“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.
3
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.”
“Nevaeh, don’t say that. Please don’t refer to Pumpkin as crazy.”
Nevaeh shrugs. “Come up, Tiff! I can give you a tour of the house.”
“Sweetheart, I actually need you to help me set the table out back. Besides, Tiffany needs a chance to breathe and settle in. Right, Tiffany?”
A chance to breathe and settle in. I exhale appreciatively. “Yeah. That’s cool.”
“How about a tea? We have herbal tea,” Margaret offers. “It’s a rooibos and chamomile blend. It’s very nice.”
“Mom,” Nevaeh declares with an exasperated sigh as she moves down the staircase. “You think she wants a hot cup of herbal tea? She’s moving in, not retiring.”
I bite my lower lip to conceal a smile that’s trying to form. “Water’s good. I’ll take water.”
Margaret exhales, relaxing somewhat. “I’ll have one of the girls bring a bottle up to your room. I hope you like your room. And listen.” Margaret wrings her shaking hands together. “I’m so sorry about your mom.”
I lower my eyes again, pulling tightly on the strap of my guitar case, desperately hoping this part of the conversation ends quickly. “Yeah.”
“Me, too,” Nevaeh adds. “How did she die?”
“Nevaeh, sweetheart. That’s not polite.”
“Mom, omigosh! You say everything’s not polite. It’s a simple question.”
“Sorry,” I interrupt. “You say the room is upstairs?”
“Up the stairs, turn right. At the end of the hall. I had the driver put your carry-on right outside the door.” Margaret smiles brightly again. “I’m so glad you’re here, Tiffany. We’re so lucky to have you.” She gently grabs Nevaeh by the elbow and they both disappear around the corner.
* * *
My room. I blink in disbelief. It looks straight out of the pages of a Pottery Barn catalog. And bigger than our entire apartment back home. The floor is dark mahogany wood, and there’s a narrow wrought iron spiral staircase leading to a loft area. A loft. An actual loft in my bedroom. I slide my guitar off my shoulder and set it carefully beside the wall.
The room is almost in perfect symmetry. Two full beds with matching white upholstered headboards. Two white bureaus set on opposite sides of the room. Two nightstands with matching lamps shaped like pretty sunflowers that emit a soft, golden glow of light.
One bed is decorated with gray bedding: duvet cover, fluffy throw pillows and sheets. The other bed has yellow-colored bedding. I assume the gray side of the room is mine since gray is my favorite color. Like the Chicago sky. A city shrouded by a blanket of silvery gray clouds eight months out of the year.
“I love when the sun disappears,” I would tell my mom every October when the weather would start to turn. “Don’t you?”
But Mom would shake her head in horror. “Girl, please. When we win the lottery, we’re moving to Hawaii, where there is no winter.”
“No,” I’d plead. “When we win the lottery, let’s move to Ireland!”
Mom would scoff. “Ireland?”
“We’ll move to the countryside!” I’d say dreamily. “Have an herb garden and eat cakes and custards and take long walks in the rain!”
Mom would laugh. “Okay, Tiff. When we win the lottery, we will officially be the only African Americans living in Ireland. Lord help us.”
I run my fingers across the duvet cover. The bedding has that fresh-out-of-the-box look. Pristine and untouched. Like someone took a hot iron to each sheet and pillowcase. At the far end of the room are stunning glass French doors. I move toward them and stop to catch my breath. Our room is overlooking a tennis court. These people have a tennis court in their backyard?
I open one of the doors and step out onto the small balcony, admiring the nighttime view. The house is nestled at the base of a hill of giant boulders so the entire backyard perimeter is enclosed and completely private. To the left of the tennis court, I see a hint of their pool that seems to be cut from stone so it looks like it’s blending in with the rustic scenery of the hills. Bright fuchsia and purple lights glow from somewhere deep within the water and there’s a water slide! Amazing. This is better than the houses I’ve seen on MTV Cribs. How can they be this rich?
I step back inside and notice a vintage record player set beside a wicker basket filled with records on top of my dresser. I move to it and sort through the music.
Pink Floyd.
Led Zeppelin: Live at the Royal Albert Hall.
Jimi Hendrix.
James Brown.
Stevie Wonder.
The Rolling Stones.
The Beatles.
It’s almost all of my favorites! I flip open the Pink Floyd: The Dark Side of the Moon record and my jaw drops. A first-edition vinyl in almost perfect condition! It must’ve been so expensive and tough to find. I carefully set the record back among the others and run my trembling fingers across the antique record player.
“Be careful with that stuff.”
I turn. London? She’s got the same soft hair as Heaven and Nevaeh. Only hers isn’t in tight ringlets like theirs; it hangs in soft waves down her back. She’s also got a beautiful coffee-with-cream complexion, and the eyes—strikingly blue. I fidget with my leather bracelets, super-self-conscious. With full lips and that gorgeous black hair, all she needs is a pair of wings and a runway and she’s Adriana Lima.
She tosses me a cold bottle of water and I catch it clumsily. “Those records are my dad’s and so is the player, so please be careful.”
“Oh. I thought they were for me.”
“To borrow. My dad wouldn’t give them to you. Those are all his favorites.”
I’m stunned speechless for a moment and not because of the way she keeps stressing my dad. As if he’s hers and hers alone. It’s the music. All the music I’ve grown up listening to and loving. It’s proof! Of course he’s my dad. We like th
e same music? Genetic taste buds! I smile. Like really smile for the first time in a long time. Only London doesn’t smile back. She frowns. Deep and almost threatening.
She’s dressed in leggings and an oversize green sweatshirt that says Curington Girls Basketball in bright gold letters. She tosses her backpack onto the floor and pulls off the sweatshirt in one fell swoop, flinging it onto the bed, not even a trace of modesty as she stands before me in her pink cotton bra, showing off what probably doesn’t come from my dad’s side of the family: giant boobs.
“Sorry I’m late. I was studying for the SATs with a friend. So exhausting.”
“SATs? Isn’t it kind of early?”
“It’s my senior year.”
“You’re a senior? I thought you were fifteen?”
“I am. I skipped a few grades.”
“Oh. I didn’t know people could do that.”
“People skip grades all the time.”
“I guess. But I mean...you must be supersmart to do something like that.”
She shrugs as if yes, she is, but also, it’s not very interesting. “Dad says your transcripts were mostly As.”
“But I’m not all that smart. I study a lot.” I’m trying my hardest not to gape at her way-too-big-for-a-fifteen-year-old breasts. In fact, I’m focusing so intently on her eyes, my own are starting to cross, and now my vision is blurry. I’ve never given my A cups much thought. Every so often Keelah would tease me and declare that one day my children would starve to death if I didn’t find some sort of miracle grow, but it never much bothered me. Until now. In the presence of my new half-dressed, half-naked half sister, I suddenly feel inadequate and quite frankly...underdeveloped. Why are my boobs so freaking small?
“Weird you had to study so much. You went to, like, a basic, public school, right?”
Like a reflex, my face twists into a scowl. Basic? Who is she calling basic? “I’m not sure what you mean by that.”
“Curington’s upper-class curriculum is college level. No offense or anything. Don’t feel bad if your GPA drops.”
Tiffany Sly Lives Here Now Page 3
