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“And listening to Taylor Swift,” Bianca adds, talking around her thumb.
Funny how it works with white kids though. It’s dope to be black until it’s hard to be black.
“Can’t believe you still love whiny-ass Drake.” I gape at him. “Leave my husband alone!”
Mr. Reuben could know about Kenya’s fight and would offer her pound cake regardless. He’s nice like that. He gives kids free meals if they bring in their report cards. If it’s a good one, he’ll make a copy and put it on the “All-Star Wall.” If it’s bad, as long as they own up to it and promise to do better, he’ll still give them a meal.
people like us in situations like this become hashtags, but they rarely get justice.
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.” I peek out at Sekani, whose eyes and mouth are open wide.
‘Sometimes you can do everything right and things will still go wrong. The key is to never stop doing right.’”
That’s the hate they’re giving us, baby, a system designed against us. That’s Thug Life.”
This is about Us, with a capital U; everybody who looks like us, feels like us, and is experiencing this pain with us despite not knowing me or Khalil. My silence isn’t helping Us.
“The hard way,” he eventually says. “My daddy was a King Lord. Adonis Carter. A straight up OG.” “Yo!” DeVante says. “That’s your pops? Big Don?” “Yep. Biggest drug dealer this city ever seen.”
“Of course he do,” Daddy mumbles. “We’ll figure something out with that too. Starr, show him how to do the price stickers.” “You’re really hiring him, just like that?” I ask. “Whose store is this, Starr?” “Yours, but—” “’Nuff said. Show him how to do the price stickers.”
her dad is so caring
And God forbid Sekani wants to play outside. I gotta drive to my brother’s house, where I don’t have to worry about him getting shot like his sister’s best friend did.” It’s messed up that she could mean either Khalil or Natasha.
Chris does too for some reason. His desk scrapes the floor as it scoots closer to mine until they touch. He brushes my tears with his thumb. “You knew him, didn’t you?” he says. I nod.
Daddy once told me there’s a rage passed down to every black man from his ancestors, born the moment they couldn’t stop the slave masters from hurting their families. Daddy also said there’s nothing more dangerous than when that rage is activated.
