The Revolution of Birdie Randolph Page 7

  She grins. “No. It doesn’t seem like you at all.”

  I’M NOT SURE WHAT’S GOTTEN INTO MY MOTHER, BUT A COUPLE OF DAYS later she says I can go to Laz’s house.

  “I don’t want you going anywhere else,” she warns.

  I say okay, and I don’t know why she’s being so lenient with my punishment—did my aunt have something to do with this?—but I shower and get out of the apartment before she can change her mind.

  Laz lives on the other side of the expressway, northeast of us in Roscoe Village. Everything seems cuter in his neighborhood. Quaint and sweeter than Logan Square—almost like the suburbs, but not as boring. He and his mom live on the left side of a duplex on a quiet street thick with trees. White people look at us crazy in both of our neighborhoods, like they think every single black person in Chicago should be living on the South Side, but they mostly leave us alone.

  I open the screen door, letting myself in like I’ve been doing for years.

  “Hi,” I call out so he knows I’m here.

  “Hey, Dove,” his voice comes from the back of the house. “Be out in a sec.”

  I plop onto the couch and look around. His mother is always changing up the front room—rearranging the furniture or slapping fresh coats of vibrant paint on the walls or swapping out the framed prints that line them. Today there’s a new rug, thick chartreuse stripes lined up against gray and white. The room smells like incense, even though none of the sticks from Ayanna’s extensive collection are burning.

  Laz appears in the doorway, barefoot and shaggy haired. He’s finally done with school and I think he’s been spending most of his free time catching up on sleep. I haven’t seen him at the salon much.

  “Want something to eat?”

  “Sure.” I follow him to the kitchen. It’s only eleven thirty, earlier than I normally eat lunch, but all I had for breakfast was fruit.

  He stands in front of the open fridge. “Grilled cheese okay?”

  “Can I have tomato in mine?”

  “Yup.” He pulls out butter and cheese. “So your mom didn’t say why she let you out of the house?”

  I put a skillet on the stove to heat, then lean against the island, watching him. “Nope. Maybe she’s going soft on me.”

  “She’s probably just glad you haven’t snuck out again.” He pauses as he reaches for the bread. “So am I.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means you know my mom wasn’t happy about me being with you that night,” he says, giving me the raised-eyebrow, cocked-head combination of a disappointed parent. A look I know all too well now. “She didn’t ground me, but I wish she had after the way she went off.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, not for the first time.

  He reaches around me to grab a tomato from the bowl on the counter, purposely elbowing me in the side. “I know.” He’s quiet as he slices into it, then, with his back still to me, he says, “I went out with Greg last night.”

  “Out out? Like on a date?”

  He shrugs. “Yeah, I guess. We went to see the new Marvel movie. Then we got some food.”

  “And?” He still doesn’t face me, so I swoop over to stare at him, standing uncomfortably close.

  “God, you’re annoying,” he says, but he laughs. “And… we hooked up some. In his car, under the Metra tracks.”

  I flush, thinking of when I kissed Booker on the next street over from mine. I want to see him. To touch him and feel his warm fingers grooved between mine again. “It was good?”

  “Yeah.” He turns his head, but not before I see that smile. I know it because it’s the same way I feel when I think about Booker. “It was good. I like him.”

  I watch Laz butter two pieces of bread and fill them generously with slices of American cheese and tomato. “Do you like him enough to tell your mom about him?”

  “She’s not like your parents. She doesn’t need to know everything I’m doing.”

  “But maybe she’d be happy that you found someone who makes you happy.”

  He presses the sandwich into the skillet, his back to me. The buttered bread sizzles in the pan. “You know it’s not that easy, Dove.”

  “You’re not your dad,” I say softly.

  He sighs. “Can we please drop it?”

  I nod, even though he can’t see me.

  My phone buzzes with a text just as we’re finishing our sandwiches. I pop a string of melted cheese into my mouth and look down at my phone. It’s Booker. He says he’s bored and asks what I’m doing. We’ve been texting every night and sometimes during the day, but we are both frustrated that we haven’t figured out a way to see each other.

