
I love you too
Her response?
I know ?
She’s so petty. Part of me wonders though if she didn’t respond last night ’cause of drama at her house. Daddy said King’s still beating Iesha up. Sometimes he hits Kenya and Lyric too. Kenya’s not the type to talk about it like that, so I ask: Everything okay?
The usual, she writes back.
Short, but it says enough. There isn’t much I can do, so I just remind her: I’m here if you need me
Her response?
You better be
See? Petty.
Here’s the messed-up part about missing school: you wonder what you would be doing if you went. At eight, I figure Chris and I would just be getting to history since it’s our first class on Tuesdays. I send him a quick text.
Won’t be at school today.
Two minutes later, he replies.
Are you sick? Need me to kiss it and make it better? Wink wink He seriously typed “wink wink” instead of two wink emojis. I’ll admit, I smile. I write back: What if I’m contagious?
He says:
Doesn’t matter. I’ll kiss you anywhere. Wink wink.
I reply:
Is that another line?
He responds in less than a minute.
It’s whatever you want it to be. Love you Fresh Princess.
Pause. That “L” word completely catches me off guard, like a player from the other team stealing the ball right as you’re about to make a layup. It takes all of your momentum and you spend a week wondering how that steal slipped up on you.
Yeah. Chris saying “love you” is like that, except I can’t waste a week wondering about it. By not answering, I’m answering, if that makes sense. The shot clock is winding down, and I need to say something.
But what?
By not saying “I” before “love you,” he’s making it more casual. Seriously, “love you” and “I love you” are different. Same team, different players. “Love you” isn’t as forward or aggressive as “I love you.” “Love you” can slip up on you, sure, but it doesn’t make an in-your-face slam dunk. More like a nice jump shot.
Two minutes pass. I need to say something.
Love you too.
It’s as foreign as a Spanish word I haven’t learned yet, but funny enough it comes pretty easily.
I get a wink emoji in return.
Just Us for Justice occupies the old Taco Bell on Magnolia Avenue, between the car wash and the cash advance place. Daddy used to take me and Seven to that Taco Bell every Friday and get us ninety-nine-cent tacos, cinnamon twists, and a soda to share. This was right after he got out of prison, when he didn’t have a lot of money. He usually watched us eat. Sometimes he asked the manager, one of Momma’s girlfriends, to keep an eye on us, and he went to the cash advance place next door. When I got older and discovered that presents don’t just “show up,” I realized Daddy always went over there around our birthdays and Christmas.
Momma rings the doorbell at Just Us, and Ms. Ofrah lets us in.
“Sorry about that,” she says, locking the door. “It’s just me here today.”
“Oh,” Momma says. “Where are your colleagues?”
“Some of them are at Garden Heights High doing a roundtable discussion. Others are leading a march on Carnation where Khalil was murdered.”
It’s weird to hear somebody say “Khalil was murdered” as easily as Ms. Ofrah does. She doesn’t bite her tongue or hesitate.
Short-walled cubicles take up most of the restaurant. They have almost as many posters as Seven has, but the kind Daddy would love, like Malcolm X standing next to a window holding a rifle, Huey Newton in prison with his fist up for black power, and photographs of the Black Panthers at rallies and giving breakfast to kids.
Ms. Ofrah leads us to her cubicle next to the drive-through window. It’s kinda funny too ’cause she has a Taco Bell cup on her desk. “Thank you so much for coming,” she says. “I was so happy when you called, Mrs. Carter.”
“Please, call me Lisa. How long have you all been in this space?”
“Almost two years now. And if you’re wondering, yes, we do get the occasional prankster who pulls up to the window and tells me they want a chalupa.”
We laugh. The doorbell rings up front.
“That’s probably my husband,” Momma says. “He was on his way.”
Ms. Ofrah leaves, and soon Daddy’s voice echoes through the office as he follows her back. He grabs a third chair from another cubicle and sets it halfway in Ms. Ofrah’s office and halfway in the hall. That’s how small her cubicle is.
“Sorry I’m late. Had to get DeVante situated with Mr. Lewis.”
“Mr. Lewis?” I ask.
“Yeah. Since I’m here, I asked him to let DeVante help around the shop. Mr. Lewis needs somebody to look out for his dumb behind. Snitching on live TV.”
“You’re talking about the gentleman who did the interview about the King Lords?” Ms. Ofrah asks.
“Yeah, him,” says Daddy. “He owns the barbershop next to my store.”
“Oh, wow. That interview definitely has people talking. Last I checked it had almost a million views online.”
I knew it. Mr. Lewis has become a meme.
“It takes a lot of guts to be as upfront as he is. I meant what I said at Khalil’s funeral, Starr. It was very brave of you to talk to the police.”
“I don’t feel brave.” With Malcolm X watching me on her wall, I can’t lie. “I’m not running my mouth on TV like Mr. Lewis.”
“And that’s okay,” Ms. Ofrah says. “It seemed Mr. Lewis impulsively spoke out in anger and frustration. In a case like Khalil’s, I would much rather that you spoke out in a more deliberate and planned way.” She looks at Momma. “You said the DA called yesterday?”
“Yes. They’d like to meet with Starr tomorrow.”
“Makes sense. The case was turned over to their office, and they’re preparing to take it to a grand jury.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“A jury will decide if charges should be brought against Officer Cruise.”
“And Starr will have to testify to the grand jury,” Daddy says.
Ms. Ofrah nods. “It’s a bit different from a normal trial. There won’t be a judge or a defense attorney present, and the DA will ask Starr questions.”
“But what if I can’t answer them all?”
“What do you mean?” Ms. Ofrah says.
“I—the gun in the car stuff. On the news they said there may have been a gun in the car, like that changes everything. I honestly don’t know if there was.”