“Andthatis how you do it, beauties!” I say into the camera with a dramatic final flick of my eye shadow brush. “The five-minute smoky eye of your dreams. And because this eye is so bold, I’m just going to add some lip gloss with a little shimmer to top it all off. What do we think? Do we like it? Awww, thanks for all the love in the chat, I appreciate you joining me today on this live. And this eye look—so easy, right?! You can do it too, promise. Well, that concludes another Makeup Monday with ya girl. Don’t forget to use my code for a discount at Lilac Lane and tag me if you try this look, hunny. I want to see all of your gorgeous faces. Till next time, byeeee!”
I blow a final kiss and then end the live, my shoulders relaxingalmost immediately as I release a long, joyful sigh and roll out my neck. No matter how horrible a Monday morning might be or how overwhelming the week ahead may seem, Monday afternoons are a sacred time for me. Mondays and Fridays, I don’t work an Aldi shift after school, and instead have time to just play with new makeup, go live, or record content before making dinner, getting Grammy set, and diving into homework. When I’m at my vanity like this, my ring lights on, my talking points scribbled out in a notebook in front of me, new products laid out on the tabletop, I feel a kind of power that comes from within—an internal glow that radiates comfort and belonging. It’s just me and the camera and my followers, and a clear objective: debunking the idea that makeup has to be time-consuming or difficult. It can be, but it can also be quick, efficient, and playful—you just have to know what products to use and how to manipulate them.
“You done out there, Lyric, baby?” Grammy calls from her room.
“Yes, Grammy. I’m done recording. You can turn the sound back up on your show now.”
“About time! This charter is about to get wild. The guests have requested a disco-themed dinner and party, but they’re all wasted and it ain’t even five p.m. yet.”
I laugh as I start to clean up my vanity and the TV volume gets louder, the voices of drunk superyacht fools wafting into my room. I wish I could just go in and watch a couple of episodes ofBelow Deckwith Grammy, but I’ve got a final paper due in English on Wednesday, and a chemistry test on Friday that I’ve barely studied for. It’s going to be a long week. Once I’ve cleaned up my beauty space, I head to the kitchen and check the fridge for dinner options—we’ve got some strawberries, sliced cheese, half a carton of eggs, milk, and some recently expired but still good lunch meat. I close the fridge and openthe cupboard and pull out two cans of chicken noodle soup and the last of the bread. It’s going to have to be another grilled cheese and soup night. I don’t have time to try and be creative with the few ingredients we have, and I won’t be able to do another shop until the weekend after I get paid.
“Grammy—I’ll have dinner for us soon. Soup again, sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, baby. Soup is food. We’re blessed to have it.”
“Mm-hmm,” I say, stirring the pot and staring into the thick liquid, with not enough noodles, a few chunks of chicken, way too many carrots and peas. This time of year, the groceries always seem to go so fast—and then there is the additional stress of trying to save for extras like Grammy’s favorite HoneyBaked ham—them bitches cost like $60, just for a half ham. I’m already stressed thinking about securing one for our Christmas Day meal.
I set the soup to a low simmer and start slathering mayo on the bread for the grilled cheese. Just as I am about to start the pan up, my phone buzzes with a text.
Juniper:So, did I miss the part where you asked me to Winter Formal?
Shit. I knew when that came out of my mouth on the live, I should have checked with Juniper first; of course she was watching. We haven’t been able to connect a lot since last weekend, but our traction online has been growing steady and I’ve been keeping her updated by text or rushed conversation in the halls at school.
Me:Sorry. That’s on me. I got carried away on my live, but I think it’s a good plan, don’t you? Lots of opportunities for cute “couple” footage and photos.
Juniper:So, are you asking me? I’m gonna need you to type it out directly.
I snort because, once again, Juniper’s quiet sense of humor and reverence for romantic rituals has me flustered.Why is she like this?!It’s annoyingly endearing.
Me:Wow, just put me on the spot. Ok, fine. Juniper—would you like to go to winter formal with me? As my “date”?
Juniper:I’ll think about it.
I snort again, because of course.
Me:You play too much.
Juniper:I hear you like games.
My eyes narrow, because what the actual fuck does that—
Me:Meaning?!
Juniper:Sorry, forget I said that. It was dumb. Just something Jamison said to me today on our run.
But it’s too late. Just seeing Jamison’s name typed out under Juniper’s name sets me off—the noise from the bubbling soup hissing all through me like a warning.
Juniper: Lyric—I’m really sorry. That was uncalled for.
Me:Sure fucking was. Listen—let’s just get some good footage at the dance next week and keep this whole thing professional like we planned. Tell Jamison to keep my name out his mouth. Youtwo can be friends, but don’t EVER come at me like that again. You don’t know anything that went down with us.
I throw my phone on the counter and get back to cooking. I hear my phone buzz with more texts, but don’t bother to look. I’m seething. I know she’s right—Jamison and I do play games—but it’sbothof us. Not just me, and it’s none of anyone’s business. I throw the bread into the pan and press down hard with a spatula as the mayo sizzles and steams and the cheese begins to melt. For a second, I think about what it would feel like to put my hand in the pan instead, press down and let my skin peel and burn. If it would help release the scream beginning to choke me, if it would help me feel anything other than this heat, this simmering brain drain.
“Lyric—is something burning in there?” Grammy’s voice snaps me back to reality, and I see that I’ve scorched the first grilled cheese.
“Shit,” I mutter, taking it out of the pan. There’s not enough bread to make a new one.
“All good, Grammy,” I say quickly, trying to control the tremor in my voice. “This one just got a little extra crispy, but I’ll eat it. I like it like this.”
