Tiffany Sly Lives Here Now

by Dana L. Davis

  “Sure.”

  “Your mom’s passed, yes?”

  I take a bite of my sandwich, swallow and nod.

  “Did she pass in a hospice?”

  I nod again.

  “Were you there?”

  My chest tightens. The memories are fresh. It’s not easy to talk about without bursting into tears. I was always there. But the night she died...I wasn’t.

  “I’m only asking because it’s something I discuss in my book. Loved ones stay by their dying relative’s side for days, weeks, months, and the moment they leave, even if it’s to run quickly to the store...the loved one passes on.”

  “Is that true?”

  He nods. “I believe it’s a good sign. Confirmation that the soul desired to go and left in peace.”

  My eyes well with tears.

  “I’m sorry,” Marcus says even softer than his standard soft tone of voice. “I didn’t mean to make you upset.”

  “I had this dream.” I wipe the tears as they spring free. “Three weeks after my mom died. I dreamed she was walking down the corridors of a hospital and she looked beautiful and healthy again. She was walking and talking with one of her nurses and she said to him, ‘Thank you for doing that. I had to go in peace.’ And then I woke up from the dream.” I blow my nose with a paper towel. “I feel like that dream makes sense now.”

  I was by Mom’s side day and night when she moved into hospice care. The night she passed, a nurse came into her room and stayed awhile, listening to me play softly. When I finished Mom’s favorite gospel song, he said, “Tiffany, your mom is stable. You and your grandmother should go home. Get some rest. Come back tomorrow.” I was deliriously tired and probably smelled since I hadn’t showered or even brushed my teeth in a couple of days, and the thought of a warm shower and a real meal sounded heavenly, so Grams and I went home. But when I stepped out of the shower, I heard Grams screaming. I wrapped a towel around me and raced out of the bathroom to see her fall to her knees, cell phone in hand.

  Mom was gone.

  Marcus hands me his book. “Here, take it. Keep it.”

  “Seriously? But it’s your advanced reader’s copy.”

  “It’s cool. They sent me a whole box.”

  “Thanks.” I take the book, placing it carefully inside my backpack. “Marcus, I have to confess something. Your mom, uh, she asked me to talk to you and be your friend and then she’d do my hair for free.”

  He nods, like the information doesn’t bother or surprise him in the slightest.

  “And again...word vomit. I don’t know why I told you that. But what if I didn’t tell you? Then we’d become friends and later on you’d find out and run away screaming and crying in the rain and I’d be like, ‘Marcus, wait! You weren’t my friend then, but you are now!’ But of course you won’t care and you’d never talk to me ever again.”

  “How come it’s raining?”

  “Huh?”

  “In your fantasy. Why am I running away in the rain?”

  “Oh.” I shrug. “I like rain.”

  He nods and resumes eating.

  “Anyway, I’m so sorry. I probably would’ve talked to you, anyway.”

  “It’s fine. My moms, they mean well.”

  I take another swig of grape juice and see more students staring at us. In fact, we’re attracting a ton of attention.

  “They think we’re dating,” Marcus says.

  “We’re both black. Of course we’re dating.”

  “The guys here will be sad to think you’re taken.”

  “All these white boys? Pa-lease. White guys don’t like black girls. Not black girls like me, anyway.”

  “What’s a black girl like you?”

  “Regular. I’m not light-skinned or mixed. I mean, maybe I...might be...a little...but it doesn’t show. I don’t have long, pretty hair or light eyes or look like Kim Kardashian.”

  “Interesting.”

  “What? You think I’m wrong?”

  “Yes.”

  “We should GIS map it,” I say.

  “You’re a very interesting girl. I don’t typically talk to people here at Curington.”

  “How come?”

  “I guess I don’t have much to say, but I like you, Tiffany. Sort of the way you like a...cousin.”

  “You cousin-zoned me? Being in the friend zone is one thing, but the cousin zone?” I smile. “But you know something, Marcus McKinney? I like you, too. The way you like a...family pet.”

