Tiffany Sly Lives Here Now

by Dana L. Davis

“All right, O wise, proper alien. I’m all ears.”

  Marcus leans against the rail to face me. “See, the God that I believe in is similar to energy: without form, indestructible, around all things and existing as all things. Let me simplify. May I use you as an example?”

  I nod. “Sure.”

  “You are Tiffany Sly. But who is Tiffany Sly?”

  “Just about the coolest girl ever in life. From Chicago.”

  “Modest. Let’s make you more finite. Name something you like.”

  “I like rain.”

  “Why?”

  “It rained a lot back home.”

  “What did you do when it rained?”

  “We stayed inside if we could. Mom and I would make hot cocoa and cookies and watch the rain from the apartment windows. Curl up with a blanket and watch a movie. I dunno. Different things.”

  “Sounds like rain created feelings of family and togetherness for you. That’s an experience. Experience is consciousness. The God that I believe in is infinite consciousness. You, Tiffany Sly, are a spark of consciousness.”

  “Not sure I’m following. Are you saying I’m a part of God?”

  “I’m saying you are God. Just like energy is everything in different forms. God is everything in different forms. Therefore...you are God.”

  “What? No. If I was God, I would flick my Godly finger and make the world a better place.”

  “But it seems God became Tiffany Sly, not to wave a Godly finger and make the world a better place, but to bake cookies and watch the rain from a Chicago apartment window.”

  “Why would God want to bake cookies and watch rain?”

  “In short? To experience it. God is always growing and expanding because God is always having new experiences. As Marcus McKinney, as Tiffany Sly and so on and so on.”

  “But, Marcus, some people are experiencing some pretty awful stuff. What do you have to say about that?”

  “That there is no awful. That it’s only awful because we said it was awful. And in that case...we should change it. Every one of us has the ability to wake up and realize we’re God. Tell me—when did God ever come down beside you and physically do something for you?”

  “Never.”

  “You’ve been creating all this time. In so many ways, you are the God you seek. And your power to create and manifest is much more amazing than you’re currently aware of. Because remember, you are only a spark of consciousness known as Tiffany Sly and in this experience you don’t realize your potential.”

  “But we all die. I mean, if what you’re saying were true, we could just keep on living to have new experiences. There’d be no reason to die.”

  “The body has to die so that we can move on.”

  “To what?”

  “What else? A new experience. Becoming brand-new is the only way to truly experience brand-new consciousness. Start from scratch. You really should read my book.”

  “Ahh, yes. The Boy Who Lived Before. The book that’s gonna land you on the cover of People magazine doing this...” I strike a dramatic pose. “And make you as rich as your mom.”

  “No, it won’t.”

  “Sure it will. Those ‘to heaven and back’ books always become bestsellers.”

  “After I died, so many publishers wanted my story. But only one was willing to acquiesce to my somewhat unorthodox demands. The ebook will be a free download.”

  “Free? Then how do they make money?”

  “There’ll be printed copies, too. But the digital edition will be available as a free download on the publisher’s website for those who can’t afford to buy it.”

  “You never fail to amaze me, Marcus McKinney slash God.”

  “Tiffany, I should go.”

  “Whoa. Wait—why? Did I offend you? I was only kidding calling you God. And I haven’t even conquered my fear. I haven’t made it onto the sand yet.”

  “London’s here.”

  I turn and look through the balcony windows into the empty town house. “That’s impossible. She’s at basketball practice.”

  “She’s here. She’s been here the whole time, I believe. You should go check on her.”

  “What?” I stand and limp through the balcony doors. Sure enough, I can hear the distinct sound of someone throwing up coming from down the hall.

  My brow furrows. I turn to Marcus as he steps inside.

  He responds as if reading my mind. “I saw Aric’s truck leaving as we were approaching. I figured she might be here. But I only just heard her. You should go check on her.”

