The Revolution of Birdie Randolph

by Brandy Colbert

  “Look, we don’t have to be friends,” Mitchell says, standing up. “We never really were good friends to each other, huh? I just don’t want you to think I was trying to use you. Because I wasn’t.”

  “And I… I’m sorry if you thought that’s what I was doing, too,” I say. “I guess I never felt good enough for you. Like I wasn’t smart enough or disciplined enough, and I kept wanting to prove myself the longer we were together.”

  He nods, and I think both of us are somewhat appeased and confused by our sudden openness. We never talked about what we were when we were actually together. We didn’t talk about much besides school, what we were going to do on the weekends, and our parents’ expectations.

  I’m almost to the door when I turn around and look at him again. “Thanks,” I say.

  “For what?” Mitchell shrugs. “I was just being honest.”

  “Exactly,” I say before I walk out of the room.

  Later that evening, my parents do something so rare it makes my eyes pop in surprise—they go on a date.

  I sit cross-legged on their bed while my mother is getting ready. She’s perched at the vanity, brushing rouge over her cheeks. It’s weird to see her wearing makeup. She doesn’t, usually, not besides mascara. But tonight she’s all done up, her lips stained plum and her eyelids lined.

  “What’s the occasion?” I know their anniversary isn’t until October because my father always panics about what to get her right around a week before Halloween, frantically combing through the list of traditional anniversary gifts with Mimi and me.

  “No occasion. We haven’t seen much of each other lately.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “A new Italian restaurant that opened in the West Loop. Your father saw a review in the Tribune and said he had to take me.” She blots her lips and examines her reflection.

  “You look pretty, Mom.”

  She smiles at me in the mirror. “Thank you, Birdie. You’ll be okay here with Carlene? I’ll leave some money for pizza, or maybe she can go pick up something for you two.”

  “We’ll be fine. I like her.”

  I can feel my mother still watching me, even after I look away.

  “What?” I finally say when she’s been quiet too long.

  “Nothing.” She smiles again, her lips a bit tighter this time. “That’s good, Birdie. Carlene likes you, too.”

  Carlene is tired and hungry, which makes her cranky. Today she went to braiding class and then an AA meeting when she got back to this side of town. We try to order a pizza, but there’s a Cubs game tonight and every place around us is slammed.

  “They won’t be able to deliver it for almost two hours,” she says after she hangs up with the third place.

  “Mom said you could go get something for us,” I suggest, feeling like I’m six years old.

  Carlene rolls her eyes. “And then it’ll be cold by the time I get back, and we’ll have a completely unsatisfying meal for no good reason.”

  “I guess we could make something.” I look nervously toward the kitchen.

  “Let’s go out.”

  “I can’t.” I hate being grounded.

  “They’ll never know you were gone. Come on.” Carlene is already sliding her shoes on. “We’ll go to that diner a couple of blocks away. Easy in, easy out, and we’ll have a good, hot meal.”

  I get the feeling this isn’t up for debate, so I grab my phone and the money off the table and follow her out the door.

  The sign at the front of the diner says to seat ourselves. Carlene and I scan the dining room, which is busier than I thought it would be. We find a booth next to the windows.

  “What’s good here?” my aunt asks after someone drops menus on the table.

  “I’ve never actually been in here,” I say, opening the plastic menu.

  “You’re kidding me. This is practically in your backyard.”

  “Mom always said it looked filthy.” And, actually, I can’t help noticing the grime around the windows and the chipped, faded tabletop.

  “Of course she did.”

  We’re still studying the menus when the diner door jingles open. The man who walks inside looks familiar, and it takes me a moment to realize it’s his shoulders. I’d recognize that stooped posture anywhere.

  “Your friend is here,” I say.

  Carlene turns around, her face lighting up as she spots him. “Emmett!”

  He turns almost suspiciously at his name, then his scowl drops when he sees us. My aunt waves him over, and he pauses for just a moment before he walks our way, hands deep in his pants pockets.

