In our new neighborhood I can simply tell my parents “I’m going for a walk” and leave.
We just got off the phone with Ms. Ofrah, who said the grand jury will announce their decision in a few hours. She claims only the grand jurors know the decision, but I’ve got a sinking feeling I know it. It’s always the decision.
I stick my hands in the pockets of my sleeveless hoodie. Some kids race past on bikes and scooters. Nearly knock me over. Doubt they’re worried about the grand jury’s decision. They aren’t hurrying inside like the kids back home are probably doing.
Home.
We started moving into our new house this past weekend. Five days later, this place doesn’t feel like home yet. It could be all the unpacked boxes or the street names I don’t know. And it’s almost too quiet. No Fo’ty Ounce and his creaky cart or Mrs. Pearl hollering a greeting from across the street.
I need normal.
I text Chris. Less than ten minutes later, he picks me up in his dad’s Benz.
The Bryants live in the only house on their street that has a separate house attached to it for a butler. Mr. Bryant owns eight cars, mostly antiques, and a garage to store them all.
Chris parks in one of the two empty spots. “Your parents gone?” I ask.
“Yep. Date night at the country club.”
Most of Chris’s house looks too fancy to live in. Statues, oil paintings, chandeliers. A museum more than a home. Chris’s suite on the third floor is more normal looking. There’s a leather couch in his room, right in front of the flat-screen TV and video game systems. His floor is painted to look like a half basketball court, and he can play on an actual hoop on his wall.
His California King–size bed has been made, a rare sight. I never knew there was anything larger than a king-size bed before I met him. I pull my Timbs off and grab the remote from his nightstand. As I throw myself onto his bed, I flick the TV on.
Chris steps out his Chucks and sits at his desk, where a drum pad, a keyboard, and turntables are hooked up to a Mac. “Check this out,” he says, and plays a beat.
I prop myself up on my elbows and nod along. It’s got an old-school feel to it, like something Dre and Snoop would’ve used back in the day. “Nice.”
“Thanks. I think I need to take some of that bass out though.” He turns around and gets to work.
I pick at a loose thread on his comforter. “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.”
Lying in his California King–size bed in his suite in his gigantic house, I realize the truth. I mean, it’s been there all along, but in this moment lights flash around it. “We shouldn’t be together,” I say.
“Why not?”
“My old house in Garden Heights could fit in your house.” “So?”
“My dad was a gangbanger.” “My dad gambles.”
“I grew up in the projects.”
“I grew up with a roof over my head too.” I sigh and start to turn my back to him.
He holds my shoulder so I won’t. “Don’t let this stuff get in your head again, Starr.”
“You ever notice how people look at us?” “What people?”
“People,” I say. “It takes them a second to realize we’re a couple.”
“Who gives a fuck?” “Me.”
“Why?”
“Because you should be with Hailey.”
He recoils. “Why the hell would I do that?”
“Not Hailey. But you know. Blond. Rich. White.” “I prefer: Beautiful. Amazing. Starr.”
He doesn’t get it, but I don’t wanna talk about it anymore. I wanna get so caught up in him that the grand jury’s decision isn’t even a thing. I kiss his lips, which always have and always will be perfect. He kisses me back, and soon we’re making out like it’s the only thing we know how to do.
It’s not enough. My hands travel below his chest, and he’s bulging in more than his arms. I start unzipping his jeans.
He grabs my hand. “Whoa. What are you doing?” “What do you think?”
His eyes search mine. “Starr, I want to, I do—”
“I know you do. And it’s the perfect opportunity.” I trail kisses along his neck, getting each of those perfectly placed freckles. “Nobody’s here but us.”
“But we can’t,” he says, voice strained. “Not like this.”
“Why not?” I slip my hand in his pants, heading for the bulge. “Because you’re not in a good place.”
I stop.
He looks at me, and I look at him. My vision blurs. Chris wraps his arms around me and pulls me closer. I bury my face in his shirt. He smells like a perfect combination of Lever soap and Old Spice. The thump of his heart is better than any beat he’s ever made. My normal, in the flesh.
