The Revolution of Birdie Randolph Read online

  “Sounds like a great guy,” Booker says, but I don’t like the sarcasm.

  “Are you mad about this?” I pull my hand back. “I didn’t choose to be in that class with him. And it doesn’t matter that he’s there, because I don’t like him. I like you. I’m here with you, Booker.”

  He lets out a long, loud breath. Touches my hand and then takes it in his. “I know. I’m sorry. My counselor says I get—because of juvie and my mom dying and my dad moving us out of the place without telling me, I guess I have abandonment issues or something. I never think anyone or anything good is gonna stick around. Like you.”

  “I like you so much, Booker,” I say, staring into his eyes so he won’t doubt what I’m saying. “There’s no one else, okay? I wouldn’t do that to you.”

  He nods, warmth radiating from his gaze. “Okay. And… I’m really sorry. I don’t want to be that guy who’s bringing his own shit into things and making it weird.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  He slides his thumb around and around my palm. “You know, the day after he met you, my dad left a box of condoms in my room.”

  “Oh my god.” I’m embarrassed for him—even more than when I was talking to Carlene about the pill. Which wasn’t all that embarrassing, actually.

  “Yeah. An enormous box,” he says, making the shape with his hands. “He didn’t say anything about it, so I didn’t, either.”

  I look at him. I’m weirded out by how honest we’re being, but I guess it’s a good kind of weird. “My aunt wants me to get on the pill… if we’re going to do this. Be doing this.”

  “Are you going to?”

  “I think so. My mom would murder all of us if she found out.”

  Booker frowns. “Doesn’t she want you to be safe?”

  “Yeah, but to her, the safest thing is not having sex at all.”

  Booker clears his throat. “I know we might not get to be together once your parents find out everything about me. But I like you so much, too. I really want you to be my girl, Dove. It already feels like you are, but I never asked and… would you? Be my girl?”

  “I’m yours,” I say almost before he is done asking. I know that what I’m feeling for him is new, but it’s so real it makes me think my chest is going to crack open. I thought someone would’ve been able to explain this feeling to me by now, but it is so specific and so vague all at once, there is no way to truly capture it in words. All I know is I am blissfully happy when I look in his eyes, and I want everyone to know it—especially him.

  He reaches behind me to turn off the lamp on my nightstand, and the immediate darkness startles and then calms me. We take our time with each other, letting our eyes adjust as we slowly touch.

  Booker’s hands slip under my tank top, gently squeezing the small of my back and then sliding up my torso and over my breasts before he pulls the top over my head. I peel off his shirt and undershirt as one, then lean in to kiss him. And then we get into a rhythm, trading kisses for a discarded pair of shorts here, unbuttoned jeans there.

  When we are down to our underwear, we hear Carlene’s footsteps coming down the hall and freeze. Maybe I was wrong and she did change her mind and is coming to stop us before we go through with this. But then the bathroom fan turns on and the door closes and Booker and I breathe a dual sigh of relief.

  I look at him curiously as he hops down from the bed to rummage in the pocket of his jeans. He fiddles with his phone for a few seconds and by the time Carlene is out of the bathroom, Booker has queued up a playlist. Jazz, which I wasn’t expecting but don’t mind.

  It loosens me up. I feel less self-conscious with the music playing, and I don’t think too much about what we are doing, just that it feels good. Booker takes his time getting to know my body, and I let him. I tremble at the newness of his fingers between my legs and sigh with pleasure when he leaves them there.

  His body feels new to me, too. I haven’t seen him totally naked until now, and I am shy and also more than ready to touch him. He groans softly as I hold him in my hand and buries his face in my neck as my fingers glide up and down.

  Eventually, when Booker has kissed me everywhere and my heart is beating double time, he asks if he should get a condom. I nod and lie back on the bed, watching him move around the room, utterly at ease. He rips the package open, slides on the condom, and climbs back into bed, hovering above me, his eyes shining even in the dark.

  “You are…” he begins and then stops, his fingers brushing my forehead.

  “What?” I ask, my heart pulsing even faster, my breath quicker.

