They leave Khalil’s body in the street like it’s an exhibit. Police cars and ambulances flash all along Carnation Street. People stand off to the side, trying to see what happened.
“Damn, bruh,” some guy says. “They killed him!” The police tell the crowd to leave. Nobody listens.
The paramedics can’t do shit for Khalil, so they put me in the back of an ambulance like I need help. The bright lights spotlight me, and people crane their necks to get a peek.
I don’t feel special. I feel sick.
The cops rummage through Khalil’s car. I try to tell them to stop. Please, cover his body. Please, close his eyes. Please, close his mouth. Get away from his car. Don’t pick up his hairbrush. But the words never come out.
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.
They finally put a sheet over Khalil. He can’t breathe under it. I can’t breathe.
I can’t. Breathe. I gasp.
And gasp. And gasp. “Starr?”
Brown eyes with long eyelashes appear in front of me. They’re like mine.
I couldn’t say much to the cops, but I did manage to give them my parents’ names and phone numbers.
“Hey,” Daddy says. “C’mon, let’s go.”
I open my mouth to respond. A sob comes out.
Daddy is moved aside, and Momma wraps her arms around me. She rubs my back and speaks in hushed tones that tell lies. “It’s all right,
baby. It’s all right.”
We stay this way for a long time. Eventually, Daddy helps us out the ambulance. He wraps his arm around me like a shield against curious eyes and guides me to his Tahoe down the street.
He drives. A streetlight flashes across his face, revealing how tight his jaw is set. His veins bulge along his bald head.
Momma’s wearing her scrubs, the ones with the rubber ducks on them. She did an extra shift at the emergency room tonight. She wipes her eyes a few times, probably thinking about Khalil or how that could’ve been me lying in the street.
My stomach twists. All of that blood, and it came out of him. Some of it is on my hands, on Seven’s hoodie, on my sneakers. An hour ago we were laughing and catching up. Now his blood . . .
Hot spit pools in my mouth. My stomach twists tighter. I gag. Momma glances at me in the rearview mirror. “Maverick, pull over!”
I throw myself across the backseat and push the door open before the truck comes to a complete stop. It feels like everything in me is coming out, and all I can do is let it.
Momma hops out and runs around to me. She holds my hair out the way and rubs my back.
“I’m so sorry, baby,” she says.
When we get home, she helps me undress. Seven’s hoodie and my Jordans disappear into a black trash bag, and I never see them again.
I sit in a tub of steaming water and scrub my hands raw to get Khalil’s blood off. Daddy carries me to bed, and Momma brushes her fingers through my hair until I fall asleep.
Nightmares wake me over and over again. Momma reminds me to breathe, the same way she did before I outgrew asthma. I think she stays in my room the whole night, ’cause every time I wake up, she’s sitting on my bed.
But this time, she’s gone. My eyes strain against the brightness of my neon-blue walls. The clock says it’s five in the morning. My body’s so used to waking up at five, it doesn’t care if it’s Saturday morning or not.
I stare at the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling, trying to recap the night before. The party flashes in my mind, the fight, One-Fifteen pulling me and Khalil over. The first shot rings in my ears. The second. The third.
I’m lying in bed. Khalil is lying in the county morgue.
That’s where Natasha ended up too. It happened six years ago, but I still remember everything from that day. I was sweeping floors at our grocery store, saving up for my first pair of J’s, when Natasha ran in. She was chunky (her momma told her it was baby fat), dark-skinned, and wore her hair in braids that always looked freshly done. I wanted braids like hers so bad.
“Starr, the hydrant on Elm Street busted!” she said.
That was like saying we had a free water park. I remember looking at Daddy and pleading silently. He said I could go, as long as I promised to be back in an hour.
I don’t think I ever saw the water shoot as high as it did that day. Almost everybody in the neighborhood was there too. Just having fun. I was the only one who noticed the car at first.
A tattooed arm stretched out the back window, holding a Glock. People ran. Not me though. My feet became part of the sidewalk. Natasha was splashing in the water, all happy and stuff. Then—
Pow! Pow! Pow!
