Chris slumps in his seat. “I don’t know. I don’t want it to happen again though.”
“Niggas tired of taking shit,” DeVante says, between heavy breaths. “Like Starr said, they don’t give a fuck about us, so we don’t give a fuck. Burn this bitch down.”
“But they don’t live here!” Seven says. “They don’t give a damn what happens to this neighborhood.”
“What we supposed to do then?” DeVante snaps. “All that ‘Kumbaya’ peaceful shit clearly don’t work. They don’t listen till we tear something up.”
“Those businesses though,” I say.
“What about them?” DeVante asks. “My momma used to work at that McDonald’s, and they barely paid her. That pawnshop ripped us off a hell of a lot of times. Nah, I don’t give a fuck about neither one of them bitches.”
I get it. Daddy almost lost his wedding ring to that pawnshop once. He actually threatened to burn it down. Kinda ironic it’s burning now.
But if the looters decide to ignore the “black owned” tags, they could end up hitting our store. “We need to go help Daddy.”
“What?” Seven says.
“We need to go help Daddy protect the store! In case looters show up.”
Seven wipes his face. “Shit, you’re probably right.”
“Ain’t nobody gon’ touch Big Mav,” says DeVante.
“You don’t know that,” I say. “People are pissed, DeVante. They’re not thinking shit out. They’re doing shit.”
DeVante eventually nods. “A’ight, fine. Let’s go help Big Mav.”
“Think he’ll be okay with me helping out?” Chris asks. “He didn’t seem to like me last time.”
“Seem to?” DeVante repeats. “He straight up mean-mugged your ass. I was there. I remember.”
Seven snickers. I smack DeVante and tell him, “Shush.”
“What? It’s true. He was mad as hell that Chris is white. But ay? You spit that NWA shit like you did back there, maybe he’ll think you’re a’ight.”
“What? Surprised a white boy knows NWA?” Chris teases.
“Man, you ain’t white. You light-skinned.”
“Agreed!” I say.
“Wait, wait,” Seven says over our laughter, “we gotta test him to see if he really is black. Chris, you eat green bean casserole?”
“Hell no. That shit’s disgusting.”
The rest of us lose it, saying, “He’s black! He’s black!”
“Wait, one more,” I say. “Macaroni and cheese. Full meal or a side dish?”
“Uh . . .” Chris’s eyes dart around at us.
DeVante mimics the Jeopardy! music.
“How to earn a black card for three hundred, Alex,” Seven says in an announcer’s voice.
Chris finally answers, “Full meal.”
“Aww!” the rest of us groan.
“Whomp-whomp-whomp!” DeVante adds.
“Guys, it is! Think about it. You get protein, calcium—”
“Protein is meat,” DeVante says. “Not no damn cheese. I wish somebody would give me some macaroni, calling it a meal.”
“It’s like the easiest, quickest meal ever though,” Chris says. “One box, and you’re—”
“And that’s the problem,” I say. “Real macaroni and cheese doesn’t come from a box, babe. It eventually comes from an oven with a crust bubbling on top.”
“Amen.” Seven holds his fist to me, and I bump it.
“Ohhh,” Chris says. “You mean the kind with breadcrumbs?”
“What?” DeVante yells, and Seven goes, “Breadcrumbs?”
“Nah,” I say. “I mean there’s like a crust of cheese on top. We gotta get you to a soul food restaurant, babe.”
“This fool said breadcrumbs.” DeVante sounds seriously offended. “Breadcrumbs.”
The car stops. Up ahead a Road Closed sign blocks the street with a cop car in front of it.
“Damn,” Seven says, backing up and turning around. “Gotta find another way to the store.”
“They probably got a lot of roadblocks around the neighborhood tonight,” I tell him.
“Fucking breadcrumbs.” DeVante still can’t get over it. “I swear, I don’t understand white people. Breadcrumbs on macaroni, kissing dogs on the mouth—”
“Treating their dogs like they’re their kids,” I add.
“Yeah!” says DeVante. “Purposely doing shit that could kill them, like bungee jumping.”
“Calling Target ‘Tar-jay,’ like that makes it fancier,” says Seven.
“Fuck,” Chris mutters. “That’s what my mom calls it.”
Seven and I bust out laughing.
“Saying dumb shit to their parents,” DeVante continues. “Splitting up in situations when they clearly need to stick together.”
Chris goes, “Huh?”
“Babe, c’mon,” I say. “White people always wanna split up, and when they do something bad happens.”
“That’s only in horror movies though,” he says.
“Nah! Shit like that is always on the news,” says DeVante. “They go on a hiking trip, split up, and a bear kills somebody.”
“Car breaks down, they split up to find help, and a serial killer murders somebody,” Seven adds.
“Like, have y’all ever heard that there’s power in numbers?” DeVante asks. “For real though.”
“Okay, fine,” Chris says. “Since you guys want to go there with white people, can I ask a question about black people?”
Cue the record scratching. No lie, all three of us turn and look at him, including Seven. The car veers off to the side of the road, scraping against the curb. Seven cusses and gets it back on the street.
“I mean, it’s only fair,” Chris mumbles.
“Guys, he’s right,” I say. “He should be able to ask.”
“Fine,” says Seven. “Go ahead, Chris.”
“Okay. Why do some black people give their kids odd names? I mean, look at you guys’ names. They’re not normal.”
“My name normal,” DeVante says, all puffed-up sounding. “I don’t know what you talking about.”
“Man, you named after a dude from Jodeci,” Seven says.
“And you named after a number! What’s your middle name? Eight?”
“Anyway, Chris,” Seven says, “DeVante’s got a point. What makes his name or our names any less normal than yours? Who or what defines ‘normal’ to you? If my pops were here, he’d say you’ve fallen into the trap of the white standard.”
Color creeps into Chris’s neck and face. “I didn’t mean—okay, maybe ‘normal’ isn’t the right word.”
“Nope,” I say.
“I guess uncommon is the word instead?” he asks. “You guys have uncommon names.”
“I know ’bout three other DeVantes in the neighborhood though,” says DeVante.
“Right. It’s about perspective,” says Seven. “Plus, most of the names white people think are unusual actually have meanings in various African languages.”
“And let’s be real, some white people give their kids ‘uncommon’ names too,” I say. “That’s not limited to black people. Just ’cause it doesn’t have a De-or a La-on the front doesn’t make it okay.”
Chris nods. “True enough.”
“Why you have to use ‘De-’ as an example though?” DeVante asks.
We stop again. Another roadblock.
“Shit,” Seven hisses. “I gotta go the long way. Through the east side.”
“East side?” DeVante says. “That’s GD territory!”
“And that’s where most of the riots happened last time,” I remind them.
Chris shakes his head. “Nope. Can’t go there then.”
“Nobody’s thinking about gangbanging tonight,” Seven says. “And as long as I stay away from the major streets, we’ll be all right.”
Gunshots go off close by—a little too close by—and all of us jump. Chris actually yelps.
Seven swallows. “Yeah. We’ll be all right.”
TWENTY-FOUR
Because Seven said we’d be all right, everything goes wrong.
Most of the routes through the east side are blocked off by police, and it takes Seven forever to find one that isn’t. About halfway to the store the car grunts and slows down.
“C’mon,” Seven says. He rubs the dashboard and pumps the gas. “C’mon, baby.”
His baby basically says “fuck it” and stops.
“Shit!” Seven rests his head on the steering wheel. “We’re out of gas.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Chris says.
“I wish, man. It was low when we left your house, but I thought I could wait a while before I got gas. I know my car.”