We move through the gate. “Years ago I learned this: ‘If you propose to speak, ask yourself, is it true, is it necessary, is it kind.’ That’s not my quote, by the way. It’s Buddha. Anyway, I began to think before I spoke and I suppose that turned into a new way of speaking. I promise it wasn’t intentional. Does it bother you?”
“No way. I should probably think before I speak.”
“And perhaps before you punch? Remind me never to call you a bitch.”
“I would never hit you, Marcus.” I groan. “I’m going to apologize to Aric. I hate stereotypes. I don’t wanna be that girl. Hey, how come you didn’t want to eat lunch at school?”
“I forgot one of my medications. Figured I should head home as early as possible.”
“Gotcha.” I lean back in the car seat, relaxing. “What’s it like winning the lottery?”
“This is what people say about us, yes? That we won the lottery?”
“You mean, it’s not true?”
Marcus turns off the mountain road and into fast-moving traffic on the street, though he continues slowly. “My mom and her business partner created a popular line of hair-care products made from natural ingredients. Ever heard of the Kinkiest Kurl Haircare?”
“No way!” I sit up. “I swear by that stuff! I use the hair cream and the oil, and the detangler is the truth. Omigosh. That’s your mom’s company?”
“Was. She sold it after I died. Went into early retirement. Though they hire her as a consultant before they release new products.”
“Being hired by the company you used to own. So cool. What does one major in to do something like that?”
“Organic chemistry. She studied at Berkeley. In fact, my mom was pregnant when she started her freshman year there.”
“With you?”
He nods.
“Wow. What did she do when you were born? Take you to class with her?”
“My grandma moved to California temporarily to help her.”
“What about your dad? Sorry. If I’m asking too many questions just tell me to shut up.”
“I’ve never met him. Mom met Monique, my other mom, when I was four. She was the company accountant. Still is to this day. At least one of them.”
“So you guys winning the lottery? How did that rumor get started?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Probably tough for people to believe a black family could have earned a substantial amount of money without lottery winnings. Or without sports or, like...being a drug lord or a rapper. Uggh! Doesn’t that make you so mad?”
“It doesn’t. The great Zen master Hyakujo Ekai said this: ‘When you forget the good and the nongood, the worldly life and the religious life and all other dharmas, and permit no thoughts relating to them to arise and you abandon body and mind—then there is complete freedom. When the mind is like wood or stone there is nothing to be discriminated.’”
“Um, could you translate that?”
“There is no good and bad, right and wrong. It’s all relative.”
“No offense to the great Zen master. But the Earth is filled with bad people who do wrong stuff. That’s a fact.”
“Good and bad is relative, Tiffany. Not fact. For example, I don’t think you breaking Aric’s nose is such a bad thing. Someone was bound to punch him in the face sooner or later. Curington, however, would not agree. See? Good and bad is relative. If God created everything, then God is everything. And life on this plane is simply an experience where you’re gifted an opportunity to make choices that define who you desire to be.”
“I don’t believe in that.”
“In what?”
“God.”
“Then this should make perfect sense to you. A thing is only bad or good because we declared it to be so. Not God. Just like Tuesday is only Tuesday because we named it that. Today is not really Tuesday.”
“It’s not?”
“No. It’s simply movement within space.”
“You just made my brain hurt.”
“Let’s talk about something else. Zen master Seng-Chao says, ‘The ten thousand things and I are of one substance.’”
“Oy. Marcus, stop. You’re like a riddle. Wrapped in an enigma. Painted white.”
He laughs as we pull up to the gate at our housing community, lowers his window, waves a card over a sensor and the gate slowly opens.
* * *
I follow Marcus as he moves into his kitchen. “Lots of food here. Take whatever you want.”
I head toward the fridge as Marcus reaches into a cabinet and removes a large prescription bottle among dozens of others. And I thought taking two pills a day was overwhelming.
“Wow. That’s a lot of medicine. You have to take all those?”
“Yes.” Marcus sticks the pill on the back of his tongue and swallows with a gulp of bottled water. “You get used to it.”
