The Revolution of Birdie Randolph Page 11

  Oh, god.

  Booker frowns. “Pops?”

  “Plenty to do around here, Book. Trash needs to be taken out, you could throw in a load of laundry, or clean up that bathroom.”

  “Yes, sir.” Booker ties up the trash and makes himself scarce.

  I look at his father as the back door closes. “I’m sorry, Mr. Stratton. I know I shouldn’t have stayed—”

  He leans against the counter, arms folded. “My son is too young to be a father.”

  “What?” My mouth drops open.

  Mr. Stratton frowns. “I don’t know how much you know about him, but… he’s been through some things. He’s doing good now, though. Even without his mother here. He’s doing real good, and I don’t need him getting some girl pregnant.”

  “He’s not—I mean, we’re not—” I stop and take a breath. “We haven’t done that. You don’t need to worry.”

  “I worry about him every day.” He sips from his travel mug. “Your parents don’t mind that you’re seeing him?”

  I swallow. “I haven’t told them yet.”

  He nods. “I see.”

  “Are you going to?”

  He looks at me with a raised eyebrow.

  “Tell them?” My voice goes higher.

  “I’m not gonna go telling your business. We don’t know each other like that. I just don’t want my boy distracted. He can’t afford to go down the wrong path because of drama with some girl.”

  I hate the way he keeps saying some girl, like Booker and I just met last night. Like we don’t have feelings for each other. I stare down at the green plastic place mat. “I really like him, Mr. Stratton. And I don’t like drama.”

  “Good.” When I look back up at him, I think I’ve passed whatever test he just gave me. Not with flying colors, but you can’t ace them all.

  I push back my chair and stand. “Can I help clean the kitchen?”

  “No, I’ll leave that for Booker.” His face relaxes a fraction of an inch. It’s not a smile, but it’s not a frown, either. “Go on home to your folks.”

  A COUPLE OF DAYS LATER, CARLENE ASKS IF SHE CAN BRAID MY HAIR.

  She’s spending a lot of time at the school to get her certificate, but she wants to practice goddess braids. “I haven’t done them in a long time.”

  “So I’m gonna be your guinea pig?”

  Carlene shrugs. “Hey, kid, you offered, remember?”

  I don’t mind. I’ve been cycling through puffs, twists, and twistouts for months now. I’m ready for something different.

  She already has the hair we’ll be using, so after dinner, we sit down in the living room. My father is still at work, and Mom just went to Ayanna’s to do paperwork for the salon.

  Carlene perches on the edge of the couch while I sit between her legs. She runs a hand softly over my hair. “It’s so nice and thick.”

  “Mom says I got the Randolph hair.”

  “Well, your dad isn’t in danger of losing his anytime soon.” She begins parting my strands with a pintail comb. “You know, I used to sit with your mom just like this and do her hair when we were kids.”

  “Really?” I can’t picture it.

  “All the time,” she says. “Our mom worked so much that she didn’t really have time to do our hair. She did what she could for us, but she was tired all the time, and I had to pick up some of the slack. So I learned to do hair by practicing on Kitty. And then I got good.”

  “Did you really teach Mom everything she knows?”

  “Yup,” Carlene says. “Of course she’s built on that over the years, but I taught her the basics. She picked it up right away, especially braiding. But she likes the other stuff better now—the cuts and color.”

  “Carlene, can I ask you something?”

  I swear, she pauses for longer than she should. “Yes, of course.”

  “Do you think Mom and Dad have been acting weird?”

  “Weird how?”

  “Like, happy.”

  She laughs. “That’s weird?”

  “No, they’re just usually so busy they don’t spend a lot of time together. And after you…”

  “After I what?” She reaches for a piece of hair that closely matches the rich black of mine.

  I stare at the wood grain of the coffee table. “Never mind.”

  “We’re gonna be here for a while. Spill it.”

  “They were weird after you got here, but not good weird. It was… well, like they were freaked out.”

