Showing posts with label drama. Show all posts
Showing posts with label drama. Show all posts

Monday, May 4, 2026

Star Wars Day 2026 - May the 4th Be With You: Star Wars Legends - The Last Command by Timothy Zahn




Summary:

The Thrawn Trilogy #3
The epic story that began with Heir to the Empire reaches its dramatic conclusion in this essential Star Wars Legends novel.

The embattled Republic reels from the attacks of Grand Admiral Thrawn, who has marshaled the remnants of the Imperial forces and driven the Rebels back with an abominable technology recovered from the Emperor's secret fortress: clone soldiers. As Thrawn mounts his final siege, Han Solo and Chewbacca struggle to form a coalition of smugglers for a last-ditch attack, while Princess Leia holds the Alliance together and prepares for the birth of her Jedi twins.

The Republic has one last hope—sending a small force into the very stronghold that houses Thrawn’s terrible cloning machines. There a final danger awaits, as the Dark Jedi C’baoth directs the battle against the Rebels and builds his strength to finish what he already started: the destruction of Luke Skywalker.




Blogger Note Originally Written May 2019:
Disney may have thrown out the SWEU and now nearly thirty years of storytelling is non-canon but to most of us fans, the new films are non-canon and Star Wars: Legends is the true timeline.  So on this May the 4th Day take a look at how it all began with Timothy Zahn's Thrawn Trilogy where he introduces us to Admiral Thrawn and my favorite character in the universe, Mara Jade, The Emperor's Hand. 

Don't get me wrong, I enjoy Disney's new films but I can't help but see them as one possible outcome because the SWEU is just too good to scrap and forget. I can't recommend this trilogy enough, non-canon or canon, however you choose to believe, if you enjoy good storytelling with amazing, intriguing, and fun characters, good versus evil, then take a chance because you'll never look back.


Original Audiobook Review May 2026:
This story just still has everything that I love about the SW universe, Been too long since I last listened to it but I know the original Thrawn Trilogy all much as detailed as the original movies. Mara Jade is my absolute favorite character of the expanded universe, canon or non-canon. I know it won't be as long before I listen again as it was this time.

RATING:






Chapter 1
Gliding through the blackness of deep space, the Imperial Star Destroyer Chimaera pointed its mighty arrowhead shape toward the dim star of its target system, three thousandths of a light-year away. And prepared itself for war.

“All systems show battle ready, Admiral,” the comm officer reported from the portside crew pit. “The task force is beginning to check in.”

“Very good, Lieutenant,” Grand Admiral Thrawn nodded. “Inform me when all have done so. Captain Pellaeon?”

“Sir?” Pellaeon said, searching his superior’s face for the stress the Grand Admiral must be feeling. The stress he himself was certainly feeling. This was not just another tactical strike against the Rebellion, after all—not a minor shipping raid or even a complex but straightforward hit-and-fade against some insignificant planetary base. After nearly a month of frenzied preparations, Thrawn’s master campaign for the Empire’s final victory was about to be launched.

But if the Grand Admiral was feeling any tension, he was keeping it to himself. “Begin the countdown,” he told Pellaeon, his voice as calm as if he were ordering dinner.

“Yes, sir,” Pellaeon said, turning back to the group of one-quarter-size holographic figures standing before him in the Chimaera’s aft bridge hologram pod. “Gentlemen: launch marks. Bellicose: three minutes.”

“Acknowledged, Chimaera,” Captain Aban nodded, his proper military demeanor not quite masking his eagerness to take this war back to the Rebellion. “Good hunting.”

The holo image sputtered and vanished as the Bellicose raised its deflector shields, cutting off long-range communications. Pellaeon shifted his attention to the next image in line. “Relentless: four point five minutes.”

“Acknowledged,” Captain Dorja said, cupping his right fist in his left in an ancient Mirshaf gesture of victory as he, too, vanished from the hologram pod.

Pellaeon glanced at his data pad. “Judicator: six minutes.”

“We’re ready, Chimaera,” Captain Brandei said, his voice soft. Soft, and just a little bit wrong. …

Pellaeon frowned at him. Quarter-sized holos didn’t show a lot of detail, but even so the expression on Brandei’s face was easy to read. It was the expression of a man out for blood.

“This is war, Captain Brandei,” Thrawn said, coming up silently to Pellaeon’s side. “Not an opportunity for personal revenge.”

“I understand my duty, Admiral,” Brandei said stiffly.

Thrawn’s blue-black eyebrows lifted slightly. “Do you, Captain? Do you indeed?”

Slowly, reluctantly, some of the fire faded from Brandei’s face. “Yes, sir,” he muttered. “My duty is to the Empire, and to you, and to the ships and crews under my command.”

“Very good,” Thrawn said. “To the living, in other words. Not to the dead.”

Brandei was still glowering, but he gave a dutiful nod. “Yes, sir.”

“Never forget that, Captain,” Thrawn warned him. “The fortunes of war rise and fall, and you may be assured that the Rebellion will be repaid in full for their destruction of the Peremptory at the Katana fleet skirmish. But that repayment will occur in the context of our overall strategy. Not as an act of private vengeance.” His glowing red eyes narrowed slightly. “Certainly not by any Fleet captain under my command. I trust I make myself clear.”

Brandei’s cheek twitched. Pellaeon had never thought of the man as brilliant, but he was smart enough to recognize a threat when he heard one. “Very clear, Admiral.”

“Good.” Thrawn eyed him a moment longer, then nodded. “I believe you’ve been given your launch mark?”

“Yes, sir. Judicator out.”

Thrawn looked at Pellaeon. “Continue, Captain,” he said, and turned away.

“Yes, sir.” Pellaeon looked at his data pad. “Nemesis …”

He finished the list without further incident. By the time the last holo image disappeared, the final check-in from their own task force was complete.

