I’m startled at Grammy’s comment. Remembering, too, how Juniper said something similar.
“Is that Audre Lorde?”
“Sure is. Her essay ‘The Uses of Anger: Women Responding toRacism’ is one of my favorite pieces of literature. I read it over and over again, especially when I’m feeling guilty about all the ways I’ve learned to survive as a Black woman, all the systems and prejudices working against me at every turn. We get to be angry, baby girl, we get to rage. It’s not a curse, it’s resistance—one way to harness our power in the face of injustice and pain.”
“Grammy, you’re dropping lore right now!” I say in awe.
Grammy laughs. “Don’t you ever forget it.”
After a beat, I ask the question that’s been reeling through my head all morning.
“Is my mom really better?” I whisper. “I’m scared to believe it.”
Grammy sighs. “Oh, I know you are, Lyric. And that’s OK. Your mom has a lot to prove to you, and me. But, yes, this time it feels different to me. She’s been calling me every other week, got herself a little studio apartment and a job at Kohl’s. She says she’s been on meds for a year now; they make her a little drowsy, but she’s clearheaded. So, I’m open to giving her a chance. She wants to see us on the thirtieth. I told her we could come halfway—find us a Biggby coffee shop in Lowell to meet.”
“I don’t know if I have anything to say to her,” I say. “I’m so angry at her still. I don’t know how to make it useful yet.”
Grammy nods and pats my hand.
“That’s OK. I can do the talking. You can just be there. That’s a step in itself.”
“Alright,” I say. “I’ll go.”
“And just remember: Whatever happens, we will still have each other. Don’t you forget that.”
I hug Grammy and then rest my head on her lap. I only mean to stay like this for a moment, but the sound of the TV and feel of Grammy’s hand stroking through my braids lightly puts me right to sleep.
When Kiana and her dads get home later that evening, they greet us with a feast of leftovers and we have ourselves the Christmas Eve we planned on, just a day later, complete with martinis for the adults and cider for me and Ki. Somewhere between the second martini and a sparkling rendition of “The Twelve Days of Christmas,” Kiana and I slip away to her room with two glasses of gin swiped from the bar cart.
We sit on her floor in front of her bed, clink our tumblers, and take greedy sips. Kiana’s room is legit like a spa. Her decor is minimal: clean white walls, a few black-and-white photographs of her favorite athletes and dancers hung up, a tiered bamboo stand overflowing with green plants under her window, and a simple platform bed with a sage-green comforter and sienna throw pillows. She has a candle burning and soft classical music playing and the air smells like eucalyptus and lemon balm. I take a deep breath and let the gin warm my chest. Everything in me is loose and soft and open after my good cry and nap next to Grammy on the couch.
“OK, talk,” Kiana says. “You said everything was fucked?”
I shrug and adjust my crossed legs. “I’m fine. Chillin’.”
“Uh-uh. Don’t do that. Be for real. What’s going on with you?”
I’m not ready to discuss Juniper, so instead I tell Ki about my mom and the upcoming reunion.
“Lyric—that’s in like five days! How long since you’ve seen her?”
“About eight years.”
“Whoa. How do you feel about it all?”
“Not great. But—I’m trying to do this thing where maybe I accept that people can change—when they want to. And it’s not weak or foolish to give someone another chance, even if I am angry at them.”
“I know that’s right.” Ki nods. “I love that for you.”
“Thanks,” I say with a slight smile.
“So, how are things with fake dating online? I haven’t seen you post anything with Juniper lately.”
I take another sip of gin. “Yeah, that’s over.”
“The fake dating for clicks or the friendship?”
“Both? Things got complicated. Grammy and I went over there when the storm started. And it was good—really good. Juniper and I kissed, but then, I don’t know. It all blew up. She’s got some shit going on with her family, so she took it out on me when I tried to give her some advice. Maybe my delivery was off—but—”
