A cozy YA romance from award winning author, Mariama J. Lockington. Out October 14, 2025. Read an exclusive excerpt below!
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CHAPTER 1: LYRIC
Lip of the Day: Boss Up
I’m not going to lie: Christmastime is my hard season. Always has been, ever since I can remember. Maybe it’s because my home life was never that consistent growing up, and my mother didn’t teach me to believe in Santa, or maybe it’s because I find it’s the season of social gaslighting where merriment is demanded even as the world continues to be trash, and yet the pressure to consume and be festive despite that continues. I guess you could call me a Grinch, but, like, a cute one with fluffy lashes, a bold lip, and a face beat for the gawds.
Nevertheless, I’m here. It’s the first Friday in December and Capitol Avenue is lit up with an array of fairy lights draped over every building, sign, and lamppost available. It’s so bright when I step out of my ancient gray Ford Focus (aka Tabitha), I swear I need sunglasses. Big diva ones like celebrities wear. But I’m already pushing it with my outfit tonight as the sad midwestern fashions of downtown flow past me on their way to see the tree lit up in front of the capitol building.
Look, I don’t claim this city. I don’t really claim any city, but Lansing, Michigan, has been my sort-of home since Grammy Viv had her stroke a few years ago and she and I moved to a small one-bedroom apartment right before I started ninth grade. Grammy Viv would have stayed in Muskegon, where she’d been her whole life and had deep roots in the community as a second-grade teacher for over thirty years, but when she got sick, we both knew that she’d get better care at the hospitals in Lansing, especially with her pension health-care plan. So, we packed up her little house and made the hour-and-a-half move. Grammy Viv is sixty-seven, so she’s not old old. She’s extremely smart and has a tongue like a flame, but her mobility took a hit after her stroke—so even though she can talk me under a rug, she needs help with basic things like driving, cooking, and bathing now. Plus, last winter she slipped on the ice and messed up her hip so bad she had to have surgery to replace it. I spent all my summer helping her heal, making sure she got to her PT appointments, working extra shifts at Aldi, and rewatching episodes of Living Single with her whenever I could be home.
It’s just the two of us, me and Grammy Viv. Fact is that these days she needs me more than I need her (although she’s too stubborn to admit it). Grammy Viv is one of my most favorite people on earth, but I can’t lie—life has been a strain on us both lately, and now I’m almost halfway through my senior year, and all she can talk about is how I’m too smart not to go to college, how I need to stop worrying about old-folks stuff and focus on being young and talented. And logically, I can see her point. I don’t have time for much fun or freedom with my work schedule, school, beauty influencing, AND caretaking duties—but also, I’m not complaining. Grammy Viv is the family member who took me in after a couple years of bouncing in and out of foster homes and raised me the best she could on her meager teacher pension. I know that before I was old enough to get a job, she did everything to make ends meet for us, to make sure CPS didn’t have any additional reasons to take me away again. Now it’s my turn to give that kind of love back to her—even if it means staying in this sad little city after I graduate, going to cosmetology school down the street, so that one day I can start booking private clients as a makeup artist and find my own way for us in this world.
That’s why I’m out here in this cold, fairy-lit holiday-scape in the first place—I need to get some festive shots of myself wearing my new faux mink lashes from LovelyLashes. LovelyLashes is this amazing queer Black, woman–owned company out of Detroit and they paid me—me!—to be a brand ambassador for their holiday glam drop this season. I need all the funds I can get, because even though cosmetology school isn’t Harvard, it’s still about fifteen thousand dollars plus licensing fees all in. I’ve been saving as much money as I can so I can pay for at least half, and then take out a loan for the rest. If I can swing it, I want to enroll this summer, as soon as I graduate. LovelyLashes is getting me one step closer to this goal.