  Before I have the chance to come up with a response or even say goodbye, Marcus has quickly moved across the living room floor and within a moment he’s gone. The front door to the town house shuts after him.

  I grab my crutches off the couch, move down the narrow hallway and push into another Pottery Barn bedroom that I assume all of us girls will share. There are two sets of white bunk beds but they’re built into the wall, so there’s lots of space in the bright, sunlit room. One of the beds is stripped of all bedding. A plush comforter and sheets are piled into a messy heap on the floor beside it. I hear a heave followed by a splash of what I imagine is puke hitting toilet water. Gross. The bathroom door is slightly ajar, so I move toward it, crutches in tow, pushing through to see London on her knees, holding her hair back with one hand as she vomits into a toilet.

  “Omigosh. Are you okay?”

  “Can you...please...get out?” she mutters between gags.

  “No practice, I’m guessing?”

  “I left after first period.” She lets loose again. More vomit splashes into the toilet. I cover my nose and extend my foot forward to flush. If you’re going to be knelt over a toilet, fresh toilet water is essential.

  I turn to leave and notice a hint of gold foil in the garbage can ripped down the center. Mama didn’t raise no fool. I recognize it immediately and spin back around. “London?”

  She grabs the small trash can and pulls out the bag, tying it shut.

  “Get out!”

  I exit.

  * * *

  When London emerges from the bathroom, she finds me sitting on one of the bunk beds. Arms crossed. Waiting. Her forehead is covered in beads of sweat, face flushed.

  “I know Aric was here,” I say.

  She bursts into tears.

  “Did you guys have sex?”

  “I didn’t want to do it.” She leans against the wall across from me, still crying her eyes out like a little girl. “I’m so ashamed of myself.”

  “Why did you do it, if you didn’t want to?”

  “I convinced him again to come to church with us.” She wipes her nose with the back of her hand. “But in order for him to go, he said I had to prove I could make some sacrifices for him, too. So I did it.”

  “He’s awful!”

  “It’s your fault!” she cries. “You’re the one who talked him out of joining our church in the first place.”

  “Oh. Seriously? You deciding to have sex with Aric is somehow my fault?”

  She slumps down onto the floor and I wait for her to stop crying. No. It’s worse than crying. It’s like the “weeping and gnashing of teeth” they speak of in the Bible. Red faced, snotty, ugly wailing. Even a girl as pretty as London can’t look good in this sort of state. When she finally calms, she yanks off her Curington polo and tosses it in a far corner of the room. “I hate that thing.” She runs her fingers through her hair, damp from sweat.

  “London, don’t beat yourself up about this. You’re not going to die and go to hell because you had sex.”

  “Jehovah’s Witnesses don’t believe in hell.”

  “Well...great. Then ask for forgiveness and all is well.”

  “You don’t understand. There’s more.”

  “Is there a place worse th
an hell? Do you guys get buried alive if you sin or something?”

  “No, Tiffany. When Aric took the condom off it was split.”

  “The condom broke?”

  “I’m going to the pharmacy to get the morning-after pill. You can get it over the counter now. But I’m going to a drugstore far away. Maybe Los Angeles. So no one will recognize me or see me. People know us around here.”

  “And how are you getting there?”

  “I’m taking an Uber.”

  “Why can’t Darryl take you?”

  “Darryl’s a snitch. He’d let Mom and Dad know. They don’t know I’m here.”

  “What about a friend? Izzy or Charlie could take you?”

  “Charlie doesn’t drive.”

  “Izzy?”

  “We’re not speaking. We got into a fight about that video of you. I thought it was rude and racist. A monkey at the end? I may never speak to her again.”

  “She’s your best friend. Don’t do that.” I sigh. “But thanks for sticking up for me, though. I feel bad. I thought for sure you had something to do with that.”

  “I can see why you’d think that.”

  We sit in silence for a while. “Hey, what about Marcus? He can give you a ride and then I can go with you. He was just here. I bet he’s not even that far away.”

