The Hate U Give

Funerals aren’t for dead people. They’re for the living.

I doubt Khalil cares what songs are sung or what the preacher says about him. He’s in a casket. Nothing can change that.

My family and I leave thirty minutes before the funeral starts, but the parking lot at Christ Temple Church is already full. Some kids from Khalil’s school stand around in “RIP Khalil” T-shirts with his face on them. A guy tried to sell some to us yesterday, but Momma said we weren’t wearing them today—T-shirts are for the streets, not for church.

So here we are, getting out the car in our dresses and suits. My parents hold hands and walk in front of me and my brothers. We used to go to Christ Temple when I was younger, but Momma got tired of how people here act like their shit don’t stank, and now we go to this “diverse” church in Riverton Hills. Way too many people go there, and praise and worship is led by a white guy on guitar. Oh, and service lasts less than an hour.

Going back in Christ Temple is like when you go back to your old elementary school after you’ve been to high school. When you were younger it seemed big, but when you go back you realize how small it is. People fill up the tiny foyer. It has cranberry-colored carpet and two burgundy high-back chairs. One time Momma brought me out here because I was acting up. She made me sit in one of those chairs and told me not to move until service was over. I didn’t. A painting of the pastor hung above the chairs, and I could’ve sworn he was watching me. All these years later and they still have that creepy painting up.

There’s a line to sign a book for Khalil’s family and another line to go into the sanctuary. To see him.

I catch a glimpse of the white casket at the front of the sanctuary, but I can’t make myself try to see more than that. I’ll see him eventually, but—I don’t know. I wanna wait until I don’t have any other choice.

Pastor Eldridge greets people in the doorway of the sanctuary. He’s wearing a long white robe with gold crosses on it. He smiles at everyone. I don’t know why they made him look so creepy in that painting. He’s not creepy at all.

Momma glances back at me, Seven, and Sekani, like she’s making sure we look nice, then she and Daddy go up to Pastor Eldridge. “Morning, Pastor,” she says.

“Lisa! So good to see you.” He kisses her cheek and shakes Daddy’s hand. “Maverick, good to see you as well. We miss y’all around here.”Text property © Nôvel(D)ra/ma.Org.

“I bet y’all do,” Daddy mumbles. Another reason we left Christ Temple: Daddy doesn’t like that they take up so many offerings. But he doesn’t even go to our diverse church.

“And these must be the children,” Pastor Eldridge says. He shakes Seven’s and Sekani’s hands and kisses my cheek. I feel more of his bristly mustache than anything. “Y’all sure have grown since I last saw you. I remember when the little one was an itty-bitty thing wrapped up in a blanket. How’s your momma doing, Lisa?”

“She’s good. She misses coming here, but the drive is a little long for her.”

I side-eye the hell—excuse me, heck; we’re in church—out of her. Nana stopped coming to Christ Temple because of some incident between her and Mother Wilson over Deacon Rankin. It ended with Nana storming off from the church picnic, banana pudding in hand. That’s all I know though.

“We understand,” says Pastor Eldridge. “Let her know we’re praying for her.” He looks at me with an expression I know too well—pity. “Ms. Rosalie told me you were with Khalil when this happened. I am so sorry you had to witness it.”

“Thank you.” It’s weird saying that, like I’m stealing sympathy from Khalil’s family.

Momma grabs my hand. “We’re gonna find some seats. Nice talking to you, Pastor.”

Daddy wraps his arm around me, and the three of us walk into the sanctuary together.

My legs tremble and a wave of nausea hits me, and we aren’t even at the front of the viewing line yet. People go up to the casket in twos, so I can’t see Khalil at all.

Soon there are six people in front of us. Four. Two. I keep my eyes closed the whole time with the last two. Then it’s our turn.

My parents lead me up. “Baby, open your eyes,” Momma says.

I do. It looks more like a mannequin than Khalil in the casket. His skin is darker and his lips are pinker than they should be, because of the makeup. Khalil would’ve had a fit if he knew they put that on him. He’s wearing a white suit and a gold cross pendant.

The real Khalil had dimples. This mannequin version of him doesn’t.

Momma brushes tears from her eyes. Daddy shakes his head. Seven and Sekani stare.

That’s not Khalil, I tell myself. Like it wasn’t Natasha.

Natasha’s mannequin wore a white dress with pink and yellow flowers all over it. It had on makeup too. Momma had told me, “See, she looks asleep,” but when I squeezed her hand, her eyes never opened.

Daddy carried me out the sanctuary as I screamed for her to wake up.

We move so the next set of people can look at Khalil’s mannequin. An usher is about to direct us to some seats, but this lady with natural twists gestures toward the front row of the friends’ side, right in front of her. No clue who she is, but she must be somebody if she’s giving orders like that. And she must know something about me if she thinks my family deserves the front row.

We take our seats, and I focus on the flowers instead. There’s a big heart made out of red and white roses, a “K” made out of calla lilies, and an arrangement of flowers in orange and green, his favorite colors.

