“Hush up now!” Grammy waves her hand at me to shut my mouth, and then continues talking to the TV. “Ooh, what she doing now—done quit her job and everything. Her friends telling her she’s a fool for dropping everything in her life for this fast man…”
I shake my head and smile to myself as I head into our small bathroom to change real quick. I pull on a fluffy gray onesie from Meijer, run my hands under hot water, and tie my braids back with a scrunchie. I pull my lashes off carefully so I can reuse them, then I wash my face until it’s squeaky clean and gleaming, then I slather my lips with cherry Vaseline. Works better than any high-end lip mask.
“Ohh, gurl. You a pick-me! Don’t do it, girl!”
Grammy is yelling when I emerge from the bathroom, all freshened up. Grammy didn’t used to watch so much TV, but since she can’t get around as easily these days, it’s on all the time, and I have to admit, her ongoing commentary is top-tier entertainment on its own. We can’t afford Hulu Live, but we pay for the basic on-demand streaming package and that serves us just fine.
I open our kitchen cupboards, pour some rice into the boiling water, then cover it and turn the burner to low. I grab some chicken breast that’s about to go bad, season it real good with a packet of lemon pepper and Lawry’s salt, and start to sear it in a pan. I get a can of green beans cooking too, and soon our whole spot smells like dinnertime and my stomach grumbles in anticipation. I’m not an expert chef or anything and I don’t really enjoy cooking like some folks do, but I can whip up a chicken dinner when needed. Grammy Viv taught me the basics of cooking and the rest I just make up or try budget-friendly recipes I see online. Sometimes I make a game out of it—what can I cook on a weekly grocery budget of $50 and the expired but still good items I get from work.
Since my “room” takes up what would be the living room/diningroom in our apartment, we eat most of our family meals in Grammy’s room on two small TV tables. I get Grammy all set up in her chair with her plate, a glass of water, and a handful of her meds, then I sit at the end of her bed and put my plate and glass on the other small table. Grammy hits pause on her episode and clicks off the TV. That’s her one rule—when we can eat together, we do so without any distractions. I’m dying to edit the shots I got tonight by the tree and put together my latest post on BeautyStarz, but I know better than to pull out my phone when we’re eating. Grammy says grace, and then we dig in.
“How was your lil Tikity Tik photo shoot?” Grammy asks.
“Good,” I say, not bothering to correct her or explain that it’s not TikTok but BeautyStarz that I post on. She knows that social media exists, but trying to get her to understand all the different platforms is a lost cause. It’s all the same to her.
“Did you wear this?” Grammy says, side-eyeing my fresh-faced, no-bra, relaxed-onesie lewk.
“Grammy, come on now. You know these are my house clothes. I’m offended.”
“Mmmm,” Grammy says, taking a bite with a sly smile, “just checking. I know I taught you right.”
“You did,” I say, my chicken gone as I start to shovel the rest of the rice and green beans into my mouth.
“This ain’t half bad, Lyric, honey,” Grammy says, slowly chewing her food. “Next time, though, maybe use more seasoning on these beans. Some bacon or ham would help too.”
I nod, because Grammy and I both know bacon didn’t make it on the list of priorities this week for food, but this is how Grammy shows her love: picking at little things, letting me know she’s still here and paying attention, even if she can’t do much in the kitchen on her own anymore.
“So, did you get your application in to State?”
I tense up and take a big gulp of water. Grammy Viv and I have a difference of opinion on what I should be doing after graduating high school. She thinks I should go to Michigan State—study something practical like accounting or nursing—but I’ve been telling her that’s not my plan.
“I’m not applying there, Grammy. We talked about this, remember?”
“I know that, but what will it hurt just to submit an application? Give yourself another option?”
“I have options,” I say, teeth starting to grit.
“Putting on makeup for folks on the internet is not an option.”
I sigh and try not to roll my eyes, because Grammy will call me out quick if I do. “Grammy—I told you, I’m gonna get my cosmetology license. It will mean I can work in a salon and have clients of my own if I want. It will give me plenty of options, and the freedom one day to make my own schedule, build my own business. And if I need to, I can take some business classes at community college. I have a plan. I’m going to take care of us.”
“Humpf,” Grammy mumbles, and goes quiet. Then, after a beat, “You shouldn’t have to take care of my old ass.”
“Stop it,” I say, reaching out to grab her left hand, which shakes ever since her stroke. “You didn’t leave me, and I’m not leaving you. End of story.”
It’s been me and Grammy against the world since I was ten—I know most kids are thinking about getting the hell away from home at my age, but I don’t have that luxury. I have to make my own luck and life right here, and that means doing everything in my power to keep my family—the only one I have—together. I just need to keep my eyes on the prize: get and save as much money as I can so come summer, I’m on my way to making good on my goals.
After we eat, I help Grammy get ready for bed, laying out her pj’s, helping her to the bathroom, and then fastening some of the buttons on her top when she can’t seem to get them herself. I say good night and close the door to her room, then I do the dishes and prep some food for our dinners while I listen to a book that’s due in English next week. Thank goodness one of Kiana’s dads, Carl, told me about the library app that lets you check out audiobooks for free. That’s how I read most books for class—so I can multitask around the house and get my homework done at the same time.
Around ten, I slip into my room, behind three vintage floral screens Kiana and I found at Goodwill last year to give me some privacy. I have just enough space for a double bed, a small vanity that I also use as a desk, and one of those standing racks for me to hang clothes on. I keep the rest of my stuff in the entryway closet or under my bed in storage containers. I prop myself up with pillows and open my laptop. I start to upload the photos from the shoot. The pictures with Juniper turned out better than I could have ever imagined—very natural, as if we’d known one another for ages. In fact, I can tell that I won’t have to do much editing. Who knew Juniper was so photogenic. She’s always reserved in class, keeps to herself and doesn’t make eye contact much. But these photos—well, she’s giving me eye contact alright. She’s got some major heartthrob appeal. LovelyLashes is gonna eat up this wholesome holiday content. I get to work on the post. I pick out the best photos that showcase my lashes but also embody the holiday spirit and create a draft post on my BeautyStarz account.
When snow falls, sparks fly. Thanks@lovelylashesDTfor adding some extra glam to an already magical moment.#ad #gifted #makeupoftheday #beautyinfluencerlife #lashesfordays #holidayglam
Then I schedule the post to hit at eight a.m. on Monday morning. I check off another job done in my beauty influencer income spreadsheet, and then I look ahead on my content creation calendar to see what else I need to film or shoot over the weekend. A tutorial featuring a new concealer I was sent, and a lip swatch video featuring some plumping glosses. I can knock those out tomorrow after my shift at Aldi, no problem. And that will leave Sunday evening for homework. Weekends are never not busy. I climb under my covers, and once I’m comfy, I open my laptop and hit play on an episode ofGolden Girls. Somewhere between the theme song and Blanche making a dirty joke, I feel my lids start to droop. Before I know it, I’m dead asleep.
CHAPTER 4Juniper
SONG OF THE DAY:
