Tiffany Sly Lives Here Now. Dana L. Davis

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СКАЧАТЬ “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.

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