The Revolution of Birdie Randolph

by Brandy Colbert

  “Yeah, starts up in a couple of weeks. So then I get to go to school and work and serve meals at the food bank.” He shrugs. “Could definitely be worse, though. I’m not complaining. Judge kinda went easy on me, considering.”

  I want to touch him so badly, but I don’t know if that’s okay anymore. It’s been forever since we’ve seen each other. His dad took his phone away, so there was no way to get ahold of him. Laz stopped by his place a couple of times and updated me after they talked.

  “It’s still not fair,” I say, clasping my hands behind my back. “Laz’s ticket was totally dismissed.”

  “Yeah, well, Laz hasn’t been in trouble before.” His eyes are soft as he looks at me. “How are you doing? Been missing you.”

  “I miss you, too. I guess your dad hasn’t changed his mind?”

  “Nah. You should see my new phone. It looks like a burner. It only calls him, my uncle, and 911. I can only go to work and then back home. Wash, rinse, and repeat that shit every day.” He laughs again—a real one this time, and hearing it reminds me so much of all the good times I had this summer that I can’t help but smile. “And, you know, my pops went to bat for me in front of that judge.”

  “Is that allowed?”

  “Probably not, but it was late in the day and the judge was tired. And my old man can be pretty convincing. Might’ve missed his calling as a pastor or something.” He shakes his head, then clears his throat a couple of times. “I don’t expect you to wait around for me. If you find someone else.”

  I doubt his father will let him date for the rest of high school, so waiting didn’t really seem like an option. But the truth is: “I’m not looking for anyone else, Booker.”

  He smiles shyly. Then his face changes as he remembers something. “Laz told me all the shit that happened with your family. You doing okay?”

  “Yeah, things are okay.” I shift my weight to my other foot, staring at the name tag sewn on the chest of his coveralls. His name looks so fancy in the thick blue script. “I think it’s better that the truth is out there.”

  And then I can’t help myself. I touch his forearm, where the sleeve is rolled up. His skin is warm beneath my fingers, and I shut my eyes for a moment, thinking of us together. He leans into my touch and closes the gap between us. Booker bends down to kiss me, and I melt right into him, savoring his thick lips on mine. Maybe for the last time.

  Behind him, hoots and whistles ring out in the garage.

  “Ayyyyyyyyyyeeee, Stratton!” calls someone.

  Someone else shouts: “Check out fucking Romeo over here!”

  We pull back reluctantly, but not before he kisses my neck, just below my earlobe.

  “Carlene pierced them,” I say. “That’s why my mom has that weird rule about studs.”

  He looks at me, confused. “What?”

  “You asked about my ears, when you were in my room that time. Carlene pierced them when I was still a baby, before I went to live with my parents. She just told me the other day.”

  I still call them that, because what else are they? Yes, technically, my mom is my aunt, but she raised me like I was her own. She’s the only mom I’ve known for sixteen and a half years. She’ll always be Mom.

  “Man, your life sounds kind of like a puzzle.” He touches the same earlobe as he did that day.

  “It kind of is,” I say, nodding.

  “What are you guys doing now?” he asks, looking to the front of the property, where Laz and Greg are on the other side of the fence, their backs to us.

  “I don’t know. Maybe get something to eat. Maybe at Valois.” He smiles at this. And then, even though he’ll probably say no, I ask anyway: “You want to come?”

  “I do, but… Is this cool?” He swallows, never breaking eye contact. “Doing this when we know we can’t see each other? I feel like I want all or nothing with you, Dove.”

  “I feel the same way. And I don’t know. Maybe it’s a really bad idea.” I trace the stitching on his name tag. “But I’m here. And I miss you. And even if we don’t get to see each other again for a year, we’ll still have this day to remember.”

  He peers back into the garage, looking at a clock that hangs between the two cars. “I go on lunch in fifteen. Can you guys wait?”

  “Of course. No rush. But.” I glance toward the little window in the garage that looks in on a small office. “Is your uncle going to tell your dad I was here?”

  “Nah, I think Les feels sorry for me. Says Pops is busting my balls too much. I don’t think he’s gonna snitch about a lunch. Give me a few minutes to finish and clean up, okay?”

  He kisses me again, which elicits more hoots and whistles from the garage. I step away, embarrassed, but he slides an arm around my waist and pulls me back toward him. Holds his middle finger up to the guys behind him as he kisses me long and slow.

  A COUPLE OF WEEKS LATER I STEP OFF THE TRAIN, FRESH FROM MY FIRST day of junior year.

  Maybe it’s best that Booker and I can’t see each other right now, because by the looks of every single syllabus I received, I’m going to be buried under books for the next few months.

  I was worried things might be a little weird being back in school with Mitchell instead of the SAT prep class where nobody knew us. But it’s fine. We were friendly with each other but didn’t eat lunch together or sit next to each other in class. I did ask him what happened after the police station and he said it helped him talk to his parents. After they lectured him on how that night could have ruined his entire life before it actually started, he told them that he was still serious about school and getting into MIT, but he needed some space from their rules and over-the-top expectations. He said they listened. And I noticed his hair is longer, curling just above his collar, which is the longest he can grow it according to the school dress code.

