The Revolution of Birdie Randolph Read online

  “Let me guess—you’ve already been to the farmers market and showered and made breakfast?”

  “Yeah, I ate, like, two hours ago,” she says. “It’s almost noon.”

  “It’s Saturday.”

  “Stop being cranky, Dovie. Wasn’t yesterday your last day?”

  Behind her, I see the unfamiliar walls of her new apartment. She just moved in a couple of weeks ago, when her semester ended. Dad offered to drive up to Milwaukee and help her, but Mimi said she and her friends had it covered. It feels strange for her to be out of the dorms and living somewhere I’ve never seen.

  “Yeah, and I get to spend half my summer in SAT prep,” I say. “Can’t wait.”

  Mimi sighs. “I know. But she’s not going to get off your back unless you just do it. Suck it up, kick ass on the test, and then the summer before your senior year is free.”

  That seems so far away. Another year of prep and testing and serious discussions about college applications before I can rest. All the lead-up is exhausting, but I’m actually looking forward to college. I’m not positive what I want to study, though I’m leaning toward civil engineering. I’ve always been fascinated by how the train tracks and bridges and streets are built and operate (almost) seamlessly. Or maybe architecture because I’ve been in love with the beautiful buildings around Chicago since I was a little kid. Tribune Tower and the Civic Opera House are my very favorites.

  “Didn’t it seem like this would never end when you were my age?” I ask. Because Mimi studied just as much as I did, if not more.

  The first time Mimi came home after she’d been away at college, she showed up sporting a low fade with a side part. My mother looked like somebody had slapped her. They have a barber at the shop, but Mimi had always kept her hair long and natural and braided, occasionally straightening it when my mother fussed over things like graduation and prom. Mimi said the new cut felt more like her. It took me a minute to get used to it, but the more I looked at her, the more I liked it. Mimi is super pretty with creamy brown skin and the same big, clear brown eyes as Mom.

  “Yes, and it sucked,” she says.

  “It would suck a lot less if I were playing right now.”

  Her voice softens. “You really miss it that much?”

  “I do.”

  It is soccer, and I started playing in competitive youth leagues when I was in third grade. I was on the middle school team, too, and I loved it. All the running that we complained about during practice was suddenly fun when we were on the field. Sweating through my jersey made me feel like I was working hard, and shit-talking the other teams when our coaches couldn’t hear was one of the most rebellious things I’ve ever done. I felt uncontained when I was on the field. Free.

  “Well.” Mimi stops because she knows firsthand there isn’t much she can say to make me feel better about the decision my mother has made for me. “Maybe you can play in college.”

  “I’m not good enough, Meems.”

  That was the reason Mom decided it would be best for me to stop playing and focus on extracurriculars like quiz bowl and the environment club. Her logic is that schools wouldn’t necessarily be impressed by my athleticism unless I was good enough to be scouted. The fact that soccer made me happy wasn’t enough.

  “Sorry,” Mimi says, and she looks away from the screen, but not before I see a flash of regret in her eyes. She had to give up cheerleading. She was really good—a lot better than I am at soccer. “But you have to get through it. And then you’ll go away like I did and you can do whatever you want.”

  “College doesn’t sound easy, though.”

  “Of course it’s not. But I’ve gotten through my first two years, even with my hellish load.” Mimi is premed, which makes both of our parents extraordinarily happy. She thinks she wants to go into dermatology. “And it’s a lot better to deal with the pressure here than there.” She scratches the tip of her nose. “Dad said Aunt Carlene is staying with you guys?”

  I nod.

  “How is she?”

  “She’s good.” I don’t know if she’s here, but even if she is in Mimi’s room, I don’t think she can hear us.

  “She was always nice when she came around.”

  “You remember her?”

  “A little bit,” Mimi says. “She sent us toys a couple of times, and Mom used to get all weird about it. Like she had to know where they came from, and she’d make sure they were age-appropriate before she let us play with them instead of just accepting a gift like a normal person.”

  Our mother is definitely downstairs in the salon by now, maybe even finishing up with her first client.

  Still, I lower my voice as I say, “Mom is weird around her. She’s keeping tabs on her and, like, sniffing her mugs to make sure she isn’t drinking.”

  And then I remember. It hits me suddenly—the last time I saw my aunt. It was after the shop opened, but before we’d moved in up here, so I couldn’t have been older than eight. She was a skinny woman I didn’t recognize, and as soon as she stumbled into the shop, Mom hustled her through the salon and out the back door and into the alley. The woman kept trying to look behind her, and at one point she met my eye and stared.

  I noticed how the dull roar of the shop had quieted to a hum, and how Ayanna was looking worriedly toward the back. I slowly inched closer and closer to the door, trying to hear what they were saying. Trying to figure out who the woman was.

  I couldn’t hear anything as I peeked through the screen door, but I could see them. My mother tossing her arms in the air and frowning, the woman raking her hands through her disheveled hair and pleading. My mother shook her head again and again, and I saw the first tear fall down the woman’s cheek before Ayanna was there, yanking me away.

  “Who is that?” I asked as she deposited me by her station, where she was pressing someone’s hair.

  Ayanna looked around the shop as if searching for anyone else who could give me the answer. Then she sighed and studied me, her eyes soft as she said, “Your mother’s sister. Carlene.”

  “Her sister… My aunt?” I didn’t know anything about my aunt, and I wanted to get a better look at her. I started to run back to the door, but Ayanna caught me by the arm before I could go.

  “You stay right here, Dove. They need privacy.”

  “I just want to see her,” I whined, but I shut my mouth when Ayanna gave me the universal Black Mom Look. I knew not to argue with that.

  When my mother came back in, she closed both doors firmly behind her and locked them. Carlene wasn’t with her. Mom disappeared into the tiny break room for a while, and even I didn’t have to be told not to bother her until she came out.

  I consider asking Mimi about this—where was she that day? Am I remembering this correctly or is my brain making up stories?—but for some reason, I want to keep the memory to myself for now.

  My sister sinks down onto her bed and rolls her eyes. “Of course Mom is keeping tabs on her. Takes some of the heat off you, though. Right?”

  I shrug. “It’s not so bad.”

  But we both know I’m lying, and Mimi doesn’t let it go. “Bullshit, Dove. You’re her precious treasure. Do you know she didn’t even offer to come help me move?”

  “Dad did.”

  “Yeah, of course. But do you really think she would let you move into an apartment on your own without her explicit approval of the place before you signed the lease? She hasn’t even asked to see pictures.”

  “She just thinks I’m more fragile than you are.”

  Mimi snorts. “Or maybe she just loves you more.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Okay, this feels like telling you Santa Claus isn’t real all over again, but you know that’s a thing, right? Parents can’t love all their kids equally. It’s just not realistic.”

  “And I’m the one who’s cranky?”

  But her words make me uneasy because a part of me believes she might be right. I don’t know if my mother loves me more, but she
pays more attention to me. She always has, and I’ve always tried not to notice.

  The front door opens, and a few moments later my aunt walks into the kitchen, stretching an arm across the front of her body. She’s wearing a loose tank top, a sports bra, and running shorts, her skin damp with sweat. She waves as she heads to the cabinet to grab a glass.

  “I’m talking to Mimi,” I say, and she smiles and has me hand the phone to her.

  They chat easily and, not for the first time, I wish Mimi were coming home this summer. It will be strange without her, even with Carlene here to fill her space. I expected her to be a little homesick, to say how much she would miss being away from Chicago the whole year for the first time. But she looks happy to be away and on her own. I wonder if I will be, too, when it’s my turn to go.

  I say goodbye to Mimi a few minutes later. I wanted to talk to her about Booker, about how I am seeing him tonight. How I’m so nervous that I wonder if he will sense it as soon as I’m with him. But I’d have to start from the beginning because she doesn’t know anything about him. And I don’t know if I can trust Carlene yet.