“The timetable appears to be running smoothly,” Thrawn said as Pellaeon returned to his command station. “The Stormhawk reports that the guide freighters launched on time with tow cables functioning properly. And we’ve just intercepted a general emergency call from the Ando system.”

The Bellicose and its task force, right on schedule. “Any response, sir?” Pellaeon asked.
“The Rebel base at Ord Pardron acknowledged,” Thrawn said. “It should be interesting to see how much help they send.”

Pellaeon nodded. The Rebels had seen enough of Thrawn’s tactics by now to expect Ando to be a feint, and to respond accordingly. But on the other hand, an attack force consisting of an Imperial Star Destroyer and eight Katana fleet Dreadnaughts was hardly something they could afford to dismiss out of hand, either.

Not that it really mattered. They would send a few ships to Ando to fight the Bellicose, and a few more to Filve to fight the Judicator, and a few more to Crondre to fight the Nemesis, and so on and so on. By the time the Death’s Head hit the base itself, Ord Pardron would be down to a skeleton defense and screaming itself for all the reinforcements the Rebellion could scramble.

And that was where those reinforcements would go. Leaving the Empire’s true target ripe for the picking.

Pellaeon looked out the forward viewport at the star of the Ukio system dead ahead, his throat tightening as he contemplated again the enormous conceit of this whole plan. With planetary shields able to hold off all but the most massive turbolaser and proton torpedo bombardment, conventional wisdom held that the only way to subdue a modern world was to put a fast-moving ground force down at the edges and send them overland to destroy the shield generators. Between the fire laid down by the ground force and the subsequent orbital assault, the target world was always badly damaged by the time it was finally taken. 

The alternative, landing hundreds of thousands of troops in a major ground campaign that could stretch into months or years, was no better. To capture a planet relatively undamaged but with shield generators still intact was considered an impossibility.

That bit of military wisdom would fall today. Along with Ukio itself.

“Intercepted distress signal from Filve, Admiral,” the comm officer reported. “Ord Pardron again responding.”

“Good.” Thrawn consulted his chrono. “Seven minutes, I think, and we’ll be able to move.” His lips compressed, just noticeably. “I suppose we’d better confirm that our exalted Jedi Master is ready to do his part.”

Pellaeon hid a grimace. Joruus C’baoth, insane clone of the long-dead Jedi Master Jorus C’baoth, who a month ago had proclaimed himself the true heir to the Empire. He didn’t like talking to the man any more than Thrawn did; but he might as well volunteer. If he didn’t, it would simply become an order. “I’ll go, sir,” he said, standing up.

“Thank you, Captain,” Thrawn said. As if Pellaeon would have had a choice.

He felt the mental summons the moment he stepped beyond the Force-protection of the ysalamiri scattered about the bridge on their nutrient frames. Master C’baoth, clearly, was impatient for the operation to begin. Preparing himself as best he could, fighting against C’baoth’s casual mental pressure to hurry, Pellaeon made his way down to Thrawn’s command room.

The chamber was brightly lit, in marked contrast to the subdued lighting the Grand Admiral usually preferred. “Captain Pellaeon,” C’baoth called, beckoning to him from the double display ring in the center of the room. “Come in. I’ve been waiting for you.”

“The rest of the operation has taken my full attention,” Pellaeon told him stiffly, trying to hide his distaste for the man. Knowing full well how futile such attempts were.

“Of course,” C’baoth smiled, a smile that showed more effectively than any words his amusement with Pellaeon’s discomfort. “No matter. I take it Grand Admiral Thrawn is finally ready?”

“Almost,” Pellaeon said. “We want to clear out Ord Pardron as much as possible before we move.”

C’baoth snorted. “You continue to assume the New Republic will dance to the Grand Admiral’s tune.”

“They will,” Pellaeon said. “The Grand Admiral has studied the enemy thoroughly.”

“He’s studied their artwork,” C’baoth countered with another snort. “That will be useful if the time ever comes when the New Republic has nothing but artists left to throw against us.”

A signal from the display ring saved Pellaeon from the need to reply. “We’re moving,” he told C’baoth, starting a mental countdown of the seventy-six seconds it would take to reach the Ukio system from their position and trying not to let C’baoth’s words get under his skin. He didn’t understand himself how Thrawn could so accurately learn the innermost secrets of a species from its artwork. But he’d seen that knowledge proved often enough to trust the Grand Admiral’s instincts on such things. C’baoth hadn’t.

But then, C’baoth wasn’t really interested in an honest debate on the subject. For the past month, ever since declaring himself to be the true heir to the Emperor, C’baoth had been pressing this quiet war against Thrawn’s credibility, implying that true insight came only through the Force. And, therefore, only through him.

Pellaeon himself didn’t buy that argument. The Emperor had been deep into this Force thing, too, and he hadn’t even been able to predict his own death at Endor. But the seeds of uncertainty C’baoth was trying to sow were nevertheless starting to take hold, particularly among the less experienced of Thrawn’s officers.

Which was, for Pellaeon, just one more reason why this attack had to succeed. The outcome hinged as much on Thrawn’s reading of the Ukian cultural ethos as it did on straight military tactics. On Thrawn’s conviction that, at a basic psychological level, the Ukians were terrified of the impossible.



Saturday Series Spotlight



Timothy Zahn

Timothy Zahn is the author of more than fifty novels, more than a hundred short stories and novelettes, and five short-fiction collections. In 1984, he won the Hugo Award for Best Novella. Zahn is best known for his Star Wars novels (Thrawn, Thrawn: Alliances, Heir to the Empire, Dark Force Rising, The Last Command, Specter of the Past, Vision of the Future, Survivor’s Quest, Outbound Flight, Allegiance, Choices of One, and Scoundrels), with more than eight million copies of his books in print. His other books include StarCraft: Evolution, the Cobra series, the Quadrail series, and the young adult Dragonback series. Zahn has a B.S. in physics from Michigan State University and an M.S. from the University of Illinois. He lives with his family on the Oregon coast.





