I was pulling a sweatshirt over my head and getting ready to head over to Keelah’s house when there was a knock on our apartment door.
“Who is it?” I asked, skirting around the mounds of stacked moving boxes in our unit. Searching for my metro pass among the mess.
“Xavior Xavion,” the deep voice said from the other side of the door.
“Who’s that?” I peeked through the peephole and saw a kind-looking black man on the other side, clutching a bouquet of sunflowers. He looked sane enough, so I opened the door. “Yeah?” He was tall. Basketball-player tall. The kind of tall where you have to lower your head so you don’t bump it on entryways when you move from room to room.
He beamed. Like he was gazing upon a bright, shiny new BMW. “Hi, Tiffany. Do you remember me?”
“Um...”
“We met at your mom’s funeral?”
“Oh! That’s right. Nice to see you again.” I didn’t remember him. There were so many people I met on the worst day of my life. I glanced at the clock on the wall. I needed to hurry up if I wanted to catch the 12:20 bus.
“Would it be okay if I came in?” He handed me the flowers.
“Thank you.” I set them carefully on a counter by the door. “But my grams is at church and—”
“Say no more. I should come back when she’s here. In fact, that would be better. That way I can speak with both of you.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Speak with us about what?”
Xavior paused for a moment and rubbed his bald head. “Tiffany, I think I might be your father.”
My jaw dropped. Like literally. And I stood there for a few seconds with my mouth hanging open, staring at him, probably almost drooling on myself. “Are you crazy?” I finally managed to ask.
He laughed and said, “Probably,” in a way that was so similar to me it made my entire body tense. His skin was dark brown. Just like mine. In fact, he sort of reminded me of...me.
“Your mother and I. Well, we dated. I mean, we dated about sixteen years ago.”
“So? That doesn’t prove anything.”
“We dated.” He sighed. “It might not prove anything but it certainly begs the question. Wouldn’t you agree?”
I did agree. A fact that made me wanna slam the door in Xavior’s face and run around the apartment wailing at the top of my lungs like Harry Potter’s spoiled cousin, Dudley Dursley. I didn’t want to be a victim of some sort of cliché, baby-daddy, Maury Povich–esque DNA testing. My mom was better than this. I was better than this.
“Look, I can come back when Juanita’s home.”
“No! Don’t come back here. You can’t say these things to my grandma. She’d have a heart attack and die.”
“I thought you’d be happy.”
“Why did you think that?”
“Don’t you want to know who your father is?”
“Pretty sure you’re confused. I already know who my father is. Anthony Stone is my father. That’s what my mom told me, so that’s the story I’m sticking to. And I’m moving in with him. Tomorrow.”
He rubbed his head again, then held up an envelope. “Tiffany. There are letters, pictures—it proves your mother and I were a couple. The dates match up. Look, I’ll come back. I want to speak with Juanita about you and me taking a DNA test. I already spoke with a lawyer and—”
“Omigosh! You seriously can’t just show up here like this, with an envelope of photos, and expect me to go take a DNA test with you.”
“Tiffany, please understand.”
“Dude, stop calling me Tiffany. Stop acting like you know me or something.”
“If you don’t do it, my lawyer will make you. On October 14, Juanita will be served court documents. You’ll be required to submit to DNA testing. Look, I’d really like to speak with her. I’ll come back later.”
“No!” I grabbed my head for fear it would spontaneously combust and Grams would find my exploded head guts in the hallway when she came home from Bible study. “This would... I mean... Mom just... Grams is a wreck, okay? Please. This would destroy her. Do you really want to destroy an old lady who’s mourning the loss of her only child? Can’t you just go away? Like forever?”
“I want to know if you’re mine, Tiffany. I deserve to know. Deserve the opportunity to be a father. I think I’d be a good one.”
I snatched the envelope from his hands and ripped it open. Pictures of Xavior and my mom. Holding hands. Kissing. Wrapped in a loving embrace. Laughing together.
I leaned against the doorway for support, fearing my knees would buckle and I’d fall backward. “My mom’s not here to defend herself. Do you understand how unfair this is?” I asked so softly I wondered if he could even hear me.
Apparently, he did hear me because he replied, “I know it’s unfair. But what should I do, Tiffany? Tell me what to do.”
I looked up at him standing so tall and statuesque and adult, asking teenage me what he should do. How the hell should I know?
“I’ll take your stupid test.” I handed him back the envelope and photos. “My grandma doesn’t need to know about this.”
