“I’ve got seven days to come clean to my new dad. Seven days to tell the truth...”

For sixteen-year-old Tiffany Sly, life hasn’t been safe or normal for a while. Losing her mom to cancer has her a little bit traumatized and now she has to leave her hometown of Chicago to live with the biological dad she’s never known.

Anthony Stone is a rich man with four other daughters—and rules for every second of the day. Tiffany tries to make the best of things, but she doesn’t fit into her new luxurious, but super-strict, home—or get along with her standoffish sister London. The only thing that makes her new life even remotely bearable is the strange boy across the street. Marcus McKinney has had his own experiences with death, and the unexpected friendship that blossoms between them is the only thing that makes her feel grounded.

But Tiffany has a secret. Another man claims he’s Tiffany’s real dad—and she has only seven days before he shows up to demand a paternity test and the truth comes out. With her life about to fall apart all over again, Tiffany finds herself discovering unexpected truths about her father, her mother and herself, and realizing that maybe family is in the bonds you make—and that life means sometimes taking risks.

DANA L. DAVIS is an actress who lives and works in LA. She has starred in Heroes, Prom Night, Franklin & Bash and 10 Things I Hate About You. Dana is a classically trained violist and the founder of the Los Angeles-based nonprofit Culture for Kids LA, which provides inner-city children with free tickets and transportation to attend performing-arts shows around LA County. She currently appears in the animated series Star vs. the Forces of Evil. Tiffany Sly Lives Here Now is her debut novel.

Tiffany Sly Lives Here Now

Dana L. Davis

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018

Copyright © Dana L. Davis 2018

Dana L. Davis asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © May 2018 ISBN: 9781474077170

For Uwe,

Because you believed in Tiffany...

And you believe in me.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Acknowledgments

About the Publisher

1

“You did good, miss. You can open your eyes. We’re landing.”

I nod, eyes sealed shut. We’ve landed. That’s what I’m waiting to hear. I tighten my grip on the armrests, as if somehow this plane landing safely is contingent upon the act. The man beside me gives my shoulder a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

“It’s so loud,” I whisper. “Is that normal?”

“Perfectly.” His voice is calm and composed despite the fact that we’re defying gravity, soaring through the air in a fancy-shaped tin can with wings. “I never did catch your name.”

“It’s Tiffany,” I mumble, lowering my head, bracing myself for impact. “Tiffany Sly.” What if the plane skids off the runway and catches fire? That happens. I saw it once on CNN. A commuter plane skidded off the runway, rammed into a chain-link fence and struck a tree. The tree ripped off the propeller. The propeller...exploded. I should’ve listened to the captain’s speech. Now I don’t know what to do in case our propeller explodes.

“How old are you, Tiffany?”

“I’m—” I pause. The plane’s vibrating and shaking now. “Did you feel that? Is that normal?”

The gentleman’s heavy hand rests on my shoulder just long enough to give it another comforting squeeze. “Completely. We’re landing. Only a minute more.”

“But I think something’s wrong.” I contemplate opening my eyes. I need to see the looks of terror on the other people’s faces. Then it would all make sense—this intense foreboding bubbling inside my chest, in rhythm with the beat of my heart.

Thump-thump, thump-thump: We’re not landing.

Thump-thump, thump-thump: We’re crashing!

“How old are you?”

“I’m...fifteen. I mean, sixteen. Today’s my birthday.”

“How wonderful. Happy birthday, Tiffany. First time flying?”

“Yes... I mean, no. I flew once...when I was a kid. But... I don’t remember. I was with my mom then.”

“And where’s your mom today?”

“Omigosh! Shouldn’t we be slowing down? It feels like we’re going faster. Is that normal, too?”

“It only feels that way.” His voice is so serene. Like he’s totally unaware that if I let go of these two armrests, this plane would essentially veer off course and explode. “In a few seconds, the wheels of the plane are going to make contact with the ground. Have you ever been on a roller coaster, Tiffany?”

