Tiffany Sly Lives Here Now

by Dana L. Davis

  I turn to Margaret. “Don’t hate me but I Googled autism and hair washing.”

  She turns to me. “Really?”

  “Have you ever done that?”

  “Googled autism and hair washing? I can’t say that I have.” She looks intrigued. “What did it say?”

  “Just that lots of autistic kids don’t like getting their hair washed because of sensory issues. But I didn’t find out what that meant.”

  “There is so much unknown with autism. I’d give anything to understand.”

  I stand. “I should probably get started on my homework.”

  “The loft is all set up for you girls to study. London’s finishing up her homework at school, so enjoy the privacy.”

  “Yeah. I saw her. She looked very hard at work.”

  “I don’t know how she manages with basketball, volunteering with the church and maintaining some semblance of a social life, but she does it. We’re so proud of her.”

  I resist the strong urge to roll my eyes.

  “And again, Tiffany, I’m sorry if we startled you. That had to be scary.”

  “Margaret, you don’t have to say sorry to me. I’m sorry. I used to say there are no bad kids, only bad parents. I used to judge parents so hard when I’d see kids going nuclear at stores and stuff.”

  “Trust me. We get the evil glares from people when we’re out. They think Pumpkin’s just out of control. They don’t understand she’s suffering...and we are, too. But we’ve made such strides with her. Taking out the gluten and chemicals like unnecessary preservatives from her diet created a big change in her behavior. She’s like a different person.”

  I have a tough time imagining a worse version of Pumpkin. “Does Anthony go out of town a lot?”

  “He has been putting in more hours than usual. He’s thinking of taking on a partner for his private practice. So many babies. Babies are booming.”

  “What time does he usually get home from work?”

  “Typically around six or seven.”

  “What time does Pumpkin go to bed?”

  “Six thirty.”

  “Oh. That’s gotta suck. I mean...sorry. That’s unfortunate. You’re with her all day by yourself?”

  “Well, he can’t help it. He’s working. And of course we have the weekends.”

  I note the defensive tone of her voice. But still, she ends the sentence with a smile.

  “No nanny?” I don’t know much about nannies, but I always thought rich people had bunches of them.

  “Oh, no. Anthony doesn’t believe in nannies. Parents should raise their children. It’s better that way. But we do have the behavior therapist. She comes every other day. And housekeeping comes Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturday mornings. It’s three women from Melly Maids. They adore Pumpkin and always help out, too.”

  “Well...hey, if I can ever help. I’m great with kids. At least, I think I am. I can babysit. I can research how to watch her. Take a class or something. Let me know.”

  “You have no idea how much it means to hear you say that. That you try to understand. You’re a...a special girl. Thank you, Tiffany.”

  * * *

  Up in the loft, seated at the nice white lacquer desk, in front of a giant picture window that overlooks the tennis court, I write out a plan for tackling my mound of schoolwork, giving each assignment the estimated time I think it’ll take me to finish. By my calculations, with a half-hour break for dinner, my homework should be completed by 11:00 p.m.

  My new phone chimes and I check to see a text has come through from a Chicago area code. 867-5309: Mind. Blown.

  I text back: Who is this?

  The response: Xavior X.

  Me: How is this your number? You realize that number is a song by Tommy Tutone?

  Xavior: :-) I have a friend who works for the phone company who worked it out. Can I call you?

  He doesn’t wait for my reply because within a second my phone is ringing. I hit the green answer-call button. “Xavior?”

  “Tiffany Sly?”

  I grin. “In the flesh.”

  “Okay, so I skipped out on work.” He starts with his warm baritone voice. “Went straight to Disco Kings. I can’t believe I said the Beatles were just okay! What is wrong with me?”

  I lean back in my seat. “Dude. I forgive you for saying that.”

  “I feel like finding a magic mirror and traveling to wonderland.”

  “Omigosh, right? If only.”

  “Next up, David Bowie. I just had to call you and tell you how much I enjoyed it.”

  Is he for real? He actually left work for me? I decide to quiz him. “Favorite song on the album?”

