“Thank you.” Carlene’s fingers don’t miss a beat.
“You did her last set, too?”
“Yeah, I don’t want to be messing around at that school any longer than I have to, so I’m trying to get them perfect.”
Ayanna leans in. “They look pretty damn close.”
Carlene glances at her. “Want me to hook you up?”
“Oh.” Ayanna runs her fingers through her thick straight hair. “I haven’t worn braids in years. Probably not even this decade. Won’t they look too young?”
“Come on, Ayanna. You fine as hell. You’ve always looked good with any style.”
And I think I can count on one hand the number of times Ayanna has been visibly flustered, but I swear, her brown skin flushes a bit. Honestly, she looks like she’s trying not to giggle. “Stop that.”
“I’m serious,” Carlene says. “Look, let me do them for you sometime, and if you don’t like it we’ll take them right out.”
Ayanna cocks her head to the side. “Are you trying to bribe me so I won’t tell Kitty you broke into our shop?”
“Maybe. Is it working?”
“Maybe.” Ayanna clears her throat and looks at the clock over the front desk. “My first appointment is in ten minutes, and I don’t want anyone telling Kitty you were working in here. Can you move this operation upstairs?”
We do, cleaning up the station and sneaking out back just as the bell above the front door jangles.
BOOKER BRINGS FLOWERS AND A SWEATING PINT OF FROZEN YOGURT, AND they are the best gifts anyone has ever given me.
“I got black cherry,” he says as I greet him at the building door. “That’s what you had when we went that time. And I know the flowers aren’t fancy, but—”
I wrap my arms around his neck and my lips are on his before he can say another word. We text every single day, but I haven’t seen him since the Pride parade, and finally, I get to kiss him. We’re in the staircase that leads up from the building door, a long cubicle of privacy before we get to the front door of the apartment. He pulls away, smiles at me, and then kisses me again. I want to wrap my entire body around him, but we have to stop kissing at some point so he can go up and meet Carlene.
“New braids?” he says as we part.
“Do you like them?” I spent so much time trying to figure out what to wear—eventually deciding on my shortest, softest cutoffs and a gauzy white tank with embroidered detailing across the chest—that I almost forgot he’d be seeing my new braids, too.
Carlene wove in tiny, precise plaits among the thicker ones this time and my scalp is still screaming, but they look so good I keep going to the bathroom mirror to stare at them.
“Yeah. I do.” He slides the end of a thick braid between his thumb and forefinger. “They’re real dope.”
“My aunt did them. Are you nervous to meet her?” I ask as we walk up the stairs together.
Booker laughs a little. “Should I be?”
“I don’t think so. Carlene seems tough, but she’s really kind of soft underneath.”
My parents would be waiting in the living room like the receiving line at a wedding, but Carlene is still bumping around in the kitchen. She came home from her AA meeting with two paper bags of groceries and said she was going to cook for us. She ordered me to stay out of the kitchen and wouldn’t tell me what she’s making, but it started smelling good about twenty minutes ago.
“Booker’s here,” I call out, still unsure if I’m allowed in the kitchen.
I guess not because Carlene walks out, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She smiles up at him as she says, “So, this is the famous Booker. I’m curious, what are your intentions with my niece?”
Booker’s forehead puckers. “Uhh… ma’am?”
“Carlene!”
“I’m kidding,” she says with a laugh. “I just wanted to see how he’d react. Good manners. I’m Carlene.”
Booker looks thoroughly unsettled, his eyes shifting from me to her before he says, “Nice to meet you. I brought these.”
“Good flowers, too.” She takes the bouquet he hands over. “Shasta daisies.”
They are a gorgeous deep purple with a yellow center, and I think he brought them to butter up Carlene, but it still feels like a milestone, a guy bringing over flowers. Mitchell didn’t have to suck up to my parents—his GPA did all the work for him.
Carlene takes the flowers and frozen yogurt to the kitchen and tells us we’re not allowed in until dinner is ready.