  “I don’t know if anyone wants their newly sober sister showing up out of the blue,” she says. “Ray and Kitty have been good to me.”

  “I know,” I say. “But then all of a sudden it was good weird. They went on a date, and she and Dad never go on dates.”

  “Be glad they’re happy.” She begins braiding—tightly—and I suck my teeth. “Are you tender-headed?”

  “Maybe a little.” It’s a weakness, being the tender-headed daughter of a hairstylist. I like the way braids look on me, but sometimes it’s not worth the pain.

  “Well, you get that from us, not the Randolph side.” She pauses until she’s halfway down the braid. Her fingers move quickly, and I concentrate on the rhythm so I won’t think about my throbbing scalp. “Our dad left when I was five and Kitty was three. Our mom wasn’t the same after that, and she wouldn’t let herself be happy again, either. I think she was more scared of finding someone she loved than being alone for the rest of her life… which she was. She didn’t trust that she wouldn’t get her heart broken again.”

  “Were you ever married?” It hits me that I don’t know much about Carlene’s life before she got here. Everything seems to be about her being sober or not sober.

  “No,” she says. “Thank god. Who knows who I would’ve ended up legally bound to?”

  “You never wanted kids of your own?”

  “That’s a personal question, you know.”

  My cheeks flush. “Sorry.”

  “I don’t care, but you shouldn’t go around asking people that.” She’s quiet for a moment. “I did have a baby once, a while ago. I lost it.”

  “Oh.” A miscarriage. I feel a peripheral sadness, like her emotion is lacing itself into the air. Like I can feel what she must have felt all those years ago.

  “It was for the best. I would’ve messed up a child real good.” She finishes the first braid and drapes the long end over my shoulder.

  I finger the end of it, admiring the tight weave. “You could still have one, though. Or adopt. Right?”

  “I’m almost forty-five. That’s not too old, but… I don’t know if it’s in the cards for me.”

  We sit silently for a while, listening to the sidewalk traffic below: A group of young guys bumbles along, clowning each other mercilessly; a homeless person pushes their cart, the wheels squeaking and dragging methodically down the pavement; a car horn blares and a voice shouts out their window for someone named Sandy.

  “How was Pride?” Carlene asks, stopping to turn my head this way and that so she can examine her work so far.

  “I loved it. You didn’t want to go?”

  “Oh, I wanted to go, but I’ve had a lot of fun at Prides in the past. Too much. I was afraid it might trigger me. Did you have a good time with Mimi?”

  I sigh. “At first, yeah. But, well… can you keep a secret?”

  “Oh, I’m too good at keeping secrets, girl. But you should only tell me if you’re comfortable with it. You’re not in trouble, are you?”

  “No, no. But there’s a guy. And my parents don’t know him, so I’ve kind of been sneaking out to see him.”

  I tell her all about Booker—how we’ve liked each other since the first time we met, how I’ve never felt this way about anyone, how he has been nothing but sweet to me every time we are together. And how we had such a beautiful afternoon during Pride that turned into a beautiful night.

  “So what’s the problem? He sounds like a dream,” Carlene says, dipping into the bundle for more hai
r. “Almost too good to be true. Why not just introduce him to your parents?”

  “Because he’s been in trouble. He had… an altercation with one of the coaches at his old school and got expelled and sent to juvie.”

  “The Audy Home? Shit.” I can tell Carlene is making a face without even looking at her.

  “He’s not a bad guy, he just had a bad moment. His mom was sick and the coaches were being hard on him.”

  “Well, in my experience, people only use the word altercation when they’re trying not to tell you how bad something really was.” Carlene pauses. “She’d kill me if she knew I was telling you this, but your mom and I once got the cops called on us for an altercation.”

  I turn around to look at her. “What? You and Mom?”

