Tiffany Sly Lives Here Now

5

Patio terrace: what they all keep calling it.

Backyard wonderland: what I’m calling it.

Stuff rich people have: what Keelah would probably call it.

Anyway...that’s where we all are and, whatever you choose to call it, it’s pretty amazing. Aside from the pool, fire pit, outdoor kitchen and full-size tennis court, there are also lots of colorful stones, granite and ultramodern furniture all around.

There’s a small lounge area facing a ginormous mounted flat-screen television and a dining table set with dishes, silverware and glasses. And not the normal glasses you get in a box at Target like we had back at home. These glasses have designs cut into them and gold rims. The sort of glasses that if you broke one it would probably be, like...bad.

Finally, there are strings of soft white fairy lights strung across the ceiling of the outdoor kitchen, and wrapped meticulously around the trees, and perfectly manicured bushes in the yard. It all feels very enchanting and not like anything I’ve ever seen in real life.

Margaret sets down a glass pitcher of water with floating slices of lemon, lime and...leaves?

“Those are mint leaves,” Margaret explains, catching me eyeing the pitcher. “Do you like mint?”

“Oh, yeah.” Not entirely a lie since I like thin mint Girl Scout cookies.

“Then you’ll find this refreshing.” She gives me her signature polite tilt of the head and I wonder if her neck hurts at the end of the day. It’s gotta.

On my left, and at the head of the table, is Anthony. No longer in hospital scrubs, but in a pair of dark jeans, a black shirt and a blazer. Looking not like a dad at all, but more like one of People magazine’s 50 Most Beautiful People. On my right is Nevaeh. Across from me is a very conservatively dressed London, a stark contrast to the nearly naked London that greeted me upstairs in our shared room. She’s dressed in a white blouse that is buttoned to the collar, dress pants and strappy sandals. Her pretty black hair is hanging neatly over her shoulders. Beside her is Heaven. Margaret and Pumpkin are at the opposite end of the table.

“We always thank Jehovah before we eat,” Anthony explains, taking my hand and bowing his head as everyone else joins hands, too, and I wonder who exactly this Jehovah person is. For some reason I picture a red-faced man with horns and a pitchfork but wait...no, that’s the devil.

“Jehovah,” he starts. “We give You honor and great thanks as we sit before this meal. Thank You for safe travels for Tiffany and for blessing us with a complete family. We praise Your holy name and give You honor and glory above all things. In the name of Christ Jesus. Amen.”

“Amen,” everyone repeats except for me.

“Tiffany,” Margaret starts, “now we go around the table and say something we’re grateful for. Why don’t you go first?”

My stomach drops. “Um, I’m grateful I didn’t die on the way here.”

Everyone sort of stops cold; an array of disturbed looks are tossed my way. Shoot! What was Grams thinking telling me to be myself?

“Was there some sort of accident or something?” Margaret asks quizzically. “On the freeway?”

“Yes,” I lie. “We barely missed it, thank goodness.”

“Thank Jehovah,” Anthony states seriously.

There’s that Jehovah guy again. Who is this man?

“Can I go next?” London asks with a quick raise of the hand.

“Absolutely, honey. What are you grateful for?” Margaret replies.

“I’m grateful that I could be Curington’s valedictorian and give the graduation speech. That’s a huge honor. I’d be the youngest valedictorian in the history of Curington.”

“What about Marcus McKinney?” Nevaeh asks.

London scowls. “What about him?”

“He beat you out for the Young Scholar Award and the Minority High Honor Award for the eleventh grade last year. Let’s just be real. He’ll probably beat you out for valedictorian, too.”

London turns to Anthony. “Dad. Can you please tell Nevaeh not to interrupt what I’m grateful for? That’s so rude.”

“Nevaeh, don’t interrupt what London’s grateful for,” Anthony replies as if on dad autopilot.

“I’m stating the facts. Besides, how can you be grateful for something that hasn’t happened?” Nevaeh asks.