  “How y’all doing?” He’s skinny, and his voice is deeper than I expected—and raspy from cigarettes.

  “We’re okay,” Carlene says. “How are you? What’s wrong?”

  Emmett sighs. “My girl—”

  She shakes her head at him. “You aren’t supposed to be thinking about her right now.”

  “I know, but damn, Carl. I miss the shit out of her and—” He stops and glances at me. “Sorry. Hey, I’m gonna grab that table over there before—”

  “Nope. I’m not letting you sit alone when you’re like this.” She scoots across the booth and pats the seat next to her. “Join us.”

  He looks back and forth from her to me. “I don’t want to impose on y’all.”

  “You’re not imposing. We’re just having a quick dinner.” She nods toward me. “This is Dove. My niece.”

  “Hi.” I raise a hand in greeting and he seems to think that’s charming because he smiles and slides in next to my aunt.

  “Nice to meet you, Dove. I’m Emmett.” He extends a hand. It’s dry and warm and swallows mine when I shake it.

  They order coffee, then Carlene turns to him. “Are you talking to Deja?”

  He rubs a hand over his short hair and shrugs those heavy shoulders. “I’ve been calling… just keep getting her voicemail. How am I supposed to get through this without her?”

  “How are you supposed to get through this with her?” Carlene stares at him even though he’s looking at the table. “You know you shouldn’t be calling.”

  The waiter ambles over with their coffees and waters for all of us. Carlene orders a double cheeseburger, onion rings, and a piece of cherry pie for later. Emmett asks for a tuna melt, and I get French toast and bacon because we never have breakfast for dinner.

  “You know, I tell you things because you’re not my sponsor,” Emmett says to Carlene. “Sometimes I just need a friend.”

  She sighs. “I’m not judging you. But I’ve been there, and it never works out. You’re the one who’s going to end up suffering, not her.”

  “Why shouldn’t you be calling?” I break into their conversation. I’d never interrupt my parents and their friends like this, but Carlene and Emmett don’t seem like typical adults. I don’t think they’d be talking any differently if I weren’t sitting here.

  “Because I haven’t been sober long enough,” Emmett responds without hesitation.

  “Addiction can cause a lot of problems in relationships, and that can trigger a relapse—especially if you’re still in the early stages of recovery,” my aunt explains. “Everyone’s different, but the general rule is you shouldn’t jump into anything until you’ve been sober a year.”

  “A year?”

  “Yeah, doesn’t sound so easy, huh?” Emmett takes a long swig from his coffee cup. “I gotta wait six more months to be with the woman I love?”

  “If she’s the one for you, she’ll still be here in another six months,” Carlene says.

  “Can’t stand your practical ass,” Emmett grumbles.

  “Just trying to keep you on track like I know you’d do for me.”

  His eyes go down to his cup of coffee.

  I look at Carlene, wait for her to keep talking about the program, but she’s turned away, staring pensively out the window.

  My parents return after I’ve already gone to bed. I wake when I hear the front door b
anging open. My mother shushes my father and then there is soft laughter from them both.

  She opens my door and sticks her head in. I pretend to be asleep, but even so, she walks over to my bed and sits on the very edge. I can feel her looking at me and I want to open my eyes, but I don’t want to talk so I keep them closed. She smooths her palm over my forehead.

  “I love you, Birdie,” my mother whispers as she leans down to kiss my cheek. She smells like dark liquor and my father’s cologne.

  She sits on my bed for a moment longer, then straightens the covers over my shoulders and walks quietly out of the room.

  SATURDAYS ARE THE BUSIEST DAYS AT THE SHOP; APPOINTMENTS BOOK FAR in advance, all the seats in the waiting area are full by noon, and every station is occupied.

  I come down early to help get them ready for the day. Ayanna and my mother are sitting in the break room, talking quietly. The room doubles as a supply closet, and the card table is so small their knees practically touch underneath. They clam up right away when I stick my head in.

