The Voice in My Head

by Dana L. Davis

  “Here you go, sir.” I’d slide my winning ticket under the opening in the glass.

  He’d scratch his head in confusion as he read the numbers. “Miss, you just won ten million dollars.”

  I’d nod, well aware. “You can keep it. I’m going home.”

  I smile at the thought. Across the street, a black Hummer is parked in a fancy, lit-up driveway, with a bumper sticker that reads My Kid Gets All A’s at Curington College Prep for Boys and Girls... What’s Yours Do?

  Curington College Prep—it’s the name of the school I’m set to attend. I got good grades at my last school. Mostly As. A few Bs. But that was only the neighborhood public school on the west side. Not a private college preparatory. Though Akeelah says that all high schools are college preps and Curington only has a long, pretentious name so rich people will feel better giving them all their money.

  “Think about it, though,” she explained to me while helping me pack a few weeks ago. “For forty thousand dollars a year, you ain’t gonna send your kid to a school called West. Trust me, all the high schools with one-syllable names...free. Them expensive schools got long-ass names.”

  I inhale, drinking in the sounds of the peaceful neighborhood: crickets chirping from somewhere deep in the bushes, the beep-beep of a truck some distance away, the yap of an angry, undoubtedly harmless puppy.

  “Well, well, well...look what the cat dragged in straight from LAX.”

  I turn to face a young, smiley-faced girl with a mouth full of silver braces and pale blue eyes. She has very light brown skin and wild, curly hair pulled into a bouncy ponytail. She wears a beautiful yellow tunic dress that cuts off an inch or two above her knees, showing off her long legs and bare feet.

  “Excuse me?” I’m suddenly self-conscious about my casual attire: boot-cut jeans with strategically placed holes in the knees, brown leather wraparound bracelets on both wrists and scuffed black-and-white Converse sneakers.

  “Cool hair.” She reaches out and grabs a few of my braids, massaging them curiously with her fingers. “Are these extensions?”

  “They are, yeah.”

  “Sweet! I’ve always wanted extensions but my dad won’t let me.” She smiles as she scans my wardrobe with a slightly judgmental smirk. “Guns N’ Roses? Shouldn’t you be wearing, like, a Lil Wayne T-shirt?” She giggles. “Totally kidding. I’m Nevaeh. It’s heaven spelled backward, which I personally think is so dumb. Why would anybody spell heaven backward, right? People think it’s pronounced Nah-vee-ah. But it’s Nah-vay-ah. I’m only twelve now, but when I get older, I’m legally changing my name to something simple like Jane. Do I look like my name could be Jane?”

  My eyes bulge. Nevaeh talks fast. “I’m sorry...what?”

  “Hey? Do you need a tip or something?” Nevaeh calls out as Juan exits the house and moves toward the SUV. “I can run in and get some cash from my mom. She’s out back setting up.”

  “Already included with purchase.” Juan tosses me another toothy grin. “Triple five. Eleven, eleven.”

  “Huh?” I reply.

  “My number. Easy to remember, right? You find yourself needing a ride, don’t hesitate to dial it. Oh, and every time you eat an In-N-Out burger, remember it was me who gave it to you first. Good luck to you, kiddo.”

  He hops into the car and backs onto the street, leaving Nevaeh and me standing alone on the cobblestone driveway underneath the light of the full moon.

  “In-N-Out?” Nevaeh frowns. “Don’t tell my mom you already ate. She’ll freak. She cooked a feast.”

  “Who’s your mom?”

  “My mom?” She raises an eyebrow. “My mom is Dad’s wife.”

  “My dad’s wife?”

  “Our dad.”

  I try not to show my surprise, though it’s a weak effort at best. Did Grams know my new dad had a wife? Another freakin’ kid?

  “I don’t really see the resemblance,” Nevaeh declares with a shake of her head. “I mean...not just cuz you’re dark...”

  My eyes narrow. “I’m not dark. I’m dark-skinned.”

  “Oh, shiz! Did I offend you?”