  My aunt downed her first glass of water, and she stands at the sink taking her time with the second one.

  “Your sister is so grown-up now,” she says. “I love the hair.”

  “It looks good on her.”

  “She has a boyfriend?”

  “No.” I take a bite of my toast, even though it’s too cold to be good at this point. “She’s not seeing anyone right now, but she dates girls.”

  Carlene raises her eyebrows. “Exclusively?”

  “Yeah. She’s gay.”

  “Funny that your mother never mentioned it when I asked about her,” she says in a way that means she doesn’t think it’s funny at all.

  “She’s… still getting used to it.” That’s the nicest way to say that my mother accepts that Mimi likes girls, but she’s still visibly uncomfortable discussing it, as if she will accidentally say something offensive.

  “Well, I hate to say that it might not get any better. Your mother is still getting used to me,” Carlene says.

  I look at her. “You mean…?”

  “I like women, too,” my aunt says. “I’ve liked some men, but mostly women. I always have, and Kitty flipped out when I told her I’d kissed a girl for the first time. I was sixteen and she was fourteen, and she thought my life was over. That nobody would ever accept me.”

  “She was wrong, right?” I say.

  Carlene sets the glass on the counter. “Well, yes. You accept me, don’t you?”

  “Of course. I just… I guess I worry about Mimi, too, sometimes. I hear the things people say when they think no one cares, and they can be really shitty.”

  “I didn’t say it’s been easy, but my life was far from over. Still is.”

  I pop the last bite of hard-boiled egg into my mouth and chew, watching Carlene stretch in front of the sink. “Do you like running?”

  “No,” she says simply. “And the smoking doesn’t help. But I try to go for a run every day.”

  “Why do you do it if you don’t like it?”

  “Because I’ve been doing it ever since I got clean and I figure it can’t hurt my cause,” she says, shrugging.

  “Oh.” I look down at my plate. We haven’t discussed her rehab or sobriety, though she must know that I know after the way she and my mother danced around it the other night.

  Carlene drains her glass of water. “I’m going to wash off this city dirt. You need the bathroom before I jump in the shower?”

  “No, take your time,” I say, not quite meeting her eye.

  She pauses in the doorway. “You know, I’m not proud of some of the things I’ve done, but I’m not ashamed of trying to stay sober,” she says in a clear, kind voice. “It’s okay to talk about it.”

  I don’t know how to say that I’m not ashamed but that we don’t openly discuss a lot of things around here. I think being uncomfortable makes my mother feel out of control.

  My aunt lingers in the doorway, only heading down the hall after I look at her and nod.

  BOOKER’S ARMS ARE WRAPPED AROUND MY WAIST, HIS CHIN HOOKED OVER my shoulder.

  I’m sitting on his lap at the kitchen table and he’s holding cards in front of us for the drinking game that’s in session. I am the most sober person in the room, by far. I’ve had a couple of sips from Booker’s cup throughout the night—my first taste of alcohol. It was pretty anticlimactic and it tasted just as bad as I thought it would. Booker was two drinks in by the time Laz and I showed up an hour ago, but he doesn’t seem any different than when he’s sober.

  Booker plays a card, and I guess it’s a good one because everyone else groans and takes a drink from their bottle or can or cup.

  This is my first party with alcohol and where at least one parent isn’t around. I expected to feel more out of place, but it’s surprisingly natural. Booker pulled me into an empty corner as soon as I arrived and kissed me. He hasn’t left my side for more than a couple of minutes, and I always thought that sounded so suffocating, someone not giving you space. But it makes all the difference in the world when you want to be near them, too.

  “You smell good,” he whispers in my ear.

  His warm breath and soft words send a long shiver down my back, and I shift on his lap. I want to turn around and kiss him, but as comfortable as I feel, I’m not so sure I’m okay with public displays of affection. Even when he pulled me aside earlier, I kept opening my eyes to make sure no one was looking. Mitchell would never have dreamed of being affectionate with other people around—we barely did anything when we were alone. I’m still trying to get used to being with someone new and I don’t want anyone to watch me. What if I’m doing everything wrong? What if I’ve always been doing everything wrong and that’s why Mitchell dumped me?

