The Revolution of Birdie Randolph Page 10

  “I’m polite around parents.” He pauses. “And I clean up pretty well. I even have a suit.”

  That makes me laugh. “You’re not wearing a suit to meet my parents. And I don’t want you to think they’re, like, judgmental assholes. They’re not. They just want Mimi and me to…”

  To be perfect. Especially my mother. But I can’t say that aloud. Not with the sad look in Booker’s eyes. Not now that I’ve made him think he’s not good enough for the rest of the Randolph family.

  “What if you met my aunt?” The idea just popped into my head, but I think it’s a good one. Carlene is the least judgmental person in our house, and she’s an adult, so that will make it seem somewhat official. Besides, I know she won’t hold back if she doesn’t like him.

  “Your aunt?”

  “Yeah, she’s super chill.”

  He nods slowly. “So if I meet your aunt, does that mean I’ll get to date you? Like, really date you—no sneaking out and lying?”

  “I don’t know. But it’s a start. What do you think?”

  “Okay,” he says.

  “I’ll talk to her, and we’ll figure out the best time to do it.” And where, since he definitely can’t come to the house yet.

  “I can’t believe I want to meet your aunt. And your parents, eventually. I must really like you, Dove.”

  I smile. Booker gently rubs my arm and looks at me in the soft way that I’m realizing means he wants to kiss me. I want to kiss him, too, and I wonder if I have a look that says so. I stand on my tiptoes as he leans down to meet my lips.

  My mother stopped me before I left the house this morning. After she tried to convince me that I needed snacks for the day, her eyes lingered on the duffel bag strap slung over my shoulder, and for a couple of seconds, I was sure she was going to say she’d changed her mind. That I was still grounded after all, because if she’s being honest, her trust in me is paper-thin.

  The skeptical look passed. She gave me a firm hug and told me to have fun, stay with Mimi, and call her when we’re in for the evening.

  Mimi is still out with Ariel.

  And I’m standing in Booker’s living room, watching him pick up clutter.

  “Sorry.” He scoops up a trio of coffee mugs from an end table. “My old man’s kind of a slob, and now that I’m working, too…”

  “It’s fine.” I stand in place, wiping my damp palms on my cutoffs.

  He stops. “You don’t look like it’s fine.”

  “No, it’s not this. I just… I have to call my mom, and I’m worried she’s going to ask to speak to Mimi.”

  “Oh. Right.” He chews his lip.

  We didn’t think about this when he invited me over. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye and I wasn’t ready to go back to Ariel’s, alone, when I could still be with Booker. All I knew was that as wrong as it felt to say yes the last time Booker asked me to come over, this time felt completely right. Those separate parts of me, the scared one too afraid to take risks and the brave one who gives in to what she wants—there wasn’t such a fight between them tonight. I gave in to what I craved without thinking about it too much. The longer we walked next to each other and held hands, exchanging warm gazes, the more I knew I wanted to be alone with him.

  “Can Mimi call for you?” Booker suggests. “Just tell her you’re in the other room?”

  “No.” I pause. “But my mom can’t say anything if I’m at Ariel’s and Mimi is still out.”

  He nods like he’s impressed with my quick thinking.

  I look at Booker and put my finger to my lips. He tiptoes out of the room with the mugs.

  Mom doesn’t keep me long on the phone. In fact, she barely seems interested that I’ve followed her instructions. She sounds almost giggly, like when I heard her coming in from the date with my father. I wonder what they’re doing tonight, then quickly scrub that thought from my brain.

  But I don’t feel relieved after I hang up because I still have to let Mimi know where I am. And that I’m not coming back to Ariel’s until the morning. I didn’t even hesitate when Booker asked me to stay over. His father is a night manager for the stocking crew at a grocery store; he clocks in for work at eleven and finishes at eight in the morning. All I have to do is make sure I’m out of here and on my way back to Ariel’s by then.

