My aunt is nowhere to be found when dinner is served, though. I wonder if this will please Mom, but she is anxious again. Maybe more so than when Aunt Carlene arrived unannounced. She keeps tapping the tines of her fork against her plate absentmindedly, barely touching her pasta.
When Dad is halfway through his meal, he gets up and goes to the fridge and pulls out a beer. Mom doesn’t notice until he sits back down, and I don’t miss the sharp look she gives him.
“Raymond, we talked about this.”
His fingers are squeezed around the bottle cap, but he doesn’t open it. “She’s not here. And what difference does it make? The beer has been in there since last night. She’s the sober one, Kitty, not me.”
It’s always been strange to me that my mother goes by the name Kitty. She’s the only person who calls me Birdie, but everyone calls her Kitty. Short for Katrina, which I guess makes sense. Still, she’s too serious to have such a cutesy nickname.
I take a drink of water, and both their eyes slide to me. Now that I’m old enough to know this sort of business, I wonder if they’ll keep talking. I wonder if I will be around when my mother proposes to no longer keep alcohol in the house, because I’m pretty sure that’s where this is headed. And I’m pretty sure my father is going to put up a fight.
She changes the subject. “Where is it you’re going with Laz tonight, Birdie?”
“Just the library.”
“Extra credit?” She frowns, running over her mental snapshot of my calendar, color-coded by classes. Which is front and center on the fridge, just in case she forgets.
“No, I’ve turned in everything. But Laz has two more weeks. He has to study for exams and I figured I’d help him, since I’m still technically in school.”
“That’s nice of you,” she says. Approvingly, but not surprised.
Across the table, Dad pops the top on his beer with a fizz.
I change out of my school uniform after dinner. I want to look good for Booker, but I don’t want to dress too nicely since I’m supposed to be meeting Laz. Mom already seems on high alert with Aunt Carlene—I don’t want to give her a reason to start watching me, too.
I decide on a gray sundress with pink and white flowers, and cover my shoulders with my denim jacket. My aunt still isn’t home when I kiss my mother goodbye, and I can tell she’s starting to get worried.
At the station, I walk to the far end of the train platform, and when the “L” arrives, I get into the first car, just like my mom always tells me to do if I’m riding alone. She says at least that way I’m as close to the conductor as possible if something goes wrong. The car is nearly empty when I get on.
My palms sweat as I think about Booker. I feel braver the farther I am from him. Not in what I say, but in what I think, too. It’s as if the closer the train takes me to him, the better he will be able to read my thoughts. Like how I think about touching him all the time, and that’s new for me. Everything I did with Mitchell felt like we were checking off boxes on a high school relationship chart from the 1950s. Chaste and uninspired.
Booker and I do meet at the library, but we have no intentions of going in. I exit the train and cross the street and see him leaning against the wall in front of the doors. Even in the twilight, I can tell that it’s him. Booker is a large guy—stocky and strong with broad shoulders and big hands.
He stands up straight when he sees me coming. I clutch the strap of my bookbag tight against my chest as I walk. My heart speeds as I get closer and make out his features—his lips curving into a wide smile, the tight curls of his chunky Afro illuminated by the halo of light he’s stepped into.
“You really did it,” he says when I’m standing in front of him, smiling like he can’t believe I’m actually here.
“I told you I would.”
We don’t touch, but we’re just inches away from each other. All I’ve been thinking about since the last time I saw him is touching him, and now that I’m here, I can’t. Not first, anyway. I become a little less shy each time I see him, but this is only the third time. And it’s the first without Laz acting as our accidental chaperone.
Booker reaches toward me just as the heavy library door bursts open. A mom walks out with two young kids bouncing behind her, each holding a stack of picture books high above their heads. We step out of the way, out of the light, and watch them go, Booker’s hand at my elbow.
When their silhouettes are just indiscernible spots in the distance, Booker’s fingers make their way from my elbow and up the back of my arm, rubbing lightly. My stomach flips and my limbs fill with heat and I wonder if anyone will ever make me feel the way Booker makes me feel. There is still so much we haven’t done, but I am sure this is special.
He kisses me, and just like each time before, I am surprised at how good he is at this. I only have Mitchell to compare him to, but nothing we ever did made me feel so deliciously weak. Truly, it’s like my arms and legs have forgotten how to move, sustained only by the warmth of Booker’s touch.
I stumble. Not a lot, but enough to make him catch me softly by the shoulders and ask if I’m okay.
I nod. “I’m just—” I stop, feeling silly.
“What?” he asks, looking at me as if he can’t make it through the night without knowing my thoughts.
“I’m just happy. Here. With you.”
Booker smiles a soft smile. “I’m happy with you, too.” Then he pauses and licks his lips like he’s nervous, and I ready myself for the but. Only there isn’t one. “Do you want to come over? My dad works graveyard. Won’t be home till morning.”
The look on his face is so hopeful, so sweet I wish I could give him the answer he wants. But I know myself. The nerves from lying to my parents are still pulsing beneath my skin like electric currents. If I take this deception any further, I might actually explode.
I shake my head. “I can’t.”
“Not even if I promise to have you back by curfew?”
“I only have a couple of hours and…” I pause, tugging at the hem of his T-shirt. “It was a big deal for me to get out of the house. I’m afraid to jinx it.”
“Your folks super religious or something?”
“No, just… protective. They have a lot of rules,” I say. “About who I can spend time with, and where. They’re not super accepting of people they haven’t known for a while.”
“Oh,” he says. “Will it help that I’ve known Laz for a couple of years now?”
“Can we not talk about my parents? I’d rather get frozen yogurt.”
He laughs, a full one that emerges from deep inside. “Frozen yogurt, huh? You are a rebel, Dove.”
“I don’t know when it became cool to start hating on frozen yogurt, but I’m not crossing over to the dark side.”
“When was it ever cool to like frozen yogurt?”
I poke him in the shoulder. He leans down to kiss me.
Booker rides the train home with me after frozen yogurt. I tell him he doesn’t have to, that I can get home by myself, but he insists. I hope it’s because he doesn’t want to say goodbye. Does he get that same yearning that lingers in me? As if a part of my brain is already thinking about having to leave him as soon as we meet? Maybe he is just lonely, with his father working all night.