  “No, no,” I mumble, realizing by the apologetic tone of her voice that offending me truly wasn’t her intention. “It’s fine. I don’t like the word, is all. There are negative connotations attached to it in regards to African Americans. Like, dark is the opposite of light and associated with evil and—”

  “Whoa.” She raises a hand to stop me. “Trust me, I get it. Sometimes people call me a mixed breed and I’m all—do I look like a puppy? Do I bark? I mean, I am a mixed breed. Of the humanoid species. But aren’t we all? Oh, and seriously. I really am sorry if I offended you. I want us to be more than sisters, you know? We should be friends.” She beams. “Isn’t this wild, though? The craziest thing to happen to our family, like, ever. And it’s your birthday! Omigosh, happy birthday! Can I hug you?”

  She lurches forward and pulls me in for a hug.

  “Give her some air, Nevaeh. God.”

  Another girl moves across the driveway with a face that matches Nevaeh’s. She’s got the same braces, light skin, blue eyes and wild, curly hair pulled into a ponytail. A realization quickly sets in—they’re twins. Identical twins. I might have identical twin sisters?

  “This is Heaven.” Nevaeh rushes to meet her. “Get it? Heaven and Nevaeh? So lame.” She groans. “Why couldn’t our parents have named us Mindy and Pindy or Lisa and Pisa?”

  “Pindy and Pisa? Those aren’t even real names.” Heaven rolls her eyes. “I happen to like my name.”

  “I like your name, too. It’s not spelled backward.” Nevaeh turns to me. “We have another sister. She’s fifteen and her birthday is exactly two months after yours. Isn’t that so awkward? Dad knocked up two women at the exact same time!”

  “Another sister?” I croak.

  “Nevaeh, shut up.” Heaven elbows her in the side. “You can’t get two women pregnant at the exact same time. It’s physically impossible.” She turns to me. “I’m so sorry about her. She has Tourette’s. And she never stops talking, so I hope you brought earplugs.”

  “I do not have Tourette’s and I do so stop talking. I gotta sleep, don’t I?” Nevaeh says seriously. “Besides, I’m just stating the facts. Dad was obviously some sort of Casanova sixteen years ago. A real ladies’ man.” She makes a thrusting movement with her hips and Heaven covers her face in embarrassment.

  Two women pregnant at the same time? Three sisters? What the hell did I just walk into? “I’m superconfused, you guys.”

  “Of course you’re confused.” Nevaeh casually wraps her arm around Heaven’s shoulders like they’re the best of friends, which I imagine they are. “I told Mom sending a car was rude and would confuse you. But Dad was supposed to pick you up and then he couldn’t and Mom didn’t want to leave the party prep.”

  Heaven elbows Nevaeh. “It was supposed to be a surprise! You ruined it!”

  “Ruined what? We weren’t gonna jump out from behind furniture and scream, ‘Happy birthday.’”

  A party? Now Nevaeh’s fancy dress makes sense. And Heaven is dressed up, too. Sort of. An ankle-length blue cotton tank dress blowing ever so softly in the evening wind.

  As if reading my mind, Nevaeh grimaces. “You should change. Dad’s weird about holes in your clothes. In fact, I’d hide those jeans if I were you. Dinner attire is always Sunday chic. It’s the house rule.”

  “We have lots of house rules,” Heaven adds.

  I pull the leather strap on my case to take some of the weight off my shoulder.

  “Cool guitar case. Is there a guitar inside it?” Nevaeh asks.

  “Why would she be carrying an empty guitar case?” Heaven replies.

  “It could be, like, a suitcase or something... I dunno. Whoa!” Nevaeh jumps excitedly. “You know who you look like? Janet Jackson!”

>   I sigh. It’s like I’m watching the twin Olympics and Heaven and Nevaeh are going for the gold. Can’t they be quiet for, like, one second so I can figure out what the hell is happening here?

  “Janet Jackson is short and sporty. Tiffany’s tall and thin,” Heaven states simply. “She looks more like Kelly Rowland.”

  “Holy shiz, you’re right!” Nevaeh squeals.

  “Stop cussing!”

  “I said shiz, Heaven.”

  “Whatever. Shiz is stupid. You sound moronic.”

  “Do you see the resemblance?” Nevaeh asks Heaven, sizing me up once again as I stand awkwardly in front of them.

  “Totes,” Heaven replies, matter-of-fact. “The height. Thin like all of us. An air of awesome. I totally see it.”

  Nevaeh nods. “Yeah, yeah. I see it now!”

  They stare at me with matching smiles and a glorious moment of silence passes. I seize my opportunity to get a word in. “Just curious but...where is, um...?”

  “Dad?” Heaven saves my lips from having to form the word on their own.

