Got it! This is the one to post, Lyric.
Trust.
You two look perfect.
Lyric pulls away
and I’m met
with a rush of cool air.
I get final approval.
Her voice is all business again
as she thumbs through the shots.
Yep! These will work.
Nice eye, Kiana.
I try not to be disappointed
as Lyric and Kiana
hurry off to a nearby bench
to think of a caption.
The moment
lost
butmy heart
still drumming
still open.
CHAPTER 19Lyric
LIP OF THE DAY:
Interstellar
It’s the Monday after Winter Formal, and my hands are raw and cold from stocking frozen fish in the freezer aisle at Aldi. It’s officially the first day of winter break, and unlike most students at Lansing High, I am not hype about it. No school means extra shifts and extended holiday work hours, no free and reduced lunch, and having to evade the question “What are you doing for Christmas break?” over and over again. I swear, I wish people would think about how stressful that question can be. That not everyone gets a break or has unlimited resources to gorge on meal after meal of ham and turkey and pies and cake. On the twenty-third, I’ll pick up our half ham. Then on Christmas Eve, after working the afternoon shift, I’ll pick upGrammy and drive us to Kiana’s. We’ll spend the evening with her and her dads, who like to drink martinis and sing carols. Grammy loves it. Christmas Day will be low-key. Grammy and I don’t really do big gifts—but we like to treat ourselves to a nice homemade meal: ham, Stove Top stuffing, green beans, and biscuits, and we also bake a batch of gooey cinnamon rolls to share. Then we just let the day pass as if it’s any other free day of the year. Maybe it doesn’t sound super festive to the average person, but to me, our chill day is better than most previous Christmases, when I was at the mercy of my mom’s inconsistencies, foster families’ traditions, or group home forced fun.
“All available cashiers to the register.” My boss Jeannine’s raspy voice breaks over the PA system. Jeannine is forty years old but looks like she’s sixty due to the pack a day of Marlboros she smokes any chance she can get. She’s a tough, leathery-looking white woman on the outside, but a big softie once you get to know her. Despite my stank attitude, she sends me home at the end of most of my shifts with a bag of products that are about to expire. “They’re just going to get thrown out,” she’ll say, waving me away with my arms full. “We waste so much goddamn food in this shithole country. It’s a crime.”
It doesn’t ever hurt to have extra groceries, so I don’t mind. Plus, it feels good to have someone looking out for me at work.
I drop what I’m doing at the freezers and head to a register. As soon as I turn the “open” light on, a rush of people get in my line. The first customer is a woman sporting a high bun, no makeup, with one kid on her hip and one, a little girl with pigtails, putting things precariously on the belt, moving at the speed of a turtle.
“Thank you, my sweet girl,” the woman says to the girl. “Oh, careful, don’t drop the eggs.” Then she turns to me. “Sorry. This is her favorite part of shopping.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, beginning to scan five boxes of cereal as fast as I can. I will not adjust my speed for this child.
“I know it looks like a lot of cereal,” she continues, giggling nervously, “but these two kiddos sure do love their Cheerios. Plus, it looks like a storm is coming, so I’m stocking up just in case.”
