“Were you talking about me?”
“Dove—” she starts weakly.
“Why would Mom think that? Did something happen when I was little?” Did she try to kidnap me or something when she was high? Is that why Mom is so protective of me around her? Why she and Ayanna didn’t want me anywhere near her when she was in the shop so many years ago?
“Dove, I—I can’t.” Carlene’s voice is so thick she can barely get the words out. She pulls her phone from her pocket and starts tapping wildly at the screen. “Not now.”
“What are you doing? What do you mean you can’t? So it was about me?”
“I’m sorry, I—I need to call my sponsor.” And then she turns her back and starts walking away from me.
Leaves me standing alone in Wicker Park like she’s never seen me before in her life.
LAZ BUMPS MY SHOULDER WITH HIS AS WE WALK.
I look at him and blink.
“You okay?” he asks, checking both ways before we cross the street.
Greg is a few feet behind us, looking at his phone.
We’re in Edgewater, heading to the party. I’ve been to this house before, but it was over a year ago and I don’t remember who lives here.
“Yeah, I’m okay.” I offer a weak smile.
“Uh, you’re obviously not.” He stops at the edge of the yard. “What’s going on?”
“Is it all right if we don’t talk about it?” I pause. “I’m not doing that thing where I say I don’t want to talk about it but I really want to talk about it. I don’t. It’s family stuff and… it’s complicated.”
“Yeah, of course,” Laz says, his eyes serious. “You know I get that. But if you change your mind, I got you.”
I nod and we head up to the front steps. I’m glad Laz didn’t push me because I don’t really feel like talking about how Carlene has been missing since yesterday afternoon when she left me on the street. I told Booker about it, but only over text. It’s different talking about it in person. It makes it more urgent, more real.
Last night my mother said not to worry, that Carlene probably had some things to take care of for her school or AA meetings. But I never told her how Carlene ran off, just that I hadn’t seen her since the afternoon. And I didn’t mention what we had been talking about, which is exactly what made her disappear.
Mom didn’t seem so relaxed this morning when we woke up and Carlene still wasn’t there. When she was opening up the salon, she kept looking at her phone and over at the door too many times. And later, she was so distracted that she didn’t even stop her clients when they started talking about politics—which she never allows. Even Dad looked unsettled, and I know we were all thinking the same thing: Is this where Carlene relapses? And if she has, how do I tell my parents that it’s all my fault?
When we walk in, a few people are sitting in a circle, talking. Everyone has a drink in their hand. Laz and Greg wave to them, then steer us directly to the kitchen. A girl with a shiny, swinging bob is making drinks at the counter. Greg says hey to her, proudly holding out a bottle of cheap rum while Laz peruses his options on the counter and in the fridge.
I’m not drinking anything tonight, so I look around at who’s here. The kitchen is getting a lot of foot traffic as people head in and out from the backyard. I recognize a few people from the last party I was at, but nobody that I’ve talked to. I hope Booker gets here soon. I don’t feel like making new friends right now, and I don’t want to be the third wheel to Greg and Laz all night.
My eyes scan the room a second time and come to a screeching halt when I get to the corner with the china cabinet. What in the actual hell is Mitchell Simmons doing here? Standing with a red cup in hand. The same Mitchell who never wanted anything to do with parties is now standing in this kitchen talking to actual people and looking happy as a pig in shit.
I stare at him so long he feels my eyes on him and turns around. He looks just as surprised to see me, then gives a shy grin and waves. We haven’t talked much in SAT prep since our lunch at Portillo’s, but we say hi and sit next to each other. Still, like every time I see him, I’m dying to ask the same question that has been sitting on the edge of my tongue since our lunch: What did he mean when he said our lackluster make outs had nothing to do with me? I give him a wave and small smile in return, and he turns back to his friends.
My phone buzzes against my hip and I pull it from my pocket right away, thinking of Carlene. But it’s Booker. He’s here. Finally. I tell Laz I’ll be right back and head out front to meet my boyfriend.
