Tiffany Sly Lives Here Now

by Dana L. Davis

  She gasps. Covers her mouth with her hands. “You’re an atheist?”

  Shit. Why did I just say that? “Look, I don’t like being labeled. I’m Tiffany Sly. That’s it.”

  “If you don’t believe in Jehovah, you’re an atheist.”

  “Who is Jehovah again?”

  “Infinite Creator. Almighty God.”

  “Oh. No. I don’t believe in that sort of thing.”

  “Where do you think you go when you die?”

  “Nowhere. You just die.”

  She gasps again. “Tiffany, this is really bad. Your eternal soul is at stake here.”

  “No, it’s not. Look. You keep working on converting Aric. You will never convert me. I won’t ever believe in God again. There is no such person. Or man. Or Jehovah sitting up in the sky, granting wishes and counting on us to not fail.”

  “I’m going to pray for you.”

  “Pray all you want. I’ve been there. Praying and praying and let me tell you something I know for sure. Prayer doesn’t work. Because if it did, we wouldn’t be having this conversation because my mom wouldn’t be dead right now!”

  “Everybody has to die, Tiffany. You can’t pray away death.”

  “And you can’t pray for my salvation. Do not pray for my salvation.”

  She shakes her head in dismay. “An atheist. Seriously, Tiffany? I feel so sorry for you.” She turns and quietly exits out the bedroom door.

  I slump down onto the bed, that strange sensation rising up again from the pit of my stomach—like a knot has formed deep within my belly and the only thing that will shake it free, so that I don’t die, is to curl into a limb-shaped ball.

  So that’s exactly what I do—assuming the fetal position on the edge of my bed. I close my eyes as silent tears slide down my cheeks. An atheist. I’ve never heard anyone call me that before. Probably because I’ve never really told anyone, aside from Keelah. It sounds like a bad word. Like I should be offended that someone would dare call me that. But I suppose that is what I am now. I watched Mom die. I watched her shrivel up and die. She fought. She begged. She pleaded. Sure, she went in peace, but she did not want her life to end. She got down on her knees and she prayed and I prayed, too. Grams prayed. All the people at church prayed.

  She still died.

  If there really is a God...fuck that guy.

  13

  The nurse gave me one of those you-can-be-late-to-every-class passes because of my ankle and new crutches. So for the past two days I’ve been able to take my time, evading stairs, using elevators and avoiding eye contact with pretty much everyone. But still, I can hear the whispers and the snide remarks. London might have made Izzy Bear take the video down, but so many people must’ve seen it.

  God, did you see that video of her?

  I can’t believe the school gave her a basketball scholarship. What a joke.

  Does that mean she loses it? She should.

  It’s not fair she got a scholarship, anyway. My parents work overtime to pay for my tuition.

  It’s affirmative action. That’s what my sister says.

  And she’s sooo violent. She almost killed poor Aric.

  Stay away from her. Totally crazy.

  Being the new fake affirmative-action-receiving, imaginary-scholarship-losing, basketball-sucking psychopath is the least of my concerns. Because I’m seeing so much red my eyes are crossing. Red ink. Like a pox. Like Mercutio put a plague on all my homework.

  Wrong.

  Incorrecto.

  Please redo and resubmit.

  Check minus.

  Tiffany, did you read this chapter?

  Not so sure you’re understanding.

  Still, my favorite splotch of red comes from Mr. Brian Mills himself.

  Tiffany, come to my office hours. Please. I look forward to it.

  I knock timidly on the large oak door to Geography even though it’s propped open. Mr. Mills is leaning back in a chair, chomping on a piece of gum, legs resting on his desk, fiddling with an iPad. He brightens when he sees me and sets the device down.

  “Tiffany Sly! Yay. You’re here. Come in. Come in.”

  I move into the classroom and take a seat at one of the desks in the front, laying my crutches carefully on the floor beside me. He opens a folder and pulls out a stack of papers. “You did good on the quiz, Tiff.”