Last time I was here, I only saw the tricked-out garage, so I take a moment to scope things out. It’s cozy, similar in design to Anthony and Margaret’s place, and seems to have all the fixings you’d expect of these monstrous mansions, including superhigh ceilings, a winding staircase and a large, ornate entryway chandelier. Though their home is way more modern. The kitchen especially. It’s got black slate floors, black cabinetry, lit countertops and all these hanging light fixtures that look like works of modern art. Billie Holiday’s soothing voice sings the haunting words to “Strange Fruit” through hidden speakers.
“This song is so beautiful.” I pull open the fridge. A tray of giant blueberry muffins stands out to me. “Hey, can I have a muffin?”
“Whatever you want.”
I grab one, close the fridge and take a seat on one of their bar stools at the kitchen island, inhaling the soothing sound of Billie Holiday’s voice. “You know what this song is saying?”
“The strange fruit hanging from the tree? It’s definitely not apples.”
“Definitely not.” I take a bite of the muffin. Yum. “Strange Fruit” ends and Nina Simone’s baritone vocals echo through the speakers in her version of “I Loves You, Porgy.” “Ahhh. Nina and Gershwin. Like peas and carrots. Like Halloween and candy corn.”
“You know music.”
“Is it obvious?”
“Not too many people can identify Nina Simone and Gershwin. Also, when I first saw you, you had a guitar on your back and a Guns N’ Roses T-shirt on.”
“GNR? Love them. They have that classic rock ’n’ roll attitude, you know.”
“What’s the classic rock ’n’ roll attitude?”
“‘Fuck you! We do what we want.’”
“I think you have that attitude, too.”
I laugh. “Touché. Maybe that’s why I like them so much. Slash on guitar? Always with his hair in his face, top hat, cigarette poking out of his mouth. Tell me that’s not the most timeless rock ’n’ roll image. GNR is rock ’n’ roll. I’m rock ’n’ roll, too.”
“Wow. A black girl who likes rock ’n’ roll.”
“And a black boy who paints his face white.” I smirk. “First time for everything, I suppose.”
“Touché. Take a look in our living room. I think you’ll like what you see.”
I set the half-eaten blueberry muffin on the counter and move around the kitchen corner into their living room with Marcus at my heels. The furniture is so eclectic. Giant bearskin rug, pink velvet couch, turquoise chair and an asymmetrical bookcase that looks whimsical, like it should be in Oz. Hung on the walls are six different electric guitars.
“Sick!” I move toward them and study the guitars. My eyes widen. “Marcus, these are Fenders. I didn’t know you could play the guitar.”
“I can’t. They’re my mom’s. Mom #2, that is.” He moves to lift one off the hook. Hands it to me.
“No way. For real?”
&nb
sp; “Play me a song, Sam.”
I scratch my head. “Huh?”
“Casablanca? Humphrey Bogart?”
I shrug and Marcus laughs. “We need a movie night.” He pushes an antique amp that’s set on a rolling stand toward me and connects it to the expensive electric guitar.
“What do you want me to play?”
“Surprise me.”
So I do. Playing a rock rendition of The Marriage of Figaro that I learned from YouTube. Eyes closed, fingers moving with expert speed and precision. I open my eyes for a second, just to see how Marcus is feeling my musical stylings. He’s leaned back on the pink couch, his expression pained, rubbing his chest. I stop cold.
“Marcus?” I unplug the guitar and carefully hang it back on the hook on the wall. I sit beside him. “You okay?”
“Please, don’t worry, Tiffany. This is normal. Sorry if it makes you uncomfortable.” He sits up and claps, bringing his gloved hands together gently in sincere appreciation. “That was amazing. My mom has never sounded anything like that.”
I can see sweat forming on his brow. White beads of sweat. He dabs at his forehead with his gloved hand and the makeup smears a bit.
“You sure you’re okay, Marcus?”
“I promise.” He sits up. “You’re very good.”
“Thank you. I practice a lot.”
