that way.
This is strictly business, she says
commanding me to move slightly this way
and that in her arms.
But damn, these shots are fire.
Welookgood.
Right,
I repeat in my mind.
Strictly business.
CHAPTER 3Lyric
LIP OF THE DAY:
Cherry Vaseline
“Shawna, one gift won’t hurt the girl. It’s her birthday, after all. She’s seven. Let her have some joy.” We are at Grammy Viv’s. We’re living with her again. Mom and I sleep on the pull-out sofa in the living room and I go to school sometimes down the street where Grammy teaches. Grammy Viv is holding a big shopping bag with something inside for me, something wrapped in glittery purple paper. I’m trying to be patient, to be good and not get excited about “worldly possessions,” but purple is my favorite color and I can’t remember the last time I got a toy. Mom thinks things—toys, cars, houses—just bind us to an endless cycle of capitalism, and that it’s experiences that make us rich, not stuff. So, we don’t have much. We don’t live anywhere, and we certainlydon’t buy cheap plastic things that will just sit in a landfill one day and outlive the rot of humanity. We take care of our planet and our souls by being as resourceful as possible, by living smart and not wastefully. At school, kids wrinkle their noses when I lick the peanut butter from the wrapper of my Uncrustable or when I wash and save the plastic utensils from the cafeteria.
“Ew. Why are you saving that junk? It’s just trash.”
“It’s not trash—it’s called recycling,” I say proudly, not knowing the truth I would learn when I got older.
Not knowing that collecting empty bottles from parks, baseball bleachers, and streets isn’t just some noble adventure in saving the planet but the only income we have some days. Not knowing that what we really are is houseless—getting by day by day, as Mom builds and then tears down new realities for us, her mind a humming machine of never-ending movement and mayhem.
But this is a good day. One of the best. Mom sighs and shakes her head in resignation as Grammy Viv wins the gift argument.
“Fine. But whatever it is, we’re not taking it with us when we leave.”
“I already told you, you don’t have to leave. Dragging that girl every which way,” Grammy Viv mutters, throwing a cloudy look at Mom. Then she brightens her eyes and smiles at me. “Here you go, baby girl.”
I take the bag from Grammy Viv and pull out the rectangular present. I run my hands over the sparkles and the ribbon all curled and tied at the center. I look up at Grammy Viv and say: “It’s so beautiful.”
“Well, go on and look at what’s inside! We don’t have all day.” But there’s a gleam in her eye, and I can tell Grammy Viv is just as excited as me.
Everything in me wants to rip the paper right down the middle, but I restrain myself. I open each side of the wrapping carefully, so I don’twaste it. Maybe if I am very careful and good, Mom will let me keep whatever is inside when we leave.
And oh, I have to be able to keep this! Inside the wrapping is a full plastic tea set—with dainty pink flowers painted on each cup, and an elegant teapot with a long graceful spout. Each cup has its own little saucer, and there are even tiny spoons to scoop imaginary sugar out of a sugar dish.
“It’s just like your real set, Grammy!” I squeal with delight as I break open the packaging and begin to line each piece up on the floor in front of me. “Thank you thank you thank you!” I yell over and over.
Grammy Viv laughs. “You’re welcome, baby. Now you can have your own tea parties anytime you want.”
When I get back to the one-bedroom apartment that Grammy Viv and I call home, my fingers are numb from the cold. I flip on the lights and set all my camera equipment down, then I get a pot of water boiling on the stove.
“I’m here!” I yell to Grammy Viv, who is posted up as usual in her bedroom, watching her shows. “Should have us dinner ready in about thirty.”
“Take your time, baby,” Grammy responds. “Just started a new episode of90 Day Fiancé: The Other Way. This white woman really thinks this young, buff Jamaican man is her great love, when it’s so clear he just needs a meal ticket to the States. Lawd—you can’t make this stuff up.”
I peek my head into Grammy’s room. She’s sitting in her floral reading chair, feet propped up on a step stool, legs covered with a blanket, completely riveted by a television on her dresser across the room.
“Grammy, why do you watch this mess—”
