She takes a deep breath. Gives me an uncomfortable smile. “So we didn’t do a good job of pretending everything is normal?”
“Uh, not quite.”
My mother plays with her wedding ring, twisting it around and around her finger. “There’s no graceful way to say this.… Your aunt is fresh off a stint in rehab. Her longest one yet.”
My eyebrows go up. “Rehab? For alcohol?”
“For… a lot of things.” She pauses. “I don’t feel comfortable telling Carlene’s story for her, but I didn’t want you to be in the dark since she’s staying here.”
“Is that why I haven’t seen her in so many years?”
Mom nods.
“How long? Since I’ve seen her?”
“You would’ve been young… really young,” my mother says, looking down at her hands.
“You said ‘her longest one yet.’ How many times has she been in and out of rehab?”
“I’m not sure, Birdie. She’s been dealing with substance abuse issues for a while.”
“How long?” I feel like a broken record.
Mom pauses and doesn’t look at me when she says, “Since she was your age.”
I didn’t know anyone in our family had addiction issues. Isn’t that supposed to run in families? My parents aren’t big drinkers, but they often have a glass of wine with dinner or to relax afterward. And my father always has a beer with his Thai food. Except I remember that he didn’t tonight.
I don’t drink. Like my mother, my ex-boyfriend, Mitchell, didn’t like parties, so we never went to any—not the ones thrown by kids at our school nor at Laz’s. Mitchell always said we were too smart to hang out with people who deliberately got wasted on the weekends, and I never challenged him because it was easier to stay quiet.
“Like I said, it’s not my place to tell her story,” Mom says, and I wonder if my emotions are cycling across my face as rapidly as they’re traveling through my head. “But you’re old enough to know.”
I nod. And I’m secretly pleased that my mother thinks I’m old enough to be let in on what has been a family secret up until now. I wonder if Mimi knows. The part of me that never gets to experience anything first takes pleasure in maybe knowing before her, but I doubt that’s the case. Mimi knows everything.
Mom kisses me good night for the second time this evening and closes the door softly behind her.
I turn off my lamp and close my eyes, but I’m not tired at all. Especially not now. I can’t get my mother’s tone out of my head. She was trying to sound neutral, but it landed somewhere between judgmental and disappointed. If she feels that way about her own sister, how would she feel if I told her about Booker? All about him. As much as I’ve tried to tell myself she might surprise me, I don’t think she would.
So I can’t say anything. Not yet.
I look at my phone to see if he’s texted again, but he hasn’t. His last message is still there on the lock screen, marked as unread.
You could always sneak out
I don’t want to leave him hanging until tomorrow. But I don’t want to say the wrong thing. If I keep giving excuses for why I can’t meet up with him, he might stop asking to see me.
I take a deep breath, type as fast as I can, and send the text before I can think too much about it:
How about tomorrow?
THE PERSON WHO KNOWS ME BEST IN THIS WORLD IS MIMI, BUT SINCE SHE’S my sister, that’s always seemed like a bit of a default. Of course we don’t have to be close just because we’re related—my mom and Aunt Carlene are proof of that—but it’s always been easier to work with her than against her.
There was a noticeable gap in my life when Mimi went away to school in Wisconsin just before I started my freshman year. We still text and video chat, and e-mail sometimes, too—but it’s not the same as having her here every day. We didn’t even get to be at high school together.
Thank god for Laz. He’s the one I choose to let know me best, and I don’t know what I’d do without him. We’ve been best friends since second grade when his mom, Ayanna, went into business with my mother to open the hair salon. They met in cosmetology school and became fast friends, both working at other salons for a few years before they decided to take the plunge and go into business for themselves. Laz and I circled each other curiously the first couple of times we were both at the salon, and after we got over our shyness, we could barely stand to be apart.
He goes to another school, so we only get to see each other on weekends and afternoons sometimes. Laz is on the water polo team, which always takes up a lot of his spring semester. Stowing our books and breaking from practice is always the sign that summer has officially begun. And it means that we finally get to see each other when we want to during the week.
I text him the morning after my aunt arrives to tell him I need his help seeing Booker.
He takes a while to respond. I picture him emerging from his crumpled bedsheets, blackout shades blocking the sun so the phone’s glow is the only light in his room.
Tell me what you need to me to do
Too tired to think
I tell him I want to sneak out and need to say that I’m with him. I finish making my bed as I wait for him to wake up, pulling the sheets tight over the mattress and fluffing the pillows like I’ve been doing every morning since I can remember.
Can’t wait till this weekend? Easier for you to get out then
I slip on my loafers and hook my bookbag over my shoulder as I text him back:
I can’t wait
There’s a long pause before his next text, and I tap my foot against the rug, hoping Laz isn’t falling back to sleep. He likes Booker, but I don’t think he ever expected us to get involved. I know he didn’t. He’s introduced me to lots of his friends and I’ve never been interested in any of them. Even after Mitchell broke up with me a few months ago, I didn’t think I’d meet anyone new. Not so soon, anyway. Maybe it’s more that I couldn’t trust myself to know what I really wanted. I thought I wanted Mitchell for the year and a half we were together, but now I think maybe I just liked the way we looked on paper. Or maybe I liked the idea of someone who told me they wanted me, even if his actions didn’t always match his words.
