Or how she wouldn’t let me go to Lollapalooza with Mimi and her friend Ariel two summers ago, even though they got a ticket just for me, because she said I was too young to be “in a place like that” with “those people”—whatever that’s supposed to mean.
But I think what I hate most is the tiny, everyday injustices: like how I can’t eat at the diner around the corner because she thinks it’s unsanitary. And how she stops me from giving money to the homeless people in our neighborhood because she believes it’s better to donate to shelters and food banks. I’m so used to her snatching my hand back, stage-whispering, “They’re just going to spend it on drugs and alcohol anyway,” that I hesitate now before I part with my spare change even when I’m alone.
This isn’t the greatest act of resistance I could’ve carried out, but it’s something. I think Mimi would be proud of me.
Having my phone is probably the only way I’ll survive the next month. Being confined to the apartment and salon is going to be torture: listening to the same marginally funny jokes Ayanna has been telling since I’ve known her; watching Mom’s prim-and-proper routine dampen the good cheer of the salon; studying for the stupid SATs when I should be lying on the beach with Laz.
If I can’t see Booker, at least I can talk to him. What would have happened if I’d just disappeared on him, if his texts went unanswered? Laz would tell him I was grounded, but what if he didn’t believe him? I wouldn’t want him to think I’d changed my mind—that he was too much for me after all.
A half hour after I hear my parents shut off all the lights and go to their room, I slip out to the hallway, taking care not to step on the squeaky part of the floor beneath the runner. The strip of space under Mimi’s door is dark; Carlene returned to the apartment after I’d already gone to my room. I hold my breath and get as close as I can to my parents’ bedroom door.
They aren’t whispering. Not really. Their voices are lower but not contained. Dad sounds exhausted.
“I don’t know what you want me to do, Kitty. She’s your sister. If you don’t want her here, you need to tell her yourself.”
“So then I kick her out and what? Where does she go, Raymond? I don’t want to be blamed if she relapses.”
My father sighs. “I think the most important thing is that she doesn’t relapse, not who takes the blame.”
“I’m just saying, I don’t think it’s a coincidence that Birdie starts acting out days after she shows up.”
There’s a long pause and I lean closer, waiting.
Then: “Carlene deserves to know her, Kitty.”
“And I’ve worked too hard to have her ruin everything we’ve built. She’s a good girl, our Birdie.”
“Yes, she is,” my father says, his voice softening. “And you have to trust that.”
I NEVER THOUGHT I’D LOOK FORWARD TO SAT PREP, BUT ANY CONTACT WITH the outside world is welcome after my first week of being grounded. There’s only so much time I can spend in the salon, and I think my mother has been telling everyone they have to be on their best behavior because there’s not even a hint of a juicy conversation when I’m around.
Mom drives me to the first study session.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say as I buckle myself into the passenger seat. “I could’ve taken the train.”
“I want to make sure you get started off right,” she says, but what she really means is that she wants to make sure I go. I mess up one time and she’s convinced I’m the most rebellious teenager in Chicago. She says she’ll be back to pick me up when I’m done.
As soon as I step out of the car, I feel like I’m breathing for the first time in weeks. I gulp in air through my mouth. I don’t get much of a break having to be at the shop so often—and with my mom just one floor below me when I’m not there. I’ve been going up to the roof more, to get some space of my own when the apartment feels particularly suffocating. But it’s not enough. I miss seeing people—one person in particular.
I’m early, so only a handful of people are sitting in the room when I walk in. My eyes scan the space, finally landing on—oh, fuck.
Mitchell Simmons.
My ex.
He looks up and his mouth drops open, but only for a moment. He quickly closes it, nods almost indiscernibly, and looks back down at his desk where his workbook is already open.
The last time I saw him was the last day of school, and I didn’t expect to see him again until we start junior year. Seriously, out of all the SAT courses in the city, he had to end up in this room?
I choose the seat farthest from him, my heart beating too fast. I don’t have feelings for him anymore; we had a clean break. It’s just jarring to see him when I wasn’t expecting him. We went from talking every day and hanging out every weekend to acting like we’d never known each other at all.
The instructor walks in then. A white guy who looks like he’s in his late twenties with round metal-framed glasses and pink cheeks. He nods at us and plops his messenger bag on the table up front.
I slowly pull my workbook from my bag, thinking of the first time I went out with Mitchell. We spent a Sunday afternoon at Navy Pier, which I hated but didn’t say because I didn’t know him very well and everyone seemed so excited that we were going out. By everyone, I mean our parents. Mitchell’s mom is a surgeon at Rush and shares patients with my dad sometimes. When they found out we were at the same high school, our families went out for dinner and we’ve been pushed together ever since.
“How was it?” Mom asked when I returned.
I was full of cheese-and-caramel popcorn, which was honestly the best part of the day. Mitchell looked terrified the entire time we were on the Ferris wheel and sat as far away from me as possible. He only confessed to being afraid of heights after we were safely off. He looked bored the rest of the time and I was surprised when, at the end of the date, he said he’d text me later.
“Fine,” I said to my mother, shrugging. I couldn’t think of anything else to say. That was it. Nothing about it had been exciting or extra terrible or anything out of the ordinary. It was just fine.
“It’s your first date, Birdie.” Mom cupped my face in her hand, smiling. “You’ll remember this forever.”
No, I probably won’t, I thought. And then I wanted to say that just because she and Dad had been high school sweethearts, that didn’t mean Mitchell and I would be together forever. But what I said was “It wasn’t a date.”
We didn’t hold hands. We didn’t kiss. And I could tell he wasn’t trying to hold back from doing either. I had better chemistry with our toaster than Mitchell Simmons. I didn’t think he liked me at all, but he texted me that evening, as promised. And the next day and the day after that, even when we’d seen each other at school. Then I started sitting with him at lunch, ditching my old soccer friends, and that’s how we fell into a relationship.
I slide a pencil onto my desk and try not to look at Mitchell’s dark hair and the backs of his olive-skinned arms. I try not to think about how my mother will never accept Booker the way she accepted Mitchell, and that it has nothing to do with the fact that our families aren’t friends.