I dove into a rosebush. By the time I got up, somebody was yelling, “Call nine-one-one!” At first I thought it was me, ’cause I had blood on my shirt. The thorns on the rosebush got me, that’s all. It was Natasha though. Her blood mixed in with the water, and all you could see was a red river flowing down the street.
She looked scared. We were ten, we didn’t know what happened after you died. Hell, I still don’t know, and she was forced to find out, even if she didn’t wanna find out.
I know she didn’t. Just like Khalil didn’t.
My door creaks open, and Momma peeks in. She tries to smile. “Look who’s up.”
She sinks onto her spot on the bed and touches my forehead, even though I don’t have a fever. She takes care of sick kids so much that it’s her first instinct. “How you feeling, Munch?”
That nickname. My parents claim I was always munching on something from the moment I got off the bottle. I’ve lost my big appetite, but I can’t lose that nickname. “Tired,” I say. My voice has extra bass in it. “I wanna stay in bed.”
“I know, baby, but I don’t want you here by yourself.”
That’s all I wanna be, by myself. She stares at me, but it feels like she’s looking at who I used to be, her little girl with ponytails and a snaggletooth who swore she was a Powerpuff Girl. It’s weird but also kinda like a blanket I wanna get wrapped up in.
“I love you,” she says. “I love you too.”
She stands and holds her hand out. “C’mon. Let’s get you something to eat.”
We walk slowly to the kitchen. Black Jesus hangs from the cross in a painting on the hallway wall, and Malcolm X holds a shotgun in a photograph next to him. Nana still complains about those pictures hanging next to each other.
We live in her old house. She gave it to my parents after my uncle, Carlos, moved her into his humongous house in the suburbs. Uncle Carlos was always uneasy about Nana living by herself in Garden Heights, especially since break-ins and robberies seem to happen more to older folks than anybody. Nana doesn’t think she’s old though. She refused to leave, talking about how it was her home and no thugs were gonna run her out, not even when somebody broke in and stole her television. About a month after that, Uncle Carlos claimed that he and Aunt Pam needed her help with their kids. Since, according to Nana, Aunt Pam “can’t cook worth a damn for those poor babies” she finally agreed to move. Our house hasn’t lost its Nana-ness though, with its permanent odor of potpourri, flowered wallpaper, and hints of pink in almost every room.
Daddy and Seven are talking before we get to the kitchen. They go silent as soon as we walk in.
“Morning, baby girl.” Daddy gets up from the table and kisses my forehead. “You sleep okay?”
“Yeah,” I lie as he guides me to a seat. Seven just stares.
Momma opens the fridge, the door crowded with takeout menus and fruit-shaped magnets. “All right, Munch,” she says, “you want turkey bacon or regular?”
“Regular.” I’m surprised I have an option. We never have pork. We aren’t Muslims. More like “Christlims.” Momma became a member of Christ Temple Church when she was in Nana’s belly. Daddy believes in Black Jesus but follows the Black Panthers’ Ten-Point Program more than the Ten Commandments. He agrees with the Nation of Islam on some stuff, but he can’t get over the fact that they may have killed Malcolm X.
“Pig in my house,” Daddy grumbles and sits next to me. Seven smirks across from him. Seven and Daddy look like one of those age- progression pictures they show when somebody’s been missing a long time. Throw my little brother, Sekani, in there and you have the same
person at eight, seventeen, and thirty-six. They’re dark brown, slender, and have thick eyebrows and long eyelashes that almost look feminine. Seven’s dreads are long enough to give both bald-headed Daddy and short-haired Sekani each a head full of hair.
As for me, it’s as if God mixed my parents’ skin tones in a paint bucket to get my medium-brown complexion. I did inherit Daddy’s eyelashes—and I’m cursed with his eyebrows too. Otherwise I’m mostly my mom, with big brown eyes and a little too much forehead.