I feel better with Booker here.
Outside, he kisses me under a tree, his lips lingering until I pull away and wrap my arms around him, resting my head against his chest.
“Heard from your aunt yet?” he asks.
“No. Not yet.”
“Sorry,” he says softly. I press even closer to him. I like feeling and hearing his voice at the same time. “We can go somewhere if you want. Just sit and talk. Or sit and not say anything—whatever you want.”
“You wouldn’t mind?”
“I’m only here to see you.” He squeezes my hands. “Can I get something to drink first?”
“I’ll go with you.”
I briefly consider telling him Mitchell is here, but I don’t want to make it into a big deal. He won’t even know who he is if I don’t say anything.
Booker says hey to Laz and Greg, who tell us to meet them outside before they walk out to the backyard, clutching plastic red cups. Booker rubs his hands together as he looks at the spread of bottles.
“Should I make something new?” he asks.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Something that isn’t rum and Coke.”
I lean against the counter, watching him. “I thought that was your drink.”
“It is, but don’t you get tired of black cherry all the time when there are so many other flavors of frozen yogurt?”
“Not really,” I say, shrugging. “It’s been my favorite since I was a kid.”
“How does this taste?” Booker asks a couple of minutes later. He hands me the drink he’s been working on.
I forget I’m not drinking tonight and take a sip. The strong taste of hard liquor hits me right away. I haven’t had any alcohol since I was at the beach with Laz, and it feels like my first time all over again. It also feels good to have something to concentrate on besides the fact that my aunt is missing. But when I take a longer drink, Carlene’s face flashes through my mind. What if she’s doing the same thing right now? All because of me? And I think again about my mother’s freak-out the last time I drank—how she’s worried I’m going to turn out just like my aunt after a few sips of alcohol. I push away both of those thoughts as I swallow, but it’s hard to get past the giant lump in my throat.
“It’s good,” I finally say to Booker. “Will you make me one?”
“You sure it’s not too strong?”
I shake my head. Maybe it is, but that’s what I want now.
“Have that one. I’ll make another,” Booker says, lifting a cup from a tall stack on the counter. When he’s finishing up making his drink, he says, “Should we try to find an empty room in here? Or maybe take a walk?”
“We could just go outside and find Laz and Greg,” I say.
“You don’t want to go somewhere and talk?” There’s concern in his eyes, like he doesn’t want to let me down.
“Um, maybe later.” But I don’t want to talk. Not really. Because I’m worried that the more I talk about Carlene, the more upset I’m going to get that we still haven’t heard from her.
“Oh, I’m not good enough company?” he says, raising an eyebrow. But he’s teasing, and then he drapes his arm over my shoulder as we walk out back.
My drink is, in fact, too strong.
I’ve been steadily sipping since we sat down on the grass in a circle with Laz and Greg, and when I try to get up half an hour later, my legs wobble every which way like Jell-O.
“Oh my god,” Greg says, cackling. “You are such a lightweight.”
“This is, like, my third drink ever,” I snap. “Of course I am.”
But I laugh along with him as I plop back on my butt, and then Booker and Laz are laughing, too. Booker puts his hand on my knee and rubs.
The sun has been down for a couple of hours now, but the air is still thick and warm. If there were a breeze, it would be perfect. Booker is squinting at the air, concentrating hard on something I can’t see. Maybe his drink is also too strong. I lean on my elbows but that takes too much concentration, so I lie all the way on my back in the grass.
Booker suddenly clasps his hands together. “Got it!” He settles down next to me, palms still cupped.
“What are you doing?” I ask, turning to lie on my side.
“I caught a lightning bug,” he says. “First one I’ve seen all summer.”
He holds his hands down to my face and I peer through his fingers, see the bug blinking on and off like a tiny lantern.
“Pretty,” I say. “Now let it go.”
He does, and the firefly flits away from us and into the night.
Booker lies next to me, his hand sliding over the curve of my hip.
“Get a room!” Laz yells, his voice sounding farther away than it is.