Chris rests his chin on top of my head. “Starr . . .” He lets me cry as much as I need to.
My phone vibrates against my thigh, waking me up. It’s almost pitch- black in Chris’s room—the red sky shines a bit of light through his windows. He sleeps soundly and holds me like that’s how he always sleeps.
My phone buzzes again. I untangle myself out of Chris’s arms and crawl to the foot of the bed. I fish my phone from my pocket. Seven’s face lights up my screen.
I try not to sound too groggy. “Hello?”
“Where the hell are you?” Seven barks. “Has the decision been announced?” “No. Answer my question.”
“Chris’s house.”
Seven sucks his teeth. “I don’t even wanna know. Is DeVante over there?”
“No. Why?”
“Uncle Carlos said he walked out a while ago. Nobody’s seen him since.”
My stomach clenches. “What?”
“Yeah. If you weren’t fooling around with your boyfriend, you’d know that.”
“You’re really making me feel guilty right now?”
He sighs. “I know you’re going through a lot, but damn, Starr. You can’t disappear on us like that. Ma’s looking for you. She’s worried sick. And Pops had to go protect the store, in case . . . you know.”
I crawl back to Chris and shake his shoulder. “Come get us,” I tell Seven. “We’ll help you look for DeVante.”
I send Momma a text to let her know where I am, where I’m going, and that I’m okay. I don’t have the guts to call her. And have her go off on me? Nah, no thanks.
Seven is talking on his phone when he pulls into the driveway. By the look on his face, somebody’s gotta be dead.
I throw open the passenger door. “What’s wrong?”
“Kenya, calm down,” he says. “What happened?” Seven listens and looks more horrified by the second. Then he suddenly says, “I’m on my way,” and tosses the phone on the backseat. “It’s DeVante.”
“Whoa, wait.” I’m holding the door, and he’s revving up his engine. “What happened?”
“I don’t know. Chris, take Starr home—”
“And let you go to Garden Heights by yourself?” But shoot, actions are louder. I climb in the passenger seat.
“I’m coming too,” Chris says. I let my seat forward, and he climbs in the back.
Luckily, or unluckily, Seven doesn’t have time to argue. We pull off.
Seven cuts the forty-five-minute drive to Garden Heights to thirty. The entire drive I plead with God to let DeVante be okay.
The sun’s gone by the time we get off the freeway. I fight the urge to tell Seven to turn around. This is Chris’s first time in my neighborhood.
But I have to trust him. He wants me to let him in, and this is the most “in” he could get.
At the Cedar Grove Projects there’s graffiti on the walls and broken- down cars in the courtyard. Under the Black Jesus mural at the clinic, grass grows up through the cracks in the sidewalk. Trash litters every curb we pass. Two junkies argue loudly on a corner. There’s lots of hoopties, cars that should’ve been in the junkyard a long time ago. The houses are old, small.
Whatever Chris thinks doesn’t come out his mouth.
Seven parks in front of Iesha’s house. The paint is peeling, and the windows have sheets in them instead of blinds and curtains. Iesha’s pink BMW and King’s gray one make an L shape on the yard. The grass is completely gone from years of them parking there. Gray cars fitted with rims sit in the driveway and along the street.
Seven turns his ignition off. “Kenya said they’re all in the backyard. I should be good. Y’all stay here.”
Judging by those cars, for one Seven there’s about fifty King Lords. I don’t care if King is pissed at me, I’m not letting my brother go in there alone. “I’m coming with you.”
“No.”
“I said I’m coming.”
“Starr, I don’t have time for—”
I fold my arms. “Try and make me stay.” He can’t, and he won’t.
Seven sighs. “Fine. Chris, stay here.”
“Hell no! I’m not staying out here by myself.”
We all get out. Music echoes from the backyard along with random shouts and laughter. A pair of gray high-tops dangle by their laces from the utility line in front of the house, telling everybody who can decipher the code that drugs are sold here.
