Authors: Angie Thomas
My interview aired yesterday on Diane Carey’s
Friday Night News Special
. This morning, John the producer called and said it’s one of the most-watched interviews in the network’s history.
A millionaire, who wishes to remain anonymous, offered to pay my college tuition. John said the offer was made right after the interview aired. I think it’s Oprah, but that’s just me because I’ve always imagined she’s my fairy godmother and one day she’ll come to my house saying, “You get a car!”
The network’s already got a bunch of emails in support of me. I haven’t seen any of them, but I received the best message in a text from Kenya.
Bout time you spoke out.
Don’t let this fame go to your head tho.
The interview trended online. When I looked this morning,
people were still talking about it. Black Twitter and Tumblr have my back. Some assholes want me dead.
King’s not too happy either. Kenya told me he’s heated that I dry snitched.
The Saturday news programs discussed the interview too, dissecting my words like I’m the president or something. This one network is outraged by my “disregard for cops.” I’m not sure how they got that out the interview. It’s not like I was on some NWA “Fuck the Police” type shit. I simply said I’d ask the man if he wished he shot me too.
I don’t care. I’m not apologizing for how I feel. People can say what they want.
But it’s Saturday, and I’m sitting in a Rolls-Royce on my way to prom with a boyfriend who isn’t saying much of anything to me. Chris is more interested in his phone.
“You look nice,” I tell him. Which he does. His black tux with a light-blue vest and tie match the strapless tea-length gown I have on. His black leather Chuck Taylors are also a good match to my silver sequined ones. The dictator, a.k.a. my mom, bought my outfit. She has pretty good taste.
Chris says, “Thanks. You too,” but it’s so robotic, like he’s saying what he’s supposed to and not what he wants to. And how does he know what I look like? He’s barely looked at me since he picked me up from Uncle Carlos’s house.
I have no clue what’s wrong with him. Things have been fine between us, as far as I know. Now, out of nowhere, he’s
all moody and silent. I would ask the driver to take me back to Uncle Carlos’s, but I look too cute to go home.
The driveway at the country club is lit with blue lights, and golden balloon arches hang over it. We’re in the only Rolls-Royce among a sea of limos, so of course people look when we pull up to the entrance.
The driver opens the door for us. Mr. Silent climbs out first and actually helps me out. Our classmates whoop and cheer and whistle. Chris wraps his arm around my waist, and we smile for pictures like everything’s all good. Chris takes my hand and wordlessly escorts me inside.
Loud music greets us. Chandeliers and flashing party lights light up the ballroom. Some committee decided the theme should be Midnight in Paris, so there’s a huge Eiffel Tower made out of Christmas lights. Looks like just about every junior and senior at Williamson is on the dance floor.
Let me say it. A Garden Heights party and a Williamson party are two very different things. At Big D’s party, people Nae-Naed, Hit the Quan, twerked and stuff. At prom, I honestly don’t know what the hell some of them are doing. Lots of jumping and fist pumping and attempts at twerking. It’s not bad. Just different. Way different.
It’s weird though—I’m not as hesitant to dance here as I was at Big D’s party. Like I said, at Williamson I’m cool by default because I’m black. I can go out there and do a silly dance move I made up, and everyone will think it’s the new thing.
White people assume all black people are experts on trends and shit. There’s no way in hell I’d try that at a Garden Heights party though. You make a fool of yourself one time, and that’s it. Everybody in the neighborhood will know and nobody will forget.
In Garden Heights, I learn how to be dope by watching. At Williamson, I put my learned dopeness on display. I’m not even
that
dope, but these white kids think I am and that goes a long way in high school politics.
I start to ask Chris if he wants to dance, but he lets my hand go and heads toward some of his boys.
Why did I come to prom again?
“Starr!” somebody calls. I look around a couple of times and finally spot Maya waving at me from a table.
“Girl-lee!” she says when I get there. “You look good! I know Chris went crazy when he saw you.”
No. He nearly
drove
me crazy. “Thanks,” I say, and give her a once-over. She’s wearing a pink knee-length strapless dress. A pair of sparkly silver stilettos gives her about five more inches of height. I applaud her for making it this far in them. I hate heels. “But if anybody’s looking good tonight, it’s you. You clean up nice, Shorty.”
“Don’t call me that. Especially since She Who Must Not Be Named gave me that nickname.”
