Nobody mentioned Khalil at school today. I hate to admit it, because it’s like throwing him the middle finger, but I’m relieved.
Since basketball season is over, I leave when everybody else does. Probably for the first time in my life I wish it wasn’t the end of the day. I’m that much closer to talking to the cops.
Hailey and I trek across the parking lot, arm in arm. Maya has a driver to pick her up. Hailey has her own car, and I have a brother with a car; the two of us always end up walking out together.
“Are you absolutely sure you don’t want me to kick Chris’s ass?” Hailey asks.
I told her and Maya about Condomgate, and as far as they’re concerned Chris is eternally banished to Asshole Land.
“Yes,” I say, for the hundredth time. “You’re violent, Hails.”
“When it comes to my friends, possibly. Seriously though, why would he even? God, boys and their fucking sex drive.”
I snort. “Is that why you and Luke haven’t gotten together?”
She lightly elbows me. “Shut up.”
I laugh. “Why won’t you admit you like him?”
“What makes you think I like him?”
“Really, Hailey?”
“Whatever, Starr. This isn’t about me. This is about you and your sex-driven boyfriend.”
“He’s not sex-driven,” I say.
“Then what do you call it?”
“He was horny at that moment.”
“Same thing!”
I try to keep a straight face and she does too, but soon we’re cracking up. God, it feels good to be normal Starr and Hailey. Has me wondering if I imagined a change.
We part at the halfway point to Hailey’s car and Seven’s. “The ass-kicking offer is still on the table,” she calls to me.
“Bye, Hailey!”
I walk off, rubbing my arms. Spring has decided to go through an identity crisis and get chilly on me. A few feet away, Seven keeps a hand on his car as he talks to his girlfriend, Layla. Him and that damn Mustang. He touches it more than he touches Layla. She obviously doesn’t care. She plays with the dreadlock near his face that isn’t pulled into his ponytail. Eye-roll worthy. Some girls do too much. Can’t she play with all them curls on her own head?
Honestly though, I don’t have a problem with Layla. She’s a geek like Seven, smart enough for Harvard but Howard bound, and real sweet. She’s one of the four black girls in the senior class, and if Seven just wants to date black girls, he picked a great one.
I walk up to them and go, “Hem-hem.”
Seven keeps his eyes on Layla. “Go sign Sekani out.”
“Can’t,” I lie. “Momma didn’t put me on the list.”
“Yeah, she did. Go.”
I fold my arms. “I am not walking halfway across campus to get him and halfway back. We can get him when we’re leaving.”
He side-eyes me, but I’m too tired for all that, and it’s cold. Seven kisses Layla and goes around to the driver’s side. “Acting like that’s a long walk,” he mumbles.
“Acting like we can’t get him when we’re leaving,” I say, and hop in.
He starts the car. This nice mix Chris made of Kanye and my other future husband J. Cole plays from Seven’s iPod dock. He maneuvers through the parking lot traffic to Sekani’s school. Seven signs him out of his after-school program, and we leave.
“I’m hungry,” Sekani whines not even five minutes out the parking lot.
“Didn’t they give you a snack in after-school?” Seven asks.
“So? I’m still hungry.”
“Greedy butt,” Seven says, and Sekani kicks the back of his seat. Seven laughs. “Okay, okay! Ma asked me to bring some food to the clinic anyway. I’ll get you something too.” He looks at Sekani in the rearview mirror. “Is that cool—”
Seven freezes. He turns Chris’s mix off and slows down.
“What you turn the music off for?” Sekani asks.
“Shut up,” Seven hisses.
We stop at a red light. A Riverton Hills patrol car pulls up beside us.
Seven straightens up and stares ahead, barely blinking and gripping the steering wheel. His eyes move a little like he wants to look at the cop car. He swallows hard.
“C’mon, light,” he prays. “C’mon.”
I stare ahead and pray for the light to change too.
It finally turns green, and Seven lets the patrol car go first. His shoulders don’t relax until we get on the freeway. Mine neither.
We stop at this Chinese restaurant Momma loves and get food for all of us. She wants me to eat before I talk to the detectives. In Garden Heights, kids play in the streets. Sekani presses his face against my window and watches them. He won’t play with them though. Last time he played with some neighborhood kids, they called him “white boy” ’cause he goes to Williamson.
Black Jesus greets us from a mural on the side of the clinic. He has locs like Seven. His arms stretch the width of the wall, and there are puffy white clouds behind him. Big letters above him remind us that Jesus Loves You.
Seven passes Black Jesus and goes into the parking lot behind the clinic. He punches in a code to open the gate and parks next to Momma’s Camry. I get the tray of sodas, Seven gets the food, and Sekani doesn’t take anything because he never takes anything.
I hit the buzzer for the back door and wave up at the camera. The door opens into a sterile-smelling hall with bright-white walls and white-tile floors that reflect us. The hall takes us to the waiting room. A handful of people watch the news on the old box TV in the ceiling or read magazines that have been there since I was little. When this shaggy-haired man sees that we have food, he straightens up and sniffs hard as if it’s for him.