  I’m starting to type out a response when I freeze. “Laz, is your mom at the shop all day?”

  “Think so.” He glances at my phone suspiciously. “Why?”

  “Can Booker come over?”

  He groans, sliding down in his chair.

  “I miss him,” I say. “And that’s not why I came over.” It’s not, but I can’t believe I didn’t think of it until now.

  And there it is, the new, unfamiliar part of me that cropped up the other night when I was with Booker. The one that ignores all the good decisions I’ve made in the past and gives in to the pure, uninhibited craving that twines through me when I see or think about him.

  “Fine,” Laz says, “but remember how much I said my mom yelled at me? You’re on your own if you fuck this up, too.”

  “Uh-huh.” I’m barely listening to him as I text Booker and anxiously wait for his reply. And then it comes:

  Be there soon

  Laz rolls his eyes on cue at my squeal, but he can’t hold back his smile when he sees me so happy.

  I cheerfully punch him in the arm. “I love you so fucking much, Lazarus Ramos.”

  Maybe it’s because I haven’t seen him in a while, but Booker looks better than I remember. He feels better, too. His arms are tighter around me as we hug, his lips softer as they brush against mine in greeting.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” he whispers in my ear.

  I turn around to see if Laz is watching us, but he’s crouched in front of the TV, fiddling with his video game controllers.

  “I’m glad I’m here, too,” I whisper back.

  I want to kiss him again—for real—but I’m afraid I won’t stop. And by the way Booker’s eyes are nearly sparkling at me, I think he feels the same way. I lean my body into his and he wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me closer.

  Booker and Laz have some never-ending Call of Duty rivalry and apparently abide by an unspoken rule that they have to play it whenever they’re here. Which means I have to spend the next hour watching them shoot at anything that crosses the screen. Laz parks himself on the new rug while I sit next to Booker on the couch. He looks over to smile at me every few minutes, occasionally touching my arm or knee.

  Laz finally drops his controller and stands, stretching his arms to the ceiling. “Going out for snacks. What do you guys want?”

  “You have a full pantry in the kitch—” I stop when I realize both Laz and Booker are staring at me. Laz bursts out laughing and Booker’s lips twitch, clearly trying to hold his in. “Oh.”

  I am so bad at not following the rules.

  “Back in a bit,” Laz says, and at least I have the sense not to ask why he’s taking his backpack.

  As soon as the screen door slams, Booker and I turn to each other. He’s still smiling, but he looks a little shyer now that we’re alone, and I’m relieved. No matter how much we text, I am still nervous when we’re together, because I feel strong and free when I’m around him, and no one has ever made me feel those two things at once.

  “I was worried you might be mad at me,” he says, biting the corner of his lip.

  “Why would I be mad?”

  “Because I got you grounded for a month?”

  “That wasn’t your fault.” I shrug. “I was sloppy. I’m not good at being bad.”

  “Bad
is overrated,” he says as he leans in to kiss me.

  Everything feels heightened, more dramatic since I’ve been grounded—like I’m experiencing every single bit of freedom for the first time. But I swear, this kiss with Booker lasts forever. And it is perfect. I’ve thought about kissing him a lot over the last week, but all my daydreams pale in comparison to his lips on mine and his hands in my curls and the way he breathes my name when we finally pull away.

  “Damn.” He runs his palm softly over my cheek. “I missed you.”

  “I missed you.” I pause. “But is that weird? That we miss each other? We’re not…”

  His thumb moves down to trace my lips. “We’re not what?”

  “I’m not your girlfriend,” I blurt, looking away. “But this all feels… real. Realer than an actual relationship I was in for a year and a half.”

  “Yeah?”

  “He had so many rules about what we could and couldn’t do.”

  “What kind of dude has rules for his girl?” Booker frowns.