  “I was…” Carlene clears her throat and looks away from me as she speaks. “I broke into her house and was going after the secret stash of money she had. But if I’d been in my right mind, I’d have known she never would have kept her money in the same place anymore. Not after I’d already stolen from her once. And I thought she was at work, but she was taking a sick day and heard the window break before I even made it all the way through. It was a mess by the time the cops showed up—Kitty swinging at me with a baseball bat, and me running around screaming at her with bloody legs from the broken glass.”

  “When was this?” I ask, picturing the house in Albany Park.

  “Oh, it was before you and Mimi were around, thankfully. A fucking mess,” she says, shaking her head. My ears perk up at the F-bomb, and I can’t help but smile. She didn’t censor herself around me like my parents always do. “Anyway, this kid is out of trouble now?”

  “His name is Booker. And yes, he’s doing great now. His dad even made him quit football because he’s worried about all the concussions. But that didn’t matter to Mimi. I told her about him and she judged him right away, before she’d even met him. And then… the funny thing is that his dad seemed to feel about me the same way Mimi feels about Booker. Like I’m a bad influence.”

  Carlene hoots. “You? A bad influence? Do I gotta go knock some sense into that man?”

  “He wasn’t mean. Just… curt,” I say, repeating the word she used to describe my mother.

  “Well, I know the feeling,” she says. “I didn’t make friends with many parents when I was your age. Except I was a bad influence.”

  “Did Mom ever do anything bad? Anything… rebellious when you were growing up?”

  “Probably the most rebellious thing your mother ever did was turn in her homework late. She was a good kid. Like you.”

  “I don’t feel like it lately,” I say.

  “Why? Because you’ve snuck out a few times? Had a couple of drinks?” My aunt pauses. “I’m not saying that stuff is okay, because you are still a kid, even if you think you’re not. But I know how you feel. I know how stifling it can be to grow up with someone who expects you to be perfect all the time.”

  I stay quiet because I am so surprised at how much she gets me. Even though we have such different lives, she hasn’t forgotten what it was like to be my age or to grow up in a home where outward appearances matter more than how you feel inside.

  “You gotta live, Dove. Not as much as I did, but you can’t live your life to make someone else happy. It will never be good enough for them. Or you.”

  “You give good advice,” I say after a moment.

  “I wouldn’t go that far. I’ve just been around long enough to learn some things. And I don’t want you to miss out on being a teenager because of your mother’s fears.” Carlene clears her throat. “But tell me: Why do you like this guy so much? Booker. Not because he’s a bad boy, right?”

  “But he’s not, Carlene. He’s sweet, and his temper got away from him. He’s never been in trouble before or after that.”

  “And you don’t think he’s going to snap again?”

  “No, I don’t.” I look at her over my shoulder. “And I can’t explain why I like him. I just do. It’s, like, that chemistry everyone talks about. I didn’t have that with Mitchell, but I feel it with Booker. I understand it now.”

  “So, what happens next? You think your mom’s gonna be okay with you dating him?”

  “I know she’s not.” I clear my throat and turn back around. “That’s why I was wondering if you’d meet him.”

  “Me?” Carlene’s fingers never stop moving, just like a professional.

  “You’re family. And you won’t judge him like my parents. But maybe you can convince them it’s okay for me to date him. I mean, if you like him.”

  Carlene doesn’t respond right away.

  “You really care what I think, kid?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  She guides the thin handle of the comb down my scalp, gently creating another part. “It’s just nice,” she says. “That you care. I’d love to meet your not-quite-boyfriend.”

  “Future boyfriend?”

  “I like your optimism.”

  IT’S GOOD NOT TO FEEL SO NERVOUS WALKING INTO MY NEXT SAT PREP course, but it’s still a little strange knowing I’ll see Mitchell.

  We didn’t talk about anything real when we were together, so why did both of us decide to open up the last time we saw each other? In a classroom, no less.

  He’s there early, sitting in the same spot as last time, in the desk next to mine. I slide into my seat and give him a quick smile. But as soon as I look away, I can’t figure out what’s different about him. And I don’t want to look again, but it’s bugging me, to feel like something so close is so out of place.

