Dana Davis - Tiffany Sly Lives Here Now

“I’ll take your stupid test.” I handed him back the envelope and photos. “My grandma doesn’t need to know about this.”

“You’re a minor. You’ll need to be accompanied by your legal guardian. We should let my lawyer facilitate.”

“Anthony is my legal guardian. What if I gave you his info?” I pulled nervously at my braids and wondered how this would play out if I gave Xavior fake info. Like the number and address to the Walmart on North Avenue. “You can serve him instead. Save my grandma all this drama.”

Xavior nodded. “That’s fair. I can do that, Tiffany. On October 14. That’s seven days from tomorrow.”

I nodded and repeated to myself, “Seven days.”

* * *

“You seem awfully quiet back there. You okay, kiddo?” Juan asks, snapping me back to my current reality. Sia has been replaced by a new singer. I don’t know who it is, but the lyrics, about a bash and some cash and...a hash? It’s making my head spin.

“I’m okay,” I reply. “But is there any way you could change the station?”

“I asked what kind of music you like. You never answered.”

“I like Black Sabbath, Deep Purple, Led Zeppelin, Jimi Hendrix—”

“Sweet.” Juan nods. “Rock and roll it is.”

Traffic is getting much heavier now, so the SUV is slowing to a crawl, saving both our lives for sure. Pearl Jam’s “Jeremy” blasts through the car speakers. Nice. I lean my head back against the seat and close my eyes.

2

“Wake up, kiddo. Almost there.”

I yawn lazily and rub my tired eyes.

A young security guard steps out of a guard gate as Juan pulls up to the entrance of what appears to be a large gated community.

“Dropping off,” Juan says to the security guard, handing him his driver’s license.

The guard takes a moment to check his computer. He hands Juan back the driver’s license, glances at me through the lowered window and waves. I wave back.

“Enjoy your day, sir,” the security guard says as the tall wrought iron gates slowly open.

I peek out the window and catch my breath, mesmerized by the extravagance of the houses. Correction: these aren’t houses—they’re mansions.

Juan whistles, looking just as mesmerized as I am, slowing the SUV while scoping out the expensive homes. “Your dad a doctor or somethin’?”

“Actually, yeah. He is.”

“Doctor, lawyer, oil tycoon, czar. Gotta be something fancy to live in a place like this.”

We continue on, deeper and deeper into the elaborate housing development, finally turning into a large cul-de-sac. Juan pulls into one of the driveways and clicks off the engine.

I stuff my hand into my front pocket and grab my tiny box of wild berry Tic Tacs, shake a few into my mouth and yank my long braids out of the bun on top of my head, pulling them neatly over one shoulder. Juan heads toward the trunk of the car and I smooth out my gray Guns N’ Roses T-shirt, leaning forward to check my face in the front mirror, suddenly regretting my decision not to wear makeup today. Everyone always tells me my dark brown skin doesn’t need makeup. But still, what if my dad doesn’t think I’m pretty enough? I dig around the other front pocket for my tube of cherry-scented lip gloss, add a quick coat, reach over to free my guitar from where it’s strapped into the seat beside me and carefully sling it back over my shoulder before hopping out onto the cobblestone of the massive driveway.

“Dropping your bag off inside!” Juan hollers over his shoulder as he casually moves toward the front door.

A surprising burst of loneliness creeps into my heart as I allow the evening breeze to warm my skin, icy cold from the air-conditioning that was blasted in the car. This place is classy. Fancier than anything I’ve ever been privileged to. Shouldn’t I be happy? It’s like I’ve won the jackpot. Plucked from the inner cities of Chicago and flown first-class to high society and all I can think about is my neighborhood back home. We lived in a high-rise apartment building with a smelly, wonky elevator in desperate need of a safety inspection. Every day after school, I’d risk my life in that stupid thing, cuz there was no way I was climbing twelve flights of stairs, and then I’d walk across a faded and dirty carpet in a poorly lit hallway to apartment 1203. Mom was sometimes home from work. She’d be yapping on the phone, greet me with a cheerful wave and point to a plate of snacks she’d left for me on the table. And even though she’d turn her back to me, a clear signal that she was deep into conversation and didn’t want to be bothered, I’d hug her and lay my chin on her shoulder and ask, “Did you miss me?”

She’d laugh and reply, “Tiffany, my dear, how can I miss you when you’re always here?”

I picture myself back in Chicago, stepping out of the cold into a local 7-Eleven. I’d approach a clerk, safe behind thick bulletproof glass.

“Here you go, sir.” I’d slide my winning ticket under the opening in the glass.

He’d scratch his head in confusion as he read the numbers. “Miss, you just won ten million dollars.”

I’d nod, well aware. “You can keep it. I’m going home.”

I smile at the thought. Across the street, a black Hummer is parked in a fancy, lit-up driveway, with a bumper sticker that reads My Kid Gets All A’s at Curington College Prep for Boys and Girls... What’s Yours Do?

Curington College Prep—it’s the name of the school I’m set to attend. I got good grades at my last school. Mostly As. A few Bs. But that was only the neighborhood public school on the west side. Not a private college preparatory. Though Akeelah says that all high schools are college preps and Curington only has a long, pretentious name so rich people will feel better giving them all their money.

“Think about it, though,” she explained to me while helping me pack a few weeks ago. “For forty thousand dollars a year, you ain’t gonna send your kid to a school called West. Trust me, all the high schools with one-syllable names...free. Them expensive schools got long-ass names.”

I inhale, drinking in the sounds of the peaceful neighborhood: crickets chirping from somewhere deep in the bushes, the beep-beep of a truck some distance away, the yap of an angry, undoubtedly harmless puppy.

“Well, well, well...look what the cat dragged in straight from LAX.”

I turn to face a young, smiley-faced girl with a mouth full of silver braces and pale blue eyes. She has very light brown skin and wild, curly hair pulled into a bouncy ponytail. She wears a beautiful yellow tunic dress that cuts off an inch or two above her knees, showing off her long legs and bare feet.

“Excuse me?” I’m suddenly self-conscious about my casual attire: boot-cut jeans with strategically placed holes in the knees, brown leather wraparound bracelets on both wrists and scuffed black-and-white Converse sneakers.

“Cool hair.” She reaches out and grabs a few of my braids, massaging them curiously with her fingers. “Are these extensions?”

“They are, yeah.”

“Sweet! I’ve always wanted extensions but my dad won’t let me.” She smiles as she scans my wardrobe with a slightly judgmental smirk. “Guns N’ Roses? Shouldn’t you be wearing, like, a Lil Wayne T-shirt?” She giggles. “Totally kidding. I’m Nevaeh. It’s heaven spelled backward, which I personally think is so dumb. Why would anybody spell heaven backward, right? People think it’s pronounced Nah-vee-ah. But it’s Nah-vay-ah. I’m only twelve now, but when I get older, I’m legally changing my name to something simple like Jane. Do I look like my name could be Jane?”

My eyes bulge. Nevaeh talks fast. “I’m sorry...what?”

“Hey? Do you need a tip or something?” Nevaeh calls out as Juan exits the house and moves toward the SUV. “I can run in and get some cash from my mom. She’s out back setting up.”