“I hate roller coasters.” I lurch forward. “What just happened?” I plant my feet in front of me and push back so that I’m pressed firmly against the seat.

“Tiffany, we’re on the ground. Seconds more and you can breathe easy.”

The whooshing sound of the airplane as it speeds across the runway pavement both comforts and terrifies me. Only a moment more and I can stop desperately clutching these armrests and all these people will owe me a big fat thank-you.

Thank you, Tiffany, they’ll all exclaim. If you hadn’t kept your eyes shut this entire flight and squeezed those armrests the way you did, we would never have made it into Los Angeles.

“Open your eyes,” the man says softly. I hear the captain’s voice through the airplane speakers over the rustle of passengers shifting about. “We’re here.”

I open my eyes and sigh inwardly. The plane is still moving but slowly. We’re on the ground—alive. None of us will be on tomorrow’s news as the unlucky bunch aboard the doomed 747 from Chicago to Los Angeles. There won’t be an article with photos of smiling people and short descriptions of lives tragically cut too short trending on Facebook.

I turn to the man who was gracious enough to relinquish his armrest for our four hours together, truly seeing his face for the first time. His bright blue eyes are an alarming contrast to the tiny portion of night sky I can see through the small plane window. And his face matches the tone of his voice, warm and wise.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Hope I didn’t ruin your flight.”

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.

He slows down enough to make me exhale appreciatively. “There. I’m doing fifty-five. Better?”

I grab my head to dull the ache. Deep breath in. Hold it. Exhale.

Puppies.

Fairies.

Samwise Gamgee.

“You okay, kid?”

I pop open an eye to see Juan’s concerned face through the rearview mirror. Actually, less concerned, more... WTF is wrong with this kid. “Sorry. I get scared in cars.”

“Man, that’s an understatement! But check it. Never had an accident if that makes you feel better.”

“It does.”

“Where’s your mom?”

Back home, everyone’s been supercourteous, avoiding the M-word like the plague. I contemplate making up a story. She’s an astronaut in cryo on a two-year mission to Saturn? A sniper on a covert operation for the US government?

Juan leans on the horn, then throws both hands in the air in frustration, leaving the steering wheel completely unmanned, causing the car to veer ever so slightly to the right. I grip the door handle once again. “Get off your damn phone!” Juan screams through a closed window. “Freakin’ smartphones gonna be the death of everybody.” He settles on a station and rap music blares through the speakers. “What’s your favorite kind of music?”

“I dunno.” Of course I know my favorite kind of music. But how can I think straight and form clear sentences when Los Angeles’s all-time-worst driver is at the wheel. I only wanna make it to Simi Valley. Alive. That’s my favorite kind of music—the kind you listen to when you’re not dead.

Juan places one hand back at six o’clock and I breathe a sigh of relief. “You like Rihanna? Or Katy Perry or somethin’ like that?”

Not really. “Sure, that’s fine.”

He settles on a new station. Sia’s sultry belt blares through the speakers and Juan bobs his head and sings along to the hit song “Chandelier.”

I ponder swinging from a chandelier. Has Sia tried it? Probably not. I’m pretty sure any attempt at swinging from an actual chandelier would result in a broken neck. A text comes in from Akeelah: All jokes aside. You’re my best friend and I know you’re gonna be okay.

I want to tell Keelah the truth. To explain to my best friend in the world the secret that’s ready to burst out of me and erupt like a spray of confetti from a confetti cannon. She’s my best friend. She wouldn’t judge me, or my mom. She’d understand. She’d comfort me. Know all the right things to say. The words to soothe my soul. I desperately want to confide in her, but I text a bunch of smiling poop emoticons instead.

He said the court order would be delivered on October 14. That’s seven days from now. I’ve got seven days to come clean to my new dad. Seven days to tell the truth. I think back to Xavior—to the moment he showed up at our door and shook up my already very shaken-up world.

I was pulling a sweatshirt over my head and getting ready to head over to Keelah’s house when there was a knock on our apartment door.