  “First song on side two. Something about that sitar.”

  He really did listen to it. Omigosh! “That’s George Harrison! ‘Within You Without You.’ Best song ever, right?”

  He laughs. “Maybe second best. Listen to ‘Bold as Love’ by Jimi Hendrix. I think that’s the most beautiful song I’ve ever heard.”

  “You’re kidding? ‘Bold as Love’ is the most beautiful song. Omigosh. You’re seriously awesome, Xavior.”

  “You’re seriously awesome, Tiffany Sly and the Family Stone.”

  “My mom used to call me Sly and the Family Stone. I always thought it was because she knew I like psychedelic music.”

  “They are known for a sort of psychedelic, soul fusion.”

  I sigh. “Right. But now, of course, I see the correlation.”

  Xavior sighs, too. And suddenly a tension reaches through the phone line. “Listen, Tiffany. I know it would shake things up for you. But you are the coolest kid. I hope you turn out to be mine.”

  His last sentence sort of hangs in the air and a smile stretches across my face. I imagine walking through Chicago Park District with Xavior by my side. The sky would be gray. The air would be cool and crisp. Both of us would have identical acoustics slung over our shoulders. A kid from school would see us strolling by and call out, “Hey, Sly! Who’s that guy you’re with?”

  Xavior and I would exchange knowing looks before I’d shout back to the kid, “Just my dad.”

  “Tiffany? You still there?”

  “Oh, um, I should probably get back to my homework.”

  “I understand. I’m here for you, okay? Call me anytime. Goodbye, Tiffany Sly.”

  “Goodbye, Xavior Xavion.”

  I turn my phone off and log on to YouTube on my laptop. As I begin the process of tackling my mound of homework, Sly and the Family Stone’s “Hot Fun in the Summertime” gives me the sweetest psychedelic serenade.

  11

  I tighten the straps on my backpack and move through the narrow, oddly quiet hallways toward Geography, so grateful Heaven and Nevaeh were able to convince Darryl to stop at 7-Eleven. I wonder how Margaret would feel knowing her homemade, gluten-free breakfast muesli was washed down with Skittles, glazed donuts and iced coffee.

  I step into my geography class. The desks in the back have been slightly rearranged to accommodate our group of three. It’s now two desks pushed together to face one another. I head toward the back and slide into one of the chairs. Mr. Mills is at his desk reading. His hair looks wet from the shower and pushed away from his face, which makes it appear darker and wavier than yesterday. He glances up and our eyes meet. Butterflies burst free as he gives me a smile and a nod. I wave. Uggh. That was lame. I should’ve smiled and nodded coolly like he did. That would’ve been better.

  “’Sup, Sly.”

  I look over to see Aric standing across from me, and withhold a guttural groan longing to burst free. Something about this guy—uggh. He gives his signature bang shake and his blond hair falls right back over his bright blue eyes. He plops his foot onto the chair beside me and reties the laces on his black Nike high-tops.

  “Hi, Aric.” I
take my book and supplies from my backpack and set them on the desk.

  “Hey, check it. I got a homey. I want us to double-date. You and him and London and me.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because one, I don’t want to, and two, the house I live in has strict rules about dating.”

  “So lie. London does it.”

  “London’s not allowed to lie.”

  He holds out his phone. A Facebook photo of him and his African American friend with short, cut hair, leaning up against Aric’s white truck, is displayed on the cell. His friend is a dead ringer for a young Idris Elba. What is with this city? Is it a prerequisite to be really, really ridiculously good-looking in order to live here?

  Marcus enters, white face and all. Odd how something as simple as white makeup can make a person look so terrifying. Or perhaps it’s not the white makeup per se. Perhaps it’s the nonconformity that makes Marcus appear so frightening. Like back home, one of the local homeless men in my neighborhood would sing at the top of his lungs and swing around utility poles. I totally wrote him off as crazy. Everybody did. But why can’t we burst into song on the side of the street? What is that thing that makes us follow an unwritten order? And what is the thing that makes us label those who don’t as...odd?