“Man, shut the hell up,” Booker says, but then he grins at me. “Want to go find someplace…?”
I run the tips of my fingers up and down his arm. Now I do want to be alone with him because I know there’s not going to be much talking. “Yes.”
“Be right back,” he says, hopping up and heading toward the house before I can ask what he’s doing.
Laz follows him, saying he needs another drink, and leaves Greg and me alone.
“You guys are pretty cute.” Greg shakes the ice around in his cup.
“So are you and Laz.” I look up at him from the grass. “Is he your boyfriend?”
“I guess so. Unofficially.”
“Does it bother you that he’s still closeted?”
Greg shrugs. “Just with his mom.”
“But that doesn’t bother you?” The alcohol is making me say too much, asking for answers that Greg doesn’t owe me. But I can’t stop my lips from moving.
“It’s not up to me to decide who he tells,” Greg says after a pause. “He’ll do it when he’s ready. And it’s nobody’s business but his.”
“He’s my best friend. Everything is my business.”
“Maybe this one isn’t, Dove.” Greg’s tone isn’t unkind, but it is serious enough to shut me up.
Footsteps cut across the grass toward us. “That was fast,” I say without looking up.
“Hey, you guys want a hit?”
I sit up immediately, my gaze landing right on Mitchell. He’s holding his vape pen and passes it to Greg, who takes a couple of puffs and says how good it tastes. Greg tries to give it to me, but I shake my head. I’ve been curious about weed, but I don’t know if right now is the time to try it. I’m already so buzzed.
“I wanted to say hey in the kitchen.” Mitchell takes the pen back and slips it in his pocket. “Then I turned around again and you were gone.”
“I can’t believe you’re here,” I say.
He laughs. “I do have friends, you know.”
“I didn’t mean… I just… You never used to go to parties.”
“Fair enough.”
“And who do you know from Laz’s school?”
“This dude Tyler invited me. We’re neighbors.”
“I’ve never heard you talk about him,” I say.
He shrugs. “Well, the old Mitchell wouldn’t have hung out with him.”
“Yeah, and the old Mitchell wouldn’t be caught dead at one of these things. Now you’re drinking and vaping? I know the booze doesn’t help your anxiety.”
“You’re doing a very good impression of my mother right now,” he says, giving me a look. “Are you about to lecture me on my shirt, too?”
“Ha ha.” I give him that same look back.
Greg’s narrowed eyes are ping-ponging back and forth from me to Mitchell. “What’s going on here?”
“We used to date,” I say, and it doesn’t sound as wild to me as it once did. I guess we were both different people then.
“Yeah, for a little while,” Mitchell mumbles, looking down at his feet.
“For a year and a half,” I say.
Behind Mitchell, I see Booker and Laz walking back to us. And Booker is looking right at Mitchell. Frowning. Mitchell follows my gaze and steps back, making room for them.
“Laz, what’s up?” He’s grinning like they were once the best of friends.
“Uh, not much, man. What’s up with you?” Laz sticks his hands in his pockets, not even giving Mitchell the chance to go in for the bro hug he so clearly wants to give him. Mitchell was never really nice to him and always implied that Laz wasn’t very smart because he was so focused on sports.
“Just sharing the wealth,” Mitchell says, brandishing the vape once again. “Want some?”
Laz hesitates, then raises his shoulders like fuck it and takes the pen.
Mitchell smiles, but it fades as soon as he looks at Booker. Who is still staring at him.
“Hey, we haven’t met. I’m Mitchell.” He appears only slightly nervous, considering Booker towers over him like a tree and doesn’t look entirely friendly.
There’s some sort of commotion coming from the back porch, but I’m too invested in my new boyfriend meeting my old boyfriend to pay attention to what’s going on.
“I’m Booker,” he says, but I notice that he noticed Mitchell’s name. He remembers that he’s my ex. And I wonder how he’s going to take it.
Mitchell nods, then looks at me for clarification, like This is the new guy you were telling me about? I give a slight nod.