  “Pet-zoned?” He nods approvingly. “Should I bark in appreciation?”

  “Marcus, you start barking, these people will really start running from you.” I laugh. Man...it feels good to laugh.

  9

  I swing my arms behind my back to lift my backpack with my hands, my attempt to take the weight off my aching shoulders as I escape my final class, A Cappella. In A Cappella, we sing depressing songs in Latin, with no instruments, of course. The only way I got through it was to imagine every student dropping dead of boredom simultaneously while the teacher, Mrs. Brayden, continued conducting with her fancy conductor’s wand, eyes closed in ecstasy like she was really feeling this sad, sad song that just killed everybody. An image that made me laugh out loud a couple of times and almost got me in trouble.

  I move slowly down the hallway, not quite sure where to go since basketball practice doesn’t start for another hour, but I know I need to find someplace to go...and preferably out of sight. Everyone is staring at me and whispering. And since this school is so damn quiet, I can easily hear what they’re saying.

  “Maybe it’s Marcus’s sister or something.”

  “I heard they were making out at lunch.”

  “Ewww, gross. How does he kiss with all that makeup on?”

  “God, she’s tall.”

  “She’s like a basketball stud or something.”

  “I bet she’s on scholarship. Basketball probably.”

  “He made her cry at lunch. She was sobbing. I feel so sorry for her.”

  “I’m pretty sure the school brought her in from inner-city Chicago to join the girls’ basketball team.”

  Strangely enough, it’s only the rumors that I’m here on a scholarship to play basketball that are infuriating me. Damn Anthony Stone for making their stupid stereotype play out in real life. Because I’m tall and I’m black, I have to play basketball? If I was tall and white, I wonder if they’d make the same assumptions. No, if I was tall and white, I’d be a supermodel. I check the time on my cell—2:45. The lunch quad area pops into my mind. That’ll do fine.

  * * *

  Back in the quad, there are a few students milling about but I’m somewhat hidden, sitting on the ground, under the shade of one of the tall trees, away from the bug-eyed stares and loud, annoying whispers. There is a long, narrow flight of stone stairs that leads to another parking lot at the base of the hill. From my high vantage point, I see Aric-with-an-A jump into a white Toyota Tacoma truck. A few minutes pass and the truck doesn’t move. How fortuitous, I think with a roll of my eyes. I need to talk to him about what Marcus and I chose for the mapping project. I decide now is as good a time as any. I push my backpack up against the tree and move slowly down the steep staircase, gripping the metal railing like my life depends upon it because I’m pretty sure it does. A moment later and I step off the final stair into the parking lot.

  I approach the white truck, but don’t see Aric in the driver’s seat. Weird. I swear he got in the car a few minutes ago. I press my face against the back window and catch my breath. He’s there, sitting in the back seat, pants down, moaning in pleasure, a girl’s head in his lap. He looks over at me in shock. The girl looks up, too. I gasp and take a small step away from the car, London’s panicked expression and disheveled appearance emblazoned across my mind as the back door to the truck is quickly pus
hed open and she jumps out.

  “Tiffany, wait. I can explain.”

  I turn around and bolt up the stairs. I make it back to the tree and slump down, placing my head between my legs. London is dating Aric-with-an-A-for-asshole. What are the odds?

  “Tiffany?”

  I look up to see London standing over me, her long hair pulled off her face with an elastic headband.

  “I can explain about that.”

  “I can’t talk to Marcus because he doesn’t match up with what you stand for. But you can service Aric on school property?”

  “You make it sound dirty and gross. It’s not like we’re having sex or anything. It’s foreplay. Like kissing. And I sort of clear my mind of all bad thoughts and it’s like a massage or something. Nothing really sinful about it.”

  “Girl, you are a raging hypocrite.”

  “He’s my boyfriend!”

  “Oh, happy birthday. Did you magically turn eighteen today?”