  He brushes invisible lint off the front of his shirt and I look over as a reflex and—that’s it! His shirt. When he wasn’t in his Behrens Academy uniform, Mitchell normally wore button-down shirts—short-sleeved in the summer and long in the fall and winter—and colored polo shirts any other time. But he’s wearing an actual T-shirt, a black one with graphics on the front. I squint at it. Star Wars.

  “New shirt?” I ask, trying to hide my grin.

  His own smile stretches the length of his face. “You noticed?”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear a T-shirt. Like, ever.”

  “I haven’t, unless they were undershirts.”

  I unzip my bag and grab my workbook. “What gives?”

  “It’s stupid that I have a dress code even when I’m not in school, and I finally told my parents,” he says, unable to hide the pride in his voice.

  I stare at him. “Your parents had a problem with you wearing Star Wars shirts?”

  “You’ve met my parents—they have a problem with everything.” He rolls his eyes.

  “I guess I never noticed,” I say, trying to think back over the times I was around them. Like my parents, they were big on manners and doing well in school and preparing for the future. But I never knew they monitored what he wore—I thought he liked looking like he was always on his way to a job interview.

  “Star Wars isn’t intellectual, T-shirts are sloppy, and obviously everyone will think I’m a goddamn slacker if they know I like both of those things. You didn’t know?”

  My parents have their rules, but that would be extreme even for them.

  “They’re just—” he starts, but Jared walks in then, with his surprisingly deep voice, and Mitchell shakes his head like he’ll finish later.

  After class, neither of us rushes to gather our things and get the hell away from each other, and that feels good, too.

  But I freeze when Mitchell looks over and says, “Want to grab lunch?”

  Shit. It was only a week ago that he was saying we didn’t have to be friends, so why is he asking this now? Maybe all that honesty was a mistake. Is he trying to get back together?

  “Um.” I slip my pencil and eraser back into my bag and wish we were still going over the basic geometry sections with Jared. I’m no longer grounded and my mom didn’t drive me today, so I don’t have a good excuse. “I, um—”

  “Not like a date,” M
itchell says quickly, holding up his hands. “And feel free to tell me to go to hell. But I’m hungry and you seem like maybe you don’t want to kill me, so…”

  “Okay,” I say before I can think about it too much. Maybe because I’m so thankful that he wasn’t asking me out; I don’t think there’d be any coming back from that for either of us. “Sure. But please, god, can we not go anywhere near Navy Pier?”

  “Well, what I’m thinking of isn’t too far from it, but I swear it’s a thousand times better than anything on the pier.”

  He won’t tell me where we’re going, and normally that would bother me, but for some reason it feels fine today. I think I’m still trying to get used to this new Mitchell, the guy who proudly wears geeky T-shirts and talks about his feelings.

  We walk side by side to the train station, and I almost run into a tree when Mitchell reaches into his pocket and pulls out a vape pen.

  “What are you doing?” I look at the people around us, at the buildings we pass, at the sky above us, as if we’re on a hidden camera show. This can’t be Mitchell. Not Mr. We’re Too Smart to Go to Those Drinking Parties himself.

  “Dude, just act normal. Everybody vapes. And you can’t smell it,” he says before he takes a long drag.

  “Is that weed?” I ask in a low voice.

  “It’s not a cigarette.” He holds it out to me as we jog up the steps to the “L” platform. “Want a hit?”

  “No, I’m good. It’s the middle of the day,” I add, and instantly hate how it sounds. Judgy. Like my mother.

  “And? It helps me relax. Sometimes people need to do that during the day, too.”

  We swipe our cards and push through the turnstile, then walk down to an empty spot on the platform. Mitchell takes another hit and slips the vape back into his pocket.

  “When did you start doing that?”

  “After we broke up,” he says, his olive skin flushed. Mitchell always gets the “where are you from?” question from people and he likes making them squirm before he tells them his mom is white and his dad is half black and half white.