The Last Command #3
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KOBO  /  BOOKBUB  /  WOOKIEPEDIA

Thrawn Trilogy
AMAZON US  /  AMAZON UK  /  B&N
iTUNES  /  KOBO  /  WOOKIEPEDIA



Thursday, April 30, 2026

⏳Throwback Thursday's Time Machine(Star Wars Week)⏳: Vector Prime by RA Salvatore




Summary:
The New Jedi Order #1
Twenty-one years after the Battle of Endor, the New Republic will face an even darker enemy. . . .

More than two decades after the heroes of the Rebel Alliance destroyed the Death Star and broke the power of the Emperor, the New Republic has struggled to maintain peace and prosperity among the peoples of the galaxy. But unrest has begun to spread and threatens to destroy the Republic’s tenuous reign.

Into this volatile atmosphere comes Nom Anor, a charismatic firebrand who heats passions to the boiling point, sowing seeds of dissent for his own dark motives. And as the Jedi and the Republic focus on internal struggles, a new threat surfaces from beyond the farthest reaches of the Outer Rim—an enemy bearing weapons and technology unlike anything New Republic scientists have ever seen.

Suddenly, Luke Skywalker; his wife, Mara; Han Solo; Leia Organa Solo; and Chewbacca—along with the Solo children—are thrust again into battle, to defend the freedom so many have fought and died for. But this time, the power of the Force itself may not be enough. . . .




Original Review May 2021:
So it's been at least 10 years since I last listened to this on abridged audio and about 5 years prior for actually reading the hardcover copy.  But it's like it was yesterday.  Everything came flooding back.  I've said it before and I'll say it again, I enjoy Disney's Star Wars journey but their version will always be non-canon/alternate timeline.  The SWEU will always be the real future of the SW saga.  I wish there was an unabridged audio but for now there isn't so even an abridged version is topnotch.  The New Jedi Order has created one of the best SW villain species in the Yuuzhan Vong.  Talk about terror and one that needs defeating.  Won't divulge anything for any newcomers that are looking to follow a different path than Disney's but be prepared because the beloved bubble around our heroes is not pop-proof and this one will have lasting effects.  It really is the only flaw in the SWEU, this one should never have been lost(but that's all you're gettingπŸ˜‰).

RATING:






It was too peaceful out here, surrounded by the vacuum of space and with only the continual hum of the twin ion drives breaking the silence. While she loved these moments of peace, Leia Organa Solo also viewed them as an emotional trap, for she had been around long enough to understand the turmoil she would find at the end of this ride.

Like the end of every ride, lately.

Leia paused a moment before she entered the bridge of the Jade Sabre, the new shuttle her brother, Luke, had built for his wife, Mara Jade. Before her, and apparently oblivious to her, Mara and Jaina sat comfortably, side by side at the controls, talking and smiling. Leia focused on her daughter, Jaina, sixteen years old, but with the mature and calm demeanor of a veteran pilot. Jaina looked a lot like Leia, with long dark hair and brown eyes contrasting sharply with her smooth and creamy skin. Indeed, Leia saw much of herself in the girl—no, not girl, Leia corrected her own thoughts, but young woman. That same sparkle behind the brown eyes, mischievous, adventurous, determined.

That notion set Leia back a bit, for she recognized then that when she looked at Jaina, she was seeing not a reflection of herself but an image of the girl she had once been. A twinge of sadness caught her as she considered her own life now: a diplomat, a bureaucrat, a mediator, always trying to calm things down, always working for the peace and prosperity of the New Republic. Did she miss the days when the most common noise around her had been the sharp blare of a blaster or the hiss of a lightsaber? Was she sorry that those wild times had been replaced by the droning of the ion drives and the sharp bickering of one pride-wounded emissary after another?

Perhaps, Leia had to admit, but in looking at Jaina and those simmering dark eyes, she could take vicarious pleasure.

Another twinge—jealousy?—caught her by surprise, as Mara and Jaina erupted into laughter over some joke Leia had not overheard. But she pushed the absurd notion far from her mind as she considered her sister-in-law, Luke's wife and Jaina's tutor—at Jaina's own request—in the ways of the Jedi. Mara was not a substitute mother for Jaina, but rather, a big sister, and when Leia considered the fires that constantly burned in Mara's green eyes, she understood that the woman could give to Jaina things that Leia could not, and that those lessons and that friendship would prove valuable indeed to her daughter. And so she forced aside her jealousy and was merely glad that Jaina had found such a friend.

She started onto the bridge, but paused again, sensing movement behind her. She knew before looking that it was Bolpuhr, her Noghri bodyguard, and barely gave him a glance as he glided to the side, moving so easily and gracefully that he reminded her of a lace curtain drifting lazily in a gentle breeze. She had accepted young Bolpuhr as her shadow for just that reason, for he was as unobtrusive as any bodyguard could be. Leia marveled at the young Noghri, at how his grace and silence covered a perfectly deadly fighting ability.

She held up her hand, indicating that Bolpuhr should remain out here, and though his usually emotionless face did flash Leia a quick expression of disappointment, she knew he would obey. Bolpuhr, and all the Noghri, would do anything Leia asked of them. He would jump off a cliff or dive into the hot end of an ion engine for her, and the only time she ever saw any sign of discontentment with her orders was when Bolpuhr thought she might be placing him in a difficult position to properly defend her.

As he was thinking now, Leia understood, though why in the world Bolpuhr would fear for her safety on her sister-in-law's private shuttle was beyond her. Sometimes dedication could be taken a bit too far.