With my portable ring light, tripod, used DSL camera, and a huge faux leopard fur winter coat thrown over a festive thrifted wine-red slip dress and black turtleneck combo, I stomp my chunky black Chelsea boots across the street and make my way toward the big Christmas tree to find the perfect spot. I would normally have my BFF, Kiana, here, helping me, but she and her dads drive to Grand Rapids to see The Nutcracker with her grandparents every year and like to make a weekend of it. So, I’m without her for a couple days.
“This wind better not mess up my lashes,” I huff under my breath.
To be honest, I’m more of a natural lashes gurl, but every now and then I like to go big and dramatic, and today is one of those days. Despite my grumpiness at the cold, when I set up my camera to snap a few test shots, I have to admit that the layered, fluffy lashes paired with a sharp black wing and a bold matte red lip are fire.
“You look good, Lyric. Very fucking festive,” I whisper to myself as I set my timer. I scoot back around in front of the camera again and run through a series of poses while I snap some real shots now with my portable clicker. I’m in my zone when a young couple, all snuggled up in scarves and gloves, drinking hot chocolate, walk by and give me strange, judgy looks.
I raise an eyebrow right back at them.
“Some people just are sooo obsessed with themselves,” I hear the girl say as they hurry away.
I ball my fists for a moment and then shake them out. Not worth it. I’m used to people thinking I’m self-involved. That just comes with the territory of being a content creator in the wild. If there’s one thing Grammy Viv taught me, it’s that nobody is entitled to your joy, and this—makeup and creating looks—this is not only my joy, it’s something that saves me again and again. Not only do I get to be creative when I do makeup, thinking about color theory and trying out different looks and techniques, it’s also a lucrative and consistent market. The beauty industry is huge, and even more so now that brands have started to be more inclusive with their shade ranges and hire more people of color as content creators. When I figured out I could get free items or even get paid to review products, something just clicked in me: I’m good at promoting products, and it brings me joy to make myself and others feel good and confident by learning how to play with makeup. Why not do the thing I love and make money? Grammy thinks this is a waste of time, but I have a vision and I’m focused on it. This could really be it for me, I just know it. Plus, I know exactly how to use social media as a business tool, grow my following, and make it look like I not only care about jingle bells and eggnog, but that I thrive this time of year even though I’m slowly dying inside.
So, fuck ’em. They probably won’t make it as a couple anyway, even if they did look super doe-eyed. Love like that—all warm, clingy, and romantic—it’s not real. It’s an illusion. In reality, people just hurt you, even when they claim to love you. So, why pretend it will last or be magical? Why not just be honest up front, and have fun while you can, but not, like, get all sappy and lost in it? That’s why me and my on-and-off-again boo, Jamison, work. I mean, sure, we’re in an “off” moment right now because he says he wants to be with someone who will hold his hand more and kiss him in public, but ew. No. I have an extreme dislike of PDA, and he knows that. But I’m not a prude; when we’re alone we do all the things other people who are together do, and I don’t hear him complaining then. This is just another one of his tantrums, and I bet you next week he’ll be blowing up my phone again, asking if he can come over to watch our shows and make tortilla pizzas. In fact, he’s probably sitting at home right now, pouting, waiting for me to call him.
I open my phone and scroll to his stories. I laugh and watch as his pit bull, Troy, lumbers across a field to retrieve a ball. OK, so he went to the dog park today, predictable. The next few stories are just reposts of funny dog videos, and I’m about to put my phone down when his latest story pops up. It’s new—just posted a minute ago. Jamison’s face appears all sweaty and bright. He’s in a room packed with kids from our school wearing ugly holiday sweaters and screaming along to Mariah Carey about all he wants for Christmas.
How original. A 90s party. I gag-smile despite how fully corny he is.
But then, out of nowhere, someone—someone with a black bob and a singsong perfect voice jumps into the frame and kisses Jamison right on the cheek. He grins down at her with adoration, and then the two of them scream more lyrics into camera. Then the story ends, and—hello—who the hell was that?!