Momma passes behind Seven with the bacon and squeezes his shoulder. “Thank you for staying with your brother last night so we could—” Her voice catches, but the reminder of what happened hangs in the air. She clears her throat. “We appreciate it.”
“No problem. I needed to get out the house.” “King spent the night?” Daddy asks.
“More like moved in. Iesha talking about they can be a family—” “Ay,” Daddy says. “That’s your momma, boy. Don’t be calling her by
her name like you grown.”
“Somebody in that house needs to be grown,” Momma says. She takes a skillet out and hollers toward the hall, “Sekani, I’m not telling you again. If you wanna go to Carlos’s for the weekend, you better get up! You’re not gonna have me late for work.” I guess she’s gotta work a day shift to make up for last night.
“Pops, you know what’s gonna happen,” Seven says. “He’ll beat her, she’ll put him out. Then he’ll come back, saying he changed. Only difference is this time, I’m not letting him put his hands on me.”
“You can always move in with us,” says Daddy.
“I know, but I can’t leave Kenya and Lyric. That fool’s crazy enough to hit them too. He don’t care that they’re his daughters.”
“A’ight,” Daddy says. “Don’t say anything to him. If he puts his hands on you, let me handle that.”
Seven nods then looks at me. He opens his mouth and keeps it open a while before saying, “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. Khalil’s family does.
There’s just the sound of bacon crackling and popping in the skillet. It’s like a “Fragile” sticker’s on my forehead, and instead of taking a chance and saying something that might break me, they’d rather say nothing at all.
But the silence is the worst.
“I borrowed your hoodie, Seven,” I mumble. It’s random, but it’s better than nothing. “The blue one. Momma had to throw it away. Khalil’s blood . . .” I swallow. “His blood got on it.”
“Oh . . .”
That’s all anybody says for a minute.
Momma turns around to the skillet. “Don’t make any sense. That baby—” she says thickly. “He was just a baby.”
Daddy shakes his head. “That boy never hurt anybody. He didn’t deserve that shit.”
“Why did they shoot him?” Seven asks. “Was he a threat or something?”
“No,” I say quietly.
I stare at the table. I can feel all of them watching me again.
“He didn’t do anything,” I say. “We didn’t do anything. Khalil didn’t even have a gun.”
Daddy releases a slow breath. “Folks around here gon’ lose their minds when they find that out.”
“People from the neighborhood are already talking about it on Twitter,” Seven says. “I saw it last night.”
“Did they mention your sister?” Momma asks.
“No. Just RIP Khalil messages, fuck the police, stuff like that. I don’t think they know details.”
“What’s gonna happen to me when the details do come out?” I ask. “What do you mean, baby?” my mom asks.
“Besides the cop, I’m the only person who was there. And you’ve seen stuff like this. It ends up on national news. People get death threats, cops target them, all kinds of stuff.”
“I won’t let anything happen to you,” Daddy says. “None of us will.” He looks at Momma and Seven. “We’re not telling anybody that Starr was there.”
“Should Sekani know?” Seven asks.
“No,” Momma says. “It’s best if he didn’t. We’re just gonna be quiet for now.”
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.
I wanna stay home and watch The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, my favorite show ever, hands down. I think I know every episode word for word. Yeah it’s hilarious, but it’s also like seeing parts of my life on screen. I even relate to the theme song. A couple of gang members who were up to no good made trouble in my neighborhood and killed Natasha. My parents got scared, and although they didn’t send me to my aunt and uncle in a rich neighborhood, they sent me to a bougie private school.
I just wish I could be myself at Williamson like Will was himself in Bel-Air.
I kinda wanna stay home so I can return Chris’s calls too. After last night, it feels stupid to be mad at him. 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.
I made the mistake of inviting them to a sleepover in seventh grade. Momma was gonna let us do our nails, stay up all night, and eat as much pizza as we wanted. It was gonna be as awesome as those weekends we had at Hailey’s. The ones we still have sometimes. I invited Kenya too, so I could finally hang out with all three of them at once.
