Chapter 7. Lyric
Lyric
LIP OF THE DAY:
Glass Slipper
I don’t know about you, but whenever good things happen to me, I immediately start to question if I deserve it.
I came home after school Monday on a high from all of the attention on BeautyStarz and the business agreement between Juniper and me.
I made red beans and rice with sausage for dinner and then laughed with Grammy Viv through a couple wild episodes of Catfish while I did my homework on her bed.
I felt good—solid—until it was time to sleep and my mind wouldn’t stop racing with thoughts.
I tossed and turned, started to question what was real, and then I fell into a rough slumber.
Now it’s early Tuesday morning and I’m wide awake after being thrown from a bad dream full of shadows and empty rooms. In these dreams, I’m always chasing a blurry figure that’s shaped like my mother—trying to call out, make her recognize me—but as I run through room after room, she’s never actually there.
Grammy Viv and me—this life we’ve built together—well, it’s good.
But mornings like this, when I can’t stop thinking of her, when all I want is for my mom to make me a glass of hot milk and hold me close—these mornings ruin me.
These mornings, I’m filled with a guilt that sends me into a spiral of shame—knowing that she’s out there somewhere, houseless, a brain full of unraveling chemistry, surviving.
And here I am, making plans for the future.
What right do I have to be happy? To hope for more, when the woman who made me left and never came back?
Why wasn’t I good enough for her to stay healthy for?
My chest is full of rocks. My heart feels like it’s trying to escape through my throat, my bed a tangle of sheets, my head ablaze with half dreams and half nightmares.
I crawl onto the carpeted floor and lie down, trying to ground myself, to bring breath back into my chest. So many things can happen in one day, so many plans and accomplishments—and yet, on the floor, trying to suck air in, I am struck with how useless I am.
You’re so fucking fake, my head screams, and now Juniper knows it.
What if you fail? What if this whole plan of yours doesn’t amount to anything?
In therapy, I talk about this sometimes—when pushed.
How appearing to have it all under control on the outside is a coping mechanism I developed over the years.
A shell of protection, so that no one has a reason to hurt me.
But often, on the inside, I’m just a scared, sad, uncertain little girl—overwhelmed and full of doubt.
And now, now I’ve added another thing to my plate: a fake-dating operation, for what?
! To make some money, to prove that I’m worth something to beauty brands, to show them all—the whole fucking system—that I’m enough.
I’m never enough. Not for my mom, not for Grammy Viv, not for Jamison or Kiana, and now Juniper has agreed to this wild scheme and I have to go through with it.
I feel sick. Nauseated. I try to sink deeper into the carpet and practice belly breathing, but mostly I’m trying to avoid screaming, or worse—exploding.
I’ve been doing so well, keeping myself in check.
I can’t slip now. It could jeopardize everything.
“Lyric has a serious anger issue for such a young girl. It’s becoming a liability to place her in foster homes—especially ones with other kids. She’s dangerous.”
The family court judge says this, opening a thick folder with my case.
I am nine and recently kicked out of my third foster home, which was less of a home, more of a workhouse.
The social worker assigned to my case this time is a damp-smelling, mousy white woman named Karla Kain who picked me up a few hours earlier and brought me here to family court.
Karla dresses like she’s fifty, but in the car she babbled on so I know she’s barely twenty-six, fresh out of social work school and hoping to “do some good, help those who are needy.” I hated her on sight, and I let her know it when she stopped her ramble by telling her the only needy thing in this car was her face.
“Young lady,” she scolded, a slight knot of impatience on her forehead, “that kind of attitude will keep you from finding your forever home,” and then we drove the rest of the way to court in silence.
I simmered in the back seat, my left hand throbbing and raw from the wall I punched the night before just because I could—a jagged, delicious hole of fury right into the room next to mine. At least it wasn’t someone’s face.
I started punching things a few months after I got taken away from Mom by Child Protective Services.
I never punched people or myself—but walls, trees, chain-link fences, sometimes the sides of innocent cars parked along a street—were all fair game.
It made me feel strong, in control. My body gave in to its delicious little rages, where for just a moment, a fraction of a second, I got to be in charge of the wreckage.
