She stares at us, sipping from a red plastic cup. Her lip is curled up slightly, and she takes her sweet time to speak, like she’s getting a kick out of our fear.
Chomping on some ice, she looks at Chris and says, “Who this li’l white boy y’all done brought up in my house?”
Iesha smirks and eyes me. “I bet he yours, ain’t he? That’s what happens when you go to them white folks’ schools.” She leans against the doorframe. Her gold bracelets jingle as she lifts her cup to her lips again. “I would’ve paid to see Maverick’s face the day you brought this one home. Shit, I’m surprised Seven got a black girl.”
At his name Seven snaps out his trance. “Can you help us?”
“Help you?” she echoes with a laugh. “What? With DeVante? What I look like helping him?”
“Momma—”
“Now I’m Momma?” she says. “What happened to that ‘Iesha’ shit from the other week? Huh, Seven? See, baby, you don’t know how the game work. Let Momma explain something to you, okay? When DeVante stole from King, he earned an ass whooping. He got one. Anybody who helps him is asking for it too, and they better be able to handle it.” She looks at me. “That goes for dry snitches too.”
All it takes is her hollering for King . . .
Her eyes flick toward the back door. The music and laughter rise in the air. “I tell y’all what,” she says, and turns to us. “Y’all better get DeVante’s sorry ass out my bedroom. Bleeding on my carpet and shit. And got the nerve to use one of my damn towels? Matter of fact, get him and that snitch out my house.”
Seven says, “What?”
“You deaf too?” she says. “I said get them out my house. And take your sisters.”
“What I gotta take them for?” Seven says.
“Because I said so! Take them to your grandma’s or something, I don’t care. Get them out my face. I’m trying to get my party on, shit.” When none of us moves, she says, “Go!”
“I’ll get Lyric,” Kenya says, and leaves.
Chris and Seven each take one of DeVante’s hands and pull him up. DeVante winces and cusses the whole way. Once on his feet, he bends over, holding his side, but slowly straightens up and takes steadying breaths. He nods. “I’m good. Just sore.”
“Hurry up,” Iesha says. “Damn. I’m tired of looking at y’all.”
Seven’s glare says what he doesn’t.
DeVante insists he can walk, but Seven and Chris lend their shoulders for support anyway. Kenya’s already at the front door with Lyric on her hip. I hold the door open for all of them and look toward the backyard.
Shit. King’s rising off his throne.
Iesha goes out the back door, and she’s in his face before he can fully stand up. She grabs his shoulders and guides him back down, whispering in his ear. He smiles widely and leans back into his chair. She turns around so her back is to him, the view he really wants, and starts dancing. He smacks her ass. She looks my way.
I doubt she can see me, but I don’t think I’m one of the people she’s trying to see anyway. They’ve gone to the car.
Suddenly I get it.
“Starr, c’mon,” Seven calls.
I jump off the porch. Seven holds his seat forward for me and Chris to climb in the back with his sisters. Once we’re in, he drives off.
“We gotta get you to the hospital, Vante,” he says.
DeVante presses the towel against his nose and looks at the blood staining it. “I’ll be a’ight,” he says, like that quick observation tells him what a doctor can’t. “We lucky Iesha helped us, man. For real.”
Seven snorts. “She wasn’t helping us. Somebody could be bleeding to death, and she would be more worried about her carpet and getting her party on.”
My brother is smart. So smart that he’s dumb. He’s been hurt by his momma so much that when she does something right he’s blind to it. “Seven, she did help us,” I say. “Think about it. Why did she tell you to take your sisters too?”
“’Cause she didn’t wanna be bothered. As always.”
“No. She knows King will go off when he sees DeVante’s gone,” I say. “If Kenya’s not there, Lyric’s not there, who do you think he’s gon’ take it out on?”
He says nothing.
Then, “Shit.”
The car makes an abrupt stop, lurching us forward then sideways as Seven makes a wide U-turn. He hits the gas, and houses blur past us.
“Seven, no!” Kenya says. “We can’t go back!”
“I’m supposed to protect her!”
“No, you’re not!” I say. “She’s supposed to protect you, and she’s trying to do that now.”
The car slows down. It comes to a complete stop a few houses away from Iesha’s.
“If he—” Seven swallows. “If she—he’ll kill her.”
“He won’t,” Kenya says. “She’s lasted this long. Let her do this, Seven.”
A Tupac song on the radio makes up for our silence. He raps about how we gotta start making changes. Khalil was right. ’Pac’s still relevant.
“All right,” Seven says, and he makes another U-turn. “All right.”
The song fades off. “This is the hottest station in the nation, Hot 105,” the DJ says. “If you’re just tuning in, the grand jury has decided not to indict Officer Brian Cruise Jr. in the death of Khalil Harris. Our thoughts and prayers are with the Harris family. Stay safe out there, y’all.”
TWENTY-THREE
It’s a quiet ride to Seven’s grandma’s house.
I told the truth. I did everything I was supposed to do, and it wasn’t fucking good enough. Khalil’s death wasn’t horrible enough to be considered a crime.
But damn, what about his life? He was once a walking, talking human being. He had family. He had friends. He had dreams. None of it fucking mattered. He was just a thug who deserved to die.
Car horns honk around us. Drivers shout the decision to the rest of the neighborhood. Some kids around my age stand on top of a car as they shout, “Justice for Khalil!”
Seven maneuvers around it all and parks in his grandma’s driveway. He’s silent and unmoving at first. Suddenly he punches the steering wheel. “Fuck!”
DeVante shakes his head. “This some bullshit.”
“Fuck!” Seven croaks. He covers his eyes and rocks back and forth. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
I wanna cry too. Just can’t.
“I don’t understand,” Chris says. “He killed Khalil. He should go to prison.”
“They never do,” Kenya mutters.
Seven hastily wipes his face. “Fuck this. Starr, whatever you wanna do, I’m down. You wanna burn some shit up, we’ll burn some shit up. Give the word.”
“Dude, are you crazy?” Chris says.
Seven turns around. “You don’t get it, so shut up. Starr, what you wanna do?”
Anything. Everything. Scream. Cry. Puke. Hit somebody. Burn something. Throw something.
They gave me the hate, and now I wanna fuck everybody, even if I’m not sure how.
“I wanna do something,” I say. “Protest, riot, I don’t care—”
“Riot?” Chris echoes.
“Hell yeah!” DeVante gives me dap. “That’s what I’m talking ’bout!”
“Starr, think about this,” Chris says. “That won’t solve anything.”
“And neither did talking!” I snap. “I did everything right, and it didn’t make a fucking difference. I’ve gotten death threats, cops harassed my family, somebody shot into my house, all kinds of shit. And for what? Justice Khalil won’t get? They don’t give a fuck about us, so fine. I no longer give a fuck.”
“But—”
“Chris, I don’t need you to agree,” I say, my throat tight. “Just try to understand how I feel. Please?”
He closes and opens his mouth a couple of times. No response.
Seven gets out and holds his seat forward. “C’mon, Lyric. Kenya, you staying here or you coming with us?”
“Staying,” Kenya says, her eyes wet from earlier. “In case Momma shows up.”
Seven nods heavily. “Good idea. She’ll need somebody.”
Lyric climbs off Kenya’s lap and runs up the walkway. Kenya hesitates. She looks back at me. “I’m sorry, Starr,” she says. “This ain’t right.”
She follows Lyric to the front door, and their grandma lets them inside.
Seven returns to the driver’s seat. “Chris, you want me to take you home?”
“I’m staying.” Chris nods, as if he’s settling with himself. “Yeah, I’m staying.”