  “Don’t tell my dad or my mom, okay? They wouldn’t understand. Aric’s not a Jehovah’s Witness.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “When we are old enough to date, we have to choose someone who practices our faith and is a baptized Witness.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “No. The Bible says you shouldn’t attach yourself to a nonbeliever. But Aric likes my church and what it stands for. He’s thinking of converting.”

  “Well, I’m not.”

  “You’re not what?”

  “I’m not thinking of converting. Based on what I’m seeing so far, I don’t like your church and what it stands for.”

  “I won’t tell my dad you said that.”

  “And I won’t tell your dad you were working on converting Aric from the back seat of his truck.”

  She rolls her eyes. “So, we’re good, then?”

  “Good?”

  “Listen, Tiffany. I’m sorry, okay? I know I’ve been acting like a B since you arrived.”

  “B?”

  “Rhymes with witch?”

  “Bitch?”

  She nods.

  “London, you just had a penis in your mouth but you can’t say bitch?”

  “Can’t you take an apology? Jesus! I’m trying to say I’m sorry for being...mean or whatever. It’s just that Dad announces he fathered a child with some random woman and we’re—”

  “Whoa!” I stand in fury. “Don’t call my mom a random woman. I’m two months older than you, so my mom came first. What if your mom is the random?”

  “Mom and Dad met in high school.”

  My eyes grow big and then narrow. “They did?”

  “They were engaged their senior year of college.”

  “What?”

  “You didn’t know that?”

  I feel heat rushing to my cheeks. My mom was the other woman?

  London reaches into her back pocket. She hands me a business card. “I forgot to give you this. It’s Darryl’s cell phone number. He’s here. Call him and he’ll pull up to the front for you.”

  “Why is he here? We both have basketball practice.”

  “Coach had a family emergency. Practice resumes tomorrow.”

  “You’re not coming home with me?”

  “We’re allowed to stay at school studying till four thirty. I’ll come home later.”

  She turns and heads down the stairs. My phone buzzes and I snatch it from my pocket. It’s Grams. I take a deep breath.

  “London says Dad and Margaret were engaged in college. That means he cheated on her with Mom.”

  “Hello to you, too, Tiffany.”

  “Is that true?”

  “Yes. It’s true.”

  “Why didn’t she tell me that?” A group of students move through the quad and take notice of me yelling into the phone. I don’t care. Let them spread more rumors. Let me be the subject of more stupid Curington gossip.

  Did you hear about Tiffany? they’ll say. She was crying in the quad because Marcus dumped her.

  “Tiffany, please calm down.”

  “No! Don’t tell me to calm down!” I scream at the top of my lungs. “She owed me an explanation!” There is something interesting to note about reaching a state of hysterics. It’s like your personality splits and hysterical-you takes your body hostage, while calm-and-rational-you stands off to the side, watching in dismay. “Did Mom know he was engaged? Mom was smart and...smart! She wouldn’t be the other woman! She wouldn’t!”

  “Ask your father. It’s his responsibility—”

  “Was there another guy?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Was Mom, like...dating another man and Anthony Stone?”

  “Tiffany Sly, you watch your mouth, do you hear me? Do not disrespect the memory of your mother.”

  “So what if she was dating two men, Grams. It’s not the end of the world.”

  “Imani would never have done that. Tiffany, what is wrong with you? Are you saying you don’t believe Anthony to be your father?”

  I take a deep breath and wipe my face as calm-and-rational-me seizes her opportunity to step back inside the body. What will Grams do—what will she say when she finds out the truth? Mom actually was dating two men at the same time.

  “Your mother met Anthony Stone at an ER in the city. Apparently, they were short-staffed and he volunteered to finish out the last six months of his residency in Chicago.”

  “Is that when she broke her hand?” Mom always talked about breaking her hand when she was younger. How she thought she’d never play guitar again. And she might not have. But she retaught herself how to play left-handed.

  “That is correct, Tiffany. Anthony was her doctor and they started spending time together after that.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “What do you think happened? Your mom got pregnant.”

  “And she didn’t tell him?”

  “She told him.”

  “What?”