With a nod to Bolpuhr, she turned back to the bridge and crossed through the open doorway. "How much longer?" she asked, and was amused to see both Jaina and Mara jump in surprise at her sudden appearance.

In answer, Jaina increased the magnification on the forward screen, and instead of the unremarkable dots of light, there appeared an image of two planets, one mostly blue and white, the other reddish in hue, seemingly so close together that Leia wondered how it was that the blue-and-white one, the larger of the pair, had not grasped the other in its gravity and turned it into a moon. Parked halfway between them, perhaps a half a million kilometers from either, deck lights glittering in the shadows of the blue-and-white planet, loomed a Mon Calamari battle cruiser, the Mediator, one of the newest ships in the New Republic fleet.

"They're at their closest," Mara observed, referring to the planets.

"I beg your indulgence," came a melodic voice from the doorway, and the protocol droid C-3PO walked into the room. "But I do not believe that is correct."

"Close enough," Mara said. She turned to Jaina. "Both Rhommamool and Osarian are ground based, technologically—"

"Rhommamool almost exclusively so!" C-3PO quickly added, drawing a scowl from all three of the women. Oblivious, he rambled on. "Even Osarian's fleet must be considered marginal, at best. Unless, of course, one is using the Pantang Scale of Aero-techno Advancement, which counts even a simple landspeeder as highly as it would a Star Destroyer. Perfectly ridiculous scale."

"Thank you, Threepio," Leia said, her tone indicating that she had heard more than enough.

"They've both got missiles that can hit each other from this close distance, though," Mara continued. "Oh, yes!" the droid exclaimed. "And given the proximity of their relative elliptical orbits—"



Saturday's Series Spotlight
Part 1  /  Part 2  /  Part 3



RA Salvatore

Leominster, Massachusetts is known for four things: Johnny Appleseed, a thriving plastics industry, Robert Cormier, and New York Times bestselling author R.A. Salvatore. With over 20 million books sold worldwide, more than four dozen book and numerous game credits Salvatore has become one of the most important figures in modern epic fantasy.

 A lifelong resident of Massachusetts, R.A. Salvatore, began writing shortly after receiving his Bachelor of Science degree in Communications/Media from Fitchburg State College. He penned his first manuscript in 1982, in a spiral notebook, writing by candlelight while listening to Fleetwood Mac’s Tusk album. 

 Bob’s first published novel, "The Crystal Shard", was released in February of 1988. By 1990 his third book, "The Halfling’s Gem", had made the New York Times bestseller list. 

Salvatore spends a good deal of time speaking to schools and library groups, encouraging people, particularly young people, to read. With the zeal of a religious convert, he talks about the virtues of reading and the ultimate appeal, “it is fun.” He remembers his return to reading when he was in college, “The blizzard of 1978 shut down my college for a week. My sister had given me a copy of J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit, which I read while house-bound. When I got back to school, I changed my major from math to communications.”

Salvatore makes his home in Massachusetts, with his wife, Diane and their two dogs, Ivan and Dexter. He spends his “free time” coaching and playing softball on a team made up of family and close friends. His gaming group still meets on Sunday nights to play games. Of late, they have been playing the new game R.A.designed with Bryan Salvatore and Geno Salvatore, "DemonWars: Reformation", a role-playing game set in the World of Corona.


FACEBOOK  /  WEBSITE  /  BOOKBUB
CHIRP  /  GOOGLE PLAY  /  AUDIBLE  /  B&N
iTUNES  /  AMAZON  /  GOODREADS



Vector Prime
πŸ‘€Audiobooks are AbridgedπŸ‘€
B&N  /  KOBO  /  iTUNES AUDIO
iTUNES  /  AUDIBLE  /  BOOKBUB

New Jedi Order Series
AMAZON US  /  AMAZON UK  /  B&N
KOBO  /  AUDIBLE  /  iTUNES


Friday, April 24, 2026

πŸ“˜πŸŽ₯Friday's Film AdaptationπŸŽ₯πŸ“˜: The Hate U Give by Angie Thomas



Summary:

The Hate U Give #1
8 starred reviews · Goodreads Choice Awards Best of the Best · William C. Morris Award Winner · National Book Award Longlist · Printz Honor Book · Coretta Scott King Honor Book · #1 New York Times Bestseller!

"Absolutely riveting!" —Jason Reynolds

"Stunning." —John Green

"This story is necessary. This story is important." —Kirkus (starred review)

"Heartbreakingly topical." —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

"A marvel of verisimilitude." —Booklist (starred review)

"A powerful, in-your-face novel." —Horn Book (starred review)

Sixteen-year-old Starr Carter moves between two worlds: the poor neighborhood where she lives and the fancy suburban prep school she attends. The uneasy balance between these worlds is shattered when Starr witnesses the fatal shooting of her childhood best friend Khalil at the hands of a police officer. Khalil was unarmed.

Soon afterward, his death is a national headline. Some are calling him a thug, maybe even a drug dealer and a gangbanger. Protesters are taking to the streets in Khalil’s name. Some cops and the local drug lord try to intimidate Starr and her family. What everyone wants to know is: what really went down that night? And the only person alive who can answer that is Starr.

But what Starr does—or does not—say could upend her community. It could also endanger her life.

Want more of Garden Heights? Catch Maverick and Seven’s story inConcrete Rose, Angie Thomas's powerful prequel to The Hate U Give.

Inspired by the Black Lives Matter movement, this story about one girl’s struggle for justice is more timely and important than ever. But in a world determined to silence her, what will speaking out cost?

A Powerful Coming-of-Age Story: Starr Carter must learn to bridge her two worlds—the poor, black neighborhood she calls home and the wealthy, predominantly white prep school she attends.