I give Booker a tour of the apartment, even though it means walking him past the embarrassing line of childhood photos in the hallway. Mimi’s cover one side with mine taking up the other.
Booker leans in to stare at them, grinning. “This is you?”
The photos are one of my mother’s favorite projects, and she never misses a year, so there are framed pictures of me since I was a baby cascading down the wall.
“That’s me.” I tug his arm so we can move on, but he doesn’t budge.
“You look exactly the same. Always been a cutie,” he says, which makes me flush. “What happened to that gap in your teeth?”
“Braces. Come on,” I say, pulling him along.
I keep my room pretty neat, but I’m glad I spent some extra time on it today because Booker looks at everything. He studies the old pictures of Laz and me, looks surprised and impressed at all my soccer trophies, and stops to examine my dresser top full of jewelry.
“Why don’t you ever wear earrings?” he asks, staring at the line of necklaces and bracelets.
“What?”
He walks over and rubs his thumb and forefinger lightly over my earlobe. “Your ears are pierced, but you never wear earrings.”
“Oh. My mom pierced them when I was a baby, but she only lets me wear studs, so I usually don’t even bother.” I shrug. “Studs are boring.”
My parents’ bedroom door is closed, but Carlene’s is open and Booker sticks his head in. I check it out, too. I haven’t been in here since Carlene first moved in, but it still looks mostly like Mimi’s room. Carlene’s few belongings—shoes, her backpack, and long bundles of hair for braiding—are stacked neatly on the floor and desk. It smells like Carlene now: a little bit like cigarettes but mostly like vanilla and jasmine.
Carlene announces dinner is ready and when we get to the dining room, she’s already placed the serving dishes on the table, which she also set. She’s done everything tonight, but she looks almost energized from the task. I wonder why she hasn’t cooked for us before now.
“It’s chicken and mushroom marsala,” she says, instructing us to sit down as she serves. “I haven’t made it in a while, but it used to be my specialty.”
Booker nods approvingly at the heaping spoonfuls of chicken, roasted potatoes, and sautéed Swiss chard she loads on his plate.
“You look like you can eat,” Carlene says, stopping only when his plate is bursting at the sides.
“Haven’t turned down a meal yet. Thank you, Ms. Carlene.”
She smiles at the formality but doesn’t correct him. I take about half of what Booker has, and after Carlene serves herself, we all dig in. It looks and smells delicious, but I’ve never tasted Carlene’s food and I’m nervous for her. I know she wants Booker to like it, but I think she might want to impress me, too.
“Hoo boy,” Booker says after he finishes his first bite of chicken. “Dove didn’t tell me you could cook like this.”
Carlene squints at him, her fork paused in the air. “You trying to flatter me?”
“This is real good, Ms. Carlene. For real, I haven’t had food like this since my mom died.”
“Come on now.”
He takes another bite, chews, and nods hard. “This tastes like home.”
It is very good, and as I tell her so, I wonder why my mother has never mentioned Carlene can cook. I keep hearing about all the things she’s done wrong, but no one wants to talk about what she’s good at.
My aunt dips her head a
s if she’s embarrassed, but she smiles a little after her first bite, like she’s impressed herself, too.
Dinner is easy with Booker and my aunt. Her questions are light and fun, like she’s just trying to get to know him—like he’s any other guy I would bring home to meet my family. I hold my breath whenever the subject changes, but she doesn’t say anything about his time in juvie, and of course he doesn’t bring it up, either. He definitely scores more points when he asks for seconds.
“Anybody ready for dessert?” Carlene asks when we’ve finished eating. All the dishes and our plates are left with only scraps—there’s not even enough for leftovers. “That frozen yogurt might be calling my name.”
“See!” I say, lightly swatting Booker’s arm. “People like frozen yogurt.”
“That must run in y’all’s family,” he teases. Then he groans, leaning back as he rubs his stomach. “I’m too full.”
