Dana Davis - Tiffany Sly Lives Here Now

He smiles. “You did very good, Tiffany. Now, better call your mom and let her know you arrived safely.”

I nod graciously as the plane comes to a halt, standing to gather my carry-on luggage from the overhead space, feeling so damned lucky to be alive.

* * *

“Grams, I’m here. I’m in LA.” I clutch my cell in one hand as I weave through the hundreds of travelers moving through LAX, my well-worn guitar case decorated with old ’80s rock band stickers slung over my shoulder, dragging my small carry-on behind me.

“See? God is good. I was praying for you the whole time, Tiff.”

I’m glad Grams can’t see me roll my eyes.

“How was the flight?”

Awful. “Nice.”

“I bet it was. How did you like first class?”

Not sure. My eyes were closed the whole time. “Classy.”

“Don’t be intimidated by all that class. Just be yourself.”

“Grams, who else would I be?”

“The Tiffany I know is funny and brave and...”

While Grams drones on and on about how awesome she thinks I am, I imagine my new dad standing at the base of the elevator. He’ll be waiting with a bouquet of roses to whisk me away so we can do father-daughter things like, um, whatever it is that fathers and daughters do, I guess.

My phone vibrates and I see My New Dad scroll across the caller ID. I nearly jump out of my Converse sneakers. “Shoot. It’s him. Grams, I’ll call you when I get to the house.” I tap the button to switch calls before Grams has a chance to respond. “Hey!” I hop onto the escalator, my stomach an epicenter of nervous energy, butterflies dancing wildly. “Are you here?”

“Tiffany. I—I’m so sorry. I have to make an emergency run.” His voice is deep and husky just like I remember from our last phone conversation. Such a dad voice.

“That’s okay. I don’t mind waiting.”

At the base of the stairs, I notice men in black suits holding up strips of cardboard or iPads with names on them. One of the men holds a strip of paper with my name. We make eye contact and he smiles.

“It would be too long. I had to send a driver,” he explains. “I feel terrible.”

“No, no. It’s okay. Not a big deal.” I try to focus on happy thoughts like my therapist told me to do when disappointment arises.

Skittles.

Rainbows.

Care Bears.

Popsicles dipped in sugar.

“This shouldn’t take long, Tiffany. I can’t wait to see you.”

“Me, too...” I pause. Why can’t I say it yet? Dad. The word sounds so foreign rolling off my tongue, like an exotic language I’ve learned but haven’t earned the right to speak yet. “I can’t wait.”

“It’s a long drive to Simi Valley from LAX. I’ll definitely make it home before you get there.”

“It’s long?” I swallow. “How long?”

“I’d say about an hour at least. Depending on traffic, maybe two.”

Two hours?

“Tiffany, is that okay? Because if it’s not I can—”

“No, it’s fine,” I lie. “Not a problem at all.”

“Great. See you soon.”

I stuff my cell into the back pocket of my jeans and take a frustrated step off the escalator, moving toward the man who holds my name on a strip of paper. He’s short and round with jet-black hair and dark eyes.

“Tiffany?”

I nod and exhale. He looks safe-ish.

“Wow,” he declares, looking up at me since I’m kinda towering over him. “How tall are you, anyway?”

“I’m five-eleven.”

“That’s pretty tall. Or maybe I’m just pretty short.” He cracks up at his own joke. “Name’s Juan. You got more luggage?”

“Nope. This is it.”

“Cool. You hungry? Wanna stop and get a burger or somethin’?”

I shrug.

“How ’bout some In-N-Out?”

“What’s that?”

His face lights up like a cherub. “What’s In-N-Out?” He lifts my carry-on like it weighs half a pound. “C’mon, kid. Your life will never be the same after today. Want me to take the guitar, too? I don’t mind.”

I run my fingertips over one of the Rolling Stones stickers displayed on the plastic case and pull protectively at the strap. “Nah. I got it.”

He nods. “Follow me.”

* * *

I stuff the last handful of greasy, salt-sprinkled fries into my mouth, then slowly sip from a straw, letting the icy-cold vanilla shake linger on my tongue for a bit, afraid to swallow for fear of officially ending my first In-N-Out experience.

“How you doing back there?” Juan asks as he weaves through heavy Los Angeles traffic.

“Hmm?” I say sleepily, deep in an In-N-Out-induced state of euphoria.

Juan laughs. “See? Told ya. Life changed forever.”

My phone chimes. A text from my best friend, Akeelah, says: You is kind. You is smart. And you is important.

I text back: And you is a dork.

“You from Chicago, kid?” Juan asks.

“Yes, sir.”

Juan whistles. “Chi-Town, eh? How long you stayin’?”

I shrug. “Forever, I hope.”

Another text from Keelah: I Googled your new school. It’s less than 1% African American. Dooooood. WTF does that even mean? What if you’re the only black girl there? #weaksauce #yournewschoolsucks.

I text back: I’m not black. I’m brown, you moron.

“I lived in LA my whole life and ain’t no place better,” Juan testifies, swerving onto an overpass. Within a moment we’re on the freeway, speeding across pavement so fast the foreboding returns.

Thump-thump, thump-thump: This guy is not a good driver.

Thump-thump, thump-thump: You’d be better off in a tin can with wings.

I grip the side of the car door as another text from Keelah comes through: Brown’s boring. You’re a mocha Frappuccino.

Me: More like a shot of espresso.

Akeelah: LOL. Then I’m a double shot!

“You ever been to Simi Valley before?”

“No.” I look up and notice Juan’s hands are not at ten and two like universally suggested. More like one hand at six o’clock, while the other hand sort of hovers in midair, fiddling with buttons on the dash. He’s also not a safe distance away from the car in front of him. I check out the speedometer. Seventy-five miles per hour and tailgating. Dread crawls up my spine. What if the car in front of him slams on the brakes?

Thump-thump, thump-thump: We’re going to crash for sure.

Thump-thump, thump-thump: You might make tomorrow’s news, after all.

I picture a beautiful newscaster. Hair freshly straightened and superpolished under studio lights. Makeup so perfectly applied she looks like a sculpture from a wax museum: “A sedan crashed in Los Angeles last night, killing a sixteen-year-old girl. Thankfully, the driver survived uninjured.” Then she’ll smile. “And in other news, the Powerball is up to a billion!”

“You excited?” Juan snaps me out of my morbid fantasy.

“A little.” He switches lanes again, rapidly accelerating to tailgate a new car. “I think I’m more nervous than anything.”

“Why you moving all the way to Simi Valley? It’s freakin’ hot out there, man.”

“I’m moving in with my...dad.”

“He a nice guy?”

I glance out the window, palm trees whizzing by in a dark blur as we speed along. I check the speedometer again. Eighty mph! “I dunno. I never met him. Hey, could we slow down?”

I see Juan’s big brown eyes expand in shock through the rearview mirror. “Never met your dad? You shittin’ me?”

“It seems like we’re going really fast.” I close my eyes and grip the handle on the car door. Not like I’m gonna open it and jump out or anything. I mostly do it in hopes that it will slow the insane rhythm of my heart so I won’t have a heart attack and die. But with my eyes closed and my hand clenched tightly around the door handle, the car feels like it’s moving faster than ever. “Omigosh, please slow down, sir. Please!” I’m screaming. I’m aware. The cat’s out of the bag. I am officially no longer a supercool black girl from Chicago who can play the shit out of the guitar slung over her shoulder. I am now, officially, a freak.