Damn. She Voldemorted Hailey. “Maya, you don’t have to take sides, you know.”
“She’s the one not speaking to us, remember?”
Hailey’s been on some silent treatment shit since the incident at Maya’s house. I mean damn, I call you out on something, so I’m wrong and deserve the cold shoulder? Nah, she’s not guilt-tripping me like that. And when Maya admitted to Hailey that she told me why Hailey unfollowed my Tumblr, Hailey stopped speaking to Maya, claiming she won’t talk to either of us until we apologize. She’s not used to both of us turning on her like this.
Whatever. She and Chris can form a club for all I care. Call it the Silent Treatment League of Young, Rich Brats.
I’m in my feelings just a tad. I hate that Maya got pulled into it though. “Maya, I’m sorry—”
“No need,” she says. “Don’t know if I told you, but I brought up the cat thing to her. After I told her about Tumblr.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. And she told me to get over it.” Maya shakes her head. “I’m still mad at myself for letting her say it in the first place.”
“Yeah. I’m mad at myself too.”
We get quiet.
Maya nudges my side. “Hey. We minorities have to stick together, remember?”
I chuckle. “Okay, okay. Where’s Ryan?”
“Getting some snacks. He looks good tonight, if I say so myself. Where’s your guy?”
“Don’t know,” I say. And don’t care at the moment.
The beautiful thing about best friends? They can tell when you don’t wanna talk, and they don’t push it. Maya hooks her arm through mine. “C’mon. I did not get dressed up to stand around.”
We head for the dance floor and jump and fist-pump along with the rest of them. Maya takes those heels off and barefoots it. Jess, Britt, and some of the other girls from the team join us, and we make our own little dancing circle. We lose our minds when my cousin-through-marriage, Beyoncé, comes on. (I swear I’m related to Jay-Z somehow. Same last name—we have to be.)
We sing loudly with Cousin Bey until we almost go hoarse, and Maya and I are really into it. I may not have Khalil, Natasha, or even Hailey, but I have Maya. She’s enough.
After six songs, we head back to our table, our arms draped around each other. I carry one of Maya’s shoes, and the other one dangles from her wrist by the strap.
“Did you see Mr. Warren do the robot?” Maya asks between laughs.
“Did I? I didn’t know he had it in him.”
Maya stops. She looks around without looking at anything at all. “Don’t look, but look to the left,” she mutters.
“The hell? Which one is it?”
“Look to the left,” she says through her teeth. “But quickly.”
Hailey and Luke are arm in arm in the entrance, posing
for pictures, and I can’t even throw shade—with her gold-and-white dress and his white tux, they’re cute. I mean, just ’cause we’ve got beef doesn’t mean I can’t compliment her, you know? I’m even happy she’s with Luke. It took long enough.
Hailey and Luke walk in our direction but brush right past us, her shoulder a couple of inches away from mine. She flashes us stank-eye. This chick. I probably shoot one back. Sometimes I give stank-eyes and don’t realize I’m giving them.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Maya says to Hailey’s back. “You better keep walking.”
Lord. Maya can go from zero to one hundred a little too quick. “Let’s get something to drink,” I say, pulling her with me. “Before you hurt yourself.”
We get some punch and join Ryan at our table. He’s stuffing his face with finger sandwiches and meatballs, crumbs falling onto his tux. “Where y’all been?” he asks.
“Dancing,” Maya says. She steals one of his shrimp. “You didn’t eat all day, did you?”
“Nope. I was about to starve to death.” He nods at me. “What’s up, Black Girlfriend?”
We joke around about that whole “only two black kids in the class are supposed to date” thing. “What’s up, Black Boyfriend?” I say, and I steal a shrimp too.
What do you know, Chris remembers he came with somebody and walks over to our table. He says hey to Maya and Ryan, then asks me, “You wanna take pictures or something?”
His tone is all robotic again. On a scale of one to ten on the “I’m done” meter, I’m at about fifty. “No thanks,” I tell him. “I’m not taking pictures with somebody who doesn’t wanna be here with me.”
He sighs. “Why do you have to have an attitude?”
“Me? You’re the one giving me the cold shoulder.”
“Dammit, Starr! Do you wanna take a fucking picture or not?”
The “done” meter blows up. Ka-boom. Blown to pieces. “Hell no. Go take one and shove it up your ass.”