  “Maybe rules isn’t the right word. It’s just that he had a plan. For everything,” I say, wondering if I shouldn’t have mentioned Mitchell. Booker looks peeved. “And he was only ever happy if things went his way and—sorry.”

  Booker’s frown melts away. “For what?”

  “I don’t want to talk about Mitchell.” I slip my hand in his. “How are you? When do you start at the garage?”

  “Next week.”

  “You don’t sound excited.”

  He sighs. “I don’t mind working. My uncle Les is all right, and I like the other guys who work at his garage. I just hate that my old man’s planned my whole summer. He didn’t used to be like this, but with my mom and juvie, he’s on my ass all the time. Feels like I can’t decide anything for myself anymore.”

  “Do you like him?” I ask.

  “My old man?” He shrugs. “He’s okay. We got along better when my mom was around. She died a few months before eighth grade. Maybe Laz told you.” He clears his throat.

  I shake my head. I knew something had happened, but Laz never told me.

  “It’s not easy to talk about without depressing the shit out of everyone, so I just… don’t.” Booker swallows.

  “You can talk to me about it. About her,” I say. “You’re not going to depress me.”

  He inhales, spreading his big hands in front of him. “She got breast cancer. The chemo worked, and then the cancer came back and the chemo didn’t work. I miss her. I… I didn’t think I was going to get to say goodbye to her. She was getting worse and worse while I was locked up, and—she died a couple of weeks after I got out. It sucked. It still sucks. Every single day. And I don’t think my pops is ever gonna go back to the person he was when she was here.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. As much as my mother annoys and even infuriates me at times, I can’t imagine her not being around. I don’t know how I could just get up and go on with everything like normal, day after day, knowing someone so important was gone. Carlene hasn’t even been here a month and I’m already starting to get so used to her that I wonder if my life will feel different when she leaves.

  “I have to see someone every week because of the trouble I got into. A counselor. He wants my dad to come in so we can talk to him together. But my pops? Nah. He’s an old-school black dude from the South Side. Therapy’s not in his vocabulary.”

  “I can’t see my dad going to therapy, either. Not unless my mom made him.” But I don’t think my mother would ever suggest therapy because she’s too afraid of people knowing we’re not perfect.

  “Do you like your old man?” Booker turns my question back on me.

  “He works a lot. He’s quiet. But he’s a good dad. He’s always trying to keep everyone happy.”

  “Your family sounds nice.” Picture perfect is what he doesn’t say, but I see it in his eyes.

  I don’t know how to explain that even though everything looks good, it always feels like something is simmering under the surface. Like there’s information just under my nose that everyone is aware of except for me. I’ve always felt this way, and maybe it’s worse because I’m getting older—becoming less naive.

  I can’t figure out a good response, so I kiss him again.

  Being with him—kissing and touching him—is a special kind of good. Soft and warm and comfortable. I forget that we are at Laz’s house and that I’m on borrowed time and that I don’t know when I’ll be able to see him again. I slip onto my back and Booker hovers over me on the couch, his lips planting tiny kisses down my throat. I wrap my arms around his broad back, pulling him closer. I like the weight of him, a reminder that he’s real and not just someone who lives in my phone.

  Laz makes a lot of noise as he comes up the walk and opens the door, giving us enough time to break apart and straighten our clothes and smooth our hands over our hair. He appraises us with a raised eyebrow as he sets a plastic bag of potato chips, gummy bears, and Gatorade on the coffee table.

  My mother summons me home a few minutes later.

  “I don’t want to go,” I say to Booker when he walks me to the bus stop.

  “I don’t want you to go,” he says.

  He doesn’t ask when he’ll see me again—I think it makes us both a little sad that we don’t know when. I have less than three weeks left of my punishment, but even after I’m no longer grounded, my mother will be watching to make sure I don’t mess up again.

  The bus pulls up. Booker kisses me as the people exit, then he kisses me again when I’m on the first step, until the bus driver clears his throat and says we can get on or off, but we have to keep moving.

  MOM DRIVES ME TO MY SECOND SAT SESSION, DESPITE MY PROTEST.

