The Revolution of Birdie Randolph

by Brandy Colbert

  “What do you think I am? Some kind of animal?” he murmurs back good-naturedly.

  “Hey, Dovie, sorry I’m late,” Dad says, giving me a quick hug and kiss on the cheek. “Got held up at the office.”

  “It’s okay. Dad, this is my friend Booker. Booker, this is my dad.”

  My father looks up at him with a friendly smile and pumps his hand heartily. “Good to meet you, Booker. Heard you’re friends with my main man Laz.”

  “Main man? Oh my god, Dad,” I say, putting my hand over my face.

  But Booker takes his utter dad-ness in stride and gives him a big grin and handshake back. “Good to meet you, too, Mr. Randolph.”

  “Please, call me Ray,” Dad says, shaking his head. “‘Mr. Randolph’ makes me feel old.”

  “You are old,” I say, and he squeezes me to him in a tighter hug, laughing.

  On the way in, Dad quizzes Booker in just the right way. Not too many personal questions, so Booker doesn’t have to navigate around talking about his mom or juvie. Dad doesn’t dwell on school too long, and he asks him about sports, but when Booker says he had to quit playing football, Dad moves right along to the next thing. I never really noticed how affable my father is. He’s good with people in general, and I’ve never seen him with patients, but he must be good with them, too.

  Our section of seats is crowded with silver-haired dudes. Suits, Laz would call them. Even though they’re not actually wearing suits, it’s obvious that they normally do. All of them are wearing belted jeans with tucked-in shirts and all of them are on their phones. They barely glance up when we sit down.

  “You’re good? Need anything?” Dad asks once we’re settled.

  “We’re good,” I say.

  “Order whatever you want when the waiter comes around.” Dad presses his credit card into my palm. “I’ll be down on the court if you need anything, but… please don’t need anything.”

  “This is real dope, Mr.—Ray,” Booker says. “Appreciate it.”

  “Good to have you here, Booker. Enjoy the game,” my father says before he jogs the few feet down to the court.

  “Damn.” Booker sits up in his seat to look around the arena, from the players warming up on the court to the people sitting up in seats so high they look like pins. “I can’t believe how close we are. I can’t believe how chill your dad is.”

  “Only because he thinks you’re my friend,” I say, looking pointedly at his hand brushing my knee. “If he thought we were on a date, he would not be so chill.”

  “You think he really believes there’s nothing going on between us?” Booker looks at me, head cocked to the side in amusement.

  “He’s my dad.” I watch my father shake hands with some people down on the court and bump fists with a couple of the players. “I don’t think he notices stuff like that. Besides, I told him you were a friend.”

  “Yeah, and Laz told me Greg was just his friend and I could see that lie from miles away. Some stuff is just obvious.”

  “Well, I hope it’s not obvious because I want to keep seeing you and—”

  “And they’re going to hate me if they really get to know me?”

  “That’s not what I meant,” I say softly.

  “I know.” He glances at the court to make sure my dad isn’t looking and quickly threads his fingers through mine. “I guess I just don’t want to pretend to be your friend when we know it’s more than that.”

  My arms break out in goose bumps. The good kind. But even if he did manage to win over my parents, I remember: “Your dad doesn’t like me.”

  “He was in a mood,” Booker says, sighing. “That had everything to do with me and nothing to do with you.”

  He’s already apologized for his father interrogating me and lecturing me on babies, but I’m not mad. Just embarrassed. It was mortifying, sitting next to Mr. Stratton with my peeling rainbow tattoo and crumpled tank top that he found in the living room, trying to convince him I’m not the type of girl he needs to worry about.

  “Are you sure?”

  “My old man’s about eighty percent bark. He was caught off guard. He’ll come around.”

  “Does he know you’re with me tonight?” I realize we’re still holding hands and quickly drop my fingers from Booker’s, looking guiltily toward the court. My father is talking to a player who towers over him in his warm-ups, not even looking our way.