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.
That’s when I realized Williamson is one world and Garden Heights is another, and I have to keep them separate.
It doesn’t matter what I’m thinking about doing today though—my parents have their own plans for me. Momma tells me I’m going to the store with Daddy. Before Seven leaves for work, he comes to my room in his Best Buy polo and khakis and hugs me.
“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.
I bring a bowl of dog food and leftover bacon outside to our pit bull, Brickz. Daddy gave him his name ’cause he’s always been as heavy as some bricks. Soon as he sees me, he jumps and fights to break free from his chain. And when I get close enough, his hyper butt jumps up my legs, nearly taking me down.
“Get!” I say. He crouches onto the grass and stares up at me, whimpering with wide puppy-dog eyes. The Brickz version of an apology.
I know pit bulls can be aggressive, but Brickz is a baby most of the time. A big baby. Now, if somebody tries to break in our house or something, they won’t meet the baby Brickz.
While I feed Brickz and refill his water bowl, 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. On the radio, Marvin Gaye asks what’s going on. It’s still dark out, though the sun peeks through the clouds, and hardly anybody is outside. This early in the morning it’s easy to hear the rumbling of eighteen-wheelers on the freeway.
Daddy hums to Marvin, but he couldn’t carry a tune if it came in a box. He’s wearing a Lakers jersey and no shirt underneath, revealing tattoos all over his arms. 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.
“You wanna talk ’bout last night some more?” he asks. “Nah.”
“A’ight. Whenever you wanna.” Another love letter in the simplest form.
We turn onto Marigold Avenue, where Garden Heights is waking up. Some ladies wearing floral headscarves come out the Laundromat, carrying big baskets of clothes. Mr. Reuben unlocks the chains on his restaurant. His nephew Tim, the cook, leans against the wall and wipes sleep from his eyes. Ms. Yvette yawns as she goes in her beauty shop. The lights are on at Top Shelf Spirits and Wine, but they’re always on.
Daddy parks in front of Carter’s Grocery, our family’s store. Daddy bought it when I was nine after the former owner, Mr. Wyatt, left Garden Heights to go sit on the beach all day, watching pretty women. (Mr. Wyatt’s words, not mine.) Mr. Wyatt was the only person who would hire Daddy when he got out of prison, and he later said Daddy was the only person he trusted to run the store.
Compared to the Walmart on the east side of Garden Heights, our grocery is tiny. White-painted metal bars protect the windows and door. They make the store resemble a jail.
Mr. Lewis from the barbershop next door stands out front, his arms folded over his big belly. He sets his narrowed eyes on Daddy.
Daddy sighs. “Here we go.”
We hop out. Mr. Lewis gives some of the best haircuts in Garden Heights—Sekani’s high-top fade proves it—but Mr. Lewis himself wears an untidy Afro. His stomach blocks his view of his feet, and since his wife passed nobody tells him that his pants are too short and his socks don’t always match. Today one is striped and the other is argyle.
“The store used to open at five fifty-five on the dot,” he says. “Five fifty-five!”
It’s 6:05.
Daddy unlocks the front door. “I know, Mr. Lewis, but I told you, I’m not running the store the same way Wyatt did.”
“It sho’ is obvious. First you take down his pictures—who the hell replaces a picture of Dr. King with some nobody—”
“Huey Newton ain’t a nobody.”
“He ain’t Dr. King! Then you hire thugs to work up in here. I heard that Khalil boy got himself killed last night. He was probably selling that stuff.” Mr. Lewis looks from Daddy’s basketball jersey to his tattoos. “Wonder where he get that idea from.”
Daddy’s jaw tightens. “Starr, turn the coffeepot on for Mr. Lewis.”
So he can get the hell outta here, I say to myself, finishing Daddy’s sentence for him.
I flick the switch on the coffeepot at the self-serve table, which Huey Newton watches over from a photograph, his fist raised for black power.
I’m supposed to replace the filter and put new coffee and water in, but for talking about Khalil Mr. Lewis gets coffee made from day-old grounds.