  “Oh? I did?”

  He sits beside me, scooting his chair close so we’re almost touching. He smells like shampoo and cinnamon chewing gum. Oh, I feel sick from the butterflies. He places the quiz in front of me and I see a giant C+ in red ink across the top.

  “Huh? I thought you said I did good?” I rest my head on my hand and take a deep breath to stop myself from crying.

  “Maybe you should talk to your parents about a tutor. That’s what the other kids here do. Unless, of course, their parents are doing their homework.”

  I turn to face him and look deep into his magic eyes. They’re hazel. Hazel with tiny flecks of green. But I swear this morning they were green with tiny flecks of hazel. “Parents doing homework?”

  “I can always tell when parents are doing their kids’ homework. And let me tell you...it’s often.”

  “That’s so unfair.”

  “It is what it is. Most of the parents who send their kids here have a specific plan. They’ll do anything to make sure their children leave with a great GPA. Great GPA ensures great college. Great college ensures great job so they can make great money to pay for all the great therapy they’ll need when they discover that the school of life is the only school where your parents can’t do your homework.”

  “Jeez. Maybe I should get someone to do my homework.”

  “A tutor might be a better option.” He hands me a sheet of paper. It’s a flyer. “This tutoring company is expensive but they guarantee results.” He lays his hand on my shoulder. “Can you see if your mom and dad can spring for a tutor?”

  “My mom is dead. I live with my...dad and stepmom. For now at least.”

  His hand still rests on my shoulder. Are teachers allowed to touch students?

  “I’m sorry, Tiffany. I didn’t know that.”

  “Cancer. Diagnosed in March. Gone by September.”

  He sighs. “Again. I’m really sorry. That’s so tough.”

  “Thank you.” I take the quiz from his folder and stuff it in my backpack. “I can ask the parental figures if they can spring for a tutor. I’m sure they won’t mind. Me not flunking out of Curington is a great cause.” He squeezes my shoulder and our eyes lock for a moment. “Um, how’d I do on my Google Earth presentation?”

  He cocks his head to the side and gives me an apologetic look.

  “That bad, huh?”

  “A little disjointed. There were no labels. It wasn’t easy to follow. You seemed to be randomly finding points and—”

  “Uggh. I get it. It sucked. I’m sucking at life right now.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself. I want to give you some extra credit to make up for it.”

  “For real?”

  “For reals, girlfriend.”

  I roll my eyes. “Sorry, I forgot where I was. Let me try that again.” I put on my best Valley-girl imitation. “Oh, my gawd, like, totally, Mr. Mills? Like you swearzies?”

  “I, like, totally swearzies.” He laughs. “Research paper. You pick the topic.”

  “Something that has to do with geography?”

  “Like, duh.” He laughs again. “And you can connect anything to geography. Give me a subject. I bet I can connect it and come up with a research-paper topic. Make it a tough one.”

  “Um. My little sister is autistic.”

  “Autism and geography? That is a tough one. How old is she?”

  “Almost three.”

  “Cute. Side not
e—I have a bag of lollipops in my desk drawer if you want to take one and give it to her.”

  “They’d have to be sugar free, gluten free and organic. My stepmom says when she took away all the fun from her food, her symptoms improved.”

  Mr. Mills’s face brightens. “I got it.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Tiffany, I want you to gather data on autism rates at the California county level. I also want you to gather data on autism rates in another urban region but with predominantly organic food consumption. Like an area of Costa Rica, for example. See if there’s a correlation. Are autism rates higher in areas where organic food consumption rates are lower.”

  “Is there a GIS map involved in this research?”

  “You know it! GIS maps changed the world, Tiffany Sly. Get on board.” He squeezes my shoulder again. “I’ll type up the details of the assignment and send it to your email. No firm deadline. As long as I have it sometime before holiday break. Where’s your phone?” I pull my cell out of my backpack and hand it to Mr. Mills. “I’m adding my email address to your contacts. Message me so I’ll have yours, too. If you have any questions at all, reach out. Anytime.”

