“Tiffany!” Nevaeh’s voice pierces through the magical moment, snapping me out of the special connection between Anthony and me. “You’re like a superstar on that thing.”
She claps and everyone joins in.
“That was lovely!” Margaret exclaims. “You’re a real talent, Tiffany. Anthony, we have an artist in the family now.”
He smiles proudly. “Where’d you learn to play like that?”
“My mom. She played. Did you know that?”
The chirp-chirp of a dozen crickets pierces through the uncomfortable silence as everyone turns to him.
He shifts. “I—I did know that about your mother. Yes.”
“Yeah, she played. She gave lessons at Guitar Center. I’m gonna study music in college like her.”
“So you can work at Guitar Center?” London asks.
“Nothing wrong with working at Guitar Center.” I shrug. “But no. I wanna study music so I can be a songwriter. I can write really catchy songs. I wrote a commercial jingle for a local mattress company back in Chicago. They paid me and everything.”
“You should have a plan B,” London’s quick to reply. “It’s tough to make it in artistic career fields, huh, Dad?”
Anthony nods in agreement. “Maybe you can minor in music, Tiffany. Keep it as a hobby. You’re good, but lots of people can play the guitar and write music. Best to choose academic career paths. Something stable so you can have a chance at a good life.”
It’s as if a giant vacuum dipped out of the sky and sucked up all the beauty of the night and then a separate giant leaf blower dipped out of the sky and blew crap in my eyes. Music—a hobby? Music is my passion. It’s my connection to the world.
“Play us a song you wrote!” Nevaeh cries. “Please, Tiffany. Play the mattress jingle!”
“No, no. It’s getting late,” Anthony declares. “Time for you girls to go to bed.”
“But, Dad,” Heaven whines. “It’s Saturday. Can we please hear a song Tiffany wrote?”
“Church in the morning,” he replies. “Nothing’s changed. You girls know the drill. We leave at seven thirty to make Bible study.”
Church? Bible study? I grimace.
“Does Tiffany have to go?” London asks. “We have Witnessing tomorrow. She can’t do that. She’s not a part of our church.”
“But she will be,” Anthony states without even looking in my direction.
“What do you mean I will be? I’m not a Jehovah’s Witness.” I don’t care who I offend. If I was going to pretend to be religious again, I’d pretend to be Christian. Like my mom was. No way I’m joining up with him and all the Witnesses.
Margaret looks down uneasily while the girls all turn to Anthony to see what his response will be. Rather than reply he says, “It’ll be a long day, Tiffany. Church is in Malibu. We usually get home around five.”
“What about my braids? That won’t give me enough time to take them out. It’s gonna take me hours and hours. And I have to wash my hair and try to fix it. Or something.”
“You’re right.” He takes a moment, thinking. “Getting those braids out is a top priority. We can introduce you to the congregation next Sunday.”
“But that means Tiffany will be here all by herself, Dad,” Heaven points out. “We can’t leave her alone. That would suck.”
“Heaven, please. I know Pumpkin’s asleep, but we have to watch our words.”
“Sorry, Mom,” Heaven replies respectfully.
“Tiffany’s sixteen.” Anthony gives the same dismissive wave he gave to send a screaming Pumpkin off to bed early and hungry. “She can stay here alone. Now up. Let’s help Mom clear the table and clean so we can all get some sleep.”
“What does your hair look like, anyway? Your real hair?” London asks, holding back as everyone returns to the table while I put Little Buddy away in his case.
A little like Stewie. A little like Donald Trump. A little like a nightmare. “I dunno. Regular, I guess.”
“Can’t wait to see it.” London groans. “I hate my hair. I wish it was supercurly like Heaven and Nevaeh’s. It’s so boring the way it is.”
I look at her wavy black hair hanging almost to her waist. The kind of hair I used to close my eyes and pray for when I was a little kid and thought praying to an invisible man actually produced results. Mixed-girl hair. Soft and silky and good to the root.
