“Well, don’t set the house on fire,” Grammy continues.
I know she means this in a teasing, loving way, but I feel like I really could start a fire with the sparks still going off inside me. I take a deep breath and start again, with Grammy’s sandwich in the pan.
This is why I don’t make new friends, my head screams.Not fucking worth it.
Grammy Viv is whisper-yelling at someone at our door. I’m in the living room of her house. It’s a Friday afternoon and I’m playing with my tea set after school. It’s been a couple months since the bathtub, since my seizure, since Mom left and came back and then left for even longer, and then came back, and then left again. We never know when she’ll arrive or in what mood she’ll be in, so Grammy Viv has been taking care of me. For once, life has had a kind of routine to it. I go to Grammy’s school down the street, and we walk home together each day. Then we run errands on the bus, make dinner, and watch shows before bed. On Sundays, I go to Sunday school, and then get to eat steaming piles of mac ’n’ cheese at the after-services potluck. But something about the way Grammy Viv’s voice is now makes my shoulders go tight.
“No. This can’t be. I’m her grandmother. You can’t just barge in here.”
“We’ve got a court order, ma’am. We understand her mother still lives here sometimes, and she’s a danger to the child.”
And then Grammy Viv is pulling me up from the rug. “Come on, baby. Let’s pack a bag.”
Behind her stands a tall Black woman in a blue suit. “Hi, Lyric. I’m Mrs. Walters. I’m going to take you somewhere safe, OK? Your grandma can visit you soon.”
Grammy Viv is crying, but they are quiet tears. Not the kind of crying Mom does, with her whole body and mouth wide open.
“Where am I going?” I ask again and again as Grammy Viv throws things into a bag.
“Look, baby,” she says after a moment. “You’re gonna go with Mrs. Walters for a little while—she’s from Child Protective Services. Because your mom has been… unreliable… and because of what happened in the bath, well, these folks are investigating to make sure you’re being taken care of.”
“But you take care of me.”
“I do, baby, I do. But they are just doing their jobs. Don’t worry, I’m gonna come see you soon. We’ll sort this out.”
I am eight.
It’s the last time I see my tea set.
It’s the last time I see Grammy Viv cry.
It’s the last time I’m a kid.
CHAPTER 14Juniper
SONG OF THE DAY:
“Tis the Season” by Big Freedia
After track practice on Tuesday morning
I take the quickest shower on earth
and beeline for Lyric’s locker.
I ran horribly this morning
my muscles tense and wooden
my mind full of all the ways
I am failing these days:
not being able to be honest with my moms
pissing Lyric offagain
by repeating some dumb shit