“Who is it?” I asked, skirting around the mounds of stacked moving boxes in our unit. Searching for my metro pass among the mess.

“Xavior Xavion,” the deep voice said from the other side of the door.

“Who’s that?” I peeked through the peephole and saw a kind-looking black man on the other side, clutching a bouquet of sunflowers. He looked sane enough, so I opened the door. “Yeah?” He was tall. Basketball-player tall. The kind of tall where you have to lower your head so you don’t bump it on entryways when you move from room to room.

He beamed. Like he was gazing upon a bright, shiny new BMW. “Hi, Tiffany. Do you remember me?”

“Um...”

“We met at your mom’s funeral?”

“Oh! That’s right. Nice to see you again.” I didn’t remember him. There were so many people I met on the worst day of my life. I glanced at the clock on the wall. I needed to hurry up if I wanted to catch the 12:20 bus.

“Would it be okay if I came in?” He handed me the flowers.

“Thank you.” I set them carefully on a counter by the door. “But my grams is at church and—”

“Say no more. I should come back when she’s here. In fact, that would be better. That way I can speak with both of you.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Speak with us about what?”

Xavior paused for a moment and rubbed his bald head. “Tiffany, I think I might be your father.”

My jaw dropped. Like literally. And I stood there for a few seconds with my mouth hanging open, staring at him, probably almost drooling on myself. “Are you crazy?” I finally managed to ask.

He laughed and said, “Probably,” in a way that was so similar to me it made my entire body tense. His skin was dark brown. Just like mine. In fact, he sort of reminded me of...me.

“Your mother and I. Well, we dated. I mean, we dated about sixteen years ago.”

“So? That doesn’t prove anything.”

“We dated.” He sighed. “It might not prove anything but it certainly begs the question. Wouldn’t you agree?”

I did agree. A fact that made me wanna slam the door in Xavior’s face and run around the apartment wailing at the top of my lungs like Harry Potter’s spoiled cousin, Dudley Dursley. I didn’t want to be a victim of some sort of cliché, baby-daddy, Maury Povich–esque DNA testing. My mom was better than this. I was better than this.

“Look, I can come back when Juanita’s home.”

“No! Don’t come back here. You can’t say these things to my grandma. She’d have a heart attack and die.”

“I thought you’d be happy.”

“Why did you think that?”

“Don’t you want to know who your father is?”

“Pretty sure you’re confused. I already know who my father is. Anthony Stone is my father. That’s what my mom told me, so that’s the story I’m sticking to. And I’m moving in with him. Tomorrow.”

He rubbed his head again, then held up an envelope. “Tiffany. There are letters, pictures—it proves your mother and I were a couple. The dates match up. Look, I’ll come back. I want to speak with Juanita about you and me taking a DNA test. I already spoke with a lawyer and—”

“Omigosh! You seriously can’t just show up here like this, with an envelope of photos, and expect me to go take a DNA test with you.”

“Tiffany, please understand.”

“Dude, stop calling me Tiffany. Stop acting like you know me or something.”

“If you don’t do it, my lawyer will make you. On October 14, Juanita will be served court documents. You’ll be required to submit to DNA testing. Look, I’d really like to speak with her. I’ll come back later.”

“No!” I grabbed my head for fear it would spontaneously combust and Grams would find my exploded head guts in the hallway when she came home from Bible study. “This would... I mean... Mom just... Grams is a wreck, okay? Please. This would destroy her. Do you really want to destroy an old lady who’s mourning the loss of her only child? Can’t you just go away? Like forever?”

“I want to know if you’re mine, Tiffany. I deserve to know. Deserve the opportunity to be a father. I think I’d be a good one.”

I snatched the envelope from his hands and ripped it open. Pictures of Xavior and my mom. Holding hands. Kissing. Wrapped in a loving embrace. Laughing together.

I leaned against the doorway for support, fearing my knees would buckle and I’d fall backward. “My mom’s not here to defend herself. Do you understand how unfair this is?” I asked so softly I wondered if he could even hear me.

