“I don’t know why you’re so ready for summer when Kitty’s making you study the whole time.”
I shrug. “What else am I going to do? I don’t really have anyone to hang out with besides Laz.”
“Ayanna’s kid?”
I nod. “Yeah, he’s my best friend. But he’s the only person I really see now.”
Aunt Carlene takes a sip from her mug. I look when she sets it down. White liquid: warm milk. “Why is that?”
“I sort of lost touch with all my old friends when I stopped playing soccer.”
That’s not true: I totally lost touch. I think we all just assumed we’d be friends for the long haul, but we didn’t realize how essential soccer practices and games were to our friendships. Now they’re virtual strangers; smiles passing by in the hallways and cafeteria. It’s hard to believe I used to spend nearly every afternoon with them on the field, running and sweating and practicing drills, and weekends where we didn’t talk about soccer at all. Mitchell’s friends were around when I was dating him, but they were dull and seemed to only tolerate having me around because I was his girlfriend.
“Now you look sad,” my aunt says, and I wonder if she is going to analyze my mood like this for the rest of the time she’s here.
In the back of the apartment, I hear my parents’ bedroom door open. Aunt Carlene and I sit in silence as my mother’s soft footsteps pad down the hall.
Mom leans against the doorframe, yawning. She scratches at a spot on her satin headscarf. “What are you two doing up?”
“I got thirsty,” I say.
“I was already up,” my aunt says. “Sorry if we woke you.”
“You should go to bed, Birdie,” Mom says. “You’ve still got school in the morning.”
I finish my water and take the glass to the sink. When I turn around, my mother is trying and failing to slyly sneak a peek at what her sister is drinking.
Aunt Carlene tips back her mug to finish the rest and stands. “It was milk,” she says without looking at my mother. “With honey. To help me sleep, Kitty.”
“I didn’t say—”
“You didn’t have to.” She rinses the mug and places it next to my glass in the sink. Touches my arm on her way to the hall. “Night, Dove.”
“Good night, Aunt Carlene.”
“Just call me Carlene,” she says over her shoulder. She ignores my mother as she passes her in the doorway.
Mom kisses my forehead before I leave the kitchen. I wait for her to switch off the light and follow me down the hall, but she goes to the sink.
Says, “I’m just going to put these in the dishwasher.”
I hear her, but she says it under her breath—almost mumbles. As if she is trying to convince herself that her motivation is honest.
ONE OF MY FAVORITE PARTS ABOUT SUMMER HAS ALWAYS BEEN SPENDING more time in the salon.
I don’t know how to do hair. Mom has tried to teach me several times, but I guess she didn’t pass down that talent. My fingers bumble over a simple French braid, and I can never seem to get the little things right, like how to secure my curls into a proper bun or evenly section off my hair for twists. Mimi is actually good at doing hair but doesn’t like it, and thankfully Mom never pressured either of us to keep practicing. So when I’m in the shop, they put me to work sweeping the floors and wiping down stations while the stylists grab a break or quick lunch between appointments.
The salon can be too loud, mostly when regular clients are there. They talk over one another and gossip with abandon and discuss things that make my mother shush them and nod toward me, in case they forgot I was in the room. I hate that she still does that. She acts like I don’t know what sex is or have never heard a curse word, let alone said one.
Regardless of how much they’re forced to censor themselves, I like being around all the chatter—the cheerful energy that crackles through the air as people get their hair permed and braided and faded and cut. It’s the opposite of the quiet, respectful apartment upstairs.
Laz meets me there after school. I’m still jittery from last night and I want to pepper him with questions about Booker. Did he seem extra happy today? Did he mention seeing me? Laz won’t volunteer that information himself, so I’ll have to get him alone and badger him.
The bell above the door jingles as he walks in. Necks crane and multiple sets of eyes look to the mirrors to check out who’s arrived. When they see it’s him, a round of hearty “Hey, baby” and “Hey there, Laz” and “Afternoon, Lazarus” rings out in tandem, making his buttery brown skin flush as he steps inside.
He takes too long to say something, though, and from across the room, Ayanna calls out, “I know you didn’t just forget your manners, mister.”
“Hey, everyone,” he says, dipping his head as he lifts a hand in greeting. He walks swiftly across the room to give his mother a loose-armed hug. She smacks a loud kiss on his cheek in return.
“How was school?” I hear her ask as the salon powers back to life with overlapping discussions. I’m posted a few feet away at the cabinets in back, folding freshly laundered towels and trying to pretend like I didn’t just hear Mrs. Johnson say she’s thinking of trying marijuana for the first time at age fifty-five. Mom heard it, too, and gives her a pursed-lip look in the mirror.
“All right,” Laz says to his mother. “Ready to be done.”
“Tell me something new.” Ayanna ruffles his thick dark curls before walking over to check the time on Ms. Evans’s dryer.
Laz’s hair has always been a hot topic of conversation around here. His dad is Mexican American and Ayanna is black, and his hair is gorgeous. The older women always talk about how he has “that good hair” and Ayanna always tsks at them, saying he’ll get a big head from all their fawning.
He makes his way back to me, dropping his backpack at his feet. “Thanks for helping me study last night,” he says in a voice that’s too loud.
I pretend not to notice that I’m stepping on his foot as I reach for another towel from the pile. “Would you stop? You sound like you’re reading from a script,” I mutter.
He grins. “Gotta keep you on your toes.”
Laz helps me finish folding the towels, then we gather up a batch of dirty smocks and tell our mothers we’re heading to the laundromat around the corner. I let out a long breath as we step onto the sidewalk, trading the intimate noise of the shop for the city commotion outside: lumbering buses and rock music blasting from open car windows and loud conversations dripping with Chicago accents.
“Did you see Booker today?” I ask after we start walking.
“I see him every day.” Laz swings the canvas bag of dirty laundry between us, falling into step behind me when we meet someone on the sidewalk.
“Did he…” My words trail off because I don’t even know what I want to ask. But it feels that if I don’t talk about him as much as possible, he will disappear when I’m not paying attention.
“He likes you, Dove. Not much else to say.” Laz looks over, his eyes tired. The water polo team made it to the playoffs this year, and as soon as that ended, he had to launch right into prepping for final projects and exams.