  Marcus takes a seat across from us, unzips his backpack and hands us both individual, typed sheets of paper from a folder.

  “The outline,” he says softly.

  “Thanks for doing it.”

  “Yeah, no doubt,” Aric mumbles in agreement without looking up.

  “You’re both very welcome.”

  “Hey,” I start as more students file into the class, “wanna sit with me at lunch again?”

  “We have early out today.”

  “We do?”

  “School in-service. I’m going home for lunch.”

  “Oh.”

  “But you could come with me.”

  “I wish. I’ll have to stick around here. I have basketball practice.”

  “I can bring you back.”

  “Really?” I grin. “Cool. It’s a date, then.”

  Aric grunts in annoyance. “What about our date? C’mon, Sly. He’s a nice guy. He’s funny. He smells good. He’s attractive.”

  I roll my eyes. “Jeez. Maybe you should date him.”

  Marcus laughs.

  “What the fuck you laughin’ at, clown boy?” Aric snaps. “Fuckin’ freak.”

  “Don’t talk to him like that!” I growl. “I wouldn’t go on a double date with you, Aric, if a man holding a gun to my head ordered me to. I’d close my eyes and welcome the darkness of death.”

  “Fine, then, stupid bitch.”

  I turn to Aric. The Chicago girl in me boiling to the surface. “Call me a bitch again.”

  Aric laughs. “Ooh, I’m so scared.”

  “Like a said. Call me a bitch again.”

  “I call ’em like I see ’em,” Aric replies smugly. “Bitch.”

  I ball my right hand into a fist and, without so much as a second thought, connect it with his face.

  Blood spurts. “Fuck!” Aric stands and covers his nose with his hands, which instantly become covered with thick, crimson-red blood. Mr. Mills stands quickly, grabs a box of tissues and rushes toward us.

  “What just happened?” Mr. Mills holds a wad of tissues up to Aric’s face. “Tilt your head back.”

  Aric follows his orders and tilts back his head. The class is completely filled. All eyes on us.

  “Answer me, Aric!” Mr. Mills growls. “What just happened?”

  “Nothing,” Aric snaps back. “Can I go to the nurse?”

  Mr. Mills glares at me. My hand is still balled into a fist but resting at my side. My breath is quick. My heart beating so fast I’m sure everyone can hear it.

  “Who saw what happened here?” Mr. Mills asks. But no one makes a sound. He turns to Marcus. “Marcus? Tell me what happened?”

  “Aric’s nose started bleeding,” Marcus replies.

  “I can see that, Marcus. How did it start?”

  “Mr. Mills.” Aric’s voice is mumbled, and since his face is partially covered with a giant wad of bloody tissues, it sounds like he said “bister bills” instead of “Mr. Mills.” “It started bleeding on its own. Now can I please go to the nurse? Fuck, man.”

  The bell rings, signaling the official start of the school day, and Mr. Mills anxiously runs his hand through his thick mane of damp hair. “Fine, Aric. Take the pass. Tiffany? May I see you in the hallway, please?”

  A dozen pairs of eyes gaze at me in wonder as I follow behind Mr. Mills.

  “You do understand we have a zero-tolerance policy for violence?” Mr. Mills speaks in a hushed tone as we stand alone in Curington’s dimly lit hallway. “If at any point Aric decides to swallow his pride and admit you clobbered him in the face, you get expelled. You understand expulsion? It means you can’t come back. Ever.”

  This is the stereotype. This is what they expect of me. How could I be so stupid? How could I have let anger allow me to do something so reckless? I want to apologize. Tell Mr. Mills I’m better than this. Beg his forgiveness. But instead, I fold my arms across my chest and shrug, like I couldn’t care less.

  “Oh, that’s no big deal, huh, Tiffany?”

  “I didn’t say that!”

  “You don’t have to.” He leans his weight on one foot, arms folded across his chest, and rolls his eyes in a typical Chicago-girl, dead-on imitation of me. “Your body language says it all. You’re so cool, huh, Tiffany? Whatev, right? Shoot, Aric deserved it. Had it comin’?” He smacks his lips.