  “Beautiful. Amazing,” he whispers before he kisses me again.

  Sex isn’t very comfortable. At least my first time isn’t—even though Booker is slow and careful: in the way he touches me and, once he’s inside me, the way he moves.

  This is the closest I’ve ever been to another person, and I wouldn’t want it to be anyone but Booker. He takes off the condom and wraps it in several tissues when we are done. The space next to me is cold when he gets up, and I miss him until he is back again. He spoons me from behind with his warm body, brushing my braids aside to softly kiss my neck.

  “Was that okay? Are you okay?” he asks, his lips against my skin.

  “Yes and yes,” I whisper back, snuggling into him.

  “Man, I hope your folks like me.” Booker slides his palm lightly across my stomach. “I’m falling for you, Dove. You’re…”

  Like before, he pauses, but this time I wait for him to finish without prompting. The music is still playing, my room filled with the sweet, longing wail of a saxophone.

  “You’re my perfect day,” he murmurs, holding me tighter.

  I doze off in Booker’s arms but wake about an hour later. I have to pee.

  I slowly slide away, trying not to wake him, and open the door, listening to see if Carlene is still up. The TV is off, but light spills from the kitchen doorway and after a few seconds, I hear voices. I slip down the hallway, stepping over the squeaky patch of hardwood.

  “Glad you called, Carl.”

  Emmett is here.

  There’s the sound of a glass or mug plunking down on the table, but Carlene doesn’t respond before he speaks again.

  “You don’t sound good. Don’t look so good, either.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Carlene says after a pause. “I’m not gonna do anything stupid. Do I want a drink? Yes. But god, Kitty would be so smug if I fucked up. Just like she thinks I will. I know it’s not about her. Not really. But I can’t give her that satisfaction. And if that helps me stay away from the bottle…”

  I lean against the wall of Mimi’s pictures, staring at photos of my own face across the way. I know I shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but I want to know what has Carlene so upset—what made her call Emmett over at midnight.

  “So what’s wrong? What happened?” Emmett sounds genuinely concerned, and I am dying to see my aunt’s face, to see what has him so worried.

  “It’s almost like it’s too good to be true. I’m here, getting to spend all this time with her, and she’s wonderful. Just such a great person, you know? But it can’t last forever. This situation.”

  Wait—who is she? Does Carlene have a girlfriend she hasn’t told me about? Even after she’s kept my secret about Booker and met him?

  Her voice is faint, but she presses on. “And the closer we get, the more Kitty seems to resent it. Like she thinks I’m going to take her away.”

  A coolness passes through my body, but it’s not a breeze coming through the hallway. Carlene isn’t talking about someone she’s dating. She’s not talking about a friend, either.

  “You need to tell her, Carl,” Emmett says, his voice hoarser than normal. I can picture him sitting at our kitchen table, shoulders hunched low as he speaks. “How would you feel if someone was keeping something like that from you?”

  Carlene takes a while to answer. So long that I realize I’m holding my breath as I wait for her to speak. Then she fina
lly says, “I can’t. It’s part of the deal, Emmett.”

  I’m here, getting to spend all this time with her…

  … Kitty seems to resent it. Like she thinks I’m going to take her away.

  I stare at the pictures across the hall, at my seven-year-old gap-toothed smile.

  And I don’t know what’s going on, but I am pretty sure the she and her Carlene is talking about is me.

  WHEN I GET HOME FROM MY NEXT SAT CLASS, MOM IS IN THE KITCHEN, making lunch.

  “Want some, Birdie?” she asks over her shoulder. “It’s just the leftover pasta salad from last night, and I roasted some asparagus.”

  “Yes, please,” I say. “I’ll set the table.”

  “This is nice,” Mom says when we’re sitting down a few minutes later. “We don’t get to eat lunch together very often.”

  I swallow a bite of pasta. “When did you even start taking real lunches?”

  “Touché.” She smiles. “I’m trying to remind myself to slow down a little. The shop is doing well, and you’re growing up so fast. I don’t want to regret being at work too much and not spending enough time with you and your father.”