He limps through the aisles and gets a honey bun, an apple, and a pack of hog head cheese. He gives me the honey bun. “Heat it up, girl. And you bet’ not overcook it.”
I leave it in the microwave until the plastic wrapper swells and pops open. Mr. Lewis eats it soon as I take it out.
“That thang hot!” He chews and blows at the same time. “You heated it too long, girl. ’Bout to burn my mouth!”
When Mr. Lewis leaves, Daddy winks at me.
The usual customers come in, like Mrs. Jackson, who insists on buying her greens from Daddy and nobody else. Four red-eyed guys in sagging pants buy almost every bag of chips we have. Daddy tells them it’s too early to be that blazed, and they laugh way too hard. One of them
licks his next blunt as they leave. Around eleven, Mrs. Rooks buys some roses and snacks for her bridge club meeting. She has droopy eyes and gold plating on her front teeth. Her wig is gold-colored too.
“Y’all need to get some Lotto tickets up in here, baby,” she says as Daddy rings her up and I bag her stuff. “Tonight it’s at three hundred million!”
Daddy smiles. “For real? What would you do with all that money, Mrs. Rooks?”
“Shiiit. Baby, the question is what I wouldn’t do with all that money.
Lord knows, I’d get on the first plane outta here.”
Daddy laughs. “Is that right? Then who gon’ make red velvet cakes for us?”
“Somebody else, ’cause I’d be gone.” She points to the display of cigarettes behind us. “Baby, hand me a pack of them Newports.”
Those are Nana’s favorites too. They used to be Daddy’s favorites before I begged him to quit. I grab a pack and pass it to Mrs. Rooks.
She’s staring at me moments after, patting the pack against her palm, and I wait for it. The sympathy. “Baby, I heard what happened to Rosalie’s grandboy,” she says. “I’m so sorry. Y’all used to be friends, didn’t you?”
The “used to” stings, but I just say to Mrs. Rooks, “Yes, ma’am.” “Hmm!” She shakes her head. “Lord, have mercy. My heart ’bout
broke when I heard. I tried to go over there and see Rosalie last night, but so many people were already at the house. Poor Rosalie. All she going through and now this. Barbara said Rosalie not sure how she gon’ pay to bury him. We talking ’bout raising some money. Think you can help us out, Maverick?”
“Oh, yeah. Let me know what y’all need, and it’s done.”
She flashes those gold teeth in a smile. “Boy, it’s good to see where the Lord done brought you. Your momma would be proud.”
Daddy nods heavily. Grandma’s been gone ten years—long enough that Daddy doesn’t cry every day, but such a short while ago that if someone brings her up, it brings him down.
“And look at this girl,” Mrs. Rooks says, eyeing me. “Every bit of Lisa. Maverick, you better watch out. These li’l boys around here gon’ be trying it.”
“Nah, they better watch out. You know I ain’t having that. She can’t date till she forty.”
My hand drifts to my pocket, thinking of Chris and his texts. Shit, I left my phone at home. Needless to say, Daddy doesn’t know a thing
about Chris. We’ve been together over a year now. Seven knows, because he met Chris at school, and Momma figured it out when Chris would always visit me at Uncle Carlos’s house, claiming he was my friend. One day she and Uncle Carlos walked in on us kissing and they pointed out that friends don’t kiss each other like that. I’ve never seen Chris get so red in my life.
She and Seven are okay with me dating Chris, although if it was up to Seven I’d become a nun, but whatever. I can’t get the guts to tell Daddy though. And it’s not just because he doesn’t want me dating yet. The bigger issue is that Chris is white.
At first I thought my mom might say something about it, but she was like, “He could be polka dot, as long as he’s not a criminal and he’s treating you right.” Daddy, on the other hand, rants about how Halle Berry “act like she can’t get with brothers anymore” and how messed up that is. I mean, anytime he finds out a black person is with a white person, suddenly something’s wrong with them. I don’t want him looking at me like that.