Seven takes the steps two at a time and throws the front door open. “Kenya!”
Compared to the outside, the inside is five-star-hotel nice. They have a damn chandelier in the living room and brand-new leather furniture. A flat-screen TV takes up a whole wall, and tropical fish swim around in a tank on another wall. The definition of “hood rich.”
“Kenya!” Seven repeats, going down the hall.
From the front door I see the back door. A whole lot of King Lords dance with women in the backyard. King’s in the middle in a high- backed chair, his throne, puffing on a cigar. Iesha sits on the arm of the chair, holding a cup and moving her shoulders to the music. Thanks to the dark screen on the door, I can see outside but chances are they can’t see inside.
Kenya peeks into the hall from one of the bedrooms. “In here.” DeVante lies on the floor in the fetal position at the foot of a king-
size bed. The plush white carpet is stained with his blood as it trickles from his nose and mouth. There’s a towel beside him, but he’s not doing anything with it. One of his eyes has a fresh bruise around it. He groans, clutching his side.
Seven looks at Chris. “Help me get him up.” Chris has paled. “Maybe we should call—” “Chris, man, c’mon!”
Chris inches over, and the two of them sit DeVante up against the bed. His nose is swollen and bruised, and his upper lip has a nasty cut.
Chris passes him the towel. “Dude, what happened?”
“I walked into King’s fist. Man, what you think happened? They jumped me.”
“I couldn’t stop them,” Kenya says, all stuffed-up sounding like she’s been crying. “I’m so sorry, DeVante.”
“This shit ain’t your fault, Kenya,” DeVante says. “Are you a’ight?”
She sniffs and wipes her nose on her arm. “I’m okay. He only pushed me.”
Seven’s eyes flash. “Who pushed you?”
“She tried to stop them from beating my ass,” DeVante says. “King got mad and pushed her out the—”
Seven marches to the door. I catch his arm and dig my feet into the carpet to keep him from moving, but he ends up pulling me with him. Kenya grabs his other arm. In this moment, he’s our brother, not just mine or hers.
“Seven, no,” I say. He tries to pull away, but my grip and Kenya’s grip are steel. “You go out there and you’re dead.”
His jaw is hard, his shoulders are tense. His narrowed eyes are set on the doorway.
“Let. Me. Go,” he says.
“Seven, I’m okay. I promise,” Kenya says. “But Starr’s right. We gotta get Vante outta here before they kill him. They just waiting for the sun to set.”
“He put his hands on you,” Seven snarls. “I said I wouldn’t let that happen again.”
“We know,” I say. “But please don’t go back there.”
I hate stopping him because I promise, I want somebody to whoop King’s ass. It can’t be Seven. No way in hell. I can’t lose him too. I’d never be normal again.
He snatches away from us, and the sting that would usually come with that gesture is missing. I understand his frustration like it’s mine.
The back door squeaks and slams closed. Shit.
We freeze. Feet thump against the floor, drawing nearer. Iesha appears in the doorway.
Nobody speaks.
She stares at us, sipping from a red plastic cup. Her lip is curled up slightly, and she takes her sweet time to speak, like she’s getting a kick out of our fear.
Chomping on some ice, she looks at Chris and says, “Who this li’l white boy y’all done brought up in my house?”
Iesha smirks and eyes me. “I bet he yours, ain’t he? That’s what happens when you go to them white folks’ schools.” She leans against the doorframe. Her gold bracelets jingle as she lifts her cup to her lips again. “I would’ve paid to see Maverick’s face the day you brought this one home. Shit, I’m surprised Seven got a black girl.”
At his name Seven snaps out his trance. “Can you help us?”
“Help you?” she echoes with a laugh. “What? With DeVante? What I look like helping him?”