  “Uh, no. Like I said, he’ll come around.” Booker leans back in his seat, staring at the court. “He’d probably be happy I’m watching basketball. Do you know that dude stomps around and makes so much noise every time I put on a football game, I can’t even watch it at home anymore?”

  “He made you stop playing and you can’t watch it?” Wow. I thought my mom was bad for making me quit soccer, but she doesn’t mind if I watch or go to games.

  “He thinks football is evil. He keeps reading up on that CTE thing and swears everyone who’s ever played is gonna end up with severe brain damage.” Booker rolls his eyes. “That’s, like, NFL-level shit. I haven’t even played since seventh grade.”

  All this time, I thought I was the one who had to follow the most rules, but it turns out Booker’s dad is pretty strict himself. More than my mom, it sounds like. Still, I think about what Mitchell said, how Booker’s dad’s decision was probably the right choice.

  “Sometimes I wish—” Booker starts, but then closes his mouth and looks down at his lap.

  “What?” I ask, afraid he won’t go on.

  He swallows and looks around before his eyes land on mine. “Sometimes I wish I could get my own place and stop having to listen to his lectures and just do my own thing, you know? But then… then I remember he’s the only person I got now. And I feel bad.”

  A shrill whistle sounds on the court, punctuating his sentence.

  “I know what you mean,” I say. I think about that sometimes when I’m mad at my family and wish I could start over with a new one. How I have only one sister, one father, one mother, and they can’t be replaced. And at least I still have both of my parents. “Don’t feel bad. Sometimes I think parents exist just to drive us crazy ninety-eight percent of the time.”

  “Word.”

  “And I know it’s not the same, but… you have me.” I keep my hands squeezed together in my lap even though all I want to do is touch his face, his lips, his strong broad shoulders that don’t look so strong right now. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “What if we can’t figure this out, Dove?” Anyone looking at him would think he’s gesturing to the court, but I know he means us. Our relationship that can’t actually be a relationship.

  “We will,” I say with more urgency than I’ve felt in a long time.

  After the game we stick around and wait for Dad to finish up on the court. The Bulls lost to the Rockets, so all that red and black and white is trudging out of the arena with a lot less fanfare than when it arrived. The suits around us are standing up now, arms crossed as they talk to each other in low voices.

  “What’d you think of your first NBA game?” I ask, turning to Booker. I’m sleepy and, without thinking, I rest my head on his shoulder.

  He must not be thinking, either, because he puts his arm around me and pulls me closer. “Would’ve been better if they won, but watching them lose in person is still better than watching it on TV.”

  “Want to see if you can meet any of the players?” And then I remember my dad and sit straight up, shrugging off Booker’s arm.

  He looks hurt for a moment until I nod toward the court. Dad is facing us, but he’s bent over, fiddling with his medical bag.

  “Right,” Booker mumbles. Then he says, “Nah, I’m not too into meeting my heroes. Especially on a night when they lost.”

  “Good point.”

  Dad makes his way up to us a couple of minutes later and I stand, stretching. He offers Booker a ride home, even though it’s out of the way. Booker politely declines and says it will be easier to take the bus, and after a co
uple more offers, my father says okay. We all walk out together, me between the two of them. They should be standing next to each other, though, because they talk the whole time—about the game and the Bulls’ scoring this season and the legacy of Jordan.

  When we have to part ways outside, I wish that I could make my father disappear, just for a minute or two. I want to kiss Booker goodbye so badly. The few touches we snuck in over the evening weren’t enough for me. I want to feel him against me; need to feel his warm lips against mine.

  But that’s not going to happen. My father is very much standing here and is very much ready to go. When I look at Booker, I see my want mirrored in his eyes, which makes the whole thing even more frustrating.

  “Thanks again for the ticket, Ray,” Booker says. “I don’t know how I’ll repay you, but I really appreciate it.”

  “No need to repay me,” Dad says with a tired smile. “Thanks for coming. Get home safe.”