Apparently, he did hear me because he replied, “I know it’s unfair. But what should I do, Tiffany? Tell me what to do.”

I looked up at him standing so tall and statuesque and adult, asking teenage me what he should do. How the hell should I know?

“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.”

“Already included with purchase.” Juan tosses me another toothy grin. “Triple five. Eleven, eleven.”

“Huh?” I reply.

“My number. Easy to remember, right? You find yourself needing a ride, don’t hesitate to dial it. Oh, and every time you eat an In-N-Out burger, remember it was me who gave it to you first. Good luck to you, kiddo.”

He hops into the car and backs onto the street, leaving Nevaeh and me standing alone on the cobblestone driveway underneath the light of the full moon.

“In-N-Out?” Nevaeh frowns. “Don’t tell my mom you already ate. She’ll freak. She cooked a feast.”

“Who’s your mom?”

“My mom?” She raises an eyebrow. “My mom is Dad’s wife.”

“My dad’s wife?”

“Our dad.”

I try not to show my surprise, though it’s a weak effort at best. Did Grams know my new dad had a wife? Another freakin’ kid?

“I don’t really see the resemblance,” Nevaeh declares with a shake of her head. “I mean...not just cuz you’re dark...”

My eyes narrow. “I’m not dark. I’m dark-skinned.”

“Oh, shiz! Did I offend you?”

“No, no,” I mumble, realizing by the apologetic tone of her voice that offending me truly wasn’t her intention. “It’s fine. I don’t like the word, is all. There are negative connotations attached to it in regards to African Americans. Like, dark is the opposite of light and associated with evil and—”

“Whoa.” She raises a hand to stop me. “Trust me, I get it. Sometimes people call me a mixed breed and I’m all—do I look like a puppy? Do I bark? I mean, I am a mixed breed. Of the humanoid species. But aren’t we all? Oh, and seriously. I really am sorry if I offended you. I want us to be more than sisters, you know? We should be friends.” She beams. “Isn’t this wild, though? The craziest thing to happen to our family, like, ever. And it’s your birthday! Omigosh, happy birthday! Can I hug you?”

She lurches forward and pulls me in for a hug.

“Give her some air, Nevaeh. God.”

Another girl moves across the driveway with a face that matches Nevaeh’s. She’s got the same braces, light skin, blue eyes and wild, curly hair pulled into a ponytail. A realization quickly sets in—they’re twins. Identical twins. I might have identical twin sisters?

“This is Heaven.” Nevaeh rushes to meet her. “Get it? Heaven and Nevaeh? So lame.” She groans. “Why couldn’t our parents have named us Mindy and Pindy or Lisa and Pisa?”

“Pindy and Pisa? Those aren’t even real names.” Heaven rolls her eyes. “I happen to like my name.”

“I like your name, too. It’s not spelled backward.” Nevaeh turns to me. “We have another sister. She’s fifteen and her birthday is exactly two months after yours. Isn’t that so awkward? Dad knocked up two women at the exact same time!”

“Another sister?” I croak.

“Nevaeh, shut up.” Heaven elbows her in the side. “You can’t get two women pregnant at the exact same time. It’s physically impossible.” She turns to me. “I’m so sorry about her. She has Tourette’s. And she never stops talking, so I hope you brought earplugs.”

“I do not have Tourette’s and I do so stop talking. I gotta sleep, don’t I?” Nevaeh says seriously. “Besides, I’m just stating the facts. Dad was obviously some sort of Casanova sixteen years ago. A real ladies’ man.” She makes a thrusting movement with her hips and Heaven covers her face in embarrassment.

Two women pregnant at the same time? Three sisters? What the hell did I just walk into? “I’m superconfused, you guys.”

“Of course you’re confused.” Nevaeh casually wraps her arm around Heaven’s shoulders like they’re the best of friends, which I imagine they are. “I told Mom sending a car was rude and would confuse you. But Dad was supposed to pick you up and then he couldn’t and Mom didn’t want to leave the party prep.”