Dear God, I’d pray. Please let me have pretty hair. Please make my hair long and nice. When I open my eyes, okay, God? Gonna count to three. I’ll have nice hair, right, God? Please, God. Please. But I’d open my eyes and my hair would still be a nappy mess.
“Your hair’s perfect,” I admit with a twinge of jealousy.
London shrugs as if yes, maybe it is, but also she couldn’t care less. Like amazing hair is about as normal to her as a toe.
“Too bad about church tomorrow. I always learn something new at church. Like a supervaluable life lesson. Sorry you can’t go.”
“It’s okay.” Because I will never be a Jehovah’s Witness, anyway. “I’ll be here when you get back.”
“Yeah.” She sighs. “I guess you will.”
6
A year ago, Akeelah and I won tickets in a radio contest to a Zayn Malik concert. Neither one of us actually listens to Zayn, couldn’t name a song if we wanted to. But rather than sell the coveted seats, we decided to go. We’d planned to make fun of all the screaming ten-year-olds at Chicago’s United Center Stadium and take pictures of the ones sobbing uncontrollably. We were also going to start an Instagram page to upload the photos and call it @ZaynMalik_LostConsciousness. But here’s what ended up happening instead—some older girls sitting next to us smuggled in water bottles filled with vodka and Keelah and I got crazy, stupid drunk with them. The kind of drunk where your speech is slurred and you can’t walk straight. And then you get sick and vomit. A lot.
Not only was I grounded for weeks when Mom picked us up and watched us clumsily stumbling to the car, I discovered something much worse than throwing up all night hovered over a toilet. The day after throwing up all night hovered over a toilet. My hangover was so bad Mom had to rush me to Urgent Care for dehydration. But she wasn’t angry. Instead, she calmly explained (while I was clutching my stomach in the fetal position) that life has a special way of giving you exactly what you’ve earned.
But if Mom was right and life gives you what you earn, what on earth did I do to earn this? Because here I am alone, in a big new, cold house that is maybe not even mine, sitting on a towel on the hard floor, surrounded by piles of extension hair. Thirty braids taken down and about one hundred left to go.
Dear Life, please help me earn something better.
“Keelah? Did you hang up?”
“I’m still here. Googling.”
“What’d you find out?”
“Dude. Jehovah’s Witnesses believe some weird stuff.”
“Like?”
“Well, for starters, they believe only people God approves of get eternal life.”
“That leaves you out.”
“Please. You’ll be burning in hell right along with me.”
“Ahh, yes, the fiery pits of hell. Just down the road from Mount Doom.”
“Also, Christ is Michael the Archangel.”
I finish unraveling a new braid and toss it onto the floor with the rest. “What’s that mean?”
“Like I know? Tiff, why didn’t you Google your new dad before you flew a billion miles away to live with him?”
“I wanted to be surprised.”
“Well, surprise. You’ve just joined a cult.”
“It’s not a cult! Besides, I’m not joining their church.” I unravel another braid. “Hey. Can you Google Xavior Xavion for me?”
“Who is that? The cult leader? I saw a documentary once about a crazy man who made all his
cult members drink poisoned Kool-Aid. Don’t drink any Kool-Aid at their church.”
“Keelah.” I toss the unraveled braid onto the floor. “Just see if he has a Facebook page. Xavior Xavion.”
A moment passes before Keelah says, “Got him. Is he related to you or something? He sorta looks like you.”
My head instantly aches. I grab it to dull the pain. “For real? You really think that?” The sound of the doorbell rings loudly, echoing throughout the house. I snatch my cell from the floor and take Keelah off speakerphone. “It’s the doorbell.”
“Oh. Call me back.”
“But my hair? What if it’s somebody important?”
The doorbell rings again.
“Girl, go answer the door! Throw your towel around your head and go. Call me back.” She hangs up.
