Chapter 19. Lyric
Lyric
LIP OF THE DAY:
Interstellar
It’s the Monday after Winter Formal, and my hands are raw and cold from stocking frozen fish in the freezer aisle at Aldi.
It’s officially the first day of winter break, and unlike most students at Lansing High, I am not hype about it.
No school means extra shifts and extended holiday work hours, no free and reduced lunch, and having to evade the question “What are you doing for Christmas break?” over and over again.
I swear, I wish people would think about how stressful that question can be.
That not everyone gets a break or has unlimited resources to gorge on meal after meal of ham and turkey and pies and cake.
On the twenty-third, I’ll pick up our half ham.
Then on Christmas Eve, after working the afternoon shift, I’ll pick up Grammy and drive us to Kiana’s.
We’ll spend the evening with her and her dads, who like to drink martinis and sing carols.
Grammy loves it. Christmas Day will be low-key.
Grammy and I don’t really do big gifts—but we like to treat ourselves to a nice homemade meal: ham, Stove Top stuffing, green beans, and biscuits, and we also bake a batch of gooey cinnamon rolls to share.
Then we just let the day pass as if it’s any other free day of the year.
Maybe it doesn’t sound super festive to the average person, but to me, our chill day is better than most previous Christmases, when I was at the mercy of my mom’s inconsistencies, foster families’ traditions, or group home forced fun.
“All available cashiers to the register.” My boss Jeannine’s raspy voice breaks over the PA system.
Jeannine is forty years old but looks like she’s sixty due to the pack a day of Marlboros she smokes any chance she can get.
She’s a tough, leathery-looking white woman on the outside, but a big softie once you get to know her.
Despite my stank attitude, she sends me home at the end of most of my shifts with a bag of products that are about to expire.
“They’re just going to get thrown out,” she’ll say, waving me away with my arms full.
“We waste so much goddamn food in this shithole country. It’s a crime. ”
It doesn’t ever hurt to have extra groceries, so I don’t mind. Plus, it feels good to have someone looking out for me at work.
I drop what I’m doing at the freezers and head to a register.
As soon as I turn the “open” light on, a rush of people get in my line.
The first customer is a woman sporting a high bun, no makeup, with one kid on her hip and one, a little girl with pigtails, putting things precariously on the belt, moving at the speed of a turtle.
“Thank you, my sweet girl,” the woman says to the girl. “Oh, careful, don’t drop the eggs.” Then she turns to me. “Sorry. This is her favorite part of shopping.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, beginning to scan five boxes of cereal as fast as I can. I will not adjust my speed for this child.
“I know it looks like a lot of cereal,” she continues, giggling nervously, “but these two kiddos sure do love their Cheerios. Plus, it looks like a storm is coming, so I’m stocking up just in case.”
“Mm-hmm,” I say, giving a tight-lipped smile and a nod.
This is why I hate working the registers, people talk to you about nothing.
Overshare about their lives, or get frustrated when something doesn’t ring up the right price, or just have no awareness that they are not the only ones trying to get in and out of the store that day.
Or they think that because I’m not a smiley person, I’m judging them for their food choices, which is not at all my business.
I don’t care. Food is food, and we eat what we can afford.
“That lipstick color is really, uh, unique,” the woman says, still talking.
“Is it?” I say. “Hmm.”
“Yeah, I mean it looks SO good on you, but I could never rock a blue like that. Not on this pasty skin. Can you imagine? Girl, bye.”
Ah, yes, and then there are the white people who like to gas me up, try to connect with me by using vernacular they’ve never used a day in their lives, like “Slay, queen” or “Gurl, you better werk in that lip color.”
“That’ll be $146.22,” I say, as monotoned as I can manage, still refusing to smile. The woman laughs nervously, and then inserts her card while the little girl begins to roll the cart away to bag the groceries.
“Next customer,” I say, motioning down the line. I make it through the rush and I am just about to close up and head back to stocking when I feel someone behind me.
“Hey there, friend—you got a break anytime soon?”
I whip around and come face-to-face with Juniper. She’s grinning at me, wearing her running gear, her face glistening with sweat.
“Did you run here?”
“Yep. So, this is your work spot, huh?”
I’m wearing my uniform of khakis and a blue polo, which I normally feel fine in, but all of a sudden I’m worried I look dumb, and that maybe somehow my bold blue lip is smeared, and—get a grip, Lyric.