I wait and refresh for a few minutes to see if he’ll post anything else, but nothing. That’s it. I rub my hands together and blow air into them. It’s cold, and I’ve gotten completely off track with my photo shoot, but here I am again feeling that nagging competitive spirit that Jamison brings out in me. This is what we do: we bicker, we break up, we mess around and then make up, no questions asked. It’s not perfect, but it works, and if this is how Jamison wants to play it tonight, then so be it. I’ll play, too. Kiana isn’t here to stop me, and I’m already all dolled up.
I pull out my compact and touch up my bold lip, then I fluff my lashes and smooth my outfit. A soft, light snow has begun to fall and of course people all around are stopping to ooh and aah at the flakes as they swirl and sparkle against the tree lights. “I don’t get it, it’s just wet and cold,” I mumble as I scan the crowds. I don’t know exactly who or what I’m looking for but I’ll know when I . . . Her. Before I can think twice, I make a beeline toward my mark.
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CHAPTER 2: JUNIPER
Song of the Day: “When You Wish Upon a Star” by Little Anthony & the Imperials
Snowflakes fall onto my closed eyelids
and melt
the most holy of baptisms
I am sparkling and warm
in this church of snow and light
as I stand under the Capitol Christmas tree
wedged between Mama Alice and Mom.
All my favorite things are here:
the scent of frozen earth
of pine and cedar
the tangle of light flung
onto the snow like stars
the darkness ringing with cheery song
and my moms back together again
after a year of tumult and separation
resolved to make their marriage work.
And this tree—it’s not the biggest or the brightest
it’s not like the ones that tower and bend toward me
like protective ancestors when I hike a new trail
it’s not as flashy or grand as the one in downtown Chicago
where we used to live, but it is giving off an
anything-can-happen-if-you-just-believe-in-it
kind of shine
And we live here now, in Lansing
with its small-town, cozy vibes
Mom with her new faculty position at Michigan State
Mama Alice with her very own art studio
in the sunniest corner of our slightly lopsided
robin’s-egg-blue house
Me in my senior year of high school the promise of
graduation and new adventure
like a river rushing through my days.
And this season my favorite season
is a place for all of us to begin again
to make new tracks in fresh snow.
Oh my stars, would you look at that
Mama Alice says in her sweet-scratchy Kentucky drawl
as she tucks a stray blond hair back into her beanie
her freckles dancing on her cheeks as she smiles.
That’s just picture perfect if you ask me.
Mom nods in agreement, her locs littered with snow
as she kisses us each on the cheek
and then pulls out
a thermos of hot chocolate from her bag
for us to all pass around.
I’m taking a pepperminty sip
savoring the warmth traveling into my belly
when I feel a persistent tap on my shoulder.
Hey, you’re in my grade. The new kid?
June, right?
I break away from Moms,
turn to face the voice.
It’s Juniper, I say before I
grasp who I’m speaking with.
Right, sorry. Juniper. Well, I’m Lyric.
I think we have English together.
I need a favor.
Would you mind helping me for a minute?
I know who she is.
How could I forget a girl
named after singing itself?
Lyric Watkins.
Only one of the most beautiful
people at my new school
she’s never once even acknowledged
that I existed until now.
I can’t keep my eyes off of her.
Junie, honey, Mom says,
calling me by my dreaded nickname.
Mama Alice and I are gonna walk around.
Come find us when you’re done?
I feel the tips of my ears heating
knowing they’ll have just about
a million questions for me after this.
Great! Thanks for letting me steal her,
Lyric says before I can respond.
Then she pulls me by my mittened hands
toward the opposite side of the tree.
OK, Lyric continues breathlessly.
Thanks for this.
It should just take a few minutes.
You good?
We actually have
two other classes together,
I blurt out.
Lyric raises an eyebrow
as she checks her face in a compact.
We do?
Chemistry and fifth-hour study hall.
Right! Yeah, sorry. It’s been a long day.
Brain fart I guess. I’ve got a lot going on.
No worries, I say.
What do you need my help with?
—-