Inspired by Black Lives Matter: An unflinching and unforgettable look at police brutality after Starr becomes the sole witness to the fatal shooting of her childhood friend, Khalil.

A Reluctant Activist: Facing pressure from her community and intimidation from law enforcement, Starr must decide whether speaking her truth is worth the risk to her and her family.

An Authentic & Unforgettable Voice: Hailed as a modern classic, this award-winning novel is told with raw honesty, humor, and heart, making it a must-read for teens and adults alike.




ONE
I shouldn’t have come to this party.

I’m not even sure I belong at this party. That’s not on some bougie shit, either. There are just some places where it’s not enough to be me. Either version of me. Big D’s spring break party is one of those places.

I squeeze through sweaty bodies and follow Kenya, her curls bouncing past her shoulders. A haze lingers over the room, smelling like weed, and music rattles the floor. Some rapper calls out for everybody to Nae-Nae, followed by a bunch of “Heys” as people launch into their own versions. Kenya holds up her cup and dances her way through the crowd. Between the headache from the loud-ass music and the nausea from the weed odor, I’ll be amazed if I cross the room without spilling my drink.

We break out the crowd. Big D’s house is packed wall-to-wall. I’ve always heard that everybody and their momma comes to his spring break parties—well, everybody except me—but damn, I didn’t know it would be this many people. Girls wear their hair colored, curled, laid, and slayed. Got me feeling basic as hell with my ponytail. Guys in their freshest kicks and sagging pants grind so close to girls they just about need condoms. My nana likes to say that spring brings love. Spring in Garden Heights doesn’t always bring love, but it promises babies in the winter. I wouldn’t be surprised if a lot of them are conceived the night of Big D’s party. He always has it on the Friday of spring break because you need Saturday to recover and Sunday to repent.

“Stop following me and go dance, Starr,” Kenya says. “People already say you think you all that.”

“I didn’t know so many mind readers lived in Garden Heights.” Or that people know me as anything other than “Big Mav’s daughter who works in the store.” I sip my drink and spit it back out. I knew there would be more than Hawaiian Punch in it, but this is way stronger than I’m used to. They shouldn’t even call it punch. Just straight-up liquor. I put it on the coffee table and say, “Folks kill me, thinking they know what I think.”

“Hey, I’m just saying. You act like you don’t know nobody ’cause you go to that school.”

I’ve been hearing that for six years, ever since my parents put me in Williamson Prep. “Whatever,” I mumble.

“And it wouldn’t kill you to not dress like . . .” She turns up her nose as she looks from my sneakers to my oversized hoodie. “That. Ain’t that my brother’s hoodie?”

Ourbrother’s hoodie. Kenya and I share an older brother, Seven. But she and I aren’t related. Her momma is Seven’s momma, and my dad is Seven’s dad. Crazy, I know. “Yeah, it’s his.”

“Figures. You know what else people saying too. Got folks thinking you’re my girlfriend.”

“Do I look like I care what people think?”

“No! And that’s the problem!”

“Whatever.” If I’d known following her to this party meant she’d be on some Extreme Makeover: Starr Edition mess, I would’ve stayed home and watched Fresh Prince reruns. My Jordans are comfortable, and damn, they’re new. That’s more than some people can say. The hoodie’s way too big, but I like it that way. Plus, if I pull it over my nose, I can’t smell the weed.

“Well, I ain’t babysitting you all night, so you better do something,” Kenya says, and scopes the room. Kenya could be a model, if I’m completely honest. She’s got flawless dark-brown skin—I don’t think she ever gets a pimple—slanted brown eyes, and long eyelashes that aren’t store-bought. She’s the perfect height for modeling too, but a little thicker than those toothpicks on the runway. She never wears the same outfit twice. Her daddy, King, makes sure of that.

Kenya is about the only person I hang out with in Garden Heights—it’s hard to make friends when you go to a school that’s forty-five minutes away and you’re a latchkey kid who’s only seen at her family’s store. It’s easy to hang out with Kenya because of our connection to Seven. She’s messy as hell sometimes, though. Always fighting somebody and quick to say her daddy will whoop somebody’s ass. Yeah, it’s true, but I wish she’d stop picking fights so she can use her trump card. Hell, I could use mine too. Everybody knows you don’t mess with my dad, Big Mav, and you definitely don’t mess with his kids. Still, you don’t see me going around starting shit.

Like at Big D’s party, Kenya is giving Denasia Allen some serious stank-eye. I don’t remember much about Denasia, but I remember that she and Kenya haven’t liked each other since fourth grade. Tonight, Denasia’s dancing with some guy halfway across the room and paying no attention to Kenya. But no matter where we move, Kenya spots Denasia and glares at her. And the thing about the stank-eye is at some point you feel it on you, inviting you to kick some ass or have your ass kicked.

“Ooh! I can’t stand her,” Kenya seethes. “The other day, we were in line in the cafeteria, right? And she behind me, talking out the side of her neck. She didn’t use my name, but I know she was talking ’bout me, saying I tried to get with DeVante.”

“For real?” I say what I’m supposed to.

“Uh-huh. I don’t want him.”

“I know.” Honestly? I don’t know who DeVante is. “So what did you do?”

“What you think I did? I turned around and asked if she had a problem with me. Ol’ trick, gon’ say, ‘I wasn’t even talking about you,’ knowing she was! You’re so lucky you go to that white-people school and don’t have to deal with hoes like that.”

Ain’t this some shit? Not even five minutes ago, I was stuck-up because I go to Williamson. Now I’m lucky? “Trust me, my school has hoes too. Hoedom is universal.”

“Watch, we gon’ handle her tonight.” Kenya’s stank-eye reaches its highest level of stank. Denasia feels its sting and looks right at Kenya. “Uh-huh,” Kenya confirms, like Denasia hears her. “Watch.”