K, let me know what our fake plans are
I never do things like this, and I can’t believe how good it feels.
I smile so big that my mother asks why I’m so happy when I head out to school.
The day is long and uneventful, and I’m counting down the minutes until I can see Booker as I sit down to dinner.
We decided to meet at the library. It’s foolproof. Laz and I study together sometimes, and it’s a place my parents are comfortable letting me go by myself at night. But that excuse won’t work this summer. Not even people who are great at school want to spend time studying when it’s out of session. Not even those of us who happen to be enrolled in SAT prep courses.
I saw my aunt at breakfast this morning and I braced myself for another awkward meal, but my father had already left for work and my mother seemed more relaxed than last night. Maybe she’s getting used to Aunt Carlene being here. Mom made her eggs, and when she set the plate in front of her sister, my aunt looked up with raised eyebrows and said, “Just the way I like them.” Mom shrugged and said, “Who else likes their eggs so runny?” But there was a comfort between them that put me at ease.
My aunt is nowhere to be found when dinner is served, though. I wonder if this will please Mom, but she is anxious again. Maybe more so than when Aunt Carlene arrived unannounced. She keeps tapping the tines of her fork against her plate absentmindedly, barely touching her pasta.
When Dad is halfway through his meal, he gets up and goes to the fridge and pulls out a beer. Mom doesn’t notice until he sits back down, and I don’t miss the sharp look she gives him.
“Raymond, we talked about this.”
His fingers are squeezed around the bottle cap, but he doesn’t open it. “She’s not here. And what difference does it ma
ke? The beer has been in there since last night. She’s the sober one, Kitty, not me.”
It’s always been strange to me that my mother goes by the name Kitty. She’s the only person who calls me Birdie, but everyone calls her Kitty. Short for Katrina, which I guess makes sense. Still, she’s too serious to have such a cutesy nickname.
I take a drink of water, and both their eyes slide to me. Now that I’m old enough to know this sort of business, I wonder if they’ll keep talking. I wonder if I will be around when my mother proposes to no longer keep alcohol in the house, because I’m pretty sure that’s where this is headed. And I’m pretty sure my father is going to put up a fight.
She changes the subject. “Where is it you’re going with Laz tonight, Birdie?”
“Just the library.”
“Extra credit?” She frowns, running over her mental snapshot of my calendar, color-coded by classes. Which is front and center on the fridge, just in case she forgets.
“No, I’ve turned in everything. But Laz has two more weeks. He has to study for exams and I figured I’d help him, since I’m still technically in school.”
“That’s nice of you,” she says. Approvingly, but not surprised.
Across the table, Dad pops the top on his beer with a fizz.
I change out of my school uniform after dinner. I want to look good for Booker, but I don’t want to dress too nicely since I’m supposed to be meeting Laz. Mom already seems on high alert with Aunt Carlene—I don’t want to give her a reason to start watching me, too.
I decide on a gray sundress with pink and white flowers, and cover my shoulders with my denim jacket. My aunt still isn’t home when I kiss my mother goodbye, and I can tell she’s starting to get worried.
At the station, I walk to the far end of the train platform, and when the “L” arrives, I get into the first car, just like my mom always tells me to do if I’m riding alone. She says at least that way I’m as close to the conductor as possible if something goes wrong. The car is nearly empty when I get on.
My palms sweat as I think about Booker. I feel braver the farther I am from him. Not in what I say, but in what I think, too. It’s as if the closer the train takes me to him, the better he will be able to read my thoughts. Like how I think about touching him all the time, and that’s new for me. Everything I did with Mitchell felt like we were checking off boxes on a high school relationship chart from the 1950s. Chaste and uninspired.
Booker and I do meet at the library, but we have no intentions of going in. I exit the train and cross the street and see him leaning against the wall in front of the doors. Even in the twilight, I can tell that it’s him. Booker is a large guy—stocky and strong with broad shoulders and big hands.
He stands up straight when he sees me coming. I clutch the strap of my bookbag tight against my chest as I walk. My heart speeds as I get closer and make out his features—his lips curving into a wide smile, the tight curls of his chunky Afro illuminated by the halo of light he’s stepped into.
“You really did it,” he says when I’m standing in front of him, smiling like he can’t believe I’m actually here.
“I told you I would.”
We don’t touch, but we’re just inches away from each other. All I’ve been thinking about since the last time I saw him is touching him, and now that I’m here, I can’t. Not first, anyway. I become a little less shy each time I see him, but this is only the third time. And it’s the first without Laz acting as our accidental chaperone.
Booker reaches toward me just as the heavy library door bursts open. A mom walks out with two young kids bouncing behind her, each holding a stack of picture books high above their heads. We step out of the way, out of the light, and watch them go, Booker’s hand at my elbow.
When their silhouettes are just indiscernible spots in the distance, Booker’s fingers make their way from my elbow and up the back of my arm, rubbing lightly. My stomach flips and my limbs fill with heat and I wonder if anyone will ever make me feel the way Booker makes me feel. There is still so much we haven’t done, but I am sure this is special.
