Tiffany Sly Lives Here Now

by Dana L. Davis

  “Really? Do you think you were dreaming?”

  “Maybe. But it felt so real. You know, I think I agree with you. About Marcus, I mean. There is something about him. Something special. Something magical.”

  * * *

  It’s a beautiful, sunny Saturday morning as Anthony and I hop into his fancy Audi, though what type of Audi I can’t be sure. I’d need Keelah to tell me and I’m too uncomfortable to ask. We’re still in that awkward phase. I can tell he feels the awkwardness, too, because he’s been clearing his throat and pulling at the short strands of wavy hair on his head every fifteen seconds or so.

  “This is nice, huh?” The garage door slides open and we pull into light traffic on Pacific Coast Highway.

  “Sure. Yeah.” I adjust the buttons on my white blouse even though they don’t need adjusting. Why did I wear this stupid shirt? London loaned it to me. When I emerged from the bathroom in a Rolling Stones T-shirt, she reminded me that wearing a shirt with a picture of a giant pair of red lips with a tongue hanging out wasn’t gonna fly. So now I’m stuck suffocating in this itchy thing.

  “Tiffany, who’s Xavior?”

  “What?” I turn to him. My heart pounding so hard and fast I have to place my hand on my chest to dull the sharp pain it’s causing.

  He reaches into the pocket of his khaki-colored chino shorts and hands me back my cell. “He texted you a few times last night. Like around midnight.”

  “Oh.” I grip the cell and swallow nervously. “He’s...my friend. From Chicago.”

  “Remind him midnight texts are too late.”

  I exhale silently. “I’ll do that. Sorry.”

  “Boy’s got good taste in music, though. Apparently, he’s a big fan of Sgt. Pepper’s. One of my favorites, too.”

  “Really?” I ignore the fact that Anthony admitted to reading my texts and invaded my privacy since, to be fair, I was warned that he’d be doing that. “I love that album so much. I feel like concept albums are like—”

  Anthony’s cell rings, cutting me off. He quickly answers it and a female voice booms through his car speakers.

  “Dr. Stone?”

  “Yeah. What’s up?” he asks somewhat impatiently.

  “Shona just paged the emergency line. She’s about twenty minutes apart now.”

  Anthony groans. “You headed to the hospital?”

  “I am,” the female voice replies.

  “Call me when she’s at ten? I’ll start heading that way in a few.” He ends the call.

  “Should we skip breakfast?” I ask.

  “You don’t mind, do you? I’m really sorry, Tiffany.”

  I shrug.

  “We can take a little drive along the coast for a minute or two. That sound good?”

  “Sure,” I say, faking enthusiasm.

  “I have a surprise. I was gonna wait and tell you with all the girls, but now you’ll be the first to know.”

  “Are you going back to San Francisco to teach another class?”

  “No. We are all going to play hooky from church and go to Vegas tomorrow.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  “Because of you. A little something to let you know how happy I am that you’re here. I’m taking the entire family to see a matinee performance of Cirque du Soleil: The Beatles Love. Margaret’s parents are loaning us their private jet.”

  Private jet?

  “We’ll fly out tomorrow morning, see the show and be home before bedtime.”

  I look out the window.

  “What’s wrong, Tiffany? You don’t seem excited.”

  “I don’t want to go.”

  “Why wouldn’t you want to go to Vegas to see Cirque du Soleil? It’s the Beatles. All the music we both love.”

  “I’m terrified to fly again, okay? I don’t like flying. And in a private jet? That sounds as scary as I don’t know what. Aren’t those the planes that always crash?”

  “Ohhh.” He seems relieved. Like being afraid to fly is nothing. “I understand. Flying can be scary. But I’ll be with you this time. It’ll be the whole family.”

  “Planes crash.”

  “Thousands of planes land, too. Every single day. In fact, cars are less safe than airplanes.”

  “Yeah. Don’t remind me.”

  “Jehovah God will protect us.”

  “Right.” Unless we die.