“Hold up. We? That’s why you begged me to come to this party? So you can have a tag team partner?”

She has the nerve to look offended. “It ain’t like you had nothing else to do! Or anybody else to hang out with. I’m doing your ass a favor.”

“Really, Kenya? You do know I have friends, right?”

She rolls her eyes. Hard. Only the whites are visible for a few seconds. “Them li’l bougie girls from your school don’t count.”

“They’re not bougie, and they do count.” I think. Maya and I are cool. Not sure what’s up with me and Hailey lately. “And honestly? If pulling me into a fight is your way of helping my social life, I’m good. Goddamn, it’s always some drama with you.”

“Please, Starr?” She stretches the please extra long. Too long. “This what I’m thinking. We wait until she get away from DeVante, right? And then we . . .”

My phone vibrates against my thigh, and I glance at the screen. Since I’ve ignored his calls, Chris texts me instead.

Can we talk?

I didn’t mean for it to go like that.

Of course he didn’t. He meant for it to go a whole different way yesterday, which is the problem. I slip the phone in my pocket. I’m not sure what I wanna say, but I’d rather deal with him later.

“Kenya!” somebody shouts.

This big, light-skinned girl with bone-straight hair moves through the crowd toward us. A tall boy with a black-and-blond Fro-hawk follows her. They both give Kenya hugs and talk about how cute she looks. I’m not even here.

“Why you ain’t tell me you was coming?” the girl says, and sticks her thumb in her mouth. She’s got an overbite from doing that too. “You could’ve rode with us.”

“Nah, girl. I had to go get Starr,” Kenya says. “We walked here together.”

That’s when they notice me, standing not even half a foot from Kenya.

The guy squints as he gives me a quick once-over. He frowns for a hot second, but I notice it. “Ain’t you Big Mav’s daughter who work in the store?”

See? People act like that’s the name on my birth certificate. “Yeah, that’s me.”

“Ohhh!” the girl says. “I knew you looked familiar. We were in third grade together. Ms. Bridges’s class. I sat behind you.”

“Oh.” I know this is the moment I’m supposed to remember her, but I don’t. I guess Kenya was right—I really don’t know anybody. Their faces are familiar, but you don’t get names and life stories when you’re bagging folks’ groceries.

I can lie though. “Yeah, I remember you.”

“Girl, quit lying,” the guy says. “You know you don’t know her ass.”

“‘Why you always lying?’” Kenya and the girl sing together. The guy joins in, and they all bust out laughing.

“Bianca and Chance, be nice,” Kenya says. “This Starr’s first party. Her folks don’t let her go nowhere.”

I cut her a side-eye. “I go to parties, Kenya.”

“Have y’all seen her at any parties ’round here?” Kenya asks them.

“Nope!”

“Point made. And before you say it, li’l lame white-kid suburb parties don’t count.”

Chance and Bianca snicker. Damn, I wish this hoodie could swallow me up somehow.

“I bet they be doing Molly and shit, don’t they?” Chance asks me. “White kids love popping pills.”

“And listening to Taylor Swift,” Bianca adds, talking around her thumb.

Okay, that’s somewhat true, but I’m not telling them that. “Nah, actually their parties are pretty dope,” I say. “One time, this boy had J. Cole perform at his birthday party.”

“Damn. For real?” Chance asks. “Shiiit. Bitch, next time invite me. I’ll party with them white kids.”

“Anyway,” Kenya says loudly. “We were talking ’bout running up on Denasia. Bitch over there dancing with DeVante.”

“Ol’ trick,” Bianca says. “You know she been running her mouth ’bout you, right? I was in Mr. Donald’s class last week when Aaliyah told me—”

Chance rolls his eyes. “Ugh! Mr. Donald.”

“You just mad he threw you out,” Kenya says.

“Hell yes!”

“Anyway, Aaliyah told me—” Bianca begins.

I get lost again as classmates and teachers that I don’t know are discussed. I can’t say anything. Doesn’t matter though. I’m invisible.

I feel like that a lot around here.

In the middle of them complaining about Denasia and their teachers, Kenya says something about getting another drink, and the three of them walk off without me.

Suddenly I’m Eve in the Garden after she ate the fruit—it’s like I realize I’m naked. I’m by myself at a party I’m not even supposed to be at, where I barely know anybody. And the person I do know just left me hanging.

Kenya begged me to come to this party for weeks. I knew I’d be uncomfortable as hell, but every time I told Kenya no she said I act like I’m “too good for a Garden party.” I got tired of hearing that shit and decided to prove her wrong. Problem is it would’ve taken Black Jesus to convince my parents to let me come. Now Black Jesus will have to save me if they find out I’m here.

People glance over at me with that “who is this chick, standing against the wall by herself like an idiot?” look. I slip my hands into my pockets. As long as I play it cool and keep to myself, I should be fine. The ironic thing is though, at Williamson I don’t have to “play it cool”—I’m cool by default because I’m one of the only black kids there. I have to earn coolness in Garden Heights, and that’s more difficult than buying retro Jordans on release day.

Funny how it works with white kids though. It’s dope to be black until it’s hard to be black.

“Starr!” a familiar voice says.

The sea of people parts for him like he’s a brown-skinned Moses. Guys give him daps, and girls crane their necks to look at him. He smiles at me, and his dimples ruin any G persona he has.

Khalil is fine, no other way of putting it. And I used to take baths with him. Not like that, but way back in the day when we would giggle because he had a wee-wee and I had what his grandma called a wee-ha. I swear it wasn’t perverted though.

He hugs me, smelling like soap and baby powder. “What’s up, girl? Ain’t seen you in a minute.” He lets me go. “You don’t text nobody, nothing. Where you been?”