“It shows. I have a feeling you’re going to grow up and write music. Beautiful music that elevates the world.”
A chill rushes up my spine. “How did you know I was a writer?”
“They still poisoning you with leaf water?”
I turn to see Jo. She’s got her purse slung over her shoulder and dark sunglasses on top of her head. Wearing a pair of workout pants and a tank top.
“Hey, Jo!”
“Hey, yourself,” she says with a smile. “Who taught you how to play the guitar like that?”
I grin. “My mom a little. Mostly self-taught.”
“Girl, I thought Jimi Hendrix had risen from the dead. And your hair looks good.”
I flip it over my shoulder. “Nobody can tell.”
“Told ya.” She looks over at Marcus. “You okay, sweetie?”
Marcus nods, but Jo makes a beeline for him. She sits on the coffee table across from the couch and yanks off one of his gloves. I’m able to see the brown skin on his hand for the first time.
“Mom, don’t.”
She ignores him, her two fingers pressed firmly against his wrist. “Heart rate’s up, Marcus. Shit.”
“I forgot one of my medications this morning.”
“It’s okay. Don’t worry.” I notice he’s shaking slightly. “Deep breath in... Look at me.” She looks into Marcus’s bright green eyes and he inhales. “Exhale slowly.” He exhales and she checks his heart rate again. Shakes her head. “Upstairs now, Marcus. You need rest.”
“Mom. Tiffany has to be back at school and—”
“I’ll give Tiffany a ride back.”
* * *
Roaming the halls at school, I can do nothing but think of Marcus. My phone chimes. It’s a text from Anthony: Hey, hun. Coach wants to see you before practice. You should go to the gym now. House Three.
I groan and text back: Okay. On my way.
I head for the exit. Basketball practice? Uggh.
* * *
“Good to meet you, Tiffany.” Coach James shakes my hand as I stand on the basketball court across from her in a pair of black shorts and a black Nirvana T-shirt. I pulled my hair off my face with a gray cotton headband. “What are you...five-eleven?”
“Yeah.”
She beams, looking me up and down. She’s a large lady, dressed in a Reebok tracksuit. Maybe in her early forties. Six feet tall at least and big boned, as they say in Chicago, though here in Southern California, in the land where everyone is pretty and thin, they would probably call her slightly overweight. Her hair is cut short and in that sort of style that is no style at all. A short blob of dishwater-blond hair. I imagine she’s the kind of lady that goes to see her beautician and says, “Just cut it.”
“I’m not sure if my...Anthony told you. I don’t actually play basketball.”
“With that height? You’ll learn. That’s what coaches are for, right?”
I shrug and imagine the blue aliens from Avatar. They were tall. Didn’t see any of them playing basketball.
“We’ll run a few drills before the girls get here. Nothing fancy. See where we’re at. Sound good?” She grabs a basketball from a large bin on wheels in the center of the court, positions herself and tosses the ball toward the hoop. It slides through the net silently.
“Grab that ball for me, Tiffany?” I walk toward it, watching as it bounces. She claps her hands. “Faster! Let’s see how you run.”
I run, catching up to the ball before it rolls past the bleachers. I stick it on my side and let my arm rest on top, already out of breath. Coach James extends her hands in what I’m imagining is the universal basketball symbol for toss me that ball. I use both of my hands, swing it under my legs and lob the ball toward her. It soars high into the air and within a second comes back down, about half a foot in front of me. I cover my face as it bounces once and thankfully rolls in the opposite direction. This is senseless! I could’ve been maimed. I hear a giggle and look up in the bleachers to see London and her bears watching with amused looks on their pretty faces. Oh, no. I don’t want witnesses to this fiasco.
Coach claps again. “Tiffany, my four-year-old throws better than that.” She grabs another basketball from the bin and tosses it at me. I catch it clumsily. “Did you see how I did that? I pushed it off my chest. Try it again.”
I oblige; thankfully, it lands in her hands. Whew.
“Nice.” She tosses it back to me, hard. I cough. “You all right, soldier?”
