I started punching things a few months after I got taken away from Mom by Child Protective Services. I never punched people ormyself—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.”