“You’re a minor. You’ll need to be accompanied by your legal guardian. We should let my lawyer facilitate.”
“Anthony is my legal guardian. What if I gave you his info?” I pulled nervously at my braids and wondered how this would play out if I gave Xavior fake info. Like the number and address to the Walmart on North Avenue. “You can serve him instead. Save my grandma all this drama.”
Xavior nodded. “That’s fair. I can do that, Tiffany. On October 14. That’s seven days from tomorrow.”
I nodded and repeated to myself, “Seven days.”
* * *
“You seem awfully quiet back there. You okay, kiddo?” Juan asks, snapping me back to my current reality. Sia has been replaced by a new singer. I don’t know who it is, but the lyrics, about a bash and some cash and...a hash? It’s making my head spin.
“I’m okay,” I reply. “But is there any way you could change the station?”
“I asked what kind of music you like. You never answered.”
“I like Black Sabbath, Deep Purple, Led Zeppelin, Jimi Hendrix—”
“Sweet.” Juan nods. “Rock and roll it is.”
Traffic is getting much heavier now, so the SUV is slowing to a crawl, saving both our lives for sure. Pearl Jam’s “Jeremy” blasts through the car speakers. Nice. I lean my head back against the seat and close my eyes.
2
“Wake up, kiddo. Almost there.”
I yawn lazily and rub my tired eyes.
A young security guard steps out of a guard gate as Juan pulls up to the entrance of what appears to be a large gated community.
“Dropping off,” Juan says to the security guard, handing him his driver’s license.
The guard takes a moment to check his computer. He hands Juan back the driver’s license, glances at me through the lowered window and waves. I wave back.
“Enjoy your day, sir,” the security guard says as the tall wrought iron gates slowly open.
I peek out the window and catch my breath, mesmerized by the extravagance of the houses. Correction: these aren’t houses—they’re mansions.
Juan whistles, looking just as mesmerized as I am, slowing the SUV while scoping out the expensive homes. “Your dad a doctor or somethin’?”
“Actually, yeah. He is.”
“Doctor, lawyer, oil tycoon, czar. Gotta be something fancy to live in a place like this.”
We continue on, deeper and deeper into the elaborate housing development, finally turning into a large cul-de-sac. Juan pulls into one of the driveways and clicks off the engine.
I stuff my hand into my front pocket and grab my tiny box of wild berry Tic Tacs, shake a few into my mouth and yank my long braids out of the bun on top
of my head, pulling them neatly over one shoulder. Juan heads toward the trunk of the car and I smooth out my gray Guns N’ Roses T-shirt, leaning forward to check my face in the front mirror, suddenly regretting my decision not to wear makeup today. Everyone always tells me my dark brown skin doesn’t need makeup. But still, what if my dad doesn’t think I’m pretty enough? I dig around the other front pocket for my tube of cherry-scented lip gloss, add a quick coat, reach over to free my guitar from where it’s strapped into the seat beside me and carefully sling it back over my shoulder before hopping out onto the cobblestone of the massive driveway.
“Dropping your bag off inside!” Juan hollers over his shoulder as he casually moves toward the front door.
A surprising burst of loneliness creeps into my heart as I allow the evening breeze to warm my skin, icy cold from the air-conditioning that was blasted in the car. This place is classy. Fancier than anything I’ve ever been privileged to. Shouldn’t I be happy? It’s like I’ve won the jackpot. Plucked from the inner cities of Chicago and flown first-class to high society and all I can think about is my neighborhood back home. We lived in a high-rise apartment building with a smelly, wonky elevator in desperate need of a safety inspection. Every day after school, I’d risk my life in that stupid thing, cuz there was no way I was climbing twelve flights of stairs, and then I’d walk across a faded and dirty carpet in a poorly lit hallway to apartment 1203. Mom was sometimes home from work. She’d be yapping on the phone, greet me with a cheerful wave and point to a plate of snacks she’d left for me on the table. And even though she’d turn her back to me, a clear signal that she was deep into conversation and didn’t want to be bothered, I’d hug her and lay my chin on her shoulder and ask, “Did you miss me?”
She’d laugh and reply, “Tiffany, my dear, how can I miss you when you’re always here?”
I picture myself back in Chicago, stepping out of the cold into a local 7-Eleven. I’d approach a clerk, safe behind thick bulletproof glass.
“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?
Tiffany Sly Lives Here Now Page 2