I nod, still coughing.
“Let’s see how you dribble. Start out.”
“Huh?”
“Out of bounds. Under the basket.” She points to the basket and I move in that direction, resisting the urge to look at London and the bears. This has got to be prime entertainment for them. Coach James claps. “We’re not strolling on the boardwalk, Tiffany. Move it!”
I run and make it under the basket, sweaty and breathing hard.
“Full length of the court and back.” She blows a whistle hooked to a thin black cord that hangs around her neck.
I run as fast as I can while trying to keep the ball in constant motion. It’s shockingly easy. The ball feels bouncy under my hands and I’m able to control it with little to no effort, but I hear the shrill pitch of Coach’s whistle.
I stop and look up, taking in quick gulps of air, trying to catch my breath and slow my racing heart. I cannot believe people do this for fun. “What now?”
“What now?” She grabs a ball and moves toward me, dribbling with one hand. “Tiffany, I haven’t seen double dribbling like that since second-grade recess.”
“Oh? My bad.”
“Your bad is right. And is there something interesting on this court that I’m unaware of?”
“What do you mean?”
She imitates me, dribbling the ball with two hands and staring at the floor. “This is not how we dribble, Tiffany. What if a killer made his or her way onto the court? You wouldn’t know it, because you’d be too busy staring at the floor!” Once again, she demonstrates the proper way to bounce a stupid orange ball. One hand, eyes up.
“Got it.” I yawn.
“Are you tired, Tiffany?” she asks incredulously as she glances at the time on her watch. “It’s been a full five minutes, so I can certainly empathize. Try dribbling again.”
She blows her whistle and I try again. This time running and staring straight ahead. Within two seconds, I trip over my own feet and fall. Hard. Shit! The ball rolls away.
&
nbsp; I look up. I could be wrong, but it looks like one of London’s bears is recording me with her phone. Sweat is dripping into my eyeballs, partially blinding me, so perhaps she’s only taking a selfie. Yeah, we’ll go with that. I stand and turn back to Coach as another ball is hurled my way. “Jesus!” I move out of the way before it hits me in the head.
“Tiffany! Do you think we’re playing dodgeball? Catch the freakin’ thing.” She tosses me another and I catch it awkwardly. It makes the tips of my fingers burn and I imagine breaking both of my hands and having to teach myself how to play the guitar with my feet.
“Let’s try shooting.” She grabs another ball and moves to the free throw line. “You’ll want to get base set, shoulder width apart with your legs, like this.”
I note her stance and nod, wondering what time it is and how much longer I have to endure this unreasonable torture. How much longer till Coach James says, Tiffany, my dear, there are hopeless amateurs and then there’s you. Get off my court and make sure I never see your face around here again. You hear me? Out!
“Legs can be parallel,” she continues, “or favor a bit with your left or right foot. Either-or. Whatever makes you comfortable and balanced. Balance is key. Got it?”
I think of Stevie Wonder. I bet he never played basketball. Nope. And look how his life turned out. Oscar. Golden Globe. Emmy. Grammies up the wazoo. Internationally known megastar. I bet he’d say, “Basketball schmasketball, Tiffany, ya dig?” and shake his head to the left and right before bustin’ out an a cappella rendition of “My Cherie Amour.”
“Are you with me?” Coach James asks.
I nod.
Pop-Tarts.
Gummy Bears.
Rainbows.
Pixy Stix.
“Good. Focus on your target. Reach for the rim and keep that ball on your fingertips. Aim and follow through.” She shoots the ball and it swishes through the net and bounces away. “See?”
I do see. She lobbed a ball through a net. Hoo. Rah.
“Now it’s your turn, Tiffany.”
I take a ball out of the bin. Line up, legs apart...blah blah. One arm in the air...yada yada...dumb ball on my precious, music-making fingertips...and shoot.
The ball soars high and slowly lowers until it moves silently through the net. My jaw drops as the bounce of the ball echoes through the nearly empty gym.
Tiffany Sly Lives Here Now Page 14