But in the courtroom, I am never in charge. I feel invisble even though I’m standing in front of the room alongside Karla Kain and Grammy Viv, who is here to state her case.
“Your honor,” Grammy Viv starts, “I’m here again to ask that I be considered as Lyric’s guardian.
I have a home, and I am prepared to raise her.
My granddaughter is not a danger to anyone.
She’s just tired of being bounced around.
Can you blame her for being angry and lashing out?
What she needs is her people and some stability. ”
“Mrs. Wright,” the judge begins, not bothering to make eye contact with her. “As we have stated before, your home is an option as long as Lyric’s mother is no longer living with you. Last time we were here, this was not the case. Has this changed?”
Grammy Viv shifts, smooths her blouse, and clears her throat.
“No, sir, my daughter is still living with me, but she’s been doing much better—and I wouldn’t stand for any foolishness if Lyric were allowed to come home.
I promise you that. I don’t have much but I have my teacher’s pension, I pay rent on time, and I keep my fridge stocked, my lights and water stay on, and I’m her blood.
Her kin. Doesn’t that count for something? ”
The judge eyes me, up and down, and then flips through my file one more time. “Anything else to add, Ms. Kain?”
Karla nods meekly and clears her throat. “It might be nice for Lyric to be with her grandmother, but I do agree, Mom is the root of Lyric being unsafe and as long as she’s still living there, I’m not sure it would be wise to grant Mrs. Wright guardianship.”
Grammy Viv’s shoulders start to shake. “Y’all are asking me to choose between my own baby and my grandbaby. Lyric should be with her blood. I can keep her safe, I promise!”
The judge ignores Grammy’s outburst and closes my file.
“I’m ruling that Lyric Watkins be placed in Springside Group Home just outside of Muskegon, which has excellent therapy and skill-building programs for youth and where she can have unlimited visitations from her grandmother. Next!”
I feel Grammy Viv’s arms around me, but I keep my body slack.
The smell of Grammy Viv—like butter pecan candies and fresh laundry—makes my whole heart ache.
I push her away and ball my fists. I know Grammy loves me, but why would she choose me over her own daughter?
Grammy must feel like a rag doll being pulled in two directions.
“I’ll come see you after church each Sunday,” she says, a catch in her throat. “It can be our day. I’m here, baby girl. I’m here if you need me.”
But I don’t want just one day. I want all the days.
I want to not feel like a girl on fire, a comet blazing through a dark sky without a soft place to land or call home.
“Good morning, sunshine. How are we doing today?” Kiana asks me a few hours later.
I’m at my locker, finally having made it off the floor of my room, into a quick shower, followed by a mad dash to throw on some sort of outfit, makeup, and get out the door in time for school.
What I love about makeup is that I can be as armored up as I want, one day sporting a full beat, and then the next day barefaced with just a smear of gold shimmer on the lids and a gloss so icy clear my lips feel like a frozen-over lake.
Tuesdays are my long days, and Kiana knows this.
Right after school, I have mandated therapy, which is really just a way for the state to make sure my anger issues aren’t becoming a danger to myself or others, and that I have another “safe adult” to check in with in case Grammy’s home becomes unsafe again.
My therapist changed when we moved to Lansing, so now I see Mr. Bates, a middle-aged, stocky Black man with an epic scraggly beard who smells like garlic and floral lotion.
Mr. Bates and I get along fine, and he helps me a lot, but since she got custody of me, Grammy has never once let my mom back in our house. And I doubt she ever will again.
After therapy, I go right to Aldi to work the closing shift. I’m not gonna lie, having to work after therapy is the fucking pits. I mean, the littlest thing can set me off. I like it best when they put me on stocking shelves vs. the registers, so at least I don’t have to talk to anyone.
“We are thriving,” I say, monotone.
“OK, queen,” Kiana replies, raising an eyebrow and handing me my coffee. “Well, I got you an extra shot, since I know you’re gonna need it.”
“Thanks. You really are the best.”
Kiana nods and leans against her locker, eyebrow still raised.
“What? Do I have something on my face?”