  I try calling my sister twice and she doesn’t answer, and I have never been so pleased to get her voicemail. I hang up and send a few texts:

  At Booker’s

  Am safe

  Will be back at Ariel’s early

  My fingers hover as I contemplate whether I should ask her not to tell Mom. It’s implied, of course, but I type it out anyway. With Mimi acting so much like our mother this afternoon, I don’t want to take any chances.

  When I don’t get a response after five minutes, I shut off my phone and stick it back in my bag.

  I’ve never seen Booker so nervous.

  He spent about ten minutes picking up the living room and kitchen, but he keeps glancing around as if he’s just seeing his place for the first time, through my eyes. He also seemed embarrassed when he showed me that it was only a one bedroom.

  “We moved after my mom died,” he says. “And my old man could sleep through fireworks, so he gave me the bedroom and took the couch. It pulls out.”

  “I like your place,” I say after the quick tour. We’re standing in the hallway.

  It’s on the top floor of a yellow-brick courtyard building in Rogers Park, near the Morse stop on the Red Line. There are lots of windows and old Chicago charm, like the built-in hutch in the dining room and arched doorways throughout. The wood floors are buffed to a shine, and even under the clutter I can see that it’s not dirty, just untidy.

  “It’s all right,” he says, shrugging. “When you were talking about hating to leave your old place… I get that. Except our old apartment was better than this one. We had three bedrooms, and we knew all our neighbors.”

  “Why’d you move?”

  “My pops wanted to get us out of the neighborhood,” he says, brows furrowed. “Said there were too many dope boys and bangers. I went to stay with my grandma in Arizona the summer after I was in juvie. Before eighth grade. We’d just buried my mom, and my old man thought I needed some time away. I think he just wanted to be alone, though. When I got back, he already had this place.”

  “You never got to say goodbye to your old apartment?”

  “Nah. It’s not a big deal. I mean, I got to say goodbye to my mom. That’s all that matters. But I just…” He shakes his head as he trails off.

  “But what?” I slide my palm over his cheek, stopping when I reach his jaw.

  “I feel like everything keeps changing and I can’t do anything about it. First, I get in trouble, then my mom dies, then my dad moves us to the other side of town. And he made me quit playing football, even though it’s the only thing I’ve ever really liked and been good at.”

  Just like me and soccer.

  Booker sighs. “I can’t wait till I graduate and can do what I want. At least then I’ll have some control over things changing.”

  “I feel the same way,” I say softly.

  “I never thought I’d meet someone like you, though. That was a good change,” Booker says. And then, before he kisses me: “I’m glad you’re here.”

  A block away, the “L” coasts along the tracks, and the steady chugging winds through the open windows as we kiss. Booker’s fingers graze my hips before he pulls away and asks if I want to watch a movie.

  When I first started dating Mitchell, I didn’t know that “watching a movie” was code for “ignore the movie and make out the whole time.” I didn’t find out until Julia, one of my soccer teammates, asked about my weekend and I reported that Mitchell and I had watched a movie in his basement. She wiggled her eyebrows and asked if it was fun.

  “It was fine, I guess,” I said, shrugging. “Kind of slow at the beginning, but it picked up toward the end.”

  “Sounds succ
essful,” she replied with a smile.

  I gave her a weird look. “Successful?”

  “You and Mitchell. You hooked up, right?”

  “What? No! I meant the movie.”

  But the heat was already creeping up my cheeks as I realized what everyone assumed we’d been doing. I was embarrassed that I hadn’t known—why hadn’t Mimi told me about that?—but a part of me was also embarrassed that we hadn’t been doing what they thought. Watching a movie with Mitchell meant we actually watched the movie.

  I wondered if maybe he was just nervous, so after that first time I tried to initiate the make out myself. I curled up next to him on the couch, leaned my head on his shoulder, threaded my fingers through his as we’d done before. I kissed his cheek, and then I started to really kiss him. Mitchell kissed me back at first, but then he pulled away suddenly; his face and neck were a deep red as he excused himself to go to the bathroom. When he returned a few minutes later, we sat on opposite sides of the couch and, once again, watched the movie. We didn’t touch again until he hugged me good night at the front door.