“School and the basketball team keep me busy,” I say. “But I’m always at the store. You’re the one nobody sees anymore.”

His dimples disappear. He wipes his nose like he always does before a lie. “I been busy.”

Obviously. The brand-new Jordans, the crisp white tee, the diamonds in his ears. When you grow up in Garden Heights, you know what “busy” really means.

Fuck. I wish he wasn’t that kinda busy though. I don’t know if I wanna tear up or smack him.

But the way Khalil looks at me with those hazel eyes makes it hard to be upset. I feel like I’m ten again, standing in the basement of Christ Temple Church, having my first kiss with him at Vacation Bible School. Suddenly I remember I’m in a hoodie, looking a straight-up mess . . . and that I actually have a boyfriend. I might not be answering Chris’s calls or texts right now, but he’s still mine and I wanna keep it that way.

“How’s your grandma?” I ask. “And Cameron?”

“They a’ight. Grandma’s sick though.” Khalil sips from his cup. “Doctors say she got cancer or whatever.”

“Damn. Sorry, K.”

“Yeah, she taking chemo. She only worried ’bout getting a wig though.” He gives a weak laugh that doesn’t show his dimples. “She’ll be a’ight.”

It’s a prayer more than a prophecy. “Is your momma helping with Cameron?”

“Good ol’ Starr. Always looking for the best in people. You know she ain’t helping.”

“Hey, it was just a question. She came in the store the other day. She looks better.”

“For now,” says Khalil. “She claim she trying to get clean, but it’s the usual. She’ll go clean a few weeks, decide she wants one more hit, then be back at it. But like I said, I’m good, Cameron’s good, Grandma’s good.” He shrugs. “That’s all that matters.”

“Yeah,” I say, but I remember the nights I spent with Khalil on his porch, waiting for his momma to come home. Whether he likes it or not, she matters to him too.

The music changes, and Drake raps from the speakers. I nod to the beat and rap along under my breath. Everybody on the dance floor yells out the “started from the bottom, now we’re here” part. Some days, we are at the bottom in Garden Heights, but we still share the feeling that damn, it could be worse.

Khalil is watching me. A smile tries to form on his lips, but he shakes his head. “Can’t believe you still love whiny-ass Drake.”

I gape at him. “Leave my husband alone!”

“Your corny husband. ‘Baby, you my everything, you all I ever wanted,’” Khalil sings in a whiny voice. I push him with my shoulder, and he laughs, his drink splashing over the sides of the cup. “You know that’s what he sounds like!”

I flip him off. He puckers his lips and makes a kissing sound. All these months apart, and we’ve fallen back into normal like it’s nothing.

Khalil grabs a napkin from the coffee table and wipes drink off his Jordans—the Three Retros. They came out a few years ago, but I swear those things are so fresh. They cost about three hundred dollars, and that’s if you find somebody on eBay who goes easy. Chris did. I got mine for a steal at one-fifty, but I wear kid sizes. Thanks to my small feet, Chris and I can match our sneakers. Yes, we’re that couple. Shit, we’re fly though. If he can stop doing stupid stuff, we’ll really be good.

“I like the kicks,” I tell Khalil.

“Thanks.” He scrubs the shoes with his napkin. I cringe. With each hard rub, the shoes cry for my help. No lie, every time a sneaker is cleaned improperly, a kitten dies.

“Khalil,” I say, one second away from snatching that napkin. “Either wipe gently back and forth or dab. Don’t scrub. For real.”

He looks up at me, smirking. “Okay, Ms. Sneakerhead.” And thank Black Jesus, he dabs. “Since you made me spill my drink on them, I oughta make you clean them.”

“It’ll cost you sixty dollars.”

“Sixty?” he shouts, straightening up.

“Hell, yeah. And it would be eighty if they had icy soles.” Clear bottoms are a bitch to clean. “Cleaning kits aren’t cheap. Besides, you’re obviously making big money if you can buy those.”

Khalil sips his drink like I didn’t say anything, mutters, “Damn, this shit strong,” and sets the cup on the coffee table. “Ay, tell your pops I need to holla at him soon. Some stuff going down that I need to talk to him ’bout.”

“What kinda stuff?”

“Grown folks business.”

“Yeah, ’cause you’re so grown.”

“Five months, two weeks, and three days older than you.” He winks. “I ain’t forgot.”

A commotion stirs in the middle of the dance floor. Voices argue louder than the music. Cuss words fly left and right.

My first thought? Kenya walked up on Denasia like she promised. But the voices are deeper than theirs.

Pop!A shot rings out. I duck.

Pop!A second shot. The crowd stampedes toward the door, which leads to more cussing and fighting since it’s impossible for everybody to get out at once.

Khalil grabs my hand. “C’mon.”

There are way too many people and way too much curly hair for me to catch a glimpse of Kenya. “But Kenya—”

“Forget her, let’s go!”

He pulls me through the crowd, shoving people out our way and stepping on shoes. That alone could get us some bullets. I look for Kenya among the panicked faces, but still no sign of her. I don’t try to see who got shot or who did it. You can’t snitch if you don’t know anything.

Cars speed away outside, and people run into the night in any direction where shots aren’t firing off. Khalil leads me to a Chevy Impala parked under a dim streetlight. He pushes me in through the driver’s side, and I climb into the passenger seat. We screech off, leaving chaos in the rearview mirror.

“Always some shit,” he mumbles. “Can’t have a party without somebody getting shot.”

He sounds like my parents. That’s exactly why they don’t let me “go nowhere,” as Kenya puts it. At least not around Garden Heights.

I send Kenya a text, hoping she’s all right. Doubt those bullets were meant for her, but bullets go where they wanna go.

Kenya texts back kinda quick.

I’m fine.

I see that bitch tho. Bout to handle her ass.

Where u at?