“Nice to meet you, man,” Mitchell says.
He offers Booker his vape pen, but Booker declines. And I have to admit, I’m glad. It’s good that they’re being cool with each other, but they don’t need to be friends.
“Uh, guys?” I didn’t notice Greg had wandered a few feet away, toward the porch, but now he’s back, clearly panicked. “I think the cops are here.”
And now the scene around us comes into sharp focus. People are dropping their cups and bottles, anxiously searching for ways out of the yard that don’t exist. Every time someone passes we hear the word cop or police. Suddenly the music inside stops and we’re the only ones still standing here. Then the back door flies wide open and a cop steps out onto the porch.
“Let’s go,” Booker says, grabbing my arm. “Now.”
Greg’s eyes never leave the porch. “Maybe we should just stay here. Maybe if we don’t run, they’ll let us off with a warning.”
“And maybe you’re real fucking white.” Laz glowers. “Should we split up or all go one way?”
“Jesus Christ,” Mitchell breathes, terrified.
He’s not the only one.
The cop hasn’t seen us yet, but his flashlight is sweeping across the lawn, and if he leaves that porch he’ll be able to shine it right where we’re standing.
We run.
The night, the yard, my friends are a fast-moving blur, like when the “L” switches to express mode and flies down the track. Trees rustle. Fireflies wink. Grass swishes. And we keep tripping over discarded cups and bottles as we tear across the yard.
“Hey!” the cop yells, moving swiftly off the porch.
Booker stumbles and almost falls, but I pull on his arm as hard as I can to keep him up while Laz pushes us from behind. “Go! Go! We’ll split up when we make it around front.”
The cop is still behind us, still yelling. I know I shouldn’t, but I glance back once. He’s running, too, and red-faced. We’ve crossed the entire yard now and are rounding the corner, almost to the gangway, that tiny strip of space between houses that just might get us out of this situation.
I haven’t run this
hard since I played in a soccer game, and with the adrenaline coursing through me, I think I could run forever. Maybe even all the way back to Logan Square, if I had to. Booker is still ahead of me, first in line, pulling me along so fast it feels like we’re actually flying.
“Come on, come on, come on,” Laz huffs. “We’re almost there.”
I guess Greg is still behind him, and Mitchell, too, but I don’t dare turn around and check. We can’t afford to lose a second.
I can see the tree limbs in the front yard, and the sidewalk, and we are almost there and—
“Going somewhere, folks?”
A big white hand slams into Booker’s chest, sending the chain of us toppling backward like a stack of dominoes.
THE POLICE STATION IS FREEZING.
That deep, dank cold that seeps into your bones, the result of too much air-conditioning, ancient metal furniture, and windows that never open.
We are being detained until our parents get here, but they haven’t let us call anyone yet. I’m sitting on a padded blue chair next to Greg. Mitchell is behind us; he looks sick with anxiety. Everything is blue in here—shades of pale, navy, and a really ugly turquoise. All of them make my stomach hurt.
I can’t stop the tears. They keep rolling down the side of my nose and into my mouth. My mind is a constant replay of them handcuffing Booker and Laz, putting them in the back of the same squad car. The one with the cop who stopped us.
“Handcuff me!” Greg said loudly as we watched. “Why won’t you guys handcuff me?”
But we all knew why.
And I loathed Greg in that moment—hated him for knowing he could shout something like that without getting the shit beaten out of him. Or worse.
One of the officers frowned and then finally decided to frisk him, something they’d done immediately to Booker and Laz but took their time to do with us. I’d never seen Mitchell’s skin pale to that shade and I wondered if he was smart enough to drop his vape back in the yard. The cop’s partner made Mitchell and I raise our arms and spread our legs as she lightly patted us down. I was petrified, my whole body shaking the entire time she touched us. I flushed with embarrassment and rage, but it was nothing like what that other cop did to Booker and Laz. Their frisking seemed to last twice as long as it should have.
The Revolution of Birdie Randolph Page 17