I jump up and pull on a sweatshirt, then emerge from my room.
“Morning, Grammy,” I say, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “Here, lemme help.”
Grammy swats my hands away as I try to take the bread bag from her. “Go on now and wash your face, do all your lil beauty routines. I can do this. I’ll call if I need help.”
“You sure?” I say, eyeing her shaking hands.
“I’m not dead yet, girl. Let me do something for you for once, OK? In here acting like you the grown one. You need to learn to let go a bit, Lyric. Be a kid.”
“Grammy—I’m almost eighteen—”
“Hush. I know that! But still, let me make you breakfast. Now go on.”
I sigh and make my way to the bathroom, keeping the door propped so I can hear her every move in case she needs me.
I hurry through washing my face, brushing my teeth, and applying my moisturizers and serums. I’ll do my makeup from the kitchenette counter after I eat.
I know Grammy means well, but I wasn’t really that kind of carefree kid even when I was one. I think she feels guilty about that sometimes, all the ways I had to grow up in a hurry, and now here she is, unable to do daily tasks like cook, drive, bathe, or get fully dressed on her own. On my long days—when I can’t get home between school and work—our friend Ms. Mills stops by to check on Grammy and hang out for a bit. Ms. Mills is about ten years younger than Grammy, but the two get on like sisters. But besides her help, there’s no one else I’d trust. I know this is going to have to change one day, but for now, I can make it work.
Once my skin is all washed and moisturized, my teeth brushed, my braids pulled up into a high bun, edges snatched, I head back out to the kitchen. There are three pieces of cinnamon toast waiting for me on the counter. I grab the stool next to Grammy and inhale the first piece. It’s so buttery and warm, and has just the right amount of cinnamon so that my tongue tingles.
“Soooooo good,” I mumble, mouth half full. “Thank you!”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full, Lyric!” Grammy snaps. “But you’re welcome. Go on and eat the rest before it gets cold.”
I nod and take another bite, chewing a bit slower now. I think if I had to describe what love feels like, it would be this: fresh hot cinnamon toast and Grammy chiding me one moment, then getting all soft and sweet the next.
“So, you had a date last night?” Grammy asks, eyeing me slyly. “Was it that lil light-skinned model you stay running around with?”
I laugh, and then choke on some crumbs. “Jamison is not a model, Grammy.”
“Well, he looks it.”
“Well, he’s not, and no, I don’t mess with him anymore. I had a friend thing—well, I had to shoot some content at the skate rink for something, and this new girl at school, Juniper, was helping me.”
“Uh-huh. But you want to be dating her?”
“No! She’s just a friend. A business partner, really.”
“OK, OK. Just seems like you got all dolled up and were excited last night, and then you came home all—I don’t know, dejected. Thought maybe—”
“I’m fine, Grammy. Really, I was just tired, and we got what we needed so I came home. I don’t have time for a relationship, OK?”
“Well, who says it has to be a relationship! You’re seventeen, have some fun, Lyric! Now don’t go and get yourself pregnant—oh well, I mean, I guess if you with a girl that’s not so much of an issue, but you know what I mean. Be smart, but have some fun.”
“Grammy! I—I do not want to talk about this with you.” My face is flushed.
“I may be a godly woman, Lyric, but I wasn’t born yesterday. I know what teenagers get up to, and all I’m saying is that you can enjoy this time, live a little, and still be responsible. I’m just saying—stay open to all the things this world has to offer you, don’t box yourself in—isn’t that the whole point of being part of the LGBT community?”
My mouth is hanging open.What is happening?!my head screams.
“Close your mouth, girl. And what kind of name is Juniper, anyway?” Grammy continues. “Sounds like a lesbian, but is she also white? Because you know I don’t have any problem with you being a panda-sexual—”
“Pansexual, Grammy! Not panda, oh my god!” I yell.
“But if you bring home a white person, I’ma have a little difficulty with that.”
“Grammy!” I say. “You can’t just say stuff—I mean, no, she’s Black, but she has a white mom. But none of this matters, we are not dating, we are just friends, and I am doing just fine without a love life, OK?”