  “What about Carlene?” I say tentatively.

  “Carlene?”

  “Don’t you like spending more time with her, too?” I hope it’s not obvious that I’m digging for information, but I’m still trying to figure out what Carlene was talking to Emmett about the other night.

  “Well, sure.” Mom sips from her water glass. “But you’re my baby.”

  “Mom.” I just barely stop myself from rolling my eyes.

  “It’s true, Birdie. Deal with it,” she says, smiling.

  “What’s your favorite memory of Carlene?”

  Her smile wavers. “What do you mean?”

  “I keep hearing how she’s done crazy or bad things, but I want to know what you like about her. What’s a good memory of you and her?”

  “Oh, Birdie.” Mom shakes her head, smile gone. “I can’t think up something like that on the spot. She’s been around my whole life, more or less. The memories all start to blend together.”

  If that’s what happens when you get older, I never want to have another birthday. I can’t remember anything about being a baby, but I would be sad if I’d forgotten all the great times I’ve had with Mimi or Laz.

  “Really? You can’t think of one good memory?” I bet she’d be able to tell a dozen bad stories if I asked for them.

  Mom chews a couple more bites of salad and starts to cut a spear of asparagus, then sighs and sets down her fork. “When I was twelve, I was in the school talent show, and I was so nervous. I had just learned to play the piano the year before, and it was the first time I’d be playing in front of people who weren’t my instructor or other people’s parents. I’d only just had my first recital, but your grandma insisted that I enter the show. I was so shy and tried to fight her on it, but she wouldn’t let me back out. She said she wanted to get her money’s worth out of those lessons.”

  “I didn’t know you played the piano! Do you still remember how?”

  “Oh, I’m sure I’d be terrible. I haven’t played in years,” she says, waving a hand in the air. “Anyway, I practiced and practiced and finally felt pretty good about it, even though Carlene would cover her ears like she was dying from noise pollution every time she was home. She teased me so much about piano, and it only got worse when she found out I’d be in the talent show. So, the night of the show came and it turns out our mother couldn’t get off work to come see me.”

  I’m leaning forward on my elbows, riveted. My mother rarely talks about anything in the past, so I am truly fascinated.

  “I was so upset,” Mom says. “Everyone else’s parents were going to be there except for mine. And we were one of the few black families at the school, so it looked even worse. There was always that group of white kids who loved making jokes about absent black fathers, and my mother not being there, too, just gave them more fodder. But there was nothing I could do about it, so when they called my name, I went up. And I wasn’t going to look into the audience because the last thing I wanted was to be reminded that there wasn’t a friendly face from my family. But then someone kept whispering my name loudly from the front row, and finally I couldn’t ignore it anymore. I looked down from the stage and there was Carlene, sitting between two families.”

  “She showed up for you?”

  “A total surprise. She didn’t even put her hands over her ears.” Mom smiles. “And she clapped the loudest. Gave me a standing ovation and cheered until the principal made her stop.”

  “That was sweet of her,” I say, smiling back.

  “It was. She… Carlene is a sweet person. I haven’t forgotten that. But her substance abuse has caused real issues with us and made her do some really hurtful things. And it’s hard to forget that, too.” Mom looks at me. “I’m glad you like her, Birdie. I know it means a lot to Carlene.”

  Mimi video calls a few minutes after Mom goes back down to the shop.

  The place is empty, but I run up to the roof anyway. My sister is walking on a pathway along the Milwaukee River, the water moving in a sparkling strip behind her.

  “Hey, Dovie. Finally, I caught you. How’s it going?”

  “I have news,” I say, practically before she gets out the last sentence. We’ve been playing phone tag ever since Booker stayed over, and this was too big to text her. I feel like I’m going to burst from holding it in.

  Mimi rolls her eyes. “Please don’t tell me you’re grounded again.”

  “Would I be smiling like this if I were grounded?”

  “Fair enough. What’s up?”

  “I’m, um, a woman now.” It sounds so corny I can’t help giggling as I settle into one of the rooftop chairs.

