Tiffany Sly Lives Here Now. Dana Davis L.

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       6

      A year ago, Akeelah and I won tickets in a radio contest to a Zayn Malik concert. Neither one of us actually listens to Zayn, couldn’t name a song if we wanted to. But rather than sell the coveted seats, we decided to go. We’d planned to make fun of all the screaming ten-year-olds at Chicago’s United Center Stadium and take pictures of the ones sobbing uncontrollably. We were also going to start an Instagram page to upload the photos and call it @ZaynMalik_LostConsciousness. But here’s what ended up happening instead—some older girls sitting next to us smuggled in water bottles filled with vodka and Keelah and I got crazy, stupid drunk with them. The kind of drunk where your speech is slurred and you can’t walk straight. And then you get sick and vomit. A lot.

      Not only was I grounded for weeks when Mom picked us up and watched us clumsily stumbling to the car, I discovered something much worse than throwing up all night hovered over a toilet. The day after throwing up all night hovered over a toilet. My hangover was so bad Mom had to rush me to Urgent Care for dehydration. But she wasn’t angry. Instead, she calmly explained (while I was clutching my stomach in the fetal position) that life has a special way of giving you exactly what you’ve earned.

      But if Mom was right and life gives you what you earn, what on earth did I do to earn this? Because here I am alone, in a big new, cold house that is maybe not even mine, sitting on a towel on the hard floor, surrounded by piles of extension hair. Thirty braids taken down and about one hundred left to go.

      Dear Life, please help me earn something better.

      “Keelah? Did you hang up?”

      “I’m still here. Googling.”

      “What’d you find out?”

      “Dude. Jehovah’s Witnesses believe some weird stuff.”

      “Like?”

      “Well, for starters, they believe only people God approves of get eternal life.”

      “That leaves you out.”

      “Please. You’ll be burning in hell right along with me.”

      “Ahh, yes, the fiery pits of hell. Just down the road from Mount Doom.”

      “Also, Christ is Michael the Archangel.”

      I finish unraveling a new braid and toss it onto the floor with the rest. “What’s that mean?”

      “Like I know? Tiff, why didn’t you Google your new dad before you flew a billion miles away to live with him?”

      “I wanted to be surprised.”

      “Well, surprise. You’ve just joined a cult.”

      “It’s not a cult! Besides, I’m not joining their church.” I unravel another braid. “Hey. Can you Google Xavior Xavion for me?”

      “Who is that? The cult leader? I saw a documentary once about a crazy man who made all his cult members drink poisoned Kool-Aid. Don’t drink any Kool-Aid at their church.”

      “Keelah.” I toss the unraveled braid onto the floor. “Just see if he has a Facebook page. Xavior Xavion.”

      A moment passes before Keelah says, “Got him. Is he related to you or something? He sorta looks like you.”

      My head instantly aches. I grab it to dull the pain. “For real? You really think that?” The sound of the doorbell rings loudly, echoing throughout the house. I snatch my cell from the floor and take Keelah off speakerphone. “It’s the doorbell.”

      “Oh. Call me back.”

      “But my hair? What if it’s somebody important?”

      The doorbell rings again.

      “Girl, go answer the door! Throw your towel around your head and go. Call me back.” She hangs up.

      I toss my cell onto the bed and stand to brush the hair from my Grateful Dead tank and yellow shorts. The doorbell rings again. I grab the towel from the floor and shake off more hair. Gonna have to find a vacuum before everybody gets home. I picture how Margaret would react if she saw her clean wood floors at this very moment. She’d politely tilt her head; her crazy eyes would get crazier. “Tiffany, sweetheart, my dear, my love,” she’d say with eerie calm. “We do not put fake extension hair on hardwood. That’s a bad image for Pumpkin.”

      I wrap the towel around my head turban-style and quickly head downstairs.

      “Who is it?” I peek through the tiny hole on the door in the foyer and see an eye staring back at me.

      “Nevaeh? Heaven? Is that you?”

      “No. Sorry. It’s... Can I help you?”

      “I got a bunch of your mail by accident again. Can you open the door? Is that London? It’s Jo McKinney from across the street.”

      I nervously unlock the door, slowly pulling it open to see a nice-looking black woman with supershort, perfectly styled hair. She’s dressed casually in yoga pants, a loose-fitting shirt that hangs off one shoulder and flip-flops.

      “Who are you?” she asks warmly. “Look at that skin. You’re adorable.”

      Her skin is dark brown like mine, but made up with lots of perfectly applied makeup: thick foundation, eye shadow, cheeks dusted with pale pink, long lashes and gloss heavily coated on top of her full lips.

      “Thanks.” I fidget, uncomfortable. Whenever people call me pretty I honestly wonder why. I’m not like London. The kind of girl guys go out of their way to talk to and compliment. No guys ever compliment or even try to talk to me. Last year a bunch of people of color with first honors and academic excellence had to attend a special dinner with the principal. And one of the boys—I think his name was Devin Doheny or Devin Doohickey—anyway, he declared Alaysia Miller the prettiest girl at the table and all the other boys agreed. Alaysia Miller’s mixed. Light-skinned, with long curly hair. But then Shante Peterson, who’s dark brown like me, told Devin if Alaysia Miller is the prettiest at the table, then he’s the ugliest and should shut the hell up before she punched him in the throat.

      “What’s your name, sweetie?”

      “Tiffany.” I see the pile of mail she has in her hands. “I can take that.” She reaches out to hand me the mail but somehow during our exchange it all slips, splaying onto the concrete of the front doorstep. “No worries. I’ll get it.” I bend to retrieve the mail and my towel unravels and slides off. Braids tumble loosely around my shoulders. “Omigosh!” I try to grab the towel as quickly as I can but she’s stepping on part of it with her flip-flop.

      “You takin’ down braids?”

      “Yes. Could you move your foot please?”

      She СКАЧАТЬ