The Hate U Give (The Hate U Give, #1)

by Angie Thomas

curled, laid, and slayed. Got me feeling basic as hell with my ponytail. Guys in their freshest kicks and sagging pants grind so close to girls they just about need condoms. My nana likes to say that spring brings love. Spring in Garden Heights doesn’t always bring love, but it promises babies in the winter. I wouldn’t be surprised if a lot of them are conceived the night of Big D’s party. He always has it on the Friday of spring break because you need Saturday to recover and Sunday to repent.

Kenya could be a model, if I’m completely honest. She’s got flawless dark-brown skin—I don’t think she ever gets a pimple—slanted brown eyes, and long eyelashes that aren’t store-bought. She’s the perfect height for modeling too, but a little thicker than those toothpicks on the runway. She never wears the same outfit twice. Her daddy, King, makes sure of that.

You’re so lucky you go to that white-people school and don’t have to deal with hoes like that.” Ain’t this some shit? Not even five minutes ago, I was stuck-up because I go to Williamson. Now I’m lucky?

“Ain’t you Big Mav’s daughter who work in the store?” See? People act like that’s the name on my birth certificate.

bet they be doing Molly and shit, don’t they?” Chance asks me. “White kids love popping pills.” “And listening to Taylor Swift,” Bianca adds, talking around her thumb. Okay, that’s somewhat true, but I’m not telling them that.

I’m cool by default because I’m one of the only black kids there. I have to earn coolness in Garden Heights, and that’s more difficult than buying retro Jordans on release day.

He wipes his nose like he always does before a lie. “I been busy.” Obviously. The brand-new Jordans, the crisp white tee, the diamonds in his ears. When you grow up in Garden Heights, you know what “busy” really means. Fuck. I wish he wasn’t that kinda busy though. I don’t know if I wanna tear up or smack him.

“She’ll be a’ight.” It’s a prayer more than a prophecy.

Garden Heights has been a battlefield for the past two months over some stupid territory wars. I was born a “queen” ’cause Daddy used to be a King Lord. But when he left the game, my street royalty status ended.

“’Pac said Thug Life stood for ‘The Hate U Give Little Infants Fucks Everybody.’” I raise my eyebrows. “What?” “Listen! The Hate U—the letter U—Give Little Infants Fucks Everybody. T-H-U-G L-I-F-E. Meaning what society give us as youth, it bites them in the ass when we wild out.

“I’m sorry about last night, Starr.” Somebody finally acknowledges the cloud hanging over the kitchen, which for some reason is like acknowledging me.

“Thanks,” I say, even though it’s weird saying that. I don’t deserve the sympathy.

“People from the neighborhood are already talking about it on Twitter,”

I’ve seen it happen over and over again: a black person gets killed just for being black, and all hell breaks loose. I’ve tweeted RIP hashtags, reblogged pictures on Tumblr, and signed every petition out there. I always said that if I saw it happen to somebody, I would have the loudest voice, making sure the world knew what went down. Now I am that person, and I’m too afraid to speak.

Or I could call Hailey and Maya, those girls Kenya claims don’t count as my friends. I guess I can see why she says that. I never invite them over. Why would I? They live in mini-mansions. My house is just mini.

Hailey didn’t come. Her dad didn’t want her spending the night in “the ghetto.” I overheard my parents say that. Maya came but ended up asking her parents to come get her that night. There was a drive-by around the corner, and the gunshots scared her.

“Love you,” he says. See, that’s why I hate it when somebody dies. People do stuff they wouldn’t usually do. Even Momma hugs me longer and tighter with more sympathy than “just because” in it. Sekani, on the other hand, steals bacon off my plate, looks at my phone, and purposely steps on my foot on his way out. I love him for it.

Daddy picks bunches of collard greens from his garden. He cuts roses that have blooms as big as my palms. Daddy spends hours out here every night, planting, tilling, and talking. He claims a good garden needs good conversation. About thirty minutes later, we’re riding in his truck with the windows down.

anytime he finds out a black person is with a white person, suddenly something’s wrong with them.

Between a story about a bad car accident on the freeway and a garbage bag of live puppies that was found in a park, there’s a short story about an officer-involved shooting that is being investigated. They don’t even say Khalil’s name. Some bullshit.

“This isn’t about black or white,” he says. “Bullshit,” says Daddy. “If this was out in Riverton Hills and his name was Richie, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“And we’re not going anywhere,” Daddy says. “Maverick, she’s seen two of her friends get killed,” Momma says. “Two! And she’s only sixteen.” “And one was at the hands of a person who was supposed to protect her! What, you think if you live next door to them, they’ll treat you different?” “Why does it always have to be about race with you?” Uncle Carlos asks. “Other races aren’t killing us nearly as much as we’re killing ourselves.” “Ne-gro, please. If I kill Tyrone, I’m going to prison. If a cop kills me, he’s getting put on leave. Maybe.”

and he got shot in the head twice. Right in front of me. A few months before you were born, in fact. That’s why I named you Starr.” He gives me a small smile. “My light during all that darkness.”

Cameron holds his grandma’s hand as he leads her into the living room like she’s the queen of the world in a housecoat. She looks thinner, but strong for somebody going through chemo and all of this. A scarf wrapped around her head adds to her majesty—an African queen, and we’re blessed to be in her presence. The rest of us stand.