  He hands the phone back.

  “Got it. Thanks.”

  “And how are things progressing with Aric and Marcus? Any new felonies on your record?”

  “Mr. Mills.”

  “Kidding. Kidding.”

  “Aric won’t really return my texts. We’re all supposed to be meeting today. We’ll see if he shows.”

  “He’ll come around. You bruised more than his nose, you know.” Our eyes lock again. “I have a strange feeling about you, Tiffany Sly.”

  I swallow. “What do you mean?”

  “I have a strange feeling that perhaps something’s going on deep in that brain of yours. I feel this insane, jittery energy. You’re here but you’re not. Like your bags are in the closet but not unpacked. What gives? Wanna talk about it?”

  “Are you my therapist now?”

  “Didn’t you know? Teachers aren’t just teachers. We’re therapists, fight breaker uppers, trash taker outers. We’re also doormats for parents to walk all over and to scream obscenities at. We do a lot. Why do you think they pay us so much?”

  I stare at the desk. He’s right. I am here, but not. Bags are in the closet, definitely not unpacked. “If you had a secret and it didn’t matter if you told the secret or not. Like...it’s gonna be revealed, anyway. What would you do? Tell? Or wait for the truth to come out on its own?”

  “Depends,” he replies quickly. “If the secret was that the world was gonna explode, I’d definitely keep that to myself.”

  “My world is about to explode in a day. Maybe two. I dunno. I’m losing track of time.” I take a deep breath and throw caution to the wind, telling Mr. Mills my entire two-dad dilemma. When I finish, he leans back in his chair and whistles.

  “Bad, right?”

  “Not necessarily. I have this weird life theory. Everything happens.”

  “For a reason?”

  “Nope. It just happens.”

  “Nice theory, Mr. Mills,” I say sarcastically. “Very helpful.”

  He laughs. “Let me finish. Everything happens. But it’s how we react to what’s happening that shapes our experience. If my world was gonna explode in a few days...wanna know what I’d do?”

  “What?”

  “Just live.” He smiles. “Don’t forget. An explosion can create an entire universe.”

  * * *

  “Do you think Mr. Mills could like me?” I say to Marcus as we exit the elevator and move toward his car in the lower-level parking lot.

  “Sure. He likes everyone.”

  Groups of students move past us in their matching green polos and khakis; a few pause to stare at Marcus, pointing and whispering as he walks slow to accommodate me and my crutches. The bright Simi sun reflects off his white painted face and his gloved hands pull at the straps on his backpack. He’s focused on the pavement, ignoring the stares as students pass by.

  “No,” I whisper. “I mean, like me like me.”

  His green eyes narrow as we walk. “Not like a cousin?”

  I shake my head.

  “Well, he is a man. And you are a very attractive girl.”

  I perk up. “So you think he could?”

  “Of course.”

  I smile. “What if I kissed him? You think he’d kiss me back?”

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On whether or not he likes the idea of prison.”

  “Marcus, c’mon. You’re the one who says there is no good or bad, right or wrong.”

  “Good and bad is relative. There is, however, what serves you well. Kissing a sixteen-year-old student would not serve him well. Unless, of course, he’s itching to be incarcerated.”

  We make it to his car and my phone chimes. I grab the cell from my back pocket. “Got a text from Aric!”

  “Really? He’s meeting us?”

  “He says he can’t meet us and sends his apologies.”

  “He said that?”

  “Actually, he said...” I read the text from my phone. “Yo. My bad. Got plans I can’t switch up. Fill me in on the deets.” I stuff the phone back in my pocket. “I have an idea.”

  Marcus pulls a green Curington sweatshirt out of his backpack. He carefully pulls it over his head.

  “A sweatshirt, Marcus? It’s, like, eighty degrees.”