Heaven elbows Nevaeh. “It was supposed to be a surprise! You ruined it!”

“Ruined what? We weren’t gonna jump out from behind furniture and scream, ‘Happy birthday.’”

A party? Now Nevaeh’s fancy dress makes sense. And Heaven is dressed up, too. Sort of. An ankle-length blue cotton tank dress blowing ever so softly in the evening wind.

As if reading my mind, Nevaeh grimaces. “You should change. Dad’s weird about holes in your clothes. In fact, I’d hide those jeans if I were you. Dinner attire is always Sunday chic. It’s the house rule.”

“We have lots of house rules,” Heaven adds.

I pull the leather strap on my case to take some of the weight off my shoulder.

“Cool guitar case. Is there a guitar inside it?” Nevaeh asks.

“Why would she be carrying an empty guitar case?” Heaven replies.

“It could be, like, a suitcase or something... I dunno. Whoa!” Nevaeh jumps excitedly. “You know who you look like? Janet Jackson!”

I sigh. It’s like I’m watching the twin Olympics and Heaven and Nevaeh are going for the gold. Can’t they be quiet for, like, one second so I can figure out what the hell is happening here?

“Janet Jackson is short and sporty. Tiffany’s tall and thin,” Heaven states simply. “She looks more like Kelly Rowland.”

“Holy shiz, you’re right!” Nevaeh squeals.

“Stop cussing!”

“I said shiz, Heaven.”

“Whatever. Shiz is stupid. You sound moronic.”

“Do you see the resemblance?” Nevaeh asks Heaven, sizing me up once again as I stand awkwardly in front of them.

“Totes,” Heaven replies, matter-of-fact. “The height. Thin like all of us. An air of awesome. I totally see it.”

Nevaeh nods. “Yeah, yeah. I see it now!”

They stare at me with matching smiles and a glorious moment of silence passes. I seize my opportunity to get a word in. “Just curious but...where is, um...?”

“Dad?” Heaven saves my lips from having to form the word on their own.

“Yes. Where is he?”

“Emergency C-section.” Heaven tosses out the words like it’s as normal as a walk in the park. “He’ll be home soon. Hopefully. Maybe.” She rolls her eyes.

“She ate In-N-Out,” Nevaeh whispers.

“Don’t tell my mom that. She’d die. She’s been cooking since 5:00 a.m.”

My phone buzzes in my back pocket. I grab it and check the caller ID. “It’s my grandma. Sorry, could you guys give me a second?”

Heaven pulls Nevaeh by the arm. “Take your time. We’ll see you inside, okay? Then we can show you your room. And you can change. And meet Pumpkin.”

“Pumpkin?”

“Yeah. Our sister.” Nevaeh smiles.

“Oh, right. Gotcha. Our...sister.”

I wait until the girls have disappeared inside the house and take a few steps toward the street as I swipe across the screen. “Did you know Anthony has other kids?” I whisper angrily into the phone. “He has kids!”

“So I’m assuming you made it safely?”

“Grams, did you hear me? I have sisters!”

“Sisters? I only knew about one, Tiffany. I swear. I only knew about London.”

“London? Who is that?”

“That’s the sister I knew about. London. She should be about your age.”

Then who the hell is Pumpkin? It hits me. “Oh, my gosh! Grams, there must be four!” I contemplate slamming my phone down onto the cobblestone driveway and watching the glass screen shatter into a hundred pieces, but that would only tame my rage for a few seconds and then, of course, leave me with a broken phone. Maybe there’s not four. Maybe London’s nickname is Pumpkin. But why would London’s nickname be Pumpkin? Maybe she looks like a Pumpkin?

“Tiffany, you have to believe me. I only knew about the one.”

“So why didn’t you tell me that? Would’ve been a nice heads-up!”

“It wasn’t my place to tell you.”

