Carlene waves from the dining room. She’s hunched over a table full of paperwork, a pair of chunky black-framed glasses perched on the edge of her nose.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“I have to apply to schools for the hair-braiding license since your mother won’t let me set foot in her shop until I have my three hundred hours.”
“That’s not true, Carlene.” Mom sighs. “You’re welcome to come down every day and help me out around the salon. But I can’t break the law. I’m not letting you get us shut down because you’re desperate to do a set of box braids.”
Carlene’s lips pull tight, but she remains quiet. She must have known long before me that it’s almost never worth fighting with my mother when she’s made up her mind. I think back to that day long ago, when they were arguing out back. I didn’t make it up—I’m sure of that.
Still, it’s nice to see them spending time together. Mimi and I practically became one when we were relaxing—our arms and legs draped across each other as we watched movies and shared bowls of popcorn, huddling together under blankets on frigid winter nights. This is the first time I’ve seen my mom and her sister anywhere near each other when they weren’t in the kitchen, and it feels good, like maybe they don’t actually hate each other.
“You can practice on me,” I say to Carlene, pushing a hand into my curls.
“I have to go through a school for it to be official, but you let me know anytime you want me to hook you up, Dove.” She smiles.
“Good night,” I say to them both, and I’ve almost reached the hallway when Mom stops me.
“Too old for a good-night hug?” she says.
I’m not too old, just tired, but I walk back over. Drop down on the couch next to her, and fold myself into her arms. She squeezes me and kisses my hair and says, “Sleep tight, Birdie.”
Then she freezes.
Pulls back and looks at me with disbelief. “What’s that smell?”
Fuck.
She sniffs at me. “Is that alcohol?”
I don’t respond. I stare at the smooth skin of her never-been-pierced earlobe.
“Open your mouth,” Mom says. “Breathe out.”
Her voice is scary quiet, and when she sounds like that, I follow her instructions without thinking. Greg gave me a piece of minty gum to chew on the way home, but it doesn’t mask the sips of rum and Coke I drank when I was with Booker.
She stands and walks a few feet to the window that overlooks the street below. When she turns around, the look of disbelief is back. “You were out drinking? What in the world would possess you to do something like that?”
From the corner of my eye, I see Carlene shift in her seat. When I don’t say anything, my mother continues.
“Have I not made it very clear that you’re to stay away from alcohol? You’re sixteen. You have plenty of time to try it when you’re older. When you’re of age. When you know how to handle yourself.”
“I only had a couple of sips.” But now that I’ve felt what it’s like to let myself relax—to let go, even just a bit—I wonder what I’d be like if I’d finished my drink. I wonder what I would be like with Booker.
“What has gotten into you, Dove?” My mother shakes her head at me, and I realize that I’ve stumped her. Mimi never broke her rules, and I haven’t, either—until now.
I stand, too, because I don’t like looking up at her from the couch. It makes me feel small. “It’s summer,” I say. “I got a perfect GPA this year. Same as last year.”
“This isn’t the time to get lazy.” She exhales so loudly the sound fills the entire room. “We make these rules for a reason. You need to stay motivated this summer. The SATs are practically around the corner and—”
“Mom—”
“Give me your phone.”
“What?” I stare at her, so shocked by the demand that I forget to be afraid.
She holds out her hand. “I want your phone.”
“How am I supposed to talk to anyone?” Anyone is just Laz and Booker, but that doesn’t make it any less important.
“That’s exactly the point. You’re grounded. From hanging out with Laz, and from your phone.”
“Why do you need to take it? My phone is private.”
“Maybe privacy is what got you into this mess.”
I frown at her. “What mess? Mom, I’m fine. Look at me.”
My aunt’s chair pushes back, scraping against the hardwood floor. “Come on, Kitty. Her phone? Don’t you think that’s a little harsh?”
Mom’s head whips toward her. “Stay out of this.” Then back to me. “Phone.”
“No.”
I don’t know where I get the courage. I didn’t have enough of that drink to feel this brave. But the thought of my mother looking through my texts with Booker and scrolling through my pictures makes me queasy. I am so good for her all the time; I shouldn’t have to negotiate my privacy.
Her mouth drops open. “I don’t know who you think you’re talking to, but—”
“Kitty, you need to chill. Having a few sips doesn’t make her a drunk. She’s a teenager.”
“Yeah? Well, so were you.” My mother’s voice could chisel ice. “And if I were going to ask for parenting advice, it certainly wouldn’t be from you, Carlene.”
The room is so quiet I can hear my mother’s breathing. Then, downstairs, the door to the building opens and closes behind my father. He’s just back from working a Saturday night Bulls game at United Center, which always makes him tired. He trudges up the exterior hallway stairs and then he’s inside. Finds the three of us standing in the two front rooms, perfectly still.
He looks at each of our faces, trying to piece together what’s happening without upsetting us further. Slowly, he latches the apartment door closed and sets down his medical bag. “Everything okay here?”
“Oh, sure,” Mom says with a sharp laugh. “Your daughter has been drinking and my sister thinks it’s perfectly normal.”
“Kitty, I did not say—”
“Can you give us some space?” my mother cuts her off. “This is between the three of us. We don’t need any more input.”
My aunt glares at her but says nothing. She slides on her sandals. Picks up her pack of cigarettes. And seconds later, she’s out the same way my father came.
I am grounded, for a month, but Dad persuades Mom to let me keep my phone when I tell them I was with Laz the whole time. Being in trouble with Laz isn’t good, but it’s better than trouble with someone they don’t know. I text to tell him what happened; say that I’m sorry and I’ll make it up to him. I know Mom will give Ayanna an earful, who will pass that on to Laz.
I consider it a small triumph. I’ve thought about defying her so many times, but I was never brave enough.
Like when she made me quit soccer; it wasn’t just that she made me quit, it was the way she did it. I got a B-plus on a social studies test and she freaked out—even though I was in eighth grade and it was an honors class. The next day she made me wash and turn in my uniform and gave my cleats away to Goodwill without telling me. All before the season was over.