When I run out of flowers, I look at the funeral program. It’s full of pictures of Khalil, from the time he was a curly-haired baby up until a few weeks ago with friends I don’t recognize. There are pictures of me and him from years ago and one with us and Natasha. All three of us smile, trying to look gangster with our peace signs. The Hood Trio, tighter than the inside of Voldemort’s nose. Now I’m the only one left.

I close the program.

“Let us stand.” Pastor Eldridge’s voice echoes throughout the sanctuary. The organist starts playing, and everyone stands.

“And Jesus said, ‘Do not let your hearts be troubled,’” he says, coming down the aisle. “‘You believe in God, believe also in me.’”

Ms. Rosalie marches behind him. Cameron walks alongside her, gripping her hand. Tears stain his chubby cheeks. He’s only nine, a year older than Sekani. Had one of those bullets hit me, that could’ve been my little brother crying like that.

Khalil’s aunt Tammy holds Ms. Rosalie’s other hand. Ms. Brenda is wailing behind them, wearing a black dress that once belonged to Momma. Her hair has been combed into a ponytail. Two guys, I think they’re Khalil’s cousins, hold her up. It’s easier to look at the casket.

“‘My Father’s house has many rooms; if that were not so, would I have told you that I am going there to prepare a place for you?’” Pastor Eldridge says. “‘And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am.’”

At Natasha’s funeral, her momma passed out when she saw her in the casket. Somehow Khalil’s momma and grandma don’t.

“I wanna make one thing clear today,” Pastor Eldridge says once everyone is seated. “No matter the circumstances, this is a homegoing celebration. 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. Momma sings along and waves her hands. Khalil’s grandma and auntie clap and sing too. 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?

I put my face in my hands, hoping to drown out the drums, the horns, the shouting. This shit doesn’t make any sense.

After all that praising, some of Khalil’s classmates—the ones who were in the parking lot in the T-shirts—make a presentation. They give his family the cap and gown Khalil would’ve worn in a few months and cry as they tell funny stories I’d never heard. Yet I’m the one in the front row on the friends’ side. I’m such a fucking phony.

Next, the lady with the twists goes up to the podium. Her black pencil skirt and blazer are more professional-looking than church-looking, and she’s wearing an “RIP Khalil” T-shirt too.

“Good morning,” she says, and everyone responds. “My name is April Ofrah, and I’m with Just Us for Justice. We are a small organization here in Garden Heights that advocates for police accountability.

“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.”

“What?” I say, as people murmur around the sanctuary. Everything I told them, and they’re not arresting him?

“What they don’t want you to know,” Ms. Ofrah says, “is that Khalil was unarmed at the time of his murder.”

People really start talking then. A couple of folks yell out, including one person who’s bold enough to shout “This is bullshit” in a church.

“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.”

The congregation gives her a standing ovation. As she returns to her seat, she glances at me. If Ms. Rosalie told the pastor I was with Khalil, she probably told this lady too. I bet she wants to talk.

Pastor Eldridge just about preaches Khalil into heaven. I’m not saying Khalil didn’t make it to heaven—I don’t know—but Pastor Eldridge tries to make sure he gets there. He sweats and breathes so hard I get tired looking at him.

At the end of the eulogy, he says, “If anybody wishes to view the body, now is the—”

He stares at the back of the church. Murmurs bubble around the sanctuary.

Momma looks back. “What in the world?”

King and a bunch of his boys post up in the back in their gray clothes and bandanas. King has his arm hooked around a lady in a tight black dress that barely covers her thighs. She has way too much weave in her head—for real, it comes to her ass—and way too much makeup on.

Seven turns back around. I wouldn’t wanna see my momma looking like that either.

But why are they here? King Lords only show up at King Lord funerals.

Pastor Eldridge clears his throat. “As I was saying, if anyone wishes to view the body, now is the time.”

King and his boys swagger down the aisle. Everybody stares. Iesha walks alongside him, all proud and shit, not realizing she looks a hot mess. She glances at my parents and smirks, and I can’t stand her ass. I mean, not just because of how she treats Seven, but because every time she shows up, there’s suddenly an unspoken tension between my parents. Like now. Momma shifts her shoulder so it’s not as close to Daddy, and his jaw is clenched. She’s the Achilles’ heel of their marriage, and it’s only noticeable if you’ve been watching it for sixteen years like I have.

King, Iesha, and the rest of them go up to the casket. One of King’s boys hands him a folded gray bandana, and he lays it across Khalil’s chest.

My heart stops.

Khalil was a King Lord too?

Ms. Rosalie jumps up. “Like hell you will!”

She marches to the coffin and snatches the bandana off Khalil. She starts toward King, but Daddy catches her halfway and holds her back. “Get outta here, you demon!” she screams. “And take this mess with you!”

She throws the bandana at the back of King’s head.

He stills. Slowly, he turns around.

“Now look, bi—”

“Ay!” Daddy says. “King, man, just go! Leave, a’ight?”

“You ol’ hag,” Iesha snarls. “Got some nerve treating my man like this after he offered to pay for this funeral.”

“He can keep his filthy money!” Ms. Rosalie says. “And you can take your behind right out the door too. Coming in the Lord’s house, looking like the prostitute you are!”