I toss my cell onto the bed and stand to brush the hair from my Grateful Dead tank and yellow shorts. The doorbell rings again. I grab the towel from the floor and shake off more hair. Gonna have to find a vacuum before everybody gets home. I picture how Margaret would react if she saw her clean wood floors at this very moment. She’d politely tilt her head; her crazy eyes would get crazier. “Tiffany, sweetheart, my dear, my love,” she’d say with eerie calm. “We do not put fake extension hair on hardwood. That’s a bad image for Pumpkin.”
I wrap the towel around my head turban-style and quickly head downstairs.
“Who is it?” I peek through the tiny hole on the door in the foyer and see an eye staring back at me.
“Nevaeh? Heaven? Is that you?”
“No. Sorry. It’s... Can I help you?”
“I got a bunch of your mail by accident again. Can you open the door? Is that London? It’s Jo McKinney from across the street.”
I nervously unlock the door, slowly pulling it open to see a nice-looking black woman with supershort, perfectly styled hair. She’s dressed casually in yoga pants, a loose-fitting shirt that hangs off one shoulder and flip-flops.
“Who are you?” she asks warmly. “Look at that skin. You’re adorable.”
Her skin is dark brown like mine, but made up with lots of perfectly applied makeup: thick foundation, eye shadow, cheeks dusted with pale pink, long lashes and gloss heavily coated on top of her full lips.
“Thanks.” I fidget, uncomfortable. Whenever people call me pretty I honestly wonder why. I’m not like London. The kind of girl guys go out of their way to talk to and compliment. No guys ever compliment or even try to talk to me. Last year a bunch of people of color with first honors and academic excellence had to attend a special dinner with the principal. And one of the boys—I think his name was Devin Doheny or Devin Doohickey—anyway, he declared Alaysia Miller the prettiest girl at the table and all the other boys agreed. Alaysia Miller’s mixed. Light-skinned, with long curly hair. But then Shante Peterson, who’s dark brown like me, told Devin if Alaysia Miller is the prettiest at the table, then he’s the ugliest and should shut the hell up before she punched him in the throat.
“What’s your name, sweetie?”
“Tiffany.” I see the pile of mail she has in her hands. “I can take that.” She reaches out to hand me the mail but somehow during our exchange it all slips, splaying onto the concrete of the front doorstep. “No worries. I’ll get it.” I bend to retrieve the mail and my towel unravels and slides off. Braids tumble loosely around my shoulders. “Omigosh!” I try to grab the towel as quickly as I can but she’s stepping on part of it with her flip-flop.
“You takin’ down braids?”
“Yes. Could you move your foot please?”
She obliges and I snatch up the towel, throwing it back over my head.
“Can I ask why? They look real nice and brand-new.”
I rewrap the towel, tucking it tightly behind my ear, then slowly kneel, with one hand holding the towel, to gather the mail spread in all directions in front of the door. “I’ll be sure to tell them you stopped by.”
“You know, I do hair.”
I look up. “Seriously?”
“Mmm-hmm. I can help you. You look like you could use some help. Can I take a look?”
I hesitate.
“Child, I done already seen it.”
I stuff the mail under my arm and stand, removing the towel to reveal my mess of hair.
“Don’t mind if I touch it, do you?”
“Go ahead, I guess. Hopefully it won’t cut you.”
She forces her fingers through my natural hair where I’ve removed the extensions and my head moves from side to side with the motion of her hand. She pulls my head down for a closer examination. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Huh?”
“What you got? Alopecia?”
My jaw drops. “You can tell?”
“Honey, I do hair. Now, why you taking brand-new braids out, anyway, when you got alopecia? Braids is the best thing for you.”
“My...dad told me to.”
“What’s wrong with your daddy? He got a problem or something?”
“He doesn’t allow extensions. Anthony Stone... I’m his daughter.” I’m hoping she doesn’t notice how not sure of myself I sounded when I said the words daughter and dad.
“Anthony Stone is your father? Well, damn. How many kids does this man got?”
“Pretty sure I’m the last of them.”