Luckily, Momma hasn’t told him. She refuses to get in the middle of that fight. My boyfriend, my responsibility to tell Daddy.
Mrs. Rooks leaves. Seconds later, the bell clangs. Kenya struts into the store. Her kicks are cute—Bazooka Joe Nike Dunks that I haven’t added to my collection. Kenya always wears fly sneakers.
She goes to get her usual from the aisles. “Hey, Starr. Hey, Uncle Maverick.”
“Hey, Kenya,” Daddy answers, even though he’s not her uncle, but her brother’s dad. “You good?”
She comes back with a jumbo bag of Hot Cheetos and a Sprite. “Yeah. My momma wanna know if my brother spent the night with y’all.”
There she goes calling Seven “my brother” like she’s the only one who can claim him. It’s annoying as hell.
“Tell your momma I’ll call her later,” Daddy says.
“Okay.” Kenya pays for her stuff and makes eye contact with me.
She jerks her head a little to the side.
“I’m gonna sweep the aisles,” I tell Daddy.
Kenya follows me. I grab the broom and go to the produce aisle on the other side of the store. Some grapes have spilled out from those red- eyed guys sampling before buying. I barely start sweeping before Kenya starts talking.
“I heard about Khalil,” she says. “I’m so sorry, Starr. You okay?”
I make myself nod. “I . . . just can’t believe it, you know? It had been a while since I saw him, but . . .”
“It hurts.” Kenya says what I can’t. “Yeah.”
Fuck, I feel the tears coming. I’m not gonna cry, I’m not gonna cry, I’m not gonna cry. . . .
“I kinda hoped he’d be in here when I walked in,” she says softly. “Like he used to be. Bagging groceries in that ugly apron.”
“The green one,” I mutter.
“Yeah. Talking about how women love a man in uniform.” I stare at the floor. If I cry now, I may never stop.
Kenya pops her Hot Cheetos open and holds the bag toward me.
Comfort food.
I reach in and get a couple. “Thanks.” “No problem.”
We munch on Cheetos. Khalil’s supposed to be here with us.
“So, um,” I say, and my voice is all rough. “You and Denasia got into it last night?”
“Girl.” She sounds like she’s been waiting to drop this story for hours. “DeVante came over to me, right before it got crazy. He asked for my number.”
“I thought he was Denasia’s boyfriend?”
“DeVante not the type to be tied down. Anyway, Denasia walked over to start something, but the shots went off. We ended up running down the same street, and I clocked her ass. It was so funny! You should’ve seen it!”
I would’ve rather seen that instead of Officer One-Fifteen. Or Khalil staring at the sky. Or all that blood. My stomach twists again.
Kenya waves her hand in front of me. “Hey. You okay?” I blink Khalil and that cop away. “Yeah. I’m good.” “You sure? You real quiet.”
“Yeah.”
She lets it drop, and I let her tell me about the second round she has planned for Denasia.
Daddy calls me up front. When I get there, he hands me a twenty. “Get me some beef ribs from Reuben’s. And I want—”
“Potato salad and fried okra,” I say. That’s what he always has on Saturdays.
He kisses my cheek. “You know your daddy. Get whatever you want, baby.”
Kenya follows me out the store. We wait for a car to pass, the music blasting and the driver reclined so far back that only the tip of his nose seems to nod to the song. We cross the street to Reuben’s.
The smoky aroma hits us on the sidewalk, and a blues song pours outside. Inside, the walls are covered with photographs of civil rights leaders, politicians, and celebrities who have eaten here, like James Brown and pre-heart-bypass Bill Clinton. There’s a picture of Dr. King and a much younger Mr. Reuben.
A bulletproof partition separates the customers from the cashier. I fan myself after a few minutes in line. The air conditioner in the window stopped working months ago, and the smoker heats up the whole building.
When we get to the front of the line, Mr. Reuben greets us with a gap-toothed smile from behind the partition. “Hey, Starr and Kenya. How y’all doing?”