“Momma—”
“Now I’m Momma?” she says. “What happened to that ‘Iesha’ shit from the other week? Huh, Seven? See, baby, you don’t know how the game work. Let Momma explain something to you, okay? When DeVante stole from King, he earned an ass whooping. He got one. Anybody who helps him is asking for it too, and they better be able to handle it.” She looks at me. “That goes for dry snitches too.”
All it takes is her hollering for King . . .
Her eyes flick toward the back door. The music and laughter rise in the air. “I tell y’all what,” she says, and turns to us. “Y’all better get DeVante’s sorry ass out my bedroom. Bleeding on my carpet and shit. And got the nerve to use one of my damn towels? Matter of fact, get him and that snitch out my house.”
Seven says, “What?”
“You deaf too?” she says. “I said get them out my house. And take your sisters.”
“What I gotta take them for?” Seven says.
“Because I said so! Take them to your grandma’s or something, I don’t care. Get them out my face. I’m trying to get my party on, shit.” When none of us moves, she says, “Go!”
“I’ll get Lyric,” Kenya says, and leaves.
Chris and Seven each take one of DeVante’s hands and pull him up. DeVante winces and cusses the whole way. Once on his feet, he bends over, holding his side, but slowly straightens up and takes steadying breaths. He nods. “I’m good. Just sore.”
“Hurry up,” Iesha says. “Damn. I’m tired of looking at y’all.” Seven’s glare says what he doesn’t.
DeVante insists he can walk, but Seven and Chris lend their shoulders for support anyway. Kenya’s already at the front door with Lyric on her hip. I hold the door open for all of them and look toward the backyard.
Shit. King’s rising off his throne.
Iesha goes out the back door, and she’s in his face before he can fully stand up. She grabs his shoulders and guides him back down, whispering in his ear. He smiles widely and leans back into his chair. She turns around so her back is to him, the view he really wants, and starts dancing. He smacks her ass. She looks my way.
I doubt she can see me, but I don’t think I’m one of the people she’s trying to see anyway. They’ve gone to the car.
Suddenly I get it.
“Starr, c’mon,” Seven calls.
I jump off the porch. Seven holds his seat forward for me and Chris to climb in the back with his sisters. Once we’re in, he drives off.
“We gotta get you to the hospital, Vante,” he says.
DeVante presses the towel against his nose and looks at the blood staining it. “I’ll be a’ight,” he says, like that quick observation tells him what a doctor can’t. “We lucky Iesha helped us, man. For real.”
Seven snorts. “She wasn’t helping us. Somebody could be bleeding to death, and she would be more worried about her carpet and getting her party on.”
My brother is smart. So smart that he’s dumb. He’s been hurt by his momma so much that when she does something right he’s blind to it. “Seven, she did help us,” I say. “Think about it. Why did she tell you to take your sisters too?”
“’Cause she didn’t wanna be bothered. As always.”
“No. She knows King will go off when he sees DeVante’s gone,” I say. “If Kenya’s not there, Lyric’s not there, who do you think he’s gon’ take it out on?”
He says nothing. Then, “Shit.”
The car makes an abrupt stop, lurching us forward then sideways as Seven makes a wide U-turn. He hits the gas, and houses blur past us.
“Seven, no!” Kenya says. “We can’t go back!” “I’m supposed to protect her!”
“No, you’re not!” I say. “She’s supposed to protect you, and she’s trying to do that now.”
The car slows down. It comes to a complete stop a few houses away from Iesha’s.
“If he—” Seven swallows. “If she—he’ll kill her.”
“He won’t,” Kenya says. “She’s lasted this long. Let her do this, Seven.”
A Tupac song on the radio makes up for our silence. He raps about how we gotta start making changes. Khalil was right. ’Pac’s still relevant.
“All right,” Seven says, and he makes another U-turn. “All right.” The song fades off. “This is the hottest station in the nation, Hot
105,” the DJ says. “If you’re just tuning in, the grand jury has decided not to indict Officer Brian Cruise Jr. in the death of Khalil Harris. Our thoughts and prayers are with the Harris family. Stay safe out there, y’all.”