He kisses me, and just like each time before, I am surprised at how good he is at this. I only have Mitchell to compare him to, but nothing we ever did made me feel so deliciously weak. Truly, it’s like my arms and legs have forgotten how to move, sustained only by the warmth of Booker’s touch.
I stumble. Not a lot, but enough to make him catch me softly by the shoulders and ask if I’m okay.
I nod. “I’m just—” I stop, feeling silly.
“What?” he asks, looking at me as if he can’t make it through the night without knowing my thoughts.
“I’m just happy. Here. With you.”
Booker smiles a soft smile. “I’m happy with you, too.” Then he pauses and licks his lips like he’s nervous, and I ready myself for the but. Only there isn’t one. “Do you want to come over? My dad works graveyard. Won’t be home till morning.”
The look on his face is so hopeful, so sweet I wish I could give him the answer he wants. But I know myself. The nerves from lying to my parents are still pulsing beneath my skin like electric currents. If I take this deception any further, I might actually explode.
I shake my head. “I can’t.”
“Not even if I promise to have you back by curfew?”
“I only have a couple of hours and…” I pause, tugging at the hem of his T-shirt. “It was a big deal for me to get out of the house. I’m afraid to jinx it.”
“Your folks super religious or something?”
“No, just… protective. They have a lot of rules,” I say. “About who I can spend time with, and where. They’re not super accepting of people they haven’t known for a while.”
“Oh,” he says. “Will it help that I’ve known Laz for a couple of years now?”
“Can we not talk about my parents? I’d rather get frozen yogurt.”
He laughs, a full one that emerges from deep inside. “Frozen yogurt, huh? You are a rebel, Dove.”
“I don’t know when it became cool to start hating on frozen yogurt, but I’m not crossing over to the dark side.”
“When was it ever cool to like frozen yogurt?”
I poke him in the shoulder. He leans down to kiss me.
Booker rides the train home with me after frozen yogurt. I tell him he doesn’t have to, that I can get home by myself, but he insists. I hope it’s because he doesn’t want to say goodbye. Does he get that same yearning that lingers in me? As if a part of my brain is already thinking about having to leave him as soon as we meet? Maybe he is just lonely, with his father working all night.
Or maybe it’s a little bit of both.
“There’s a party this weekend,” he says, lightly tapping my knee. “Saturday night. You should come.”
My heart speeds, but it’s not all excitement. Of course I’m happy that he asked me—that he wants to see me again even after I declined to go back to his house. He still likes me even though the only thing we did was sit in a frozen yogurt shop and talk.
But parties are off-limits—unless my mother knows the parents and knows that one of them will be there. It’s always been like that, and it was never an issue with Mitchell because he never wanted to go to any of the unsupervised ones in the first place.
“Yeah,” I say. “Sure. Maybe.”
I’m sitting as close to him as I can without sitting on him, and I feel him deflate. Just a bit, but his body sags, the same way it did when I told him I couldn’t go to his house. I hate disappointing him, especially since I want to go more than he knows.
“It’s just… my parents. But I’ll figure something out, okay?”
“Okay,” he says, and I try not to think about how I might have to disappoint him no matter how much I try not to.
I wonder what Booker and I look like to other people. As if we go together? Like we should call each other boyfriend and girlfriend? I slip my hand into his and watch my deep brown skin disappear beneath the sm
ooth dark brown of his fingers.
“Tell me how you got your name,” I say, hoping the subject change will boost the mood.
“You really want to hear this?”
“You’re the only person I know with a more confusing name than mine.”
He laughs. “All right. So it was a big fight between my parents. My old man wanted to name me something like Jonathan or Matthew, but Mom wasn’t having it. Said she wanted to give me a special name. Something that’d set me apart.”
Booker rolls his eyes, but I say, “Keep going.”
“I mean, that’s it, right? Like Booker T. Washington.” He shrugs. “People love it.”
“But why Booker?”
He hesitates, and I hope I haven’t pushed him too far. Maybe he doesn’t want to talk about his mother.
I squeeze his hand. “It’s okay. We don’t have to—”
“She liked that he put education first. She said she knew the minute she was pregnant with me that someday I’d ‘effect some real change.’ Her words, not mine.” Booker smiles a little. “And that was that. Imagine, having a baby named Booker.”
“I bet you were a cute baby.”
He grins now. “I was all right.”
The train whirs along the tracks, and I think how strange it is to feel comfortable with someone new. And how it is stranger to have someone else in my social circle besides Laz. Mitchell was there for a good while, but I haven’t seen him outside of school for months now. Do two people even count as a social circle? Well, it’s a triangle now.
“It was worth it,” I say when we are one stop from mine.
Booker looks at me. “What?”
“Sneaking out to meet you. It was worth it.”
“Yeah?” he says.
“Yeah.”
I hold tight to his hand, trying not to think about how I probably won’t be able to see him many more times.
Not once my parents find out he’s been in juvenile detention.
The Revolution of Birdie Randolph Page 2