  “What church did you go to back home?”

  “Can’t remember.” I smooth out the pleats on my yellow skirt. Another loan from London. Pleats on a yellow skirt. What is this...Clueless?

  “I know in the Christian faith you believe that Jesus Christ is God.”

  Uggh! Why won’t he stop talking about God!

  “That’s not what we believe. But I don’t want you to think I’m trying to convert you. I only want you to be exposed to what we believe. See how it feels. Understand?”

  I roll my eyes and turn to stare out the window again. “Pretty day, huh? Malibu’s nice.”

  “I personally think you’ll love our church. It’s such a wonderful—”

  “Omigosh. Sorry. Can we talk about something else? Anything else?”

  “You’d rather attend a Christian church? We can arrange that. The most important thing is that you stay connected to Jehovah God.”

  “What if I don’t want to attend any church?” I blurt in exasperation. “Is that an option?”

  “That won’t work. We serve Jehovah God in our home. I thought you understood that?”

  “I do.”

  He quickly switches lanes and I grab on to the side of my door, panic rising from deep within. He drives fast. Holy hell!

  “You believe in God, don’t you, Tiffany?”

  Are we seriously still talking about God?

  I twist a strand of my long extensions around my fingers and stare at the white lines on the pavement, then check the speedometer. Seventy-five mph on this two-lane Malibu road? “Can you slow down? I get scared in cars.”

  “I’m driving the speed limit.”

  “The speed limit is seventy-five?”

  He slows. “Fine. That better?”

  I exhale. No sense dying today.

  “What does Jehovah God mean to you, Tiffany? I’d love to hear about your personal relationship with Him.”

  Him? I can’t help but wonder why everybody refers to this God character as a he. If God were a man, he’d have, like, an epically giant penis just swinging around the universe. He’d knock the planet right off its axis and we’d all float into deep space.

  “Please be honest with me, Tiffany.”

  “I don’t believe in God, okay?”

  He rubs his chin. He rubs his forehead and his head. He groans. Finally, he slows the car before pulling off onto the side of the road and clicks off the engine. “You understand that this won’t do?”

  Omigosh, what was I thinking? Why on earth did I just tell him that?

  “In our house we serve Jehovah God. When you grow up and become an adult, you do what you want in your own home. But you’re in our home. You must honor and obey and believe. Pumpkin, Heaven and Nevaeh will be looking up to you for guidance. London, too.”

  “So what do you want me to do? Pretend?”

  “We’ll get you into a Bible study and some counseling sessions with our youth pastor.”

  “You can’t be for real with this.”

  “See, there you go again with the disrespectful tone.”

  “I literally just said, ‘You can’t be for real with this.’ What’s so disrespectful about that?”

  “It’s your tone, Tiffany. How would you speak to...Abraham Lincoln?”

  “I wouldn’t. He’s dead.”

  “I know he’s dead, Tiffany. I only mean how would you address him. Would you say, ‘You can’t be for real
with this, Abraham Lincoln’?”

  I scratch my trembling cheek. “If he tried to send me to counseling sessions with his youth pastor. Yes, I would.”

  Anthony shakes his head. Like I’m a hopeless cause. “Look, all the girls are in Bible study. Everyone on this planet should be in a Bible study class.”

  “There are people on this planet who don’t even have access to clean water. And you think they should be in Bible study? They can’t even read!”

  Anthony rubs his head again in that fashion adults do when they look utterly stressed and unhappy, sitting over a pile of bills or on hold with the Wi-Fi customer service rep. “What would it take for you to believe? What could Jehovah God do to show you He’s real?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Anthony starts up the car. “Think about it, Tiffany. Think about what it would take for you to believe. Because I want to start praying that God reveal Himself to you. Can we at least begin there?”

  I stare out the window.

  “You’re my daughter, Tiffany. I care about my children. I love every one of you guys. And I care about your eternity. Is a sign from God too much to ask?”