  “My phone says eighty-five. What’s your idea?”

  “Let’s ditch schoolwork. Drive me to our beach house. No one will be there yet. We’ll have the place all to ourselves for a few hours. Margaret’s heading to LAX with Pumpkin to pick up...” I trail off.

  “Your dad?”

  “Yeah. That guy. Come with me to Malibu. Watch me face my fear.”

  “What fear?”

  “The ocean.”

  “You fear the ocean?”

  “I fear drowning in a tsunami.”

  “That’s oddly specific.” He shrugs. “But sure. I can drive you to Malibu. Do you have the address and a key to get in?”

  “I do! This is cool. I’m taking good advice. I’m living. The world’s about to explode, anyway.”

  “Explode?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got time before the big bang.”

  I hand my crutches to Marcus and he places his gloved hand protectively on my back as I climb carefully into the vehicle.

  14

  Compared to Anthony and Margaret’s house in Simi, the Malibu town house is downright tiny. Still twice as big as our apartment back in Chicago, though, and right beside an awesomely scary pier that reaches far out into the ocean, with restaurants and people fishing and walking. Marcus sets my backpack and crutches on one of the couches in the nautical-themed living room and moves toward the balcony doors. I hold back, hovering uncomfortably near the front door.

  “You okay?” Marcus asks.

  “Um...”

  “Would it make you feel better if I downloaded a tsunami app?”

  “They have those?”

  He takes out his smartphone and starts fiddling with it. “Yes. If there is an earthquake off the coast of Los Angeles, a deafening alarm will now sound on my phone and I will throw you over my shoulder and race you up the hill to safety.” He motions to the balcony. “Shall we?”

  I hobble out onto the wood balcony painted white and inhale the fresh scent of turquoise ocean water as Marcus follows behind me. There is a steep staircase from the balcony that leads down to a private section of beach with stacked kayaks, surfboards and lots of kids’ beach toys. Marcus leans over the balcony rail. A pack of seagulls circles the white waves before landing peacefully on the golden sands.

  “In Chicago, we had a balcony att
ached to our apartment,” I say, my back pressed up against the glass sliding door.

  “Is that so?”

  “Yep. If you were brave enough to squeeze out the window, you’d have a real nice view of a brick wall. Which sort of pales in comparison to this view.”

  “Not necessarily. What color was the brick wall?”

  He turns to me, green eyes gazing out under the shadow of the hood pulled over his head. His makeup in clumps around his eyes as he squints to block out the bright rays of sun.

  “I know you say it makes you feel better. But why? Why do you wear white makeup on your face?”

  “I’m assuming you haven’t read my book yet?”

  “Oh. Um...”

  “It’s okay. I know you haven’t read it, because in my book, I explain why I wear the makeup.”

  “So tell me.”

  “You don’t want to wait and read it?”

  “Full disclosure?”

  “You’re probably not going to read my book. I get it. Why?”

  “A book about dying?” I shake my head. “Maybe it scares me a little? I dunno. Also—”

  “You don’t believe in life after death. I get that, too. Have you always felt the way you do?”

  “No.”

  “But?”

  “But then I grew up and stopped believing in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny and, you know, God.” I feel moisture emitting from my eyes. Crying again? Why am I always crying?

  “What would you say if I told you I agree with you?”

  I take a tiny step forward and sit on the edge of one of the balcony chairs. “You don’t believe in God, either?”

  “I do believe in God. Just not the way most people do. I can explain if you don’t mind.”

  I eye him suspiciously. “You sure you’re not trying to convert me, Marcus? Like a covert, sneak-attack conversion?”

  “‘Whether one believes in a religion or not, or whether one believes in a rebirth or not, there isn’t anyone who doesn’t appreciate kindness and compassion’...and a good conversation in Malibu on the beach.” He smiles. “That last part was mine.”

  “And the first part? Lemme guess. Confucius? Buddha?”

  “The Dalai Lama.”