  Mom says good morning and Ayanna holds her arms out for a hug. She tells me Laz isn’t coming in today—something about an art festival in Old Town, but she doesn’t remember who he’s going with.

  I grab a stack of towels and text him immediately. He’s with Greg, which makes me smile. Even if I am jealous that I’m not spending my day with Booker.

  I stock the towels neatly at the sinks and then go back for more to put at each station. Mom and Ayanna don’t hear me coming, and just like I do with my mother and father, I creep silently to the door to listen. It’s instinct since no one ever tells me anything.

  “In a way, I think it’s been good for us,” Mom is saying. “Raymond has been so much more attentive and… affectionate.”

  Ew. Maybe I don’t want to hear this.

  But then Ayanna says, “See? Told you it wouldn’t be so bad with her here.”

  “But what about when it all falls apart? When she breaks down and has a drink? Or uses?”

  Ayanna sighs. “You don’t know that’s going to happen, Kitty.”

  “It’s going to happen.” My mother’s voice is forceful. “It always happens. And now Birdie is going to be around to see it and—God, Ayanna. What are we doing?”

  I creep backward, away from the break room door, until I reach the sinks. And then I stand there, staring at the floor, thinking about what my mother said. How can she be so positive Carlene is going to relapse? Just because she has before doesn’t mean this time won’t stick. Carlene sounded so disciplined when she was talking to Emmett. I really believe she doesn’t want to drink or get high again. Why is it so hard for my mother to see how she’s trying?

  Mom’s first appointment is Ms. Daugherty, who has a standing slot every other Saturday for a press and curl. She’s in her late seventies now and her hair is starting to thin, but she shows up every other week without fail, passing out butterscotch candies and complaining about her adult son she calls Buddy.

  I lead her back to the sinks and help her get settled in the chair. “Lean your head all the way back for me, Ms. Daugherty,” I say as nicely as I can.

  “How you doing, baby? You out of school yet?” Her voice is smooth as the candies she keeps in her purse.

  “Just for the summer,” I say, turning on the water. I test the temperature on the back of my hand before I use the sprayer to wet her silver strands. “I have two more years before college.”

  “You better go away,” she says. “Go out and see the world. There’s a lot more to it than Chicago.”

  “Have you ever lived anywhere else?” I reach for the shampoo and pour some in my palm, shutting off the water while I suds up her head.

  She chuckles and closes her eyes as my fingers massage her scalp. “Oh yes. I moved around so much when I was young, my mama called me the Wanderer. I was born here, in the Ida B. Wells Homes. They was the largest projects they’d built for black folks, and they only let upstanding people move in then. It was a real community there—everyone looking out for everyone. The gangs started showing up right around the time I left for school.… There’d always been gangs, but never ones that wanted to destroy our homes until they showed up.”

  I rinse out the suds and squirt a bit more shampoo in my hand for round two. I never want her to stop talking because Ms. Daugherty doesn’t take her cues from my mother. She says whatever she wants and she always gets away with it.

  “So I decided I’d get out and see the world. Got a scholarship to Oberlin to study the flute.”

  “You’re a musician?” This is the first time I’ve ever heard her talk about her younger years. Usually she’s so focused on Buddy, his family, and their troubles. Nothing about her or her past.

  “I was. I haven’t picked up my flute in years, but I was pretty darn good back then. Played in Europe and Canada and all around the United States.” She sighs, her eyes still closed. “Don’t you know I ended up back here in Cabrini-Green, where the crime was even worse than Ida B. Wells? They just kept shuffling us black folk around like they didn’t know what to do with us. Like we couldn’t do just fine on our own. But I traveled, baby. I got out and I saw the world, and you have to do that, too. With a name like Dove, you got to fly.”

  I reluctantly turn Ms. Daugherty over to Mom after I condition and towel-dry her hair. My mother asks me to make a coffee run, and I’m glad that all the customers already have their own. Putting in multiple, complicated orders at the coffee shop is my least favorite part of assisting.