“Yes, it was!” My eyes burn as hot tears form. “You had no right to keep this from me. I feel totally blindsided.” I wipe a tear. What did I expect? That Anthony Stone would be sitting in a giant empty house waiting for me all by himself, feeling the way I’ve felt for all these years—incomplete? How could he possibly feel incomplete with a wife and four daughters? And how will he feel when he discovers I may not be his? With four daughters and a wife, my guess is...relieved.

As I’m pacing, the door to the house across the cul-de-sac swings open and a teenage boy steps out onto the neighboring driveway. He’s wearing a sweatshirt with the hood pulled low, concealing his face.

“Tiffany,” Grams says with a tired sigh. “Get to know your father. It’s his job to tell you the truth. The whole truth. You deserve it.”

“Grams—” I’m distracted as the boy looks up and our eyes meet. The sight of his face literally takes my breath away. It’s covered in some sort of heavy white makeup, pasty and drawn, his green eyes almost glowing under the light of the full moon.

“Yes, Tiffany? What’s going on? You all right?”

“Look... I’m here. I made it safely.”

“Please don’t be mad at me. I’m already hurting so much. I can’t have you mad at me.”

“I’m not mad. I’ll talk to you later.” I hang up before she has a chance to respond, my heart pounding, my mind a jumble of confusion.

The boy with the white face is still standing there, staring. He smiles and raises a gloved hand to wave at me. More than a bit spooked, I timidly wave back, then spin around and run inside the house.

3

Something’s attached itself to me.

I look down to see tiny hands wrapped around my leg and enough wild, curly hair to open up an exclusive wig store. “Um, excuse me? Hi.”

An adorable face emerges from the mass of auburn-tinted curls. She’s got pouty full lips, light brown skin and the same pale blue eyes as Heaven and Nevaeh.

“I Pumpkin. I two! Birthday, December 19.”

“Hi there, Pumpkin,” I say weakly as I realize Pumpkin wasn’t a nickname for London and there actually are four sisters. “I’m Tiffany.” Pumpkin’s wearing a pretty pink dress with lots of ruffles. She looks like a porcelain doll. Like she should be on sale at Toys R Us.

“I Pumpkin. I two years old.”

“Oh. Okay. I’m Tiffany. Again. I’m sixteen.”

“I Pumpkin! I two!”

“I’m sorry. She’ll do that all night.” A woman has emerged from around the corner. She quickly peels the little tyke from my leg and scoops her up. “Tiffany. Oh, it’s so nice you’re here!” she gushes. “I’m Margaret Stone. Anthony’s wife.” She leans forward to embrace me warmly and when she pulls away Pumpkin is attached to my hair, her tiny fingers gripping a handful of braids gleefully.

“Pumpkin! Let go! Sweetie, it’s not nice to pull hair,” Margaret scolds, and Pumpkin releases my hair. “Say sorry.”

“It’s okay. Didn’t hurt.” I fold my arms under my chest and hunch over, wishing for a moment I could be swallowed up by the shiny white marble floor of this massive foyer. I look around in awe, taking in the splendor of the mansion. There is a curved staircase, a stunning, three-tiered crystal chandelier as big as me and ceilings so high not even a long ladder on top of another long ladder could help you get anywhere close to the top.

“Pumpkin, say sorry,” Margaret says again, this time more sternly.

“I sorry!” Pumpkin shouts with a smile.

“Inside voice, Pumpkin.” Margaret gives me an apologetic tilt of the head. “I’m sorry, too.”

“No worries. It’s very nice to meet you, ma’am.”

“No, no. Please don’t call me ma’am. It makes me feel a hundred years old. Call me Margaret.”

Margaret’s white and maybe in her forties. She’s not really pretty as much as she is very put together. Conservative and classy looking with the kind of clothes that look expensive and meticulously tailored. A pearl-white, high-waist pencil skirt, silky black blouse and matching heels. Certainly not the kind of lady you’d find in my neighborhood back in Chicago. She’s got brown shoulder-length hair and dark eyes. Wait—dark eyes? Shouldn’t they be blue, like all the girls?