I march off, ignoring Maya’s calls for me to come back. Chris follows me. He tries to grab my arm, but I snatch away and keep walking. It’s dark outside, but I easily find the Rolls-Royce parked along the driveway. The chauffeur isn’t around, or otherwise I would ask him to take me home. I hop in the back and lock the doors.
Chris knocks on the window. “Starr, c’mon.” He puts his hands against the window like they’re binoculars and he’s trying to look through the tint. “Can we talk?”
“Oh, now you wanna talk to me?”
“You’re the one who wouldn’t talk to me!” He bows his head, pressing his forehead against the glass. “Why didn’t you tell me you were the witness they’ve been talking about?”
He asks it softly, but it’s hard as a sucker punch in the gut.
He knows.
I unlock the door and scoot over. Chris climbs in next to me.
“How did you find out?” I ask.
“The interview. Watched it with my parents.”
“They didn’t show my face though.”
“I knew your voice, Starr. And then they showed the back of you as you walked with that interview lady, and I’ve watched you walk away enough to know what you look like from the back, and . . . I sound like a pervert, don’t I?”
“So you knew me by my ass?”
“I . . . yeah.” His face goes red. “But that wasn’t all. Everything made sense, like how upset you got about the protest and about Khalil. Not that that wasn’t stuff to get upset about, ’cause it was, but it—” He sighs. “I’m sinking here, Starr. I just knew it was you. And it was, wasn’t it?”
I nod.
“Babe, you should’ve told me. Why would you keep something like that from me?”
I tilt my head. “Wow. I saw someone get murdered, and you’re acting like a brat ’cause I didn’t tell you?”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“But you think about that for a second,” I say. “Tonight you could hardly say two words to me because I didn’t tell you about one of the worst experiences of my life. You ever seen somebody die?”
“No.”
“I’ve seen it twice.”
“And I didn’t know that!” he says. “I’m your boyfriend, and
I didn’t know any of that.” He looks at me, the same hurt in his eyes like there was when I snatched my hands away weeks ago. “There’s this whole part of your life that you’ve kept from me, Starr. We’ve been together over a year now, and you’ve never mentioned Khalil, who you claim was your best friend, or this other person you saw die. You didn’t trust me enough to tell me.”
My breath catches. “It’s—it’s not like that.”
“Really?” he says. “Then what is it like? What are we? Just
Fresh Prince
and fooling around?”
“No.” My lips tremble, and my voice is small. “I . . . I can’t share that part of me here, Chris.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” I croak. “People use it against me. Either I’m poor Starr who saw her friend get killed in a drive-by, or Starr the charity case who lives in the ghetto. That’s how the teachers act.”
“Okay, I get not telling people around school,” he says. “But I’m not them. I would never use that against you. You once told me I’m the only person you could be yourself around at Williamson, but the truth is you
still
didn’t trust me.”
I’m one second away from ugly crying. “You’re right,” I say. “I didn’t trust you. I didn’t want you to just see me as the girl from the ghetto.”
“You didn’t even give me the chance to prove you wrong. I wanna be there for you. You gotta let me in.”
God. Being two different people is so exhausting. I’ve taught myself to speak with two different voices and only say certain things around certain people. I’ve mastered it. As much as I say I don’t have to choose which Starr I am with Chris, maybe without realizing it, I have to an extent. Part of me feels like I can’t exist around people like him.
I am not gonna cry, I am not gonna cry, I am not gonna cry.
“Please?” he says.
That does it. Everything starts spilling out.
“I was ten. When my other friend died,” I say, staring at the French tips on my nails. “She was ten too.”
“What was her name?” he asks.
“Natasha. It was a drive-by. It’s one of the reasons my parents put me and my brothers in Williamson. It was the closest they could get to protecting us a little more. They bust their butts for us to go to that school.”
Chris doesn’t say anything. I don’t need him to.
I take a shaky breath and look around. “You don’t know how crazy it is that I’m even sitting in this car,” I say. “A Rolls freaking Royce. I used to live in the projects in a one-bedroom apartment. I shared the room with my brothers, and my parents slept on a fold-out couch.”
The details of life back then are suddenly fresh. “The apartment smelled like cigarettes all the damn time,” I say. “Daddy smoked. Our neighbors above us and next to us smoked. I had so many asthma attacks, it ain’t funny. We only kept canned
goods in the cabinets ’cause of the rats and roaches. Summers were always too hot, and winters too cold. We had to wear coats inside and outside.