“It’s called faith,” Anthony replies. “The evidence of things not yet seen.”

“But that would be like me saying I’m grateful I might maybe be valedictorian, too,” Nevaeh explains. “In six years. That’s stupid.”

“Yeah, that is stupid because you get Cs,” London replies smugly. “You’ll never be Curington’s valedictorian.”

“That’s stupid,” Pumpkin squeals.

“London and Nevaeh. Sweethearts,” Margaret cuts in calmly with her polite head tilt, “that’s a bad word for Pumpkin.”

I look over at Pumpkin, whose mass of curly hair is approximately three times bigger than her head. The plate in front of her is plastic and instead of a fancy, gold-rimmed glass she’s got a Tinker Bell sippy cup, which she suddenly hurls through the air. I watch it soar before it splashes down into the pool. Man, that kid’s got an arm on her.

“Yay! Fun!” Pumpkin claps.

Anthony waves his hand at Margaret. “Don’t get it. Let her learn. You throw your cup, you don’t have anything to drink.”

Margaret nods.

“I’m grateful I might be valedictorian, too,” Nevaeh says. “In six years. When I graduate. That’s what I’m grateful for. I have faith.”

Anthony rolls his eyes. “Heaven? What are you grateful for?”

“I’m grateful our first scrimmage game is next Friday.”

“Finally, right?” Nevaeh says. The twins bump fists across the table.

“Sixth-grade basketball.” London rolls her eyes. “How droll.”

“Tiffany, do you play ball?” Anthony asks. “I would imagine, with all that height.”

“No. Not since I was four and had one of those plastic basketball hoops attached to the bathtub.”

“Tiffany plays the guitar, Dad!” Nevaeh exclaims excitedly. “She brought a guitar case with an actual guitar inside.”

Anthony’s brow furrows. “Well, that’s a shame about not playing basketball. With all that height? We gotta get you on the court. Basketball skills run in the Stone family.”

A sport played by two teams with five players each on a rectangular court: how Wikipedia describes basketball.

Something fun to watch or play: how most people describe basketball.

Sweaty athletes exhausting themselves while running around and throwing an orange bouncy ball back and forth until a winner is declared and the madness ends: how I describe basketball.

“You should see if you can try out for Curington’s team!” Nevaeh suggests. “Stone house rules say you gotta play a sport. Why not basketball?”

“I have to play a sport?” Dread crawls up my spine. “Why?”

Instead of answering my question, Anthony nods and says, “Good idea, Nevaeh.”

“But, Dad,” London cuts in. “JV team is suspended this year for hazing. And varsity tryouts are over.”

Anthony shrugs. “I’ll talk to Coach James. See what we can do. She’s a transfer. She deserves a shot.”

I picture myself on the court, braids out, hair in a Buckwheat-style ’fro with tiny bald patches peeking through. Gripping the ball, running across the court in tears. The referee blowing his whistle at me. The other girls on the team hurling profanities my way. Crowd hissing and booing. Cheerleaders standing in disgust, arms folded, refusing to cheer.

“Margaret, babe. What are you thankful for?” Anthony asks.

“I’m thankful Pumpkin’s doing so well. Her behavior therapist thinks she might not even have the diagnosis by the time she’s ready for kindergarten.”

“See, honey? I told you not to worry so much. It’s all about intervention with autism.”

“Our hard work is paying off. Finally.” Margaret turns to Pumpkin. “And what are you thankful for, Pumpkin, my love?”

“You thankful?” Pumpkin replies.

“No, honey. I’m asking you. Tell us what you’re thankful for. Or maybe just something that makes you happy. What makes you happy?”

Pumpkin grins and looks my way. “Hi. How you?”

“Me? Oh... I’m...fine?”

“Pumpkin, tell us what you’re thankful for,” Nevaeh insists.

“I sick!” Pumpkin suddenly wails. “I hun-gee.”