  “Crazy-faced Marcus McKinney? Are you friends with him now or something?”

  “Yes, he’s my friend. And at least you know he’s not gonna murder you. You don’t know anything about some random Uber driver. With Marcus and me with you...you won’t be alone. I’m texting him now.”

  I pull out my phone: SOS. Need a ride to LA. Can you bring your war-mobile back?

  A moment later he texts back: I’m still out front. Haven’t left yet.

  He knew. Somehow he knew not to leave. I text back: Be out in a second.

  “He says he hasn’t left yet. C’mon. Let’s go.”

  I can tell the idea of not being alone is appealing to her. Even if it means being with the sister she’s not exactly fond of and crazy-faced Marcus McKinney.

  “I wish I was like you.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I mean, your mom died. And you seem so okay. You’re strong. If Mom died, I’d be a mess.”

  “Oh. I am a mess.”

  “You seem fine.”

  “Can I confess? Promise not to judge me?”

  She nods.

  “This isn’t my hair.”

  Her jaw drops. “No way.”

  “It’s a weave. I have alopecia. It happened when my mom was going through chemo and radiation. My real hair is all jacked up now. Bald patches and...disaster-zone hair. So Marcus’s mom gave me a weave.”

  “Shut up. Can I touch it?”

  “Sure.”

  She stands and sits beside me on the bed, feeling the tracks on my head. “Whoa. That’s amazing. It looks real.”

  “It doesn’t feel real. It feels like an itchy, uncomfortable wig. Don’t tell on me.”

  “Um, giant glass house right here. Not throwing stones. Your secret is totally safe with me.”

  “And yours is safe with me.”

  “Thank you, Tiffany.”

  “I also take medicine for anxiety and OCD.”

  “Why?”

  “I have ‘irrational fears.’ Wanna know the first thing I thought when I saw the ocean?”

  “What?”

  “If a tsunami comes, we’re all dead. In fact...I’m still thinking it.”

  “But if a tsunami came we are dead.” She laughs. The laughter quickly melds into full-on sobs. I put my arm around her and she leans her head on my shoulder.

  “Don’t cry, London. It’s okay.”

  “I love him. But I feel so dirty now. I’m a failure.”

  “Failures don’t get straight As at the hardest school in the universe, volunteer with their church, play on basketball teams and look like Victoria’s Secret supermodels. Sorry. Not buying failure. Thank you for playing. Please deposit twenty-five more cents.”

  “Tiffany, I have failed. Sex is supposed to be between two people who have taken a vow of marriage. I let my family down. My pastor. Jehovah. Everybody.”

  “London, there are billions and billions of people on this planet. Do you know how they all got here? Two people had sex. Sex is nothing new. The animals do it and they never get married. Can you imagine two lions signing paperwork before they did the deed? How weird would that be?”

  She turns to me. Her eyes bright with curiosity. “Have you had sex before?”

  “I have. Yeah.”

  “Really? You had a boyfriend back in Chicago?”

  “No. He was my friend. At least, I thought he was my friend, the stupid jerk. I was feeling pretty tore up about Mom dying and he sort of took advantage of that. One of the worst days of my life.”

  “Today is the worst day of my life. I wish I could take it back. Undo what we did.”

  “The feeling goes away. Eventually you forgive yourself.”

  “How long did it take you?”

  “When you see somebody you love more than anything lying in a casket and you know they are never coming back...most things seem sorta trivial after that.”

  “I’m so sorry your mom died, Tiffany. But you know I believe you could see her again. I believe there is life after this.”

  I nod. “Yeah. I know you do.”

  * * *

  Marcus’s giant black Hummer is parked on a side street. I’m still dressed in my Curington uniform but London’s slipped into jeans, a black sweatshirt with a hood pulled over her head like Marcus and giant black sunglasses. Like she’s about to go rob a bank or something.