Is this chick for real? We just ran for our lives, and she’s ready to fight? I don’t even answer that dumb shit.

Khalil’s Impala is nice. Not all flashy like some guys’ cars. I didn’t see any rims before I got in, and the front seat has cracks in the leather. But the interior is a tacky lime green, so it’s been customized at some point.

I pick at a crack in the seat. “Who you think got shot?”

Khalil gets his hairbrush out the compartment on the door. “Probably a King Lord,” he says, brushing the sides of his fade. “Some Garden Disciples came in when I got there. Something was bound to pop off.”

I nod. Garden Heights has been a battlefield for the past two months over some stupid territory wars. I was born a “queen” ’cause Daddy used to be a King Lord. But when he left the game, my street royalty status ended. But even if I’d grown up in it, I wouldn’t understand fighting over streets nobody owns.

Khalil drops the brush in the door and cranks up his stereo, blasting an old rap song Daddy has played a million times. I frown. “Why you always listening to that old stuff?”

“Man, get outta here! Tupac was the truth.”

“Yeah, twenty years ago.”

“Nah, even now. Like, check this.” He points at me, which means he’s about to go into one of his Khalil philosophical moments. “’Pac said Thug Life stood for ‘The Hate U Give Little Infants Fucks Everybody.’”

I raise my eyebrows. “What?”

“Listen! The Hate U—the letter U—Give Little Infants Fucks Everybody. T-H-U-G L-I-F-E. Meaning what society give us as youth, it bites them in the ass when we wild out. Get it?”

“Damn. Yeah.”

“See? Told you he was relevant.” He nods to the beat and raps along. But now I’m wondering what he’s doing to “fuck everybody.” As much as I think I know, I hope I’m wrong. I need to hear it from him.

“So why have you really been busy?” I ask. “A few months ago Daddy said you quit the store. I haven’t seen you since.”

He scoots closer to the steering wheel. “Where you want me to take you, your house or the store?”

“Khalil—”

“Your house or the store?”

“If you’re selling that stuff—”

“Mind your business, Starr! Don’t worry ’bout me. I’m doing what I gotta do.”

“Bullshit. You know my dad would help you out.”

He wipes his nose before his lie. “I don’t need help from nobody, okay? And that li’l minimum-wage job your pops gave me didn’t make nothing happen. I got tired of choosing between lights and food.”

“I thought your grandma was working.”

“She was. When she got sick, them clowns at the hospital claimed they’d work with her. Two months later, she wasn’t pulling her load on the job, ’cause when you’re going through chemo, you can’t pull big-ass garbage bins around. They fired her.” He shakes his head. “Funny, huh? The hospital fired her ’cause she was sick.”

It’s silent in the Impala except for Tupac asking who do you believe in? I don’t know.

My phone vibrates again, probably either Chris asking for forgiveness or Kenya asking for backup against Denasia. Instead, my big brother’s all-caps texts appear on the screen. I don’t know why he does that. He probably thinks it intimidates me. Really, it annoys the hell out of me.

WHERE R U?

U AND KENYA BETTER NOT BE @ THAT PARTY.

I HEARD SOMEBODY GOT SHOT.

The only thing worse than protective parents is protective older brothers. Even Black Jesus can’t save me from Seven.

Khalil glances over at me. “Seven, huh?”

“How’d you know?”

“’Cause you always look like you wanna punch something when he talks to you. Remember that time at your birthday party when he kept telling you what to wish for?”

“And I popped him in his mouth.”

“Then Natasha got mad at you for telling her ‘boyfriend’ to shut up,” Khalil says, laughing.

I roll my eyes. “She got on my nerves with her crush on Seven. Half the time, I thought she came over just to see him.”

“Nah, it was because you had the Harry Potter movies. What we used to call ourselves? The Hood Trio. Tighter than—”

“The inside of Voldemort’s nose. We were so silly for that.”

“I know, right?” he says.

We laugh, but something’s missing from it. Someone’s missing from it. Natasha.

Khalil looks at the road. “Crazy it’s been six years, you know?”

A whoop-whoop sound startles us, and blue lights flash in the rearview mirror.



Starr witnesses the fatal shooting of her childhood best friend Khalil at the hands of a police officer. Now, facing pressure from all sides of the community, Starr must find her voice and stand up for what's right.

Release Date: October 5, 2018
Release Time: 133 minutes

Director: George Tillman Jr.

Cast:
Amandla Stenberg as Starr Carter
Regina Hall as Lisa Carter
Russell Hornsby as Maverick Carter
Algee Smith as Khalil Harris
Lamar Johnson as Seven Carter
Issa Rae as April Ofrah
KJ Apa as Chris Bryant
Common as Carlos
Anthony Mackie as King
Dominique Fishback as Kenya
Sabrina Carpenter as Hailey Grant
Megan Lawless as Maya Yang
TJ Wright as Sekani Carter
Drew Starkey as Brian MacIntosh Jr.

Awards:
50th NAACP Image Awards - March 30, 2019
Outstanding Motion Picture - The Hate U Give - Nominated
Outstanding Actress - Amandla Stenberg - Won
Outstanding Supporting Actor - Russell Hornsby - Nominated
Outstanding Supporting Actress - Regina Hall - Nominated
Outstanding Ensemble Cast - The Cast of The Hate U Give - Nominated






Angie Thomas

Angie Thomas is the author of the award-winning, #1 New York Times bestselling Nic Blake and the Remarkables series, The Hate U Give, On the Come Up, and Concrete Rose as well as Find Your Voice: A Guided Journal for Writing Your Truth. She is also a coauthor of the bestselling collaborative novels Blackout, Whiteout, and Breakout. A former teen rapper who holds a BFA in creative writing, Angie divides her time between her native Mississippi, and Atlanta.


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