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

by Angie Thomas

“Mothaf—” Gunshots cut Daddy off. My heart stops. For a split second, I visit a world without my dad, and it doesn’t seem like much of a world at all.

I walk into the grand jury room alone, but somehow my parents are with me. The room has wood-paneled walls and no windows. About twenty or so men and women occupy a U-shaped table. Some of them are black, some of them aren’t.

“You understand you’re not the focus of any criminal charges, correct?” Bullshit. Khalil and I have been on trial since he died. “Yes, ma’am.”

“This is exactly what They expect you to do,” Momma says. “Two kids from Garden Heights, acting like you ain’t got any sense!” They with a capital T. There’s Them and then there’s Us. Sometimes They look like Us and don’t realize They are Us. “But she was running her mouth, saying Khalil deserved—” “I don’t care if she said she shot him herself. People are gonna say a whole lot, Starr. It doesn’t mean you hit somebody. You gotta walk away sometimes.” “You mean walk away and get shot like Khalil did?” She sighs. “Baby, I understand—” “No you don’t!” I say. “Nobody understands! I saw the bullets rip through him. I sat there in the street as he took his last breath. I’ve had to listen to people try to make it seem like it’s okay he was murdered. As if he deserved it.

Chris and Maya walk through the gate, and my stomach gets all jittery. I should be used to my two worlds colliding, but I never know which Starr I should be. I can use some slang, but not too much slang, some attitude, but not too much attitude, so I’m not a “sassy black girl.” I have to watch what I say and how I say it, but I can’t sound “white.” Shit is exhausting.

My two worlds just collided. Surprisingly, everything’s all right.

No potato salad. That’s the devil’s food.

“Do you think they’re gonna charge him?” “Do you?” “No.” Chris spins his chair back around. My eyes are watery, and I lie on my side. He climbs in next to me so we’re facing each other. Chris presses his forehead against mine. “I’m sorry.” “You didn’t do anything.” “But I feel like I should apologize on behalf of white people everywhere.” “You don’t have to.” “But I want to.”

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.

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—”

“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.”

The crowd cheers. People say misery loves company, but I think it’s like that with anger too. I’m not the only one pissed—everyone around me is. They didn’t have to be sitting in the passenger’s seat when it happened. My anger is theirs, and theirs is mine.

Chris nods along and mumbles the words. He goes silent every time Cube says “nigga.” As he should.

“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.”

“How about we split up?” Chris says. “Two of us stay here, two of us go get some gas—and this is that white-people shit you guys were talking about, isn’t it?” “Yes,” the rest of us say.

“Just Us for Justice was fine when we left,” Seven says. “Even if it’s not, it’s okay,” says Ms. Ofrah. “You can destroy wood and brick, but you can’t destroy a movement.

I turn to the cops. “I’m sick of this! Just like y’all think all of us are bad because of some people, we think the same about y’all. Until you give us a reason to think otherwise, we’ll keep protesting.” More cheers, and I can’t lie, it eggs me on. Forget trigger happy—speaker happy is more my thing. “Everybody wants to talk about how Khalil died,” I say. “But this isn’t about how Khalil died. It’s about the fact that he lived. His life mattered. Khalil lived!” I look at the cops again. “You hear me? Khalil lived!” “You have until the count of three to disperse,” the officer on the loudspeaker says. “Khalil lived!” we chant. “One.” “Khalil lived!” “Two.” “Khalil lived!” “Three.” “Khalil lived!” The can of tear gas sails toward us from the cops. It lands beside the patrol car. I jump off and pick up the can. Smoke whizzes out the end of it. Any second it’ll combust. I scream at the top of my lungs, hoping Khalil hears me, and chuck it back at the cops. It explodes and consumes them in a cloud of tear gas. All hell breaks loose.

We eventually turn onto Marigold Avenue, and even with the fire in my lungs I take a deep breath. Our store is in one piece. The windows are boarded up with that same “black owned” tag on them, like it’s lamb’s blood protecting the store from the plague of death. The street is pretty still. Top Shelf Spirits and Wine is the only business with broken windows. It doesn’t have a “black owned” tag either.

“Starr baby, call me as soon as you get this, okay?” But they soon become, “Starr Amara, I know you’re getting these messages. Call me. I’m not playing.” They progress to, “See, you’ve taken this too far. Carlos and I are heading out the door right now, and you better pray to God we don’t find you!” And on the last message, left a few minutes ago, Momma says, “Oh, so you can’t return my calls, but you can lead protests, huh? Momma told me she saw you on live TV, giving speeches and throwing tear gas at cops! I swear I’m gon’ snatch your life if you don’t call me!”

I rest my head on Chris’s shoulder as we hold hands, oxygen masks on both of us. I’m not gonna lie and say tonight was better because he was here—frankly this has been one fucked-up night, nothing could make it better—but it doesn’t hurt that we went through it together.

You gotta earn my tolerance in increments if you gon’ date my daughter.”