  I imagine asking this God person to make it rain Skittles and to DJ a leprechaun dance party on a cloud made of cotton candy. But instead, I come up with something even more ridiculous. I turn and watch Anthony as he clears his throat and pulls at his hair. “I want my mom back.”

  “I know you do, Tiffany. I’m so sorry she’s gone.”

  “No. That’s the sign I want from God. Mom back.”

  “Tiffany? Be reasonable. God doesn’t bring people back from the dead.”

  “Why not? Jesus did it when His friend died.”

  “Resurrection comes later. God’s not going to bring back your mom. That’s not a fair request.”

  “If there’s a God, then He’s not fair. I think my request is justified. I deserve her back. That’s what I want.”

  “All right, Tiffany. You don’t want to at least try—I understand. You’ll still join a church Bible study. And we can talk about counseling sessions with the youth pastor next Sunday.”

  “What makes him qualified? Did he go to youth pastor university or something?”

  “Tiffany, please.”

  “I’m not talking to your youth pastor!”

  “Then it’ll be an hour of silence with him once a week.”

  “Whatever.” I fold my arms under my chest. Maybe it’ll be a good thing if Anthony Stone’s not my real dad. When Maury Povich opens up that manila envelope and says, “Anthony Stone, you are not the father!” Anthony and I will both be happy and relieved and this nightmare will be over.

  “Let’s head back, yeah?”

  I nod, turning so he can’t see me wipe tears from my face. I check last night’s message from Xavior. It says: Tiffany Sly! I can NOT get tired of this album. Still listening and it’s 2:00 a.m.! Sgt. Pepper’s for life! lol xo.

  We pull back into traffic, Anthony makes a U-turn at a traffic light and we head back toward the beach house, riding in a strange, sad silence.

  I return Xavior’s text: Sgt. Pepper’s for life! xo.

  17

  I stare out into the water from the bedroom window watching the family Stone. Heaven and Nevaeh are on boogie boards and seem to be having tons of fun. Margaret is chasing after Pumpkin, who looks like the Michelin Man geared up with floaties on her arms, legs and chest. All she needs is a floatie over her head and she’d be a human floatie. London is lying in a conservative one-piece bathing suit on a brightly colored towel, soaking up the sun’s rays, while Margaret frantically tries to keep Pumpkin away from the ocean, even though, with all those floaties on, she certainly seems ready to brave the water.

  I smile. Though it’s not one of those smiles that reaches your eyes. I suppose it’s a sad smile. They’re like a scene out of a Hallmark movie. They are the perfect family, and I, the perfect outsider. The one thing that isn’t quite like the others, perched high above, staring through a glass window. I don’t belong here. I don’t.

  I retrieve Little Buddy from under the bed and strum the strings to tune him. Before I know it, an hour has passed with me strumming on my guitar and my fingers are beginning to feel numb. Perhaps I can get some homework done. Not that it matters, really. I don’t imagine I’ll be here much longer.

  I slide Little Buddy back under the bed and grab my backpack, unzip the front section, retrieve my pills and toss one into my mouth. As I stuff the bottle back into my bag, I notice the Plan B box and pick it up. I forgot I hid it in my backpack. I check the time—only 11:00 a.m. Good. London’s still got time.

  “Tiffany?”

  Anthony’s at the door.

  “I’ve been calling your name for like a minute. You didn’t hear me?”

  “No.” I sit up. “You’re back already?”

  “False alarm. Contractions stopped.” He surveys my mess of books and school papers on the bed, his gaze finally resting on what’s in my hand. “What is that?”

  “Huh?” Oh. No. I’m holding the Plan B box in my hands! “Um.”

  He moves into the room and quickly snatches the box away from me. “Is this yours?”

  I’m not quite sure what to say. Not quite sure what to do.

  “Tiffany, did you hear me? Is this yours?”

  “It’s not hers. It’s mine.”

  London’s at the door, wrapped in a towel.

  “Yours?” he replies incredulously. London nods and Anthony sits down on the bed beside me, resting his hands on his knees. “I see. When? When did you get it?”