Ever since Winter Formal, things with Juniper have been even more confusing.
Our slow-dance photo nearly broke my BeautyStarz account—people LOVED our Stella’s coordinated outfits—but more than anything they loved the way, in the photo, we seem completely unaware that anyone else is around us on the dance floor.
The way my eyes are closed, and Juniper’s hands rest on my hips as if we’ve always belonged together.
“So, look, I know you probably can’t leave yet, but can you take a quick break?” Juniper continues.
I bite my lip and look at the clock. “I actually get fifteen in like five minutes. I just have to finish up in the freezers.”
“Can do,” Juniper says. “I’ma check out the fun aisle. Just find me when you’re ready.”
“You mean the seasonal aisle?” I say.
“Nope. I mean the fun aisle. The one that changes all the time—has random things like Sour Patch Oreos, candle warmers, underwear, and weird flavors of chips.”
“OK, OK. I get it. Knock yourself out. I’ll come find you soon,” I laugh before rushing back to the freezers to finish with the fish.
“Who is that delightful-looking person?” Jeannine whispers at me. It is less of a whisper and more of a friendly growl.
“Uh, just someone from school.”
“A special someone?”
“Nah—it’s not like that. A friend. Can I go on break?”
“Take an extra five if you need it, kid.” Then she pats me on the shoulder and disappears into the back stockroom.
I find Juniper looking at a random array of sauces in the fun aisle. I clear my throat. “Hey. So, uh, I have a break now.”
“Wanna get a coffee?”
“Sure.”
We head across the street to the Speedway gas station. The air is frigid, the sky gray, and I am not at all prepared for it in the hoodie I pulled on quickly.
“So, do you always run in this direction?” I ask once we each have a big cup of machine vanilla latte in our hands. We sit at a small booth by the rotating hot dog stand, which, I’m not gonna lie, smells really fucking good.
“Not always, but I don’t know. It’s the first day of break, thought I’d try a new route. Plus, I wanted to see you in your element.”
I laugh then, because work is so not my element.
“What, no. This is not my scene at all. Just a way to pay the bills,” I say.
“Well, you have this whole unfriendly yet efficient vibe when you’re at the registers, and you got through that line like it was nothing.”
“I guess I do like seeing that line disappear.”
Juniper grins. “Anyway, I had fun last week—at the dance and stuff. It’s nice to have, uh, friends here, you know? We are friends—right?”
“Yeah, of course,” I say, looking down into my cup. “Totally. I had fun too. Also—”
I reach for my phone and open Cash App. “The Stella’s sponsorship funds came through. I just sent you your half.”
Juniper pulls out her phone and then whistles. “Wow. I still can’t believe how much we are pulling in. Thanks. This will help. I’m looking into different portable toilets for my car, and a power station.”
I scrunch up my nose. “So, you’re going to shit in your car?”
“Not in it!” Juniper laughs. “It’s a little potty, with a tank that can be dumped and refilled.“
“Oh, no, but then you have to be dumping and cleaning it. Like a chamber pot? Ew.”
Juniper throws up her hands. “Fine, yeah. I see your point. But it’s either that or be at the mercy of rest stops, small-town gas stations, and campgrounds.”
“Couldn’t be me, but I admire your commitment. What do your moms think?”
Juniper goes quiet at this and shifts in her seat. “Uh, I haven’t exactly told them yet.”
I raise my eyebrow again. “Um, so how are you hiding all this gear you keep ordering?’
“It’s been pretty easy. I mean, it’s Christmas. This time of year, secret packages arrive and nobody really snoops too hard or they might ruin a surprise.”
“Right. That makes sense. So—you and your moms do gifts and everything?”
“Yeah, of course! Don’t you?”
“Only small items. Things we need, mostly. I don’t need random stuff. We just make ourselves a nice meal and call it a day.”
Juniper is silent. And then we both start talking at the same time.
Me: “Anyway—do you think your moms will freak—about your van-life plan?”
Her: “So, look, the whole Jamison and punching a locker moment … Are you OK?”
We laugh awkwardly.
“You first,” I say. Still needing time to mull over her question, and work on breathing through the instant anxiety I feel about having to process my outburst at the dance.
Juniper stalls for a moment, taking another swig of her drink.
“Yeah. They will. I mean—they really want me to go to college. But I need a break from school. Taking this year off feels really important, but I don’t think they’re going to understand.
I mean—my mom’s a college professor. Going to college is mandatory in her mind. ”