Angie Thomas

“Thing is, though,” he said, “if I can’t love and accept myself just as I am, why the hell would I expect anybody else to?”

I can’t fight away a smile. “Will you remember this?”

“Forever.”

Earlier, Mrs. Tucker asked him where he was from too.

“Earth,” he said. “Still debating if I’m staying, though.”

The class group chat agreed—he’s our favorite bus driver so far.

Thug Life stood for ‘The Hate U Give Little Infants Fucks Everybody.’”

My body’s so used to waking up at five, it doesn’t care if it’s Saturday morning or not.

He devours a spoonful and says, “You’re weird.”

“I’m not buying that, and let’s be clear about something

But you’re on a first-name basis

.”

I side-eye the hell—excuse me, heck; we’re in church—out of her. Nana stopped coming to Christ Temple because of some incident between her and Mother Wilson over Deacon Rankin. It ended with Nana storming off from the church picnic, banana pudding in hand. That’s all I know though.

We take our seats, and I focus on the flowers instead. There’s a big heart made out of red and white roses, a “K” made out of calla lilies, and an arrangement of flowers in orange and green, his favorite colors