  “See you around, Dove.” Booker gives me a quick pat on the shoulder, followed by a smile. Then he sticks his hands in his pockets and takes off toward the bus stop.

  I don’t realize I’m still watching him walk away until my father clears his throat. I look over at him. “Ready to go?”

  “Yes. And I’m wondering how long you two have been seeing each other,” he says in an even voice.

  My heart plummets to my knees. “What?”

  “Dove, I’m your dad, but I’m not blind. I saw the way you two were looking at each other from the minute I got here.” He sighs. “You know your mother isn’t going to like this.”

  “What, that I found a guy I like?”

  “No, that you tried to pass him off as a friend. I don’t like it much, either,” he says, his lips tight. “Why wouldn’t you just tell us? All we ask is that you introduce us to someone you want to spend time with.”

  “I don’t know,” I say in a small voice. “Maybe I just wanted him to myself for a little bit. He’s different from Mitchell.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He just… They’re different in a lot of ways. And I thought you and Mom might not like that since you were so into Mitchell.”

  Dad blinks at me. “We know every guy you date isn’t going to be just like Mitchell. And I like Booker. He seems like a nice kid. But if you want to date him, you have to follow our rules and let us get to know him, too.”

  “Okay,” I say, eyes glued to my shoes.

  “I won’t say anything about this to your mother, but you’re going to have to tell her about Booker if you want to keep seeing him. And no more sneaking around and lying to us, Dovie. Understood?”

  His tone isn’t mean, just firm. But it’s still more than I usually get from my father, and I feel bad for upsetting him. Even if I don’t exactly feel bad for what I did.

  I look up at him and nod, even as my heavy heart keeps sinking, all the way to my toes. “Understood.”

  THE NEXT DAY, CARLENE AND I GET OFF THE BLUE LINE AT DIVISION AND walk the short distance to the clinic on Milwaukee Avenue.

  I’m anxious, even though I have no real reason to be. I always get nervous before I go to doctors—always afraid they’re going to tell me something I don’t want to hear. Carlene looks at me, her hand poised to open the door.

  “You okay, kid?”

  I nod, not quite looking her in the eye. We were quiet on the train; the Blue Line is above ground for the stretch we rode, so I stared out the window the whole time and Carlene seemed fine with that. I’ve felt strange being around her since what I overheard last weekend, and I’m not quite sure how to deal with it. I can’t just ask her what she meant… can I?

  “Hey.” She taps my shoulder so I have to look at her. “You’ve been pretty quiet the last few days. Everything okay?”

  “Mhmm.”

  Carlene frowns. “Things all right with Booker?”

  “It’s great,” I say.

  I’m supposed to see him again tomorrow. We only had to wait a couple of days this time. Someone from Laz’s school is having people over, so I pulled the movie lie again. I won’t drink this time, but I have a right to be around people.

  I think this is the last time I’m going to lie about who I’m with, though. Now that Carlene and my dad have both met Booker and liked him, the only person left is my mother. And after the night Booker and I spent together, I know I’ll have to work up the nerve to introduce him to her soon. I like him too much to keep him a secret.

  Which means I should be more excited about seeing him again, but I can’t stop thinking about my mom and Carlene and what’s going on with them.

  “You nervous about going in here? It’s not so bad,” Carlene says. “Nobody will be mad that you’re having sex. You don’t even have to go through the pelvic exam for a few more years.”

  “Okay.” My eyes slide away from her, toward the door.

  Carlene’s mouth opens, like we’re not done here, but she doesn’t say anything else. Just grabs onto the door handle and motions for me to go in.

  There is paperwork and waiting, and then I’m in a room with a doctor. Carlene asked if I wanted her to go in with me, but I said I was fine. And when I’m in the room, away from her, I feel some of my anxiety melt away.

  Dr. Davis is a black woman—which surprises me, and then I feel stupid for being surprised. My father is a black doctor. But I’m still not used to seeing that—especially women—and it makes me feel more comfortable. She was a black girl once, too. She is tall with dark skin and thin, manicured dreadlocks pulled back in a bun.

