Free The Hate U Give by Angie Thomas Page A

talking about nothing and everything. The one who loves to make me smile. Yeah, he pisses me off sometimes, and I’m sure I piss him off, but we mean something. We actually mean a lot.
    Fuckity fuck, fuck, fuck. I’m crumbling. “Chris . . .”
    He goes for a low blow and beatboxes an all-too-familiar, “ Boomp . . . boomp, boomp, boomp .”
    I point at him. “Don’t you dare!”
    “‘Now, this is a story all about how, my life got flipped—turned upside down. And I’d like to take a minute, just sit right there, I’ll tell you how I became the prince of a town called Bel-Air.’”
    He beat-boxes the instrumental and pops his chest and booty to the rhythm. People pass by us, laughing. A guy whistles suggestively. Someone shouts, “Shake that ass, Bryant!”
    My smile grows before I can stop it.
    The Fresh Prince isn’t just my show, it’s our show. Sophomore year he followed my Tumblr, and I followed him back. We knew of each other from school, but we didn’t know each other. One Saturday, I reblogged a bunch of Fresh Prince GIFs and clips. He liked and reblogged every single one. That Monday morning in the cafeteria, he paid for my Pop Tarts and grape juice and said, “The first Aunt Viv was the best Aunt Viv.”
    It was the beginning of us.
    Chris gets The Fresh Prince, which helps him get me. We once talked about how cool it was that Will remained himself in his new world. I slipped up and said I wish I could be like that at school. Chris said, “Why can’t you, Fresh Princess?”
    Ever since, I don’t have to decide which Starr I have to be with him. He likes both. Well, the parts I’ve shown him. Some things I can’t reveal, like Natasha. Once you’ve seen how broken someone is it’s like seeing them naked—you can’t look at them the same anymore.
    I like the way he looks at me now, as if I’m one of the best things in his life. He’s one of the best things in mine too.
    I can’t lie, we get the “why is he dating her ” stare that usually comes from rich white girls. Sometimes I wonder the same thing. Chris acts like those looks don’t exist. When he does stuff like this, rapping and beatboxing in the middle of a busy hall just to make me smile, I forget about those looks too.
    He starts the second verse, swaying his shoulders and looking at me. The worst part? His silly butt knows it’s working. “‘In West Philadelphia, born and raised’—c’mon, babe. Join in.”
    He grabs my hands.
    One-Fifteen follows Khalil’s hands with the flashlight.
    He orders Khalil to get out with his hands up.
    He barks at me to put my hands on the dashboard.
    I kneel beside my dead friend in the middle of the street with my hands raised. A cop as white as Chris points a gun at me.
    As white as Chris.
    I flinch and snatch away.
    Chris frowns. “Starr, you okay?”
    Khalil opens the door. “You okay, Starr—”
    Pow!
    There’s blood. Too much blood.
    The second bell rings, jolting me back to normal Williamson, where I’m not normal Starr.
    Chris leans down, his face in front of mine. My tears blur him. “Starr?”
    It’s a few tears, yeah, but I feel exposed. I turn to go to class, and Chris grabs my arm. I yank away and whirl on him.
    His hands go up in surrender. “Sorry. I was . . .”
    I wipe my eyes and walk into the classroom. Chris is right behind me. Hailey and Maya shoot him the dirtiest looks. I lower myself into the desk in front of Hailey.
    She squeezes my shoulder. “That jackwad.”
    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 havea brother with a car; the two of us always end up