The idea is as crazy as a four-point shot. Living somewhere other than Garden Heights? Yeah, right. I’d never believe it if it wasn’t Daddy saying it. Daddy never says something unless he means it. King’s threat must’ve really got to him.
He scrubs the skillet that Momma stabbed this morning.
She takes it from him, sets it down, and grabs his hand. “Don’t worry about that.”
“I told you it’s cool. I can get the dishes.”
“Forget the dishes.”
And she pulls him to their bedroom and closes the door.
Suddenly, their TV blares real loud, and Jodeci sings over it from the stereo. If that woman ends up with a fetus in her uterus, I will be completely done. Done.
“Ill, man,” Seven says, knowing the deal too. “They’re too old for that.”
“Too old for what?” Sekani asks.
“Nothing,” Seven and I say together.
“You think Daddy meant that though?” I ask Seven. “We’re moving?”
He twists one of his dreads at the root. I don’t think he realizes he’s doing it. “Sounds like y’all are. Especially if Ma gets this job.”
“Y’all?” I say. “You’re not staying in Garden Heights.”
“I mean, I’ll visit, but I can’t leave my momma and my sisters, Starr. You know that.”
“Your momma put you out,” Sekani says “Where else you gonna go, stupid?”
“Who you calling stupid?” Seven sticks his hand under his armpit, then rubs it in Sekani’s face. The one time he did it to me I was nine. He got a busted lip, and I got a whooping.
“You’re not gonna be at your momma’s house anyway,” I say. “You’re going away to college, hallelujah, thank Black Jesus.”
Seven raises his brows. “You want an armpit hand too? And I’m going to Central Community so I can stay at my momma’s house and watch out for my sisters.”
That stings. A little. I’m his sister too, not just them. “House,” I repeat. “You never call it home.”
“Yeah, I do,” he says.
“No, you don’t.”
“Yeah.”
“Shut the hell up.” I end that argument.
“Ooh!” Sekani holds his hand out. “Gimme my dollar!”
“Hell no,” I say. “That shit doesn’t work with me.”
“Three dollars!”
“Okay, fine. I’ll give you a three-dollar bill.”
“I’ve never seen a three-dollar bill,” he says.
“Exactly. And you’ll never see my three dollars.”
PART 2
FIVE WEEKS AFTER IT
SIXTEEN
Ms. Ofrah arranged for me to do an interview with one of the national news programs today—exactly a week before I testify before the grand jury next Monday.
It’s around six o’clock when the limo that the news program sent arrives. My family’s coming with me. I doubt my brothers will be interviewed, but Seven wants to support me. Sekani claims he does too, but really he’s hoping he’ll get “discovered” somehow with all those cameras around.
My parents told him about everything. As much as he gets on my nerves, it was sweet when he gave me a handmade card that said “Sorry.” Until I opened it. There was drawing of me crying over Khalil, and I had devil horns. Sekani said he wanted it to be “real.” Little asshole.
We all head out to the limo. Some neighbors watch curiously from their porches and yards. Momma made all of us, including Daddy, dress up like we’re going to Christ Temple—not quite Easter formal but not “diverse church” casual. She says we’re not gonna have the news people thinking we’re “hood rats.”
So as we’re walking to the car, she’s all, “When we get there, don’t touch anything and only speak when somebody speaks to you. It’s ‘yes, ma’am’ and ‘yes, sir,’ or ‘no, ma’am’ and ‘no, sir.’ Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the three of us say.
“All right now, Starr,” one of our neighbors calls out. I get that just about every day in the neighborhood now. Word’s spreading around the Garden that I’m the witness. “All right now” is more than a greeting. It’s a simple way people let me know they got my back.
The best part though? It’s never “All right now, Big Mav’s daughter who works in the store.” It’s always Starr.
We leave in the limo. I drum my fingers on my knee as I watch the neighborhood pass by. I’ve talked to detectives and the DA, and next week I’ll talk to the grand jury. I’ve talked about that night so much I can repeat it back in my sleep. But the whole world will see this.
My phone vibrates in my blazer pocket. A couple of texts from Chris.
My mom wants to know what color your prom dress is.
Something about the tailor needs to know ASAP.
Oh, shit. The Junior-Senior Prom is Saturday. I haven’t bought a dress. With all this Khalil stuff, I’m not sure I wanna go. Momma said I need to get my mind off things. I said no. She gave me “the look.”
So I’m going to the damn prom. This dictatorship she’s on? Not cool. I text Chris back.
Uh . . . light blue?
He responds:
You don’t have a dress yet?
I’ve got plenty of time, I write back. Just been busy.
It’s true. Ms. Ofrah prepared me for this interview every day after school. Some days we finished early, and I helped out around Just Us for Justice. Answered phones, passed out flyers, anything they needed me to do. Sometimes I listened in on their staff meetings as they discussed police reform ideas and the importance of telling the community to protest not riot.
I asked Dr. Davis if Just Us could have a roundtable discussion at Williamson like they do at Garden High. He said he didn’t see the need.
Chris replies to my prom text:
Okay, if you say so
Btw Vante says sup.
About to kill him on Madden
He needs to stop calling me Bieber tho
After all that “white boy trying to be black” shit DeVante said about Chris, lately he’s at Chris’s house more than I am. Chris invited him over to play Madden, and all of a sudden they’re “bros.” According to DeVante, Chris’s massive video game collection makes up for his whiteness.
I told DeVante he’s a video game thot. He told me to shut up. We’re cool like that though.
We arrive at a fancy hotel downtown. A white guy in a hoodie waits under the awning leading up to the door. He has a clipboard under his arm and a Starbucks cup in his hand.
Still, he somehow manages to open the limo door and shake our hands when we get out. “John, the producer. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He shakes my hand a second time. “And let me guess, you’re Starr.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you so much for having the bravery to do this.”
There’s that word again. Bravery. Brave peoples’ legs don’t shake. Brave people don’t feel like puking. Brave people sure don’t have to remind themselves how to breathe if they think about that night too hard. If bravery is a medical condition, everybody’s misdiagnosed me.
John leads us through all of these twists and turns, and I’m so glad I’m wearing flats. He can’t stop talking about how important the interview is and how much they wanna get the truth out there. He’s not exactly adding to my “bravery.”
He takes us to the hotel courtyard, where some camera operators and other show people are setting up. In the middle of the chaos, the interviewer, Diane Carey, is getting her makeup done.
It’s weird seeing her in the flesh and not as a bunch of pixels on TV. When I was younger, every single time I spent the night at Nana’s house she made me sleep in one of her long-ass nightgowns, say my bedtime prayers for at least five minutes, and watch Diane Carey’s news report so I could be “knowledgeable of the world.”
“Hi!” Mrs. Carey’s face lights up when she sees us. She comes over, and I gotta give the makeup lady props ’cause she follows her and keeps working like a pro. Mrs. Carey shakes our hands. “Diane. So nice to meet you all. And you must be Starr,” she says to me. “Don’t be nervous. This will simply be a conversation between the two of us.”
The whole time she talks, some guy snaps photos of us. Yeah, this will be a normal conversation.