  She looks over my forms, and her voice is warm as she asks about my health and sexual history. Carlene only mentioned the pill, but Dr. Davis says I can get a shot, or a ring that I’d have to put in and remove every month. She explains the pros and cons of all three, and I decide I’m most comfortable with the pill right now. Our conversation is brief, but she makes sure to tell me everything I might need to know, like that I should take it at the same time every day and that I have a better chance of not getting pregnant if my partner uses a condom each time.

  “Do you have any questions?” she asks after she’s scrawled the prescription.

  “I don’t think so,” I say.

  “Well, if you do, here’s my info.” She produces a white business card from the pocket of her scrubs. “Call me if you need anything. And sometimes it takes a couple of tries to find the right pill, so call me if your body doesn’t seem to be adjusting after a few weeks and we’ll look into it.”

  “Thank you.” And I don’t expect it, but a little thrill goes through me as she presses the prescription into my hand. It’s not even the actual pill, but it makes me feel a bit more grown-up than I did when I walked in here. A little less tethered to my mother’s expectations. A lot more independent.

  “Thank you, Dove.”

  “For what?” I ask, even though she’s already opened the door.

  “Oh.” Dr. Davis hesitates, unsure whether she should say what she’s thinking. “I’m always happy to see girls your age taking care of their health.”

  Then she breezes out of the room before I can say anything else.

  “How was it?” Carlene asks when we’re walking down the street to the pharmacy. She stops for a moment to light a cigarette.

  “Not bad, like you said. My doctor was a black woman.”

  “I saw a sister walk out just before you did! I didn’t know she was the doctor.” She sounds as excited as I was to see Dr. Davis.

  “She was nice.”

  Then we’re quiet again, passing a long line of brick buildings with awnings that display the names of restaurants, liquor stores, and coffee shops, all mixed in among apartments and offices. The air is thick with July humidity, and today the clouds are so heavy in the sky that I wonder if we might get a summer storm before Carlene and I make it back home.

  “So,” she says as we wait on the corner for the light to change. “When are you going to have your mom meet Booker?”

  I
shrug. “I’m not sure. I have to figure out a good time.” She noticed how out of it I was at breakfast this morning and waited till both my parents were gone to ask what was up. I told her about my dad meeting Booker and calling me out.

  Carlene sighs, exhaling smoke with it. “I don’t know if there’s going to be a good time. You need to get it over with and tell her about him, kid. I’m glad you trusted me enough to meet him before she does, but you can’t keep sneaking around like this. Kitty isn’t stupid, and Ray won’t stay quiet forever.”

  “I’ll tell her,” I say, patting my shorts pocket to make sure the slip of paper with my prescription is still there. “I just need a little more time.”

  “Okay,” she replies, only mildly satisfied. Then she turns to me. “Kid, what’s going on with you? Really? You can talk to me, you know. About anything.”

  I try to swallow, but my tongue and the roof of my mouth are suddenly dry as sand. I pull my water bottle from my bag and take a long drink. Carlene waits, even as the light changes and we’re clear to cross the street.

  I tuck the bottle back into my bag and swallow again. That’s better. I look at Carlene’s flip-flops instead of her face. “I heard you talking to Emmett.”

  She sounds confused. “When?”

  “The night he was at our apartment… When Booker stayed over.”

  “Okay,” she repeats, and when I look up, her eyebrows are squeezed together. “What did you hear?”

  “You said… that you’d been getting close to someone. A her. And that Mom is afraid you’re going to take her away.”

  Now I can’t look away from Carlene—I want to see exactly how she’s processing this. She blinks once, twice, three times. Drops her cigarette and leaves it still burning on the sidewalk. Steps back until she runs into the base of the WALK sign. She stands in place, her breath so heavy I can see her chest rise and fall. She doesn’t speak.