  I’m instantly comforted once we step into the quiet serenity of Marcus’s car. As if he’s our protector, here to make everything all right. London must not feel the same peace of mind because she clicks on her seat belt and slumps her head onto the car window, bawling her eyes out once again.

  “Hi. Again,” I say to Marcus.

  Marcus gives me a polite nod. “Where to?”

  I turn to London from the front seat. “Where should we go?”

  “Let’s try Santa Monica.” She sniffs. “A random drugstore in Santa Monica. In one of the gross areas. No one will know me there.”

  “Santa Monica it is,” Marcus says without so much as a quizzical look as to what’s happening and why we’re headed to a “gross area” of Santa Monica.

  * * *

  Kudos to Marcus for knowing the gross areas of Santa Monica. For starters, it stinks here. Like rotten eggs and hot garbage. And the ocean water is a deep, muddy brown with tiny bits of colorful trash crashing in with the brown, foamy waves. There are homeless men and women asleep on benches or pushing around shopping carts stuffed with assortments of junk. And pigeons. Pigeons and their pigeon poop are pretty much everywhere. This place is disgusting! Santa Monica Beach gets lots of incorrectos and a giant red check minus in my book.

  “I’ll go in by myself,” London mumbles.

  “You sure, London?” I ask.

  She doesn’t respond. Only pushes open the door and exits the vehicle. Within a moment we see her crossing the street and entering the drugstore.

  “How come you’re not asking why we’re here, Marcus?”

  “Because it’s none of my business.”

  “But don’t you want to know?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “But you do know why we’re here? Don’t you?”

  “I suppose I do.”

  “You’re psychic, huh?”

  “Tiffany, it doesn’t take psychic awareness to put two and two together. A trip to a random drugstore in Santa Monica with me as your chauffeur? Aric driving away as we were pulling up to the house. London’s nonstop crying
in the back seat.”

  “Uggh. Their condom broke.”

  He pulls at his white gloves and gazes out the front window. “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Do you think the morning-after pill is wrong? It’s not like she’s getting an abortion. She can’t be pregnant in a couple of hours.”

  “You already know how I feel about right and wrong.”

  “Oh, don’t remind me. Nothing’s right. Nothing’s wrong. We can all do whatever we want and act like lunatics. The great Zen master says so himself. But what about...I dunno...world hunger?”

  “What about it?”

  “That’s obviously wrong and bad.”

  “If you think it’s bad, do something about it.”

  “Like what? I don’t have any money to end world hunger. I’m broke as a joke.”

  “Start a GoFundMe page.”

  “I can’t. I have to read The Shadow of the Wind in Spanish.”

  “Ahh, yes, the hungry children of the world understand. It’s a good book.”

  I see London step out of the drugstore, head hung low, clutching a small plastic bag and a bottle of water. She rushes across the street and within a moment is quickly climbing into the back seat of Marcus’s Hummer.

  I turn to her. “Everything okay?”

  She slides off her sunglasses and nods. “Home. Back to the beach house. Please.”

  * * *

  The ride back is somber. Like we’re at the head of a funeral procession. London hasn’t stopped crying and all Marcus and I can do is be a captive audience to her misery. Traffic is moving fast, but Marcus drives a little below the speed limit; cars whiz past us in a blur of motion. A car length ahead of us, two semis speed along side by side on the freeway. I watch in irritation. When one speeds up the other truck drives faster.

  “What are they, drag racing?”

  “I’m sorry?” Marcus replies.

  “Those trucks. They’re not supposed to do that, are they? Drive side by side like that?”

  Suddenly, one of the semis weaves into our lane. The large, rectangular trailer attached to the truck wobbles dangerously as the truck swerves. I scream.

  “Marcus! Look out!”

  Marcus slams on the brakes as the truck’s trailer slowly begins to topple over onto its side. It’s an explosion of debris; cars everywhere attempt to dodge out of the way as the truck makes impact with the pavement. I close my eyes as Marcus spins the steering wheel and the Hummer twists around until it tilts on two wheels, lifting off the ground.