I blink faster. God, I’m pushing her away, Chris away. Hell, do I deserve them? I don’t talk about Natasha, and I just flat-out denied Khalil. I could’ve been the one killed instead of them. I don’t have the decency to keep their memories alive, yet I’m supposed to be their best friend.
I cover my mouth. It doesn’t stop the sob. It’s loud and echoes off the walls. One follows it, and another and another. Maya and Hailey rub my back and shoulders.
Coach Meyers rushes in. “Carter—”
Hailey looks at her and says, “Natasha.”
Coach nods heavily. “Carter, go see Ms. Lawrence.”
What? No. She’s sending me to the school shrink? All the teachers know about poor Starr who saw her friend die when she was ten. I used to bust out crying all the time, and that was always their go-to line—see Ms. Lawrence. I wipe my eyes. “Coach, I’m okay—”
“No, you’re not.” She pulls a hall pass from her pocket and holds it toward me. “Go talk to her. It’ll help you feel better.”
No it won’t, but I know what will.
I take the pass, grab my backpack out my locker, and go back into the gym. My classmates follow me with their eyes as I hurry toward the doors. Chris calls out for me. I speed up.
They probably heard me crying. Great. What’s worse than being the Angry Black Girl? The Weak Black Girl.
By the time I get to the main office, I’ve dried my eyes and my face completely.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Carter,” Dr. Davis, the headmaster, says. He’s leaving as I’m going in and doesn’t wait for my response. Does he know all the students by name, or just the ones who are black like him? I hate that I think about stuff like that now.
His secretary, Mrs. Lindsey, greets me with a smile and asks how she can assist me.
“I need to call someone to come get me,” I say. “I don’t feel good.”
I call Uncle Carlos. My parents would ask too many questions. A limb has to be missing for them to take me out of school. I only have to tell Uncle Carlos that I have cramps, and he’ll pick me up.
Feminine problems. The key to ending an Uncle Carlos interrogation.
Luckily he’s on lunch break. He signs me out, and I hold my stomach for added effect. As we leave he asks if I want some fro-yo. I say yeah, and a short while later we’re going into a shop that’s walking distance from Williamson. It’s in a brand-new mini mall that should be called Hipster Heaven, full of stores you’d never find in Garden Heights. On one side of the fro-yo place, there’s Indie Urban Style and on the other side, Dapper Dog, where you can buy outfits for your dog. Clothes. For a dog. What kinda fool would I be, dressing Brickz in a linen shirt and jeans?
On a serious tip—white people are crazy for their dogs.
We fill our cups with yogurt. At the toppings bar, Uncle Carlos breaks out into his fro-yo rap. “I’m getting fro-yo, yo. Fro-yo, yo, yo.”
He loves his fro-yo. It’s kinda adorable. We take a booth in a corner that’s got a lime-green table and hot-pink seats. You know, typical fro-yo decor.
Uncle Carlos looks over into my cup. “Did you seriously ruin perfectly good fro-yo with Cap’n Crunch?”
“You can’t talk,” I say. “Oreos, Uncle Carlos? Really? And they’re not even the Golden Oreos, which are by far the superior Oreos. You got the regular ones. Ill.”
He devours a spoonful and says, “You’re weird.”
“You’re weird.”
“So cramps, huh?” he says.
Shit. I almost forgot about that. I hold my stomach and groan. “Yeah. They’re real bad today.”
I know who won’t win an Oscar anytime soon. Uncle Carlos gives me his hard detective stare. I groan again; this one sounds a little more believable. He raises his eyebrows.
His phone rings in his jacket pocket. He sticks another spoonful of fro-yo in his mouth and checks it. “It’s your mom calling me back,” he says around the spoon. He holds the phone with his cheek and shoulder. “Hey, Lisa. You get my message?”
Shit.
“She’s not feeling good,” Uncle Carlos says. “She’s got, you know, feminine problems.”
Her response is loud but muffled. Shit, shit.
Uncle Carlos holds the nape of his neck and slowly releases a long, deep breath. He turns into a little boy when Momma raises her voice at him, and he’s supposed to be the oldest.
“Okay, okay. I hear you,” he says. “Here, you talk to her.”
Shit, shit, shit.
He passes me the piece of dynamite formerly known as his phone. There’s an explosion of questioning as soon as I say, “Hello?”
“Cramps, Starr? Really?” she says.
“They’re bad, Mommy,” I whine, lying my butt off.
“Girl, please. I went to class in labor with you,” she says. “I pay too much money for you to go to Williamson so you can leave because of cramps.”
I almost point out that I get a scholarship too, but nah. She’d become the first person in history to hit someone through a phone.
“Did something happen?” she asks.
“No.”
“Is it Khalil?” she asks.
I sigh. This time tomorrow I’ll be staring at him in a coffin.
“Starr?” she says.
“Nothing happened.”
Ms. Felicia calls for her in the background. “Look, I gotta go,” she says. “Carlos will take you home. Lock the door, stay inside, and don’t let anybody in, you hear me?”