Seven shakes his head. It’s no secret that my big brother is the result of a “for hire” session Daddy had with Iesha after a fight with Momma. Iesha was King’s girl, but he told her to “hook Maverick up,” not knowing Seven would come along looking exactly like Daddy. Fucked up, I know.

Momma reaches behind me and rubs Seven’s back. There are rare times, when Seven’s not around and Momma thinks Sekani and I can’t hear her, that she’ll tell Daddy, “I still can’t believe you slept with that nasty ho.” But Seven can’t be around. When he’s around, none of that matters. She loves him more than she hates Iesha.

The King Lords leave, and conversations break out all around.

Daddy leads Ms. Rosalie to her seat. She’s so mad she’s shaking.

I look at the mannequin in the coffin. All those horror stories Daddy told us about gangbanging, and Khalil became a King Lord? How could he even think about doing that?

It doesn’t make sense though. He had green in his car. That’s what Garden Disciples do, not King Lords. And he didn’t run to help out with the fight at Big D’s party.

But the bandana. Daddy once said that’s a King Lord tradition—they crown their fallen comrades by putting a folded bandana on the body, as if to say they’re going into heaven repping their set. Khalil must’ve joined to get that honor.

I could’ve talked him out of it, I know it, but I abandoned him. Fuck the friends’ side. I shouldn’t even be at his funeral.

Daddy stays with Ms. Rosalie for the rest of the service and later helps her when the family follows the casket out. Aunt Tammy motions us over to join them.

“Thank you for being here,” she tells me. “You meant a lot to Khalil, I hope you know that.”

My throat tightens too much for me to tell her he means a lot to me too.

We follow the casket with the family. Just about everyone we pass has tears in their eyes. For Khalil. He really is in that casket, and he’s not coming back.

I’ve never told anyone, but Khalil was my first crush. He unknowingly introduced me to stomach butterflies and later heartbreak when he got his own crush on Imani Anderson, a high schooler who wasn’t even thinking about fourth-grade him. I worried about my appearance for the first time around him.

But fuck the crush, he was one of the best friends I ever had, no matter if we saw each other every day or once a year. Time didn’t compare to all the shit we went through together. And now he’s in a casket, like Natasha.

Big fat tears fall from my eyes, and I sob. A loud, nasty, ugly sob that everybody hears and sees as I come up the aisle.

“They left me,” I cry.

Momma wraps her arm around me and presses my head onto her shoulder. “I know, baby, but we’re here. We aren’t going anywhere.”

Warmth brushes my face, and I know we’re outside. All of the voices and noises make me look. There are more people out here than in the church, holding posters with Khalil’s face on them and signs that say “Justice for Khalil.” His classmates have posters saying “Am I Next?” and “Enough Is Enough!” News vans with tall antennas are parked across the street.

I bury my face in Momma’s shoulder again. People—I don’t know who—pat my back and tell me it’ll be okay.

I can tell when it’s Daddy who’s rubbing my back without him even saying anything. “We gon’ stay and march, baby,” he tells Momma. “I want Seven and Sekani to be a part of this.”

“Yeah, I’m taking her home. How are y’all getting back?”

“We can walk to the store. I gotta open up anyway.” He kisses my hair. “I love you, baby girl. Get some rest, a’ight?”

Heels clack toward us, then someone says, “Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Carter, I’m April Ofrah with Just Us for Justice.”

Momma tenses up and pulls me closer. “How may we help you?”

She lowers her voice and says, “Khalil’s grandmother told me that Starr is the one who was with Khalil when this happened. I know she gave a statement to the police, and I want to commend her on her bravery. This is a difficult situation, and that must’ve taken a lot of strength.”

“Yeah, it did,” Daddy says.

I move my head off Momma’s shoulder. Ms. Ofrah shifts her weight from foot to foot and fumbles with her fingers. My parents aren’t helping with the hard looks they’re giving her.

“We all want the same thing,” she says. “Justice for Khalil.”

“Excuse me, Ms. Ofrah,” Momma says, “but as much as I want that, I want my daughter to have some peace. And privacy.”

Momma looks at the news vans across the street. Ms. Ofrah glances back at them.

“Oh!” she says. “Oh no. No, no, no. We weren’t—I wasn’t—I don’t want to put Starr out there like that. Quite the opposite, actually. I want to protect her privacy.”

Momma loosens her hold. “I see.”

“Starr offers a unique perspective in this, one you don’t get a lot with these cases, and I want to make sure her rights are protected and that her voice is heard, but without her being—”

“Exploited?” Daddy asks. “Pimped?”

“Exactly. The case is about to gain national media attention, but I don’t want it to be at her expense.” She hands each of us a business card. “Besides being an advocate, I’m also an attorney. Just Us for Justice isn’t providing the Harris family with legal representation—someone else is doing that. We’re simply rallying behind them. However, I’m available and willing to represent Starr on my own. Whenever you’re ready, please give me a call. And I am so sorry for your loss.”

She disappears into the crowd.

Call her when I’m ready, huh? I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready for the shit that’s about to happen.