  “Fuck,” says the guy with curly blond hair sitting to our right. “My cards are shit. I’m out.”

  He starts a chain reaction; one by one, people set down their cards and pick up their drinks. Half the table disperses.

  “Let’s go somewhere,” Booker says.

  “Where?” I ask, still not turning all the way around to look at him head-on.

  He shrugs. “Somewhere without all these people.”

  “Maybe I should get a drink first,” I suggest, stalling for time.

  If Booker notices, he doesn’t let on. He pushes the chair back from the table so I can stand up, his hands sliding over my hips as I leave his lap.

  Laz is on the other side of the kitchen, leaning against the counter with his phone in hand. He watches as I open the refrigerator and search the shelves.

  “You’re drinking?”

  “I was thinking about it.”

  I always thought I was too nervous before, but maybe that was Mitchell’s anxieties transferring to me. Since he didn’t want to go to parties, it seemed easier to tell myself I didn’t want to, either. But now that I’m here, I wonder what I’ve been missing out on. My mom would, of course, be furious if she knew. Especially after what she told me about Carlene. But I’m not Carlene, I’m Dove. And I know my sister drinks sometimes—I want to try it, too.

  But I don’t know where to start. Light beer or dark? Or should I mix something like Laz and Booker are drinking, with soda and liquor?

  “Am I going to have to take care of you the rest of the night?”

  “I’m not going to get drunk. I just want a drink. One. Will you help me?”

  Laz peels himself off the counter and sets about making me a drink, ice and all. When he’s done, he turns around to hand it to me and says, “Let me know if it’s too strong.”

  And then he stops. Stares over my shoulder. I turn around, expecting to see Booker, but it’s not him. This guy is short and skinny and white.

  He glances at me before his eyes rest on Laz again. “Playing bartender?”

  “Just making weak drinks for newbies over here.” The corner of Laz’s mouth turns up in an al
most imperceptible grin.

  “Make me one?”

  “Can’t promise it’ll be weak.”

  I look back and forth between them, and it takes only a moment for me to understand that this is him. The guy Laz briefly mentioned and has been too shy to talk about ever since.

  The color in his cheeks deepens. “Greg, this is my friend Dove,” he mumbles.

  “His best friend,” I clarify.

  “Your name is Dove?”

  “Just like the bird.”

  Greg smiles at me and I decide I like him right away. He has a nice smile, with a couple of crooked teeth on bottom and a dimple in one cheek. “Nice to meet you, Dove.”

  “You too. Thanks for the drink, Laz,” I say, starting to walk back toward Booker.

  “Is it too strong?”

  I take a sip and I can’t even taste any alcohol. Just cola and ice. I shake my head and hand it back to him. “More, please.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I watched you make it,” I say. “You barely even put any liquor in there.”

  “You don’t sound like a newbie to me,” Greg says, still smiling.

  Laz gives me a warning look like You’d better not get too fucked up tonight, but he obliges me and splashes in a bit more of the alcohol. Rum, the bottle says.

  I taste the drink again. The rum hits my tongue instantly, and I think it might actually be too strong now, but I try not to let him see this as I say, “Much better. Thanks, Lazarus.”

  “Lazarus, huh?” Greg says, turning his grin on Laz now.

  I scoot away before Laz can yell at me for using his full name.

  Booker is sitting at the table in the same spot. He stands when he sees me. Takes my hand and says, “Come on.”

  We move through the crowded rooms of the house, passing through the dining room and living room, where people are playing more games and dancing and generally acting like school is already out for them. I guess the parties at my school look like this—I wouldn’t know.

  I feel safe with my hand tucked in Booker’s, but my heart pounds a bit faster as we walk. My hand holding the cup starts to sweat, mingling with the condensation, and I tighten my grip. We go up the staircase, carefully weaving through people lounging on the landing and two girls who are making out on the steps.