“Me too,” I say.
We all take our dishes to the sink, even Booker, who refuses to be treated like a guest. Carlene won’t let us help her clean up, though.
“Go hang out,” she says. “I got this.”
“What’s that door?” Booker points across the room.
I look over. “That goes up to the rooftop deck.”
He shakes his head in disbelief. “You have a rooftop deck?”
“Let’s go up,” I say, crossing the room to open the door.
Carlene says my name as I turn on the light in the staircase. I turn around.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?”
She doesn’t sound upset, but it makes me anxious anyway, that she wants to talk to me without Booker. “Sure,” I say, then turn to him. “It’s just right up there. I’ll be up in a minute.”
He takes the steps two at a time, then I hear him say “Goddamn” when he opens the door at the top and steps outside to the stars.
I look at Carlene as the upper door bumps closed. “What’s up?”
She picks up a green potholder from the counter and begins fiddling with it. “Look, I know you’re going to do what you want to do anyway, right?”
I frown. “What?”
“You’re sixteen, and if you’re not hooking up here, you’re going to hook up somewhere else.” She sighs. “So you might as well do it in the safety of your own home.”
“Are you telling me to have sex tonight?” My skin burns, saying the words aloud.
“I saw the way you two were looking at each other,” she says, waving the potholder at me. “I’m just saying, if the inevitable is going to happen anyway, he might as well spend the night.”
“I’m not hooking up anywhere. We… we haven’t had sex yet.”
“But you’re going to…?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. We came close once, but I wasn’t ready then.”
She squints at me. “Wait. Are you a virgin?”
“Yes. Mitchell and I never had sex. Even after a year and a half. But I want to with Booker, so…” My eyes slide away from her. I didn’t think it would be tonight—I didn’t know when it would be, just that it would probably happen. But now that I have the green light, it feels possible. It feels like we have to take advantage of getting to spend an uninterrupted, approved evening together. I don’t know when the next one will be—or if there will be another one at all.
“Are you on the pill?” Carlene asks.
I shake my head. My mother has never even mentioned it; we had the sex talk back in fifth grade, but she never talked about the future, as if she was positive I’d never be having sex while I was still under her roof. And then, when I was older, it’s like she knew Mitchell and I would never go that far, even though she seemed to have our whole romantic future planned from the second we met.
Carlene clears her throat and it sounds too loud in the quiet kitchen. “I can take you next week,” she says. “To get a prescription… if you want.”
“Oh.”
“I’m not encouraging you to have sex,” she says. “But I know how Kitty can be about these things, and I’m trying to be realistic. Before you have to have another conversation—a harder one.”
“She’ll know if we go to my doctor,” I say. “They’ll send a bill.”
“Then we’ll go to Planned Parenthood. Even better.” She pauses. “If you do end up sleeping with him tonight, promise you’ll use protection.”
“I promise.” I hope Booker has something with him. If we decide that’s what we want to do.
“Good girl. Now go on up there and keep that boy company. You want some tea?”
“Maybe later.” I put my hand on the doorknob but turn to Carlene before I head up. “You like him? Even knowing what happened with him and his coach?”
“I like him a lot,” she says. “Just about everyone I roll with has a past, Dove. So do I. I can’t judge people based on their mistakes. Not when they can see how they’ve hurt people and are trying to grow. He’s trying to grow, right?”
I nod. “He’s in therapy and he had to take anger management classes.”
“Then that’s the best anyone can do.”
Carlene’s words follow me up to the roof.
Booker is standing by the railing, illuminated by the string of white lights woven through the slats. He looks over his shoulder when he hears the door shut behind me. “Man, I can’t believe you get to live here. Look at this,” he says, gesturing to the night sky, the moon, the glittering lights of the sky-high buildings in the distance.
I smile as I come up behind him and wrap my arms around his middle. “We can stay up here as long as you want. And… can you tell your dad you’re spending the night at Laz’s?”