  I never did understand what happened with Mitchell that evening—he wouldn’t talk about it, and our making out never got much further than touching under our clothes—but I very much hope Booker isn’t interested in watching the movie.

  He leads me back to the living room, where we settle on the couch and he scrolls through a collection of films on his laptop. We’re both in the mood for Jurassic Park, though I am pretty sure we won’t be paying much attention.

  Booker places the laptop on the coffee table and relaxes into the couch cushions, wrapping an arm around me. I tuck my legs under me and lean against him, resting my head on his shoulder. This feels good, just being here with him; we have all night, but I know time is going to fly by like it always does when we’re together. And I don’t know when I’ll get to be alone with him again, so I’m contemplating how soon is too soon to make the first move when he gently pulls me toward him. Our lips touch, soft and slow.

  We move languidly. Booker’s mouth travels along my collarbone, then he moves to my shoulders, sliding the strap of my tank top aside to kiss every inch of my flushed skin. He pauses, and I take the moment to lift my arms. He removes my tank top easily and then, for the first time, I’m sitting in front of him in my bra. It feels strange, being so close to naked with someone. It feels good, too, especially when I see the want in Booker’s gaze.

  I straddle him and his hands come to my hips, holding me steady. When I lean in to kiss him, they slide down and around to my ass. He squeezes and then moves one hand up to the small of my back. The longer we kiss, the hotter my skin burns, and I wonder if it’s possible to contract a fever from making out.

  My legs begin hurting after a while and I pull back. His eyes are lust-drunk, peeking at me through lazy lids.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks.

  “Nothing, but maybe we should… move to your room?” My heart pounds wildly, and I wonder if he can feel it. Or hear it.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” I kiss the tip of his broad nose. “I feel weird doing this where your dad sleeps.”

  I love the sound of his deep laugh. “Fair enough.”

  Booker has a four-poster bed with an elaborate headboard made of cherry wood, and I wonder if it used to belong to his parents. I slip out of my sandals and shorts while he strips down to his boxers. It’s dark, with just the faint light from the front room filtering in. I step toward the outline of his body and touch his chest, sliding my hands over his smooth skin. We stand on the soft rug for a while, just kissing, until he scoops me up and lays me on the bed like a princess.

  I lose track of the time, what day it is, what we did earlier. All I know is Booker: his skin, which smells like salt and the lingering scent of deodorant; his hands that explore the dips and curves of my body; his mouth and tongue, which do the same.

  “Are you okay?” he checks in with me when we’re lying face to face, skin to skin.

  “I’m fine. I’m good.” I swallow. “But I’m still not ready to have sex.”

  “I think we should wait, too,” he says simply.

  “You do?”

  “I think you can tell I want to be with you.” He looks down at his waist and smiles sheepishly, slipping his fingers through mine. “But I don’t want to rush you… or this. I want to do everything right with you. And I only want to do it when you’re ready.”

  I kiss his cheek. “I really like you, Booker.”

  “I really like you, too, Dove,” he whispers, burying his face in my shoulder.

  I WAKE TO WARM SUNLIGHT STREAMING THROUGH THE CURTAINS AND Booker shaking my shoulder.

  I stretch slowly under the covers and smile, remembering last night. “Good morning.”

  And I don’t notice the slight panic in his eyes until he mutters, “We forgot to set an alarm.”

  I sit straight up. “What time is it?” I search for my phone until I remember I turned it off and left it in my purse. In the other room.

  “Eight thirty.” Booker grimaces, holding up my tank top. “My old man brought this in from the living room.”

  Shit.

  And by the way his father is banging around in the kitchen, he’s not happy about it. There’s no way to sneak out of here without talking to him. He’s already seen me.

  “Does he hate me?” I ask as I start to get dressed.

  “Nah, but I’m gonna hear it as soon as you leave.”

  “I’m sorry.” I pull on my top and walk around to meet him on the other side of the bed.

  “Don’t be sorry. You’re worth it. Even if I am going to get the ‘don’t be messing around with those girls’ talk as soon as you leave.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Those girls?”

