“You know, anger can be useful,” Juniper says. “The poet Audre Lorde says so. It was enlightening to see you so mad—to know exactly what you were thinking and feeling. And I don’t think there’s anything wrong with what we’re doing on BeautyStarz—plus, nobody tells the truth on social media.”
“Exactly! It’s all curated. That’s the point,” I say. “And once the platform monetized ads and content, everyone is on there to make money or gain something. It’s all a hustle. We live in fucking capitalist America, for god’s sake.”
“Very true.” Juniper laughs.
I take a breath, absorbing the other thing she said. “I never thought about anger as useful. Mostly, I think, I’ve just used it as a weapon against myself and others, when things feel out of control. But maybe—maybe it’s more than that. Thanks.”
“Yeah, of course. I hope you know, you do deserve, well—anything you want. I really believe that. You’re amazing, Lyric, and I like knowing you.”
It’s uncomfortable to sit with Juniper’s praise—especially because I don’t feel like I’ve shown her even an ounce of the patience or kindness she’s shown me. She is such a decent person. And really, really attractive. I can’t stop thinking of how good she looked in her gold blazer and dress pants. How when I stepped into her house, I felt all the air sucked out of me, how I could barely catch my breath all night when I looked at her.
“Thanks. I—you’re not so bad yourself” is all I manage.Wow, Lyric. You suck at this.
“Well… I can walk you back.”
“Oh shit, yeah. Thanks for the coffee break. This was… nice.”
“Anytime,” Juniper says as we stand up and head out into the cold.
“Hey,” I find myself blurting out. “Do you want to come over later? Watch a movie?”
“Uh—wow—”
“As a friend hangout, I mean,” I add hurriedly. “And my grandma will be there too, but she likes you. Might even let you pick the movie.”
Juniper grins wide at this. “Yeah. That sounds nice. And obviously, the feeling is mutual—your grandma is really cool.”
“Yeah, it’s low-key annoying how y’all hit it off last time. She’s been asking after you a lot. Fair warning though—she’s going to say some outta pocket shit.”
“Oh, I look forward to it.”
“Cool. Come by around seven.”
“I’ll be there.”
When I sit back down at my register, a warmth spreads all through me. “Next customer!” I say with a smile.
I am nine. The house I live in looks like it’s from a magazine. It’s my first foster home and it’s December. My foster parents—Mr. Ryan and Ms. Elyse—don’t have any kids, just a set of yappy Yorkies named Duke and Daisy. I have a big room with a canopy bed, lots of blond-haired porcelain dolls, and flower art on the walls. It’s not my style, but the bed is comfy and big and all mine. Sometimes when I squeeze my eyes real tight and curl myself up into a ball of heat, I pretend like I’m a comet, hurtling through a dark galaxy, and when I open my eyes, I’ll be somewhere that feels like home again. Mr. Ryan and Ms. Elyse are nice enough: I eat well, I go to school, I get new clothes and toys. They let Grammy Viv visit me a few times, but always with supervision, as if she might run away with me. Sometimes, at night, I hear them whispering about “building our family,” about the “foster to adopt” system—“I want her to be ours, Ry, for real,” I hear Ms. Elyse say a few nights before Christmas. “That would be the best gift.” I am nine. Everything is sparkle, glitter, and holiday magic. Everything is shiny and white, soft and pristine. But I miss Grammy Viv’s yellow kitchen, I miss her pull-outcouch and the TV with the ears, and the smell of pork chops and rice sizzling on the stove. I don’t want to be anyone’s gift. I’m not supposed to be here, in this magazine. So, I start to punch in the faces of all the stupid blond dolls. I drag my blankets from the bed, and make a nest underneath it, on the dark floor. I stop using words, and instead growl whenever Ms. Elyse and Mr. Ryan try to talk to me. I kick and scream and yell and howl along with Duke and Daisy. And, after a couple months, they send me back.
“Not the right fit,” they say. “Not for us.”
“Too damaged.”
CHAPTER 20Juniper
SONG OF THE DAY:
“I’ve Got My Love to Keep Me Warm” by Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong
When I get home from my run
I shower and letthe steam
circle in and out of my lungs
the scent from my peppermint soap
hovering in the thick air.
