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

by Angie Thomas

Spring in Garden Heights doesn’t always bring love, but it promises babies in the winter.

Funny how it works with white kids though. It’s dope to be black until it’s hard to be black.

Chris and I can match our sneakers. Yes, we’re that couple.

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.

They leave Khalil’s body in the street like it’s an exhibit.

Please, cover his body. Please, close his eyes. Please, close his mouth. Get away from his car. Don’t pick up his hairbrush.

One-Fifteen sits on the sidewalk with his face buried in his hands. Other officers pat his shoulder and tell him it’ll be okay.

Hailey didn’t come. Her dad didn’t want her spending the night in “the ghetto.”

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.

One of my baby photos smiles back at me, permanently etched on his arm with Something to live for, something to die for written beneath it. Seven and Sekani are on his other arm with the same words beneath them. Love letters in the simplest form.

The truth casts a shadow over the kitchen—people like us in situations like this become hashtags, but they rarely get justice.

I hope none of them ask about my spring break. They went to Taipei, the Bahamas, Harry Potter World. I stayed in the hood and saw a cop kill my friend.

“You haven’t asked my child about that cop yet,” Momma says. “You keep asking her about Khalil, like he’s the reason he’s dead. Like she said, he didn’t pull the trigger on himself.”

“We just want the whole picture, Mrs. Carter. That’s all.” “One-Fifteen killed him,” I say. “And he wasn’t doing anything wrong. How much of a bigger picture do you need?” Fifteen minutes later, I leave the police station with my mom. Both of us know the same thing: This is gonna be some bullshit.

“Dammit, Starr!” Hailey yells, recovering the ball. She passes it to me. “Hustle! Pretend the ball is some fried chicken. Bet you’ll stay on it then.” What. The. Actual.

“Cramps, Starr? Really?” she says. “They’re bad, Mommy,” I whine, lying my butt off. “Girl, please. I went to class in labor with you,” she says.

Weeping may endure for a night, but how many of you know that JOY—!” He doesn’t even finish and people shout. The choir sings upbeat songs, and almost everyone claps and praises Jesus.

A praise break even starts, and people run around the sanctuary and do the “Holy Ghost Two-Step,” as Seven and I call it, their feet moving like James Brown and their bent arms flapping like chicken wings. But if Khalil’s not celebrating, how the hell can they? And why praise Jesus, since he let Khalil get shot in the first place?

“As we say farewell to Khalil, we find our hearts burdened with the harsh truth of how he lost his life. Just before the start of this service, I was informed that, despite a credible eyewitness account, the police department has no intentions of arresting the officer who murdered this young man.”

“We won’t give up until Khalil receives justice,” Ms. Ofrah says over the talking. “I ask you to join us and Khalil’s family after the service for a peaceful march to the cemetery. Our route happens to pass the police station. Khalil was silenced, but let’s join together and make our voices heard for him. Thank you.”

We open our eyes. Sekani flinches. I’m used to gunshots, but these are louder, faster. One barely sounds off before another’s right behind it. “Machine guns,” says Seven. More shots follow. “Take your dinner to the den,” Momma says, getting up from the table. “And sit on the floor. Bullets don’t know where they’re supposed to

“We have taken into consideration the evidence as well as the statement given by the witness, and as of now we see no reason to arrest the officer.”

What if somebody knows I’m the witness? What if they know that it’s my fault that cop hasn’t been arrested? What if we come across some cops and they know who I am?

‘Sometimes you can do everything right and things will still go wrong. The key is to never stop doing right.’”

“Right. Lack of opportunities,” Daddy says. “Corporate America don’t bring jobs to our communities, and they damn sure ain’t quick to hire us. Then, shit, even if you do have a high school diploma, so many of the schools in our neighborhoods don’t prepare us well enough. That’s why when your momma talked about sending you and your brothers to Williamson, I agreed. 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.

Drugs come from somewhere, and they’re destroying our community,” he says. “You got folks like Brenda, who think they need them to survive, and then you got the Khalils, who think they need to sell them to survive. The Brendas can’t get jobs unless they’re clean, and they can’t pay for rehab unless they got jobs. When the Khalils get arrested for selling drugs, they either spend most of their life in prison, another billion-dollar industry, or they have a hard time getting a real job and probably start selling drugs again.

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

“That’s why people are speaking out, huh? Because it won’t change if we don’t say something.” “Exactly. We can’t be silent.” “So I can’t be silent.”

This is bigger than me and Khalil though. 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.

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.”

“They’re protesting for Khalil?” “Yeah,” Hailey says, all giddy and shit. “Perfect timing too. I so did not study for that English exam. This is, like, the first time Remy actually came up with a good idea to get out of class. I mean, it’s kinda messed up that we’re protesting a drug dealer’s death, but—”

She’s probably uploading the latest family snapshots on Facebook for our out-of-town relatives. With everything that’s going on, what can she say? “Sekani saw cops harass his daddy, but he’s doing so well in school. #ProudMom.” Or, “Starr saw her best friend die, keep her in your prayers, but my baby made the honor roll again. #Blessed.” Or even, “Tanks are rolling by outside, but Seven’s been accepted into six colleges so far. #HeIsGoingPlaces.”

seems like they always talk about what he may have said, what he may have done, what he may not have done. I didn’t know a dead person could be charged in his own murder, you know?”

“My uncle’s a cop. I know not all cops are bad. And they risk their lives, you know? I’m always scared for my uncle. But I’m tired of them assuming. Especially when it comes to black people.” “You wish that more cops wouldn’t make assumptions about black people?”

“Right. This all happened because he”—I can’t say his name—“assumed that we were up to no good. Because we’re black and because of where we live. We were just two kids, minding our business, you know? His assumption killed Khalil. It could’ve killed me.”