  “Yes. Where is he?”

  “Emergency C-section.” Heaven tosses out the words like it’s as normal as a walk in the park. “He’ll be home soon. Hopefully. Maybe.” She rolls her eyes.

  “She ate In-N-Out,” Nevaeh whispers.

  “Don’t tell my mom that. She’d die. She’s been cooking since 5:00 a.m.”

  My phone buzzes in my back pocket. I grab it and check the caller ID. “It’s my grandma. Sorry, could you guys give me a second?”

  Heaven pulls Nevaeh by the arm. “Take your time. We’ll see you inside, okay? Then we can show you your room. And you can change. And meet Pumpkin.”

  “Pumpkin?”

  “Yeah. Our sister.” Nevaeh smiles.

  “Oh, right. Gotcha. Our...sister.”

  I wait until the girls have disappeared inside the house and take a few steps toward the street as I swipe across the screen. “Did you know Anthony has other kids?” I whisper angrily into the phone. “He has kids!”

  “So I’m assuming you made it safely?”

  “Grams, did you hear me? I have sisters!”

  “Sisters? I only knew about one, Tiffany. I swear. I only knew about London.”

  “London? Who is that?”

  “That’s the sister I knew about. London. She should be about your age.”

  Then who the hell is Pumpkin? It hits me. “Oh, my gosh! Grams, there must be four!” I contemplate slamming my phone down onto the cobblestone driveway and watching the glass screen shatter into a hundred pieces, but that would only tame my rage for a few seconds and then, of course, leave me with a broken phone. Maybe there’s not four. Maybe London’s nickname is Pumpkin. But why would London’s nickname be Pumpkin? Maybe she looks like a Pumpkin?

  “Tiffany, you have to believe me. I only knew about the one.”

  “So why didn’t you tell me that? Would’ve been a nice heads-up!”

  “It wasn’t my place to tell you.”

  “Yes, it was!” My eyes burn as hot tears form. “You had no right to keep this from me. I feel totally blindsided.” I wipe a tear. What did I expect? That Anthony Stone would be sitting in a giant empty house waiting for me all by himself, feeling the way I’ve felt for all these years—incomplete? How could he possibly feel incomplete with a wife and four daughters? And how will he feel when he discovers I may not be his? With four daughters and a wife, my guess is...relieved.

  As I’m pacing, the door to the house across the cul-de-sac swings open and a teenage boy steps out onto the neighboring driveway. He’s wearing a sweatshirt with the hood pulled low, concealing his face.

  “Tiffany,” Grams says with a tired sigh. “Get to know your father. It’s his job to tell you the truth. The whole truth. You deserve it.”

  “Grams—” I’m distracted as the boy looks up and our eyes meet. The sight of his face literally takes my breath away. It’s covered in some sort of heavy white makeup, pasty and drawn, his green eyes almost glowing under the light of the full moon.

  “Yes, Tiffany? What’s going on? You all right?”

  “Look... I’m here. I made it safely.”

  “Please don’t be mad at me. I’m already hurting so much. I can’t have you mad at me.”

  “I’m not mad. I’ll talk to you later.” I hang up before she has a chance to respond, my heart pounding, my mind a jumble of confusion.

  The boy with the white face is still standing there, staring. He smiles and raises a gloved hand to wave at me. More than a bit spooked, I timidly wave back, then spin around and run inside the house.

  Chapter Three

  Something’s attached itself to me.

  I look down to see tiny hands wrapped around my leg and enough wild, curly hair to open up an exclusive wig store. “Um, excuse me? Hi.”

  An adorable face emerges from the mass of auburn-tinted curls. She’s got pouty full lips, light brown skin and the same pale blue eyes as Heaven and Nevaeh.

  “I Pumpkin. I two! Birthday, December 19.”

  “Hi there, Pumpkin,” I say weakly as I realize Pumpkin wasn’t a nickname for London and there actually are four sisters. “I’m Tiffany.” Pumpkin’s wearing a pretty pink dress with lots of ruffles. She looks like a porcelain doll. Like she should be on sale at Toys R Us.

  “I Pumpkin. I two years old.”

  “Oh. Okay. I’m Tiffany. Again. I’m sixteen.”

  “I Pumpkin! I two!”