  When I get back with Mom’s black coffee and Ayanna’s iced latte, the shop is full-on bustling. Every station is lined with a stylist and customer, and the front seats are filled with women patiently flipping through copies of Ebony and Essence and Black Enterprise.

  I hold out Mom’s change as I drop off her drink.

  She’s clutching a flat iron, getting ready to start pressing Ms. Daugherty’s freshly dried hair. “Can you stick it in my purse, Birdie?”

  I feel like everyone is watching me as I move through the shop. I wonder if they used the few minutes I was gone to discuss something scandalous. But what could it be? Even my mother looks somewhat amused, and she usually tries to be the good example for the salon.

  I stash the money in Mom’s wallet and slide it back into her purse. Then I turn around.

  And I scream.

  My sister is standing in the doorway with a smile so wide it’s practically cracking her heart-shaped face in half.

  “Mimi?” I try to say something else, but my mouth is stuck. My sister is here.

  “Hi, Dovie.”

  She scoops me up into a hug and I squeeze her back so hard that I worry I’ve hurt her when we pull away.

  “Miss me?” she says, laughing. I look immediately at her hair. She has a fresh fade, and it looks so good our mother couldn’t say anything bad about it if she tried.

  “You have no idea, Meems.” I squeeze her again, quickly this time. “How long are you here?”

  Behind her, our mother appears, and I understand her smile from earlier. She and Mimi may not get along all the time, but she likes having us both around. I think she feels like my sister will protect me, or that maybe I won’t be tempted to get in trouble when she’s here.

  “Just a few days. I came for Pride. It’s tomorrow.”

  “Will you stay in my room?” I ask, since Carlene is currently occupying hers. We have a pullout sofa in the living room, but I miss falling asleep next to Mimi. She never nodded off first, and it felt safe, having someone there. Like when my parents used to read me bedtime stories and I’d fall deep into dreamland before they got to the end.

  “Actually.” She pauses. “I’m staying with Ariel. She just got a new place.”

  “Oh,” I say. But I can’t blame her. Who wouldn’t want to stay there instead of in a crowded apartment where our mother notices everything?

  “We’ll see each other every day. So much that you’ll be sick of me. And”—she stops, glanci
ng back at our mother before she continues—“I want you to come to Pride with us.”

  Now I’m the one with the face-splitting grin. I’m older now, but this feels just as good as when she and Ariel invited me to Lollapalooza. “You do?”

  “Of course. If you want to go.”

  We both turn to Mom, who suddenly looks like she wishes she’d stayed with Ms. Daugherty.

  “I’m still grounded.”

  “This is, like, the longest grounding ever,” Mimi says. “And in the summer, too. Come on, Mom.”

  “I only have another week.” My eyes are still on our mother. “Haven’t I earned your trust again?”

  “I don’t know, Birdie,” she says. “Have you?”

  Yes. Except for that part about seeing Booker. And having dinner with Carlene and Emmett. But that was only two times in three weeks. And she doesn’t even know about any of it. Besides, I haven’t been around alcohol at all since the night she smelled it on me.

  “Mom, please. I never get to see Mimi. And I’ve never been to Pride. It’s, like, a cultural experience. I’ll be supporting Mimi and—” I stop just in time, before I blurt out Laz’s name. “Please?”

  I can see our mother doing the mental calculations: How much less will I respect her if she goes back on her punishment? But both of her daughters’ pleading faces are too much. She can’t say no, not with Mimi here. And no doubt some clients can overhear our conversation. She never wants to look mean or unreasonable in front of them.

  “Fine,” she says. “But consider yourself on probation for the next couple of weeks. I get to approve where you go and with whom.”

  “How is that any different from being grounded?”

  She raises her eyebrows. “Do you want to go to the parade or not?”

  “Thank you, Mom.”

  “Thank you, Mom,” Mimi echoes.

  We come up on either side of her and wrap our arms around her, creating a Mom sandwich. She’s so caught off guard at first that she’s stiff as a tree trunk in our arms. Then she laughs and relaxes and says, “You girls stop. Let me get back to work.”