  We haven’t talked about it, and now I wonder how many girls Booker has been with before me. How many his father has met. And if I’m the only one whose tank top he’s found in the living room.

  Booker coughs. “His words, not mine. I told him about you, but all he knows is I met a new girl I like. He doesn’t know how much I like you. Not yet.”

  “No time like the present, right?” I say with a weak smile.

  Booker pulls me close. Then he leans down and kisses me, morning breath and all.

  Besides sharing the same dark brown skin, Booker’s dad looks nothing like him. I’m five foot four, and he’s only a few inches taller. He wears wire-rimmed glasses, and has a salt-and-pepper goatee and close-cropped hair to match. He’s listening to a talk show on a small, beat-up radio that looks as old as Booker and me. I stand in the kitchen doorway just behind Booker as I wait for him to introduce me, shifting my weight from foot to foot.

  “Pops, this is Dove.” Booker’s voice sounds normal, but I see the tension in his shoulders as he steps aside.

  His father cracks an egg into a bowl before he slowly turns around, wiping his hands on a dish towel hooked to his belt. He doesn’t turn down the radio.

  “Hi,” I say with a wave, but he’s not charmed like Emmett was. He doesn’t even crack a smile.

  “Dove?” There’s no emotion behind his voice, and I guess he really doesn’t know how much Booker likes me. Or maybe he just doesn’t care, after he found us in bed together.

  “Yes. Dove,” I say.

  He looks at me for a few seconds as if he’s studying my face. Then he nods, turns around, and says, “You’re welcome to stay for breakfast, Dove.”

  “Oh, thank you, Mr. Stratton. But I should probably be getting home—”

  “I insist,” he says in a tone that I know not to argue with.

  The backs of my knees are damp.

  Booker raises his eyebrows at me as he mouths Sorry.

  I find my phone and turn it on, and to my relief, I have only one message from Mimi. She texted back last night, three hours after I messaged her, and all it says is Okay. I don’t know how to read that, and I don’t have time to analyze it now. I text that I’ll be back at
Ariel’s soon, then go help Booker set the table.

  His dad scrambles eggs and fries potatoes. Booker makes toast. I sit at the table and sweat. Mr. Stratton doesn’t turn off the radio until we’re all sitting down with full plates.

  “Tell me about yourself, Dove,” he says before taking a huge bite of eggs doused in hot sauce.

  “Oh.” I glance at Booker. He gives me an encouraging smile. “Well, I’ll be a junior in the fall, like Booker. I go to Behrens Academy. I used to play soccer. I’m in SAT prep this summer.”

  And whatever you think I am, I’m not.

  He nods, finishes chewing, and slurps coffee from a travel mug. “Who are your folks?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your folks,” he says, waving his fork in the air. “What do they do?”

  “My mom owns a hair salon in Logan Square—”

  “With Laz’s mom,” Booker cuts in.

  “And my dad is a doctor.” I feel like I’m on trial; like if I say the wrong thing, this could all fall apart in an instant.

  “What kind?” Mr. Stratton asks.

  “Sports medicine.”

  He nods and keeps chewing.

  When it doesn’t seem like he’s going to ask anything else, I take a bite of potatoes. “These are really good.” And I’m glad, because Booker’s dad seems like the kind of guy who would immediately know I was lying.

  “Good,” he says. And that’s the last word he speaks until we’re done eating. Even after he and Booker go back for seconds. I wish one of them would turn the radio back on.

  I’m not sure I’ve ever met someone like Booker’s dad. I don’t think he hates me, exactly, but I don’t think he likes me. And I’m not used to that. I’m well mannered, I know how to make small talk, and I’m an overachiever. I’m a parent’s dream.

  Is this how Booker felt around Mimi? I’d like to think my parents would be a little friendlier, but I’m pretty sure their tone would change as soon as he talked about being in juvie. Which would have to come out, eventually.

  I exhale when Mr. Stratton takes his plate to the sink. And I’m calculating how fast I can get out of here when he says, “Booker, why don’t you let me and Dove have a little chat?”