“Are you my sister?” Pumpkin screams.

“Pumpkin, not so loud! Inside voice.” Margaret turns back toward me. “This is Pumpkin. We call her Pumpkin because she was born with this wild auburn hair. Some sort of recessive gene, I guess.” She laughs nervously. Actually, nervous is an understatement. Margaret is literally shaking. “Your dad just called. Surgery went well. He should be home soon.” She sets the squirmy two-year-old down and Pumpkin races off around a corner like a magical gnome. “We’re going to eat on the terrace to celebrate. Made a cake from scratch. Got the fancy dishes out and everything.” I notice Margaret eyeing my attire.

“I didn’t know about the dinner. Sorry. I would’ve worn something nicer. I swear.”

“Oh, it’s fine. We bought you some beautiful dresses.”

“You guys bought me dresses? You didn’t have to do that.”

“Are you kidding? It’s so our pleasure. Do you like Anthropologie?”

I look into Margaret’s eyes. Stretched wide, furrowed brows, pained expression. Crazy eyes for sure. There’s also something about her that comes off as not quite genuine. She’s got a syrupy sweet voice and that polite tilt of the head. I imagine she’s one of those “nice” people that have a special way of getting on my nerves. Disgustingly polite, when you know, somewhere deep inside, they’re screaming, Fuck this shit!

“Never trust a person who’s always smiling,” Mom used to say when I was small.

“How come?” I’d reply in confusion.

“Because, Tiffany,” Mom said seriously. “Smiling is the easiest way to lie. And nobody, not even Jesus Christ himself, was always walking around happy and smiling.”

I shift, suddenly uneasy in Margaret’s presence. “Anthropology? Isn’t that the study of humans?”

Margaret smiles. “Oh, my goodness. How cute are you? No, no. The clothing store.”

“Oh!” My cheek starts to twitch and I scratch at it to hide the tremble. “Yeah, yeah. No doubt.” I make a quick mental note to Google Anthropology the clothing store.

“Can I get you anything to drink before dinner?”

“Pop? That’d be cool.”

“Pop?” Margaret gives me another polite tilt of the head. “I’m sorry?”

“That’s how they say soda in Chicago.” Nevaeh appears on top of the long, curving staircase, leaning casually over the railing, her voice echoing in the giant space. “But we don’t drink soda, Tiffany. Mom says it’s too much sugar.”

“It’s Pumpkin,” Margaret explains. “She’s on the autism spectrum and the sugar...it makes her a bit off balance.”

“It makes her crazy,” Nevaeh explains seriously. “I mean, she’s already crazy but sugar makes it worse.”

“Nevaeh, don’t say that. Please don’t refer to Pumpkin as crazy.”

Nevaeh shrugs. “Come up, Tiff! I can give you a tour of the house.”

“Sweetheart, I actually need you to help me set the table out back. Besides, Tiffany needs a chance to breathe and settle in. Right, Tiffany?”

A chance to breathe and settle in. I exhale appreciatively. “Yeah. That’s cool.”

“How about a tea? We have herbal tea,” Margaret offers. “It’s a rooibos and chamomile blend. It’s very nice.”

“Mom,” Nevaeh declares with an exasperated sigh as she moves down the staircase. “You think she wants a hot cup of herbal tea? She’s moving in, not retiring.”

I bite my lower lip to conceal a smile that’s trying to form. “Water’s good. I’ll take water.”

Margaret exhales, relaxing somewhat. “I’ll have one of the girls bring a bottle up to your room. I hope you like your room. And listen.” Margaret wrings her shaking hands together. “I’m so sorry about your mom.”

I lower my eyes again, pulling tightly on the strap of my guitar case, desperately hoping this part of the conversation ends quickly. “Yeah.”

“Me, too,” Nevaeh adds. “How did she die?”

“Nevaeh, sweetheart. That’s not polite.”

“Mom, omigosh! You say everything’s not polite. It’s a simple question.”