  “Yesterday. Marcus McKinney took Tiffany and me to Santa Monica. To a drugstore. I got it then.”

  “London, go and get your mother.”

  London exits the room; within a moment she returns with a sun-kissed Margaret, who holds Pumpkin on her hip. “What’s going on?”

  “Have Heaven and Nevaeh take Pumpkin outside to build a sandcastle,” Anthony says sternly.

  More than a little flustered, Margaret quickly moves down the hallway. It’s only a short moment before I hear the sound of Pumpkin crying outside with Heaven and Nevaeh trying to comfort her. A minute later, Margaret returns.

  “Close the door,” he orders, and Margaret obliges.

  “What’s going on?” She’s thrown a pretty red sundress over her swimsuit and her hair is piled into a bun on the top of her head.

  “Can I please be excused?” I ask.

  “No, Tiffany. You stay.”

  “This is not Tiffany’s fault, though,” London explains with perfect calm as she sits beside me. “She only came to Santa Monica with me to help. She was just being supportive.”

  Anthony’s pacing back and forth in the small room. “Tiffany is old enough to know right from wrong.”

  “Will someone please tell me what’s going on?” Margaret asks impatiently. Anthony tosses her the Plan B box and she gasps. “Plan B? For who?”

  “For London,” he replies stiffly.

  London wrings her hands together and stares at the floor. Her eyes begin to well with tears.

  “London?” Margaret’s voice is shaking. “You broke your purity vow?”

  London nods, tears spilling down her cheeks. “And...the condom...broke.”

  “What do we do, Anthony?” Margaret cries. “London, did you already take the morning-after pill?”

  “I didn’t take it. I changed my mind and decided I’m ready to accept the consequences of my actions.”

  Margaret wails. “London, why? How could you have been so careless? How could you have gone against our faith and what we believe?”

  “I’m sorry, Mom.” London sobs.

  Margaret’s crying so hard. London’s crying, too, and Anthony is still pacing. And then there’s me, sitting in the middle of it all, wishing
I could pull a lever where a trapdoor would open and swallow me up and spit me back out in Chicago.

  “How long have you been having sex, London?” Anthony asks.

  “Yesterday was my first time.”

  He turns to Margaret. “London should see Dr. Avery.”

  “As early as possible. Can we get her an appointment for Monday? She’ll need STD testing, too, Anthony.”

  “Jesus Christ, London. Who is the boy?” Anthony asks.

  “Aric Cook,” she replies so softly I almost don’t hear her.

  Anthony turns to Margaret. “Didn’t we just get a phone call from the Cooks? Is that why they were calling? About this?”

  I grimace. Better save that conversation for a later date. Now is not the time.

  “Aric Cook is my boyfriend,” London explains.

  “London, please. You don’t have a boyfriend and never did.” Anthony finally stops pacing. “Did Aric meet you in Santa Monica at the drugstore where you got this godforsaken medicine?”

  London shakes her head.

  “Is he here now? Supporting you, as you could very well soon be pregnant with his child? Where is Aric Cook?”

  London shrugs, looking as if it just hit her that she has no idea where the hell Aric is.

  “Exactly,” Anthony declares. “We have house rules for a reason. He is not old enough to understand what it means to be in a committed relationship and neither are you. He is simply a boy at your school who used you for sex. That is it.”

  London leans forward and sobs into her hands. Margaret rushes to her and comfortingly rubs her back.

  “Margaret, I want you to braid London’s hair. She’s about to make a donation.”

  London looks up. “What?”

  “Locks for Love. Since you easily give up things that are precious and valuable without thinking how it will affect others, I don’t imagine you’ll have a problem with it.”

  Holy shitballs! I did not see that one comin’.

  “Mommy!” London cries. “You can’t let him do this!”

  Margaret shakes her head. Tears stream down her cheeks, flushed red.

  “Say something!” London wails. “Protect me from him!”

  Only Margaret says nothing and London continues sobbing so hard I fear she might have a triple stroke and die.