  “What? You had sex?”

  I nod, still grinning. And I’m afraid to look at Mimi because she knows who it was with, and I already know how she feels about him.

  She stops walking and sits down, too, on a bench facing the water. All I can see behind her now is the concrete edge of a building.

  “Oh, Dovie.”

  “Don’t make me feel bad about this. I like him so much, Meems. More than I’ve ever liked anyone.”

  My sister smiles softly at me. “You really do, don’t you?”

  “I really do.”

  “Then I’m happy for you, Dovie. You deserve someone who makes you happy.” She clears her throat. “Are you on birth control?”

  “Not yet, Mom.”

  “I’m your big sister—I have to ask. But you were safe, right?”

  “Yes.” The sun is beating down hot on the roof, but I don’t want to bother with putting up the umbrella. “And Carlene is taking me to get on the pill this week.”

  “Does Mom know about this?” But Mimi laughs before I can answer. “Of course she doesn’t. I think the only part she liked about my coming out was that she didn’t have to worry about me getting pregnant. She sure didn’t know how to give me that sex talk.”

  “Well, she hasn’t talked to me about it, either. Not since elementary school.”

  “I don’t know what she’s going to do when you’re out of the house and she has no one else to boss around.”

  “There’s always Dad.”

  Mimi laughs again, her teeth bright in the summer sun.

  “Meems, do you… know anything about our family?”

  Her smile fades a bit. “What do you mean?”

  “Like, something I don’t know but should. Something Carlene and Mom know about. Do you know it, too?”

  “Dovie, you’re talking in riddles.”

  I don’t know how much I should tell her. I haven’t stopped thinking about what I overheard Carlene say, but I’m also starting to wonder if I imagined it. It was late. I was blissed out from being with Booker, and I had just woken up. Maybe I didn’t hear what I thought I did.

  “What are you talking about?” she says when I don’t respond.
r />   I could ask Carlene. She’s been honest with me since she got here. She probably wouldn’t lie. But what if she does? What if she gets mad at me for listening in on her and Emmett? Or what if she pretends that she never said my mother acts like she’s afraid Carlene is going to take me away? It’s so bizarre I must have imagined it. Why would Carlene take me away from my mother?

  “Never mind,” I say.

  “Dovie—”

  “It’s nothing. Really.”

  Mimi nods and starts talking about a coffee shop in her new neighborhood that will be great for studying at when school starts back up.

  Maybe I was too tired to remember exactly what Carlene and Emmett said the other night. But I don’t think I imagined the relief that passed through my sister’s eyes when I dropped the subject.

  “I’M GLAD YOU LIKE BASKETBALL.” I LOOK UP AT BOOKER.

  “Are you kidding? I could hate it and I still wouldn’t pass up the chance to sit front row at a Bulls game. Or next to you.”

  He smiles down at me, and it takes every ounce of self-control not to stand on my tiptoes and kiss him. I’m pretty sure I see the same look in his eyes, and I think about abandoning all the rules I gave him tonight (no unnecessary touching, no looking at each other too long or a certain way, and definitely no kissing) and going for it. We are standing outside United Center, sucked into a sea of fans wearing red and black and white. No one would give us a second look.

  But we’re waiting for my father, and he’s supposed to meet us in exactly this spot, and I really don’t feel like taking my chances. Not when everything is finally good again with my mother.

  “But are you a Bulls fan?” I ask Booker.

  “Yeah, but only ’cause of my old man. He basically worships that dude,” he says, nodding toward the bronze statue of Michael Jordan. Tons of people are gathered around the base of the fence that surrounds it, cheesing and throwing up peace signs in selfies and imitating his slam-dunk pose. “He was living here during all those championships. Said the city was fucking crazy.”

  “My dad, too. Honestly, I think Jordan is part of the reason he went into sports medicine.” And then I see him, my father. He’s walking fast with his medical bag in hand, looking for me. I wave my arms until he sees me and nods, heading right toward us. “No cursing around him, either,” I mumble to Booker.