  “Hi, Birdie.”

  I look up, startled to find my mother standing outside the train station.

  “What are you doing here? What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, nothing,” she says with a smile. “But you only have one more first day of school after this and I had a break, so I figured I’d walk you home. Just like we used to.”

  Mom has been dipping into some serious nostalgia ever since the secret came out. She talks a lot about the past now—what Mimi and I were like as babies and toddlers, stories about her and Carlene from when they were younger. It’s weird, but a good weird. I can tell that she wants to stop sometimes when she’s getting deep into the reminiscing, but something inside her makes her go on.

  We pass the homeless woman who leans against the station every day, just like we always have. But this time, I stop. Tell Mom to hang on as I dig into my bag and pull out a couple of dollars. I jog back to the woman and stuff the money in her cup. It’s not a lot, but it’s something.

  She gives me a peace sign with her grubby fingers, then her head drops back down to her chest.

  “Oh, Birdie,” Mom says with a sigh when we start walking again. “You know I prefer to give to shelters. That woman has been sitting out there in that same spot every single day for years and—”

  “But that’s the thing, Mom. You like to give to shelters. I want to give my money directly to people sometimes.”

  “She’s probably just going to use it for more alcohol or drugs,” she says as we cross the street.

  “Maybe she will and maybe she won’t. If Carlene had been on the streets, wouldn’t you want someone to give her a couple of dollars if it would help her?”

  My mother doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t fight me on it, either. “Well, how was the first day?” she asks instead.

  “Not too bad. It’s going to be a lot of work this year, but I already knew that.” I push the strap of my bookbag higher on my shoulder. “I have class with a couple of the girls I used to play soccer with.”

  “Oh? How are they doing?” she says in a tone that means she’s asking only to be polite.

  “They’re great. You know, even if I can’t p
lay at school, I could do the leagues again.”

  “Birdie, you haven’t played soccer in three years now.”

  “Yes,” I say, stopping to look at her. “And I miss it. I miss it a lot, Mom.”

  She stops, too, and meets my eyes. “What about school? You just told me it’s going to be a tough year.”

  “It is, but that doesn’t mean I can’t handle something else. Soccer helps relieve stress. It takes some of the pressure off school. It’s good for me, and my grades were always good when I was playing.”

  “But that was middle school, Birdie. You’re a junior now, and—”

  “Mom, I really want to do this. I don’t have to be the best. I just want to play.”

  She looks at me for a long time, and I can’t tell what she’s thinking, but I know that face, and it’s not her No face. Not quite. “I’m not promising anything, but I’ll talk to your father about it, okay? We’ll see what we can work out.”

  I squeeze my arms around her and kiss her on the cheek before we start walking again.

  She comes up to the apartment to freshen up before she goes back down to the shop.

  I get a glass of water and lean against the sink. I don’t notice the manila envelope on the kitchen table until I’ve drunk half the glass.

  My name is scrawled on the front in handwriting I don’t recognize.

  “Mom?” I call out. “What’s this envelope?”

  She appears a few seconds later, smiling. “It’s for you, Birdie. Open it.”

  I slip my index finger under the flap on the back and slide out the piece of paper inside. Carlene’s name is printed in big letters; the calligraphy above it says Certificate of Completion, and under her name is the logo of a cosmetology school.

  “She did it!” I say, grinning hard at the paper.

  Mom nods, coming around to look at it over my shoulder. I can hear the pride in her voice as she says, “Yes, she really did it.”

  I look at the Post-it note stuck to the bottom, with the same handwriting as the envelope.

  Got my 300 hours, kid!

  Wanted you to be

  the first to know.

  Love, Carlene

  Booker was right. My life is like a puzzle now, with so many pieces to make sense of and try to fit together.

  But I have all the pieces now, and every single one belongs to me.

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  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to say thank you to:

  Alvina Ling for being a wonderful person and editor. I am so happy to work with you.

  Nikki Garcia for your sharp eye, wit, and patience.

  The rest of the team at Little, Brown Books for Young Readers who support me and my work with such kindness, thoughtfulness, and professionalism: Victoria Stapleton, Kristina Pisciotta, Michelle Campbell, Christie Michel, Valerie Wong, Marisa Finkelstein, Kelley Frodel, and Marcie Lawrence. And Erin Robinson for my beautiful illustrated covers; you bring black girls to life in such a vivid, inspiring way.

  Tina Dubois, because you get me. How lucky I am to have you as a friend, confidante, and my brilliant literary agent.

  Tamara Kawar for assisting said agent with efficiency and charm.

  Elana K. Arnold, Robin Benway, Anna Carey, Maurene Goo, Corey Ann Haydu, Kristen Kittscher, Stephanie Kuehn, Courtney Summers, and Elissa Sussman for being good friends and colleagues.

  I appreciate you all.

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