Mr. Reuben is one of the only people around here who actually calls me by my name. He remembers everybody’s names somehow. “Hey, Mr. Reuben,” I say. “My daddy wants his usual.”
He writes it on a pad. “All right. Beefs, tater salad, okra. Y’all want fried BBQ wings and fries? And extra sauce for you, Starr baby?”
He remembers everybody’s usual orders too somehow. “Yes, sir,” we say.
“All right. Y’all been staying out of trouble?” “Yes, sir,” Kenya lies with ease.
“How ’bout some pound cake on the house then? Reward for good behavior.”
We say yeah and thank him. But see, 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.
“It’s gon’ take ’bout fifteen minutes,” he says.
That means sit and wait till your number is called. We find a table next to some white guys. You rarely see white people in Garden Heights, but when you do they’re usually at Reuben’s. The men watch the news on the box TV in a corner of the ceiling.
I munch on some of Kenya’s Hot Cheetos. They would taste much better with cheese sauce on them. “Has there been anything on the news about Khalil?”
She pays more attention to her phone. “Yeah, like I watch the news. I think I saw something on Twitter, though.”
I wait. 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.
We get our food and head back to the store. Right as we cross the street, a gray BMW pulls up beside us, bass thumping inside like the car has a heartbeat. The driver’s side window rolls down, smoke drifts out, and the male, three-hundred-pound version of Kenya smiles at us. “What up, queens?”
Kenya leans in through the window and kisses his cheek. “Hey, Daddy.”
“Hey, Starr-Starr,” he says. “Not gon’ say hey to your uncle?”
You ain’t my uncle, I wanna say. You ain’t shit to me. And if you touch my brother again, I’ll— “Hey, King,” I finally mumble.
His smile fades like he hears my thoughts. He puffs on a cigar and blows smoke from the corner of his mouth. Two tears are tattooed under his left eye. Two lives he’s taken. At least.
“I see y’all been to Reuben’s. Here.” He holds out two fat rolls of money. “Make up for whatever y’all spent.”
Kenya takes one easily, but I’m not touching that dirty money. “No thanks.”
“Go on, queen.” King winks. “Take some money from your godfather.”
“Nah, she good,” Daddy says.
He walks toward us. Daddy leans against the car window so he’s eye level with King and gives him one of those guy handshakes with so many movements you wonder how they remember it.
“Big Mav,” Kenya’s dad says with a grin. “What up, king?”
“Don’t call me that shit.” Daddy doesn’t say it loudly or angrily, but in the same way I would tell somebody not to put onions or mayo on my burger. Daddy once told me that King’s parents named him after the same gang he later joined, and that’s why a name is important. It defines you. King became a King Lord when he took his first breath.
“I was just giving my goddaughter some pocket change,” King says. “I heard what happened to her li’l homie. That’s fucked up.”
“Yeah. You know how it is,” Daddy says. “Po-po shoot first, ask questions later.”
“No doubt. They worse than us sometimes.” King chuckles. “But ay? On some business shit, I got a package coming, need somewhere to keep it. Got too many eyes on Iesha’s house.”
“I already told you that shit ain’t going down here.”
King rubs his beard. “Oh, okay. So folks get out the game, forget where they come from, forget that if it wasn’t for my money, they wouldn’t have their li’l store—”
“And if it wasn’t for me, you’d be locked up. Three years, state pen, remember that shit? I don’t owe you nothing.” Daddy leans onto the window and says, “But if you touch Seven again, I’ll owe you an ass whooping. Remember that, now that you done moved back in with his momma.”
King sucks his teeth. “Kenya, get in the car.” “But Daddy—”
“I said get your ass in the car!”
Kenya mumbles “bye” to me. She goes around to the passenger’s side and hops in.
“A’ight, Big Mav. So it’s like that?” King says. Daddy straightens up. “It’s exactly like that.”
“A’ight then. You just make sure your ass don’t get outta line. Ain’t no telling what I’ll do.”
The BMW peels out.