  “I’m sorry. She’ll do that all night.” A woman has emerged from around the corner. She quickly peels the little tyke from my leg and scoops her up. “Tiffany. Oh, it’s so nice you’re here!” she gushes. “I’m Margaret Stone. Anthony’s wife.” She leans forward to embrace me warmly and when she pulls away Pumpkin is attached to my hair, her tiny fingers gripping a handful of braids gleefully.

  “Pumpkin! Let go! Sweetie, it’s not nice to pull hair,” Margaret scolds, and Pumpkin releases my hair. “Say sorry.”

  “It’s okay. Didn’t hurt.” I fold my arms under my chest and hunch over, wishing for a moment I could be swallowed up by the shiny white marble floor of this massive foyer. I look around in awe, taking in the splendor of the mansion. There is a curved staircase, a stunning, three-tiered crystal chandelier as big as me and ceilings so high not even a long ladder on top of another long ladder could help you get anywhere close to the top.

  “Pumpkin, say sorry,” Margaret says again, this time more sternly.

  “I sorry!” Pumpkin shouts with a smile.

  “Inside voice, Pumpkin.” Margaret gives me an apologetic tilt of the head. “I’m sorry, too.”

  “No worries. It’s very nice to meet you, ma’am.”

  “No, no. Please don’t call me ma’am. It makes me feel a hundred years old. Call me Margaret.”

  Margaret’s white and maybe in her forties. She’s not really pretty as much as she is very put together. Conservative and classy looking with the kind of clothes that look expensive and meticulously tailored. A pearl-white, high-waist pencil skirt, silky black blouse and matching heels. Certainly not the kind of lady you’d find in my neighborhood back in Chicago. She’s got brown shoulder-length hair and dark eyes. Wait—dark eyes? Shouldn’t they be blue, like all the girls?

  “Are you my sister?” Pumpkin screams.

  “Pumpkin, not so loud! Inside voice.” Margaret turns back toward me. “This is Pumpkin. We call her Pumpkin because she was born with this wild auburn hair. Some sort of recessive gene, I guess.” She laughs nervously. Actually, nervous is an understatement. Margaret is literally shaking. “Your dad just called. Surgery went well. He should be home soon.” She sets the squirmy two-year-old down and Pumpkin races off around a corner like a magical gnome. “We’re going to eat on the terrace to celebrate. Made a cake from scratch. Got the fancy
dishes out and everything.” I notice Margaret eyeing my attire.

  “I didn’t know about the dinner. Sorry. I would’ve worn something nicer. I swear.”

  “Oh, it’s fine. We bought you some beautiful dresses.”

  “You guys bought me dresses? You didn’t have to do that.”

  “Are you kidding? It’s so our pleasure. Do you like Anthropologie?”

  I look into Margaret’s eyes. Stretched wide, furrowed brows, pained expression. Crazy eyes for sure. There’s also something about her that comes off as not quite genuine. She’s got a syrupy sweet voice and that polite tilt of the head. I imagine she’s one of those “nice” people that have a special way of getting on my nerves. Disgustingly polite, when you know, somewhere deep inside, they’re screaming, Fuck this shit!

  “Never trust a person who’s always smiling,” Mom used to say when I was small.

  “How come?” I’d reply in confusion.

  “Because, Tiffany,” Mom said seriously. “Smiling is the easiest way to lie. And nobody, not even Jesus Christ himself, was always walking around happy and smiling.”

  I shift, suddenly uneasy in Margaret’s presence. “Anthropology? Isn’t that the study of humans?”

  Margaret smiles. “Oh, my goodness. How cute are you? No, no. The clothing store.”

  “Oh!” My cheek starts to twitch and I scratch at it to hide the tremble. “Yeah, yeah. No doubt.” I make a quick mental note to Google Anthropology the clothing store.

  “Can I get you anything to drink before dinner?”

  “Pop? That’d be cool.”

  “Pop?” Margaret gives me another polite tilt of the head. “I’m sorry?”

  “That’s how they say soda in Chicago.” Nevaeh appears on top of the long, curving staircase, leaning casually over the railing, her voice echoing in the giant space. “But we don’t drink soda, Tiffany. Mom says it’s too much sugar.”

  “It’s Pumpkin,” Margaret explains. “She’s on the autism spectrum and the sugar...it makes her a bit off balance.”

  “It makes her crazy,” Nevaeh explains seriously. “I mean, she’s already crazy but sugar makes it worse.”