  “He asked her to get an abortion.”

  The pain in my head intensifies, like it’s seriously about to explode. I grab it with one hand, as if that can somehow stop the blast. “He knew? He knew about me? What a liar!”

  “Tiffany, listen. He said he wasn’t ready to be a dad and gave her the money for the procedure. Your mom couldn’t go through with it, though.” Grams pauses. “But before she had a chance to tell him the truth, his residency ended and he went back to California.”

  “Why didn’t she call him and tell him she was still pregnant?”

  “She did call him. But it was after you were born. She thought once he knew you were here, he’d have a change of heart.”

  “And he didn’t?”

  “Well...when she got back in contact with your dad, she found out he was married.”

  “To Margaret?”

  “Mmm-hmm. Married with London on the way.”

  “Omigosh...”

  “Your mom was devastated, of course.”

  “She still didn’t tell him?”

  “I never agreed with that decision but she was adamant. She didn’t want to be the reason their marriage didn’t work. Her choice was to raise you as a single parent and that was that. Now, Tiffany, you gotta understand something about age. We get older and we get wiser. You can’t fault your mom for her choice and you can’t fault your dad for his past. We make mistakes. We grow. We get better.”

  I wipe fresh tears. Something’s not quite adding up. Grams has to be missing a key element to the story.

  “Anthony wants a chance to right his wrongs, Tiffany. That’s what matters. When he found out he...he wanted you.”

  “Yeah, right. That’s why he’s in San Francisco.”

  “Did he take the other kids with him to
San Francisco?”

  “No.”

  “What about his wife? She travel with him?”

  “No.”

  “Sounds to me like he’s not treating you any different than the rest of his family.”

  A moment of silence passes between us. “What if he changes his mind?”

  “Tiffany, what are you talking about?”

  “Like, what if you get a phone call in a few days and Anthony says he doesn’t want me anymore. For...whatever reason.”

  Grams chuckles. “Tiffany? Child, please stop. You’re being dramatic and you sound crazy.”

  “It could happen. I mean, anything is possible.”

  “You’re his daughter.”

  Unless I’m not. I groan. “London says I’m putting a financial strain on them with me going to the private school, too. I dunno. Everything feels wrong.”

  “Oh, pooh. Do you know who Margaret is? She is the only child of Charles Vaughn.”

  “Charles Vaughn?” I pause. Why does that name sound familiar? Then it hits me. I even remember reading about him on the Forbes billionaire list. “The furniture guy?”

  “Mmm-hmm. Founder of FWICK, Inc. Margaret is his sole heir.”

  “No wonder they seem so rich.”

  “Because they are. You think they got that fancy house and fancy schools for them kids on a doctor’s salary?” Grams huffs. “Please.”

  “Unbelievable.”

  “Exactly. Don’t feel bad about that private school.”

  I exhale, the tiniest amount of calm returning.

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m at school still.”

  “Take a moment. Get your bearings. It’s been a lot for a few days. Go home and take a nap.”

  “I have, like, five hours’ worth of homework.”

  “Take a short one, then.”

  Grams has a way about her. Coddling’s not really her thing.

  “I’ll check on you later, Tiffany.”

  “Sorry I screamed at you, Grams.”

  “I probably deserved it.”

  “Love you.”

  “Love you more.”

  I hang up and look for the Facebook app on my new cell. Of course there isn’t one. Good ol’ Dr. Dad and his “no internet on the cell phone” rule. How stupid is that? I click on the Safari icon and connect to the web via the school Wi-Fi. No way he can monitor that. I quickly type Xavior Xavion, Chicago, Facebook. I wait for the screen to load, then click on the link to his page. The hair on my arms stands when I see his face again. Dark brown skin, warm brown eyes, almond-shaped like mine. He really does look a lot like me. I scroll through his photos. Looks like he’s a car salesman. That would make Keelah very happy if my actual dad sold cars for a living. I keep swiping. Don’t see any kids. No wife or girlfriend. Another swipe. Holy. Hell.