“So then you can be thankful for food,” Nevaeh says kindly. “Say you’re thankful for food so you don’t have to be hungry.”

“No! I mad,” Pumpkin wails. “I so fus-tated!” She picks up her plastic plate and hurls it across the table, narrowly missing Anthony’s head. “I very not happy!”

“Pumpkin!” Anthony bellows. “That is inappropriate behavior. You do not throw your plate!”

An epic-size shriek escapes from Pumpkin’s tiny, little body. She kicks at the table. Beautiful, expensive dishes wobble dangerously as she thrashes about in her chair. “Leave me ’lone! I sad!”

Margaret tosses Anthony a worried look. “I don’t think she gets thankful yet. It’s making her upset. Can we let this one go? Please?”

“No,” Anthony replies sternly. “Bedtime. Take her now.”

Pumpkin’s eyes fill with tears and she immediately calms down. “No! I so sorry. I so sorry, Daddy.”

“Thank you for saying sorry, Pumpkin,” he replies. “But you still have to go to bed. Your behavior is very bad and Mommy and Daddy are very sad and frustrated.”

“I am bad! I am bad girl!” She screams as Margaret rises and grabs the toddler in her arms as she flails about. “Bad behavior! Bad!”

“Can we give her something to eat first?” Margaret shouts over Pumpkin’s screams, struggling to tame the redheaded beast of a child. “She hasn’t eaten since noon.”

“Don’t care. She ain’t gonna starve,” Anthony declares with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Good night, Pumpkin. Everybody say good-night to your sister.”

Nevaeh happily throws up the peace sign and Heaven and London mumble something that sounds similar to good night, but feels more like good riddance.

“I apologize for Pumpkin’s behavior, Tiffany,” Margaret says without actually looking at me, and, with Pumpkin thrashing about in her arms, excuses herself. A moment later I can still hear Pumpkin shrieking from somewhere deep inside the house.

Nevaeh whistles. “Get that kid a prescription. Stat.”

“Can you get her a prescription?” Heaven adds. “She doesn’t seem to be getting any better.”

“And Mom seems miserable,” London adds. “It’s not fair.”

Nevaeh nods. “We need to take a family vote. Pumpkin’s out of control. She needs medication.”

“She needs exactly what she’s getting,” Anthony states angrily. “Besides, no child of mine is going to be a victim of some whacked psychiatrist pushing pills.”

I swallow nervously.

“Now—I’m thankful for each and every one of you.” He smiles. It’s less of an I’m happy smile and more of an I’m done talking about this smile. “Let’s eat.”

* * *

“Babe, you outdid yourself this time.” Anthony exhales, pushing his empty plate away.

“Yeah. That was good,” I add as everyone else gives their personal praise for Margaret’s meal.

It actually wasn’t. There was a vegetable salad with some sort of brown tart dressing that gave me killer heartburn. Little brown pellets that everybody was calling keen-wah. I never had keen-wah before and I hope to never have it again after tonight. The grilled chicken wasn’t too bad, but it had pineapple salsa on top of it. Strange. And the pineapple mixed with the keen-wah, mixed with the In-N-Out burger I ate earlier made my stomach bubble. There was also fish soup that tasted like...well...fish. So many chunks of unknown stuff floating around in that bowl it took all my strength not to throw it all up. And I’m pretty sure I saw a fish eyeball in there. And for dessert we all had an un-birthday cake. Margaret bragged that it was gluten free. In fact, the whole meal was gluten free. Apparently, gluten is something else Pumpkin can’t have. No idea what gluten even is, but the cake tasted like coconut-flavored dirt balls, so my guess...gluten free is not a good thing. Mostly I’m glad this house comes with seven bathrooms because I am gonna need a toilet...soon. What if that wasn’t a meltdown Pumpkin had? What if she planned her escape?