This hurts. But I swear I wanna cuss Khalil out. How he could sell the very stuff that took his momma from him? Did he realize that he was taking somebody else’s momma from them? Did he realize that if he does become a hashtag, some people will only see him as a drug dealer? He was so much more than that.

Thank you for Sekani’s miraculous, sudden healing that just so happened to come after he found out they’re having pizza at school today.”

“Amen,” the rest of us say. “Daddy, why you put me on the spot like that with Black Jesus?” Sekani complains.

I can drive. I got my license a week after my sixteenth birthday. But I can’t get a car unless I pay for it myself. I told my parents I don’t have time for a job with school and basketball. They said I don’t have time for a car then either. Messed up.

“Sekani, you remembered your iPad?” “Yes, ma’am.” “Lunch card?” “Yes, ma’am.” “Gym shorts? And you better have gotten the clean ones too.”

He runs over to some of his friends and blends in with all the other kids in khakis and polos.

Williamson Starr doesn’t use slang—if a rapper would say it, she doesn’t say it, even if her white friends do. Slang makes them cool. Slang makes her “hood.” Williamson Starr holds her tongue when people piss her off so nobody will think she’s the “angry black girl.” Williamson Starr is approachable. No stank-eyes, side-eyes, none of that. Williamson Starr is nonconfrontational. Basically, Williamson Starr doesn’t give anyone a reason to call her ghetto.

She’s a geek like Seven, smart enough for Harvard but Howard bound, and real sweet.

On the Monday night news, they finally gave Khalil’s name in the story about the shooting, but with a title added to it—Khalil Harris, a Suspected Drug Dealer. They didn’t mention that he was unarmed. They said that an “unidentified witness” had been questioned and that the police were still investigating.

Oh, so you can drag me to play basketball during one of your feminist rages, but you can’t follow my Tumblr because of Emmett Till?

Our schools don’t get the resources to equip you like Williamson does. It’s easier to find some crack than it is to find a good school around here. “Now, think ’bout this,” he says. “How did the drugs even get in our neighborhood? This is a multibillion-dollar industry we talking ’bout, baby. That shit is flown into our communities, but I don’t know anybody with a private jet. Do you?” “No.” “Exactly.

That’s the hate they’re giving us, baby, a system designed against us.

Seven and I said we were Slytherins since almost all Slytherins were rich. When you’re a kid in a one-bedroom in the projects, rich is the best thing anybody can be.

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.

“Get over it, Maverick. He’s white!” Momma shouts on the patio. “White, white, white!” Chris blushes. And blushes, and blushes, and blushes.

“My son was afraid for his life,” he says. “He only wanted to get home to his wife and kids.” Pictures flash on the screen. One-Fifteen smiles with his arms draped around a blurred-out woman. He’s on a fishing trip with two small, blurred-out children. They show him with a smiley golden retriever, with his pastor and some fellow deacons who are all blurred out, and then in his police uniform. “Officer Brian Cruise Jr. has been on the force for sixteen years,” the voice-over says, and more pics of him as a cop are shown. He’s been a cop for as long as Khalil was alive, and I wonder if in some sick twist of fate Khalil was only born for this man to kill. “A majority of those years have been spent serving in Garden Heights,” the voice-over continues, “a neighborhood notorious for gangs and drug dealers.”

“My son loved working in the neighborhood,” One-Fifteen’s father claims. “He always wanted to make a difference in the lives there.” Funny. Slave masters thought they were making a difference in black people’s lives too. Saving them from their “wild African ways.” Same shit, different century. I wish people like them would stop thinking that people like me need saving.

“I hate that I let myself fall into that mind-set of trying to rationalize his death. And at the end of the day, you don’t kill someone for opening a car door. If you do, you shouldn’t be a cop.”

having a serious emotional hangover.

“What is Tumblr anyway? Is it like Facebook?” “No, and you’re forbidden to get one. No parents allowed. You guys already took over Facebook.” “You haven’t responded to my friend request yet.” “I know.” “I need Candy Crush lives.”

That might be the problem. A lot of the good stuff is from the past. The Jonas Brothers, High School Musical, our shared grief. Our friendship is based on memories. What do we have now? “What if the good doesn’t outweigh the bad?” I ask. “Then let her go,” Momma says. “And if you keep her in your life and she keeps doing the bad, let her go. Because I promise you, had your daddy pulled some mess like that again, I’d be married to Idris Elba and saying, ‘Maverick who?’”

“Since you wanna ask me questions, do you have a problem with white people?” “Not really.” “Not really?” “Ay, I’m being honest. My thing is, girls usually date boys who are like their daddies, and I ain’t gon’ lie, when I saw that white—Chris,” he corrects, and I smile. “I got worried. Thought I turned you against black men or didn’t set a good example of a black man. I couldn’t handle that.”

I’ve never been able to cross my legs, for whatever reason,

“I’d ask him if he wished he shot me too.”

Damn. She Voldemorted Hailey.

“I have something to add. Lord, bless my mom, and thank you that she went into her retirement fund and gave us the money for the down payment. Help us turn the basement into a suite so she can stay here sometimes.” “No, Lord,” Daddy says. “Yes, Lord,” says Momma. “No, Lord.” “Yes.” “No, amen!”