"The Hate U Give," Vocabulary from Chapters 6-10

“I understand, but she has to talk to them at some point, Lisa. She’s a vital part of this investigation.”

“A fight occurred at the party, so we left together in his car.”

“Did Khalil comply?” Gomez asks.

“Did Khalil seem irate during this exchange?”
“Annoyed, not irate,” I say.

“He felt that the cop was harassing him.”

“Khalil wasn’t speeding or driving recklessly. It didn’t seem like he had a reason to pull us over.”

“The officer forced Khalil out the car.”
“Forced?" she says.
“Yes, ma’am. He pulled him out.”
“Because Khalil was hesitant, right?”

She smiles and says in that same sugary, sympathetic tone, “Now, do you know if Khalil sold narcotics?”

All the sympathy, the smiles, the understanding. This chick was baiting me.

“Did you consume any alcohol at the party?” she asks.
I know that move from Law & Order. She’s trying to discredit me. “No. I don’t drink.”

On the Monday night news, they finally gave Khalil’s name in the story about the shooting, but with a title added to it—Khalil Harris, a Suspected Drug Dealer.

They didn’t mention that he was unarmed. They said that an “unidentified witness” had been questioned and that the police were still investigating.

Chris didn’t pull us over, he didn’t shoot Khalil, but am I betraying who I am by dating him?

Oh, so you can drag me to play basketball during one of your feminist rages, but you can’t follow my Tumblr because of Emmett Till?

I get in my defensive stance, eyes on the ball.

It’s my place of solace when we lose a game, where I can cry or cuss if I want.

I stare at the ceiling and blink fast to keep from bawling.

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.

Weeping may endure for a night, but how many of you know that JOY—!

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.”

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.

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

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.

“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.”

“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.”

The case is about to gain national media attention, but I don’t want it to be at her expense.

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.

Sekani flinches. I’m used to gunshots, but these are louder, faster.

The news shows three patrol cars that have been set ablaze at the police precinct, about a five-minute drive away from us.

A gas station near the freeway gets looted, and the owner, this Indian man, staggers around bloody, saying he didn’t have anything to do with Khalil’s death.

Daddy calls and says the store is all right. It doesn’t stop me from tensing up every time the news mentions a business that’s been attacked.

All of this is my fault. The riots, gunshots, tear gas, all of it, are ultimately my fault. I forgot to tell the cops that Khalil got out with his hands up. I didn’t mention that the officer pointed his gun at me. I didn’t say something right, and now that cop’s not getting arrested.

“There are multiple reports that a gun was found in the car,” the anchor claims. “There is also suspicion that the victim was a drug dealer as well as a gang member. Officials have not confirmed if any of this is true.”

They’re holding signs and posters of Khalil’s face and are chanting, “Justice for Khalil!”
I should be out there with them, but I can’t join that march, knowing I’m one of the reasons they’re protesting.

The Panthers educated and empowered the people. That tactic of empowering the oppressed goes even further back than the Panthers though.

Our schools don’t get the resources to equip you like Williamson does. It’s easier to find some crack than it is to find a good school around here.

Daddy disappears into his office and returns with his Glock. He’s not supposed to carry it since he’s a felon, but he says that technically he doesn’t carry it. He keeps it in his office.

And God forbid Sekani wants to play outside. I gotta drive to my brother’s house, where I don’t have to worry about him getting shot like his sister’s best friend did.