  I look down at the floor. “I hope that’s not supposed to be me.”

  “Tiffany, look at me.”

  I refuse.

  “Tiffany Sly?”

  I burst into tears. “I’m so sorry,” I wail. “I’ve never hit anybody in my life. I swear I haven’t.”

  “Shh. Don’t cry, Tiffany.” Mr. Mills pulls me in, hugging me. “Just don’t screw up your life because you can’t control your rage.”

  “I don’t have a problem with rage. I just have a problem with...Aric. He’s an asshole. He was making fun of Marcus. He called him a clown boy.”

  “Tiffany, you will meet so many assholes in your life. We don’t punch them in the face for it. At least, not at school. And trust me when I say that Marcus does a fine job of taking care of himself. Shh. Please stop crying, Tiffany. I believe in you. Something deep in my soul says you’re quite special. The next time you get an urge to punch a guy like Aric in the nose, take a deep breath, close your eyes and think of me standing in this hallway. Remember that I am going to pretend like I didn’t see you punch him in the face.” He lifts my chin so that I’m staring back into his magical eyes. “Even though I did.”

  “What?”

  “I won’t ever admit that again. Understand? I am giving you a chance. Can you remember that? Can you close your eyes and think of me, giving you this chance?”

  I nod and wipe my runny nose.

  Mr. Mills hugs me again and sighs. “Let’s get back to class.”

  * * *

  Marcus parks in the handicapped section of one of the lower-level parking lots, which is quite a long walk from Spanish and down one of those crazy, steep staircases. Though when I hop into his Hummer, I find out there was an elevator.

  “An elevator? That would’ve been a lot easier.” I glance quickly at Marcus behind the wheel of this giant car. His gloved hands gripping the steering wheel tightly. His green eyes like two bright pieces of Jolly Rancher candies surrounded by thick smears of white makeup.

  “You punched Aric in the face.”

  “Correction. I tried to punch him in the face. His nose got in the way.”

  “I heard it’s broken.
Everyone knows you punched him, but strangely, no one saw it.”

  “You saw it.”

  “I blinked and technically missed it. Aric could’ve easily got you kicked out of school, you know.”

  I click on my seat belt. “I know.”

  “That was pretty decent of him to save you an expulsion. Maybe he’s not so bad, after all.”

  “Please. You think he did it for me? He did it to save his reputation.”

  Marcus shakes his head. “No. Aric is easily the most popular guy on campus. And he’s dating your sister, who is easily the most popular girl. His reputation is pretty much solid. Even a punch from you couldn’t mess that up.”

  I quickly change the subject, a little sick to my stomach that the new black girl from Chicago punched the most popular boy in the face. Way to go, Tiffany. Way to go. “So, I have to read The Shadow of the Wind. Like I don’t have enough stuff to read.”

  “I’ve read that.”

  “Oh? But have you read it in Spanish? Es La Sombra del Viento, muchacho.”

  “Sorry, I don’t speak Spanish.”

  “Me, neither!” He pulls out of the parking lot. “What’s with this car? Are we, like, headed into battle?”

  “I was rear-ended this summer. My Prius was totaled.”

  “Yikes. Were you okay?”

  “A little whiplash and a dislocated shoulder but nothing serious. My moms panicked. They now feel this is the only ‘safe’ car until they decide what new car to purchase for me...if any at all.”

  We move down the mountain road. I stare anxiously out the window as we approach the guard gate. I grip the car door handle and inhale slowly. Hold it. Exhale.

  Thump-thump, thump-thump: You’re not gonna die in this car...or maybe you will.

  “Would you like me to drive slower? I can.” Marcus slows the car to a crawl and I exhale appreciatively.

  “I get nervous in cars. Sorry.”

  “No need to apologize. I do understand.”

  “Thanks.” I stare out the window at the blurred lines on the pavement. “The way you talk. It’s so...”

  “Proper?”

  “I was gonna say...alien.”