  I still don’t understand why she let me hang out with Laz the other day, because she hasn’t lifted or lightened my punishment. She’s been spacey lately, like she’s not quite herself.

  She and Carlene are getting along a little better. Carlene has been keeping busy with AA meetings, braiding classes, and running. She’s with us for most breakfasts and dinners, and thankfully, the tension during mealtimes has started to evaporate. Carlene doesn’t seem any different, but I can tell Mom is trying hard to be pleasant and less critical of her sister. Less vocally critical, anyway. I still catch the way she looks at her sometimes, like she doesn’t trust her not to run off with the silverware.

  I say goodbye to my mother, and when I get inside I’m happy to see I’m the first person in the room. No Mitchell. Maybe he dropped the class. I sit in the same seat as last time and take out my workbook, glancing at the sections on quadratic equations and ratios that we were supposed to go over. I’ve become so good at studying during the school year—making up schedules and methods and sticking to them—that I didn’t expect to have any trouble this summer. But it’s hard to concentrate, even though I have all the time in the world.

  I don’t look up as people begin coming in. I don’t want to accidentally make eye contact with Mitchell. It’s awkward, being in the same room and not talking. But knowing we have nothing to say to each other, anyway.

  Eventually someone plops down into the seat next to me. I look over and startle when I realize it’s him.

  “I know you hate me,” Mitchell says, staring down at the desk, backpack still hooked over his shoulders. “But if we’re going to be in the same class all summer, maybe we can at least say hey?”

  “I don’t hate you.” My voice is quiet as I look around to see if everyone else is looking. Nobody is looking. “You’re the one who broke up with me.”

  “It’s not like you were sad about it.”

  I frown. “We were together for a year and a half. The breakup came out of nowhere, and it seemed so… so…” I feel him looking at me, but now I don’t want to meet his eyes.

  “It seemed so what, Dove?”

  We make eye contact for the first time in months. And I’m surprised to see, for the first time, Mitchell looking at me like he really wants to hear
me. Like he cares what I have to say. The arrogance that always tinged his features is gone for the first time in a long time.

  “It seemed like part of your life plan,” I say, finally managing to get out what’s been bothering me for the past four months. “Like you’d written down how things were going to work. Go out with Dove for exactly a year and six months, take her out to a nice dinner and a movie, break up with her outside the Blue Line station. Like I was a checkmark on your to-do list.”

  He is quiet for so long that I look over. His dark eyebrows are raised, his eyes wide. “Wow. You really think that’s how it was?”

  “I know that’s how it was. You weren’t upset at all. You—it felt like you used me just to keep your parents happy. To have someone around you could call your girlfriend who you liked just fine, but not enough.”

  And I just kept going along with it and never said anything.

  Jared, our instructor, walks in then, his cheeks seemingly pinker than last week.

  Next to me, Mitchell is stunned into silence. He finally slips off his backpack and takes out his workbook and Cartier pencil. I concentrate on Jared, whose baritone I still can’t get over. It doesn’t fit his slim frame and boyish features, and I spend the rest of the session concentrating on his voice instead of our math lesson.

  After class I get up immediately, stuffing my things back into my bag. Mitchell takes his time, and I am relieved he’s not going to follow me out.

  “Hey,” he says, and then I have to look at him.

  “I promise you, it wasn’t like that,” he says. “I thought you were cool, Dove. Way too cool to be going out with someone like me. The whole time, I thought… I thought you were just going out with me to make your parents happy. Because yours and mine really seemed to like us together, and I figured there was no other reason you’d ever want to be with me.”

  I open and then close my mouth, not sure how to respond. Part of the reason I never thought about breaking up with him myself was because I knew how happy our relationship made my parents. They felt I was safe when I was with Mitchell, and it was nice knowing there was someone besides Laz they trusted me to be around when they weren’t there. But he thought I was going out with him for the same reason, which means it could look like I was using him, too. I never thought of it that way.