“Play us a song on your guitar, Tiffany,” Heaven urges as we all make our way to sit around the glowing fire pit.

“Really?” I ask, surprised. “You guys want me to play?”

“Not if it’s gonna be ‘Hot Cross Buns’ or ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,’” Anthony jokes, and London cracks up like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard as she snuggles up beside Margaret on one of the couches surrounding the fire pit.

“I can go get your guitar for you,” Nevaeh offers.

“No, no. That’s okay. I’ll grab it.”

I excitedly race inside the house and up the stairs; within a minute I’m back, Little Buddy slung over one shoulder. I call my Gibson guitar Little Buddy. A four-thousand-dollar acoustic Grams bought me when I was twelve. Normally, we wouldn’t have been able to afford something so expensive, but Grams dipped into her retirement money and gifted me the fancy instrument. Mom was livid.

“A four-thousand-dollar guitar for a twelve-year-old?” Mom growled when I opened it on Christmas.

“It’s my money,” Grams replied with a wink in my direction. “Last time I checked, I was way past grown.”

“But, Mama,” Mom replied in frustration. “Tiffany’s not responsible enough for something like this.”

Only, Mom was wrong. I took extra special care of Little Buddy and was so enthralled with its magnificence I started practicing more and more and my skill level advanced exponentially. I even started teaching Mom some of the advanced techniques I was learning from YouTube. After I spent hours helping her un-learn some of her bad picking habits, she finally apologized to Grams and declared the guitar was the best thing to ever happen to our family.

Anthony brought a chair from the table, so now I’m seated in front of all of them, finally feeling at ease. When Little Buddy is in my hands, I’m not anxious or worried or sad. I’m my old self. The way I was before Mom got sick. Before she came home that fateful day and told me quite frankly: “Tiffany. I’m going to die.” Back when life seemed full of promise and happiness, where moms and daughters were best friends and never a lie was shared between them.

“What are you gonna play?” London asks incredulously with a bored yawn.

“Whatever you want. My favorites to play are probably the Beatles or—”

“Wait a second now. You can play the Beatles?” Anthony raises an eyebrow. “Get outta town.”

“What song is your favorite—” Dad. Uggh. Still can’t say it.

“‘Yesterday.’” He exhales and leans back. “Love that song.”

“That’s so cool,” I reply. What are the odds? “That’s my favorite, too.” Another coincidence? Genetic taste buds?

He winks at me. “Great minds think alike.”

I give my strings a quick strum to tune and smile, wondering if it’s more like fathers and daughters think alike.

“Don’t you need a guitar pick?” Heaven asks.

“Not for this song. It’s called fingerpicking.” I do a quick demonstration, slowly playing five chords arpeggio-style. “See? Like that.”

“That was awesome!” Nevaeh exclaims. “Your fingers moved so fast. Do that again, Tiffany!”

“Nevaeh.” Heaven elbows her sister on the lounge chair they both share. The orange hue of the fire reflects off their matching set of silver braces. “Be quiet. Jeez. Let her play the song.”

I smile and slide my fingers up and down the fret board a few times. Something that makes me feel connected. It’s not a guitar when it’s in my hands. It’s more like a body part—a perfect extension of Tiffany Sly. (If I were made of mahogany wood and steel.) I begin softly at first, allowing the words of the song to dance across my mind as the notes float out and soar into the air. Then I close my eyes and lower my head, not wanting the emotion of the lyrics to overtake me as it oftentimes can when I play. Suddenly, a beautiful tenor voice rings out in the backyard space, singing along with the notes I play. I look up. The glow of the fire dances in Anthony’s blue eyes as he sings along. He can sing. I mean, he can really sing. I continue to play, but now with an even greater passion, as if the chords on their own can tell the sad story resounding in Anthony’s hauntingly beautiful voice. The song continues on until I play the final chord, my fingers still moving on the fret board to create the vibrato as the music slowly fades away into the starry night.

“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.”

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