She gives me a once-over as I rewrap my hair with the towel. “You sure are pretty like his other daughters. Man got good genes. Where you been all this time? How come I ain’t never seen you around?”
“I’m from Chicago.”
“Girl, stop. We’re from Chicago.”
“No way! What part?”
“Just outside. Born and raised mostly in Joliet. But went to high school in the city.”
“Omigosh. We lived in Garfield.”
“Garfield?” She smiles. “I guess being here is a big, big change. How you like it?”
“I dunno. I got here yesterday.”
“Well, welcome. Why don’t you come on over to our house. I’ll fix your hair up real nice and neat.”
“But I don’t have any money.”
“Child. Does it look like I need your little bit of money?”
I hesitate again and she rolls her eyes in a way so similar to my mom it makes me smile. Mom was a big eye roller.
“Way I see it, you got two choices. You can take all them braids out by yourself and try to make sense of that head of hair of yours. Or you can come and relax in my chair and let me do all the hard work. I’ll be fine either way. Plus, that means I got the morning to relax and catch up on my DVR.”
“Okay, okay. Let me...clean up my mess and leave a note.”
“Now, that’s more like it.”
* * *
“You want something to drink?”
“Sure.”
I stand behind Mrs. McKinney as she fiddles with a lock on a door inside their six-car garage. Back in Chicago I saw two-car garages, sometimes even three...but six? I check out a sick silver Mercedes S-class Coupe parked beside the black Hummer I saw last night. I know for a fact these cars are over a hundred thousand dollars. Mostly cuz of Keelah. She’s really into cars and Mercedes is her favorite. There’s also a vintage Porsche, a Tesla plugged into a weird outlet and a BMW. Keelah would go ballistic if she knew I was this close to all these amazing cars. Mrs. McKinney finally pushes the door open and we step into a separate room.
It’s a hair salon. In their garage.
“Whoa. This is amazing.” The floors are bright white tile and there’s a salon chair, a washbowl and sink, wall-to-wall mirrors, a leather couch pressed up against the wall, a stainless-steel fridge and a mounted flat-screen TV.
“Thank you, sweetie. I’m supposed to be retired but I still do so much hair, the wife and I decided to have the garage remodeled. I got drinks in that
fridge right there. Help yourself.”
She flips on the lights and I move toward the fridge pushed up against the back wall. A grin spreads across my face as I pull open the door. It’s pop! Rows and rows of it. Root beer, cream soda, Coke, even orange and red. I grab a can of cream soda, flip up the tab and down the whole thing within a few seconds.
“Slow down, now. You gonna make yourself sick.”
“They only drink water over there,” I say, out of breath. “And they put leaves in it to make it taste better.”
“Leaves?” She shakes her head and I grab another cream soda. “Come on over and have a seat in my chair.”
As I move toward the chair, the door to the shop opens and suddenly Marcus McKinney is standing across from me. I freeze, gripping the cold can so tightly I fear I might crush it and splatter pop everywhere. He’s about the same height as me and his thick makeup is smeared so heavily the edges of his hoodie, pulled low over his head, are slightly stained with a light dusting of white. His emerald green eyes are piercing, two dramatic flashes of color against the white makeup on his skin. Last night, from a distance, in the dark, he seemed so scary. But up close...he’s terrifying. He stands, hands deep into the pockets of his hoodie, staring at me like I’m the one who looks like the circus freak.
“This is my son, Marcus,” Mrs. McKinney says with a smile, like she’s introducing me to someone who doesn’t look like they could haunt my dreams and rip out my beating heart. “Marcus is eighteen. He’s a senior in high school. Marcus? Can you say hello to Tiffany? She’s Dr. Stone’s daughter. Just in from Chicago.”
Marcus continues staring at me for what feels like the longest moment of my life before turning to his mom. He pulls a cell phone from his pocket with a gloved hand and holds it up for her to see. Mrs. McKinney grabs her own cell, resting on the counter beside her, and reads what’s on the screen.
Tiffany Sly Lives Here Now Page 6