He turns to look at me, his mouth quirking up in a soft smile. “We gonna have another sleepover?”
“Yes. If you want.” I gaze down at my feet shyly, but Booker cups my face in his big warm hands, gently forcing me to look up.
His lips brush against both my cheeks, then my mouth.
“Yes,” he murmurs before he kisses me again. “I want.”
BOOKER LOOKS TOO BIG FOR MY BEDROOM.
Or maybe it’s just that there’s a boy in here—a boy that I want to kiss—when my parents aren’t home. It still feels a bit like this might blow up in my face, like Mom and Dad will return tonight with no warning and ground me for the rest of my life. Or that Ayanna will drop by unexpectedly and call my parents and, when they get back, I’ll be grounded for the rest of my life. But the apartment is quiet, other than the sound of the TV from the living room, where Carlene is eating frozen yogurt and watching a movie.
And here, right now, it’s just Booker and me.
“You sure it’s okay if I stay over?” He looks at me as he leans against my dresser, hands stuffed in his pockets.
The only light is from my bedside lamp; it sends long shadows stretching across the room.
I’m sitting on the edge of my bed with my palms pressed to my knees. “Carlene won’t change her mind.”
Booker bites his lip as he looks at me. “No, I mean… is it okay with you?”
“Yes, of course…”
… but I’m nervous. Not just that my parents will come back early, but that I’m finally ready to have sex. Maybe that would have happened with Mitchell, too. I’ll never know. It scares me that what I want is so clear, because I know it’s something my mother wouldn’t approve of. But I’m doing what I want and I’m not second-guessing it, and that feels huge. Still, I wonder if this is normal, how we seem to be on the same page less and less, or if there’s something about this summer that’s speeding along the separation.
“But?” Booker says.
“No but. I want you to stay.” I pat the bed.
The mattress sinks under his weight, and for a few moments we are so quiet I can hear him breathing.
“Booker?” I take a deep breath. “How many girls have you been with?”
“Two,” he replies without hesitating. “Tasha was my first everything.”
“You
r first girlfriend?”
He nods.
“Why’d you break up?”
“She moved. Only to Evanston, but she had a new school and new friends, and then we just stopped making time for each other.”
“Do you miss her?”
Booker shrugs. “I don’t think about her a lot, I guess. Not anymore. I don’t really want to be friends with my exes. Too much drama.”
“Who was number two?” I don’t know why I’m asking this. I don’t want to think about Booker with other girls, but it’s hitting me that there’s still so much we don’t know about each other. Shouldn’t you know more about someone you decide to sleep with? Especially the first person?
“A girl named Cicely.” He looks down at his hands, like he’s embarrassed. “She’s a couple years older than me. A friend of the family. She was around a lot right after my mom died, so…”
“Right,” I say. Tasha and Cicely. I don’t know anything about them, but I feel like they couldn’t have liked Booker as much as I do.
“What about you?” he asks.
“Nobody. I’m a virgin.”
“Weren’t you with that guy for a while?” Booker sounds especially curious, and I guess he’s realizing there are still lots of things he doesn’t know about me, too.
“Mitchell? Yeah, but we didn’t sleep together. We barely did anything.” I pick at a stitch on my summer quilt. “He’s in my SAT class, which is kind of strange. It was definitely the right decision to break up.”
“He’s in your class?”
I nod.
“This whole time?”
“Yeah, I couldn’t believe it when he showed up the first day. Pretty much the last person I wanted to see.” But my heart thumps heavy. I guess it noticed how Booker’s voice changed, too.
“Oh.”
I put my hand on his. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s just kind of weird that you didn’t bring it up.” He sounds… not angry, but definitely unhappy. Annoyed. “You get to see him more than you see me.”
“I’m not seeing him. We’re just sitting in the same room. I mean, we went to lunch once, but trust me, there’s nothing there. He’s still so condescending.”
The Revolution of Birdie Randolph Page 14