“So, you skipped out on lunch yesterday. Jamison said he saw you with Juniper in the media lab … I guess they run cross-country together. He said she’s kinda one of those afro-hippie types, but cool.”
“Uh-huh.”
“What’s going on there? I mean—those photos of y’all on BeautyStarz … major romantic vibes. I know you been having crushes on girls before, so is this, like, for real, for real?”
My head hurts. All I want to do is turtle, but Juniper and I agreed to launch what I’m calling “Operation Holiday Fling” on Wednesday, and I need Kiana to know it’s all for show.
“It’s not like that,” I say after a swig of coffee. “We struck a deal—a business agreement for the season.”
“Please elaborate,” Kiana says, furrowing her brow.
I sigh. “We’re gonna post content on BeautyStarz for the next few weeks, for the clicks and sponsorship money, as if we are a couple, but we’re just friends, I promise. I don’t have time to date anyone for real, you know that.”
“Um, I do not know that. What have you been doing with Jamison? Y’all have been off and on for like two years.”
I groan. “That’s different. You know it’s … complicated between us.”
Kiana goes quiet, which she hardly ever does.
“What?” I say.
“Do you want me to be fucking for real with you?”
I gulp. Kiana is honest and direct. It’s something I love about her, but it’s always a little disarming when it’s aimed at me.
I nod. “Always.”
“I think someone like Juniper could be really good for you. Maybe stay open to it being more than friends. I mean, I haven’t met her yet, but she seems nice. Maybe wait and see if there’s a vibe?”
I roll my eyes. “I promise you there is no ‘vibe.’ I mean, I can tell she’s attractive, but she’s not my type at all. This is about money, plus I doubt she even thinks of me like that either.”
“She might. She was pretty quick to jump into this little arrangement with you—maybe she’s been had a crush.”
“Stop playin’. She barely knows me. All I know about her is that she’s trying to do some epic camping trip over the summer, so she needs some extra cash too—”
“Like camping in a cabin, with running water and electricity?” Kiana interrupts.
“I’m not sure. All she said was camping, and I tuned out. You know me, I don’t do nature and the outside like that at all.”
Kiana raises her eyebrows at me but does not argue any further.
“Anyway,” she continues, “you know I love you and Jamison—as individuals—but as a couple, y’all are a mess. It might be good to let that all go.”
I get a little flash of anger when she says this.
Kiana has never understood what Jamison and I have.
It’s not toxic, it’s just dramatic. But I shrug it off because Jamison is not the point here.
Making it seem like Juniper and I are really a thing online is the point.
Making money for cosmetology school is the point. I have to stay focused.
“Whatever,” I say as we walk toward class. “Tomorrow night, we’re shooting some content at the skating rink downtown.”
“I’m sorry.” Kiana stops walking in mock offense. “I’ve been trying to get you to come ice-skating downtown since we met, and you’re telling me you have an ice-skating date tomorrow, with Juniper? Stab to the heart.”
“It’s not a date! I mean, it will look like a date from my BeautyStarz post, but I repeat—we’re just friends.”
“Do you even know how to ice-skate?” Kiana continues, starting to walk again.
“I mean, no, but, like, how hard can it be?”
“Oh, girl.” Kiana shakes her head and laughs. “Your butt is about to get a bruising.”
“It won’t be that bad.”
“Um, yes, it will. But it will be cute content or whatever. Juniper can help hold you up and maybe you’ll get hot chocolate, and oh! It might snow again tomorrow, so maybe it will be all winter and fairy-light magic. Lyric, you’re going on, like, a holiday date!”
“Ew, no. Stop. I repeat: It’s a fake date.
Please, Kiana, don’t make this a thing. I promised Juniper she could choose our first hangout spot, so this was her pick.
And at least it’s a small man-made ice rink and not a dangerous lake.
I think I can handle it. I’ll pick the next date location and it will for sure be inside. ”
“You just said ‘next date’!” Kiana practically squeals.
“Arrgh! You know what I mean. Calm yourself, woman,” I say as we slide into our seats.
“Oh, I absolutely will not,” Kiana says with a grin. “This is a major development—fake or not. I will be expecting all the tea immediately after your ‘non-date date’ tomorrow.”