“Sorry,” I interrupt. “You say the room is upstairs?”

“Up the stairs, turn right. At the end of the hall. I had the driver put your carry-on right outside the door.” Margaret smiles brightly again. “I’m so glad you’re here, Tiffany. We’re so lucky to have you.” She gently grabs Nevaeh by the elbow and they both disappear around the corner.

* * *

My room. I blink in disbelief. It looks straight out of the pages of a Pottery Barn catalog. And bigger than our entire apartment back home. The floor is dark mahogany wood, and there’s a narrow wrought iron spiral staircase leading to a loft area. A loft. An actual loft in my bedroom. I slide my guitar off my shoulder and set it carefully beside the wall.

The room is almost in perfect symmetry. Two full beds with matching white upholstered headboards. Two white bureaus set on opposite sides of the room. Two nightstands with matching lamps shaped like pretty sunflowers that emit a soft, golden glow of light.

One bed is decorated with gray bedding: duvet cover, fluffy throw pillows and sheets. The other bed has yellow-colored bedding. I assume the gray side of the room is mine since gray is my favorite color. Like the Chicago sky. A city shrouded by a blanket of silvery gray clouds eight months out of the year.

“I love when the sun disappears,” I would tell my mom every October when the weather would start to turn. “Don’t you?”

But Mom would shake her head in horror. “Girl, please. When we win the lottery, we’re moving to Hawaii, where there is no winter.”

“No,” I’d plead. “When we win the lottery, let’s move to Ireland!”

Mom would scoff. “Ireland?”

“We’ll move to the countryside!” I’d say dreamily. “Have an herb garden and eat cakes and custards and take long walks in the rain!”

Mom would laugh. “Okay, Tiff. When we win the lottery, we will officially be the only African Americans living in Ireland. Lord help us.”

I run my fingers across the duvet cover. The bedding has that fresh-out-of-the-box look. Pristine and untouched. Like someone took a hot iron to each sheet and pillowcase. At the far end of the room are stunning glass French doors. I move toward them and stop to catch my breath. Our room is overlooking a tennis court. These people have a tennis court in their backyard?

I open one of the doors and step out onto the small balcony, admiring the nighttime view. The house is nestled at the base of a hill of giant boulders so the entire backyard perimeter is enclosed and completely private. To the left of the tennis court, I see a hint of their pool that seems to be cut from stone so it looks like it’s blending in with the rustic scenery of the hills. Bright fuchsia and purple lights glow from somewhere deep within the water and there’s a water slide! Amazing. This is better than the houses I’ve seen on MTV Cribs. How can they be this rich?

I step back inside and notice a vintage record player set beside a wicker basket filled with records on top of my dresser. I move to it and sort through the music.

Pink Floyd.

Led Zeppelin: Live at the Royal Albert Hall.

Jimi Hendrix.

James Brown.

Stevie Wonder.

The Rolling Stones.

The Beatles.

It’s almost all of my favorites! I flip open the Pink Floyd: The Dark Side of the Moon record and my jaw drops. A first-edition vinyl in almost perfect condition! It must’ve been so expensive and tough to find. I carefully set the record back among the others and run my trembling fingers across the antique record player.

“Be careful with that stuff.”

I turn. London? She’s got the same soft hair as Heaven and Nevaeh. Only hers isn’t in tight ringlets like theirs; it hangs in soft waves down her back. She’s also got a beautiful coffee-with-cream complexion, and the eyes—strikingly blue. I fidget with my leather bracelets, super-self-conscious. With full lips and that gorgeous black hair, all she needs is a pair of wings and a runway and she’s Adriana Lima.

She tosses me a cold bottle of water and I catch it clumsily. “Those records are my dad’s and so is the player, so please be careful.”

“Oh. I thought they were for me.”

“To borrow. My dad wouldn’t give them to you. Those are all his favorites.”

I’m stunned speechless for a moment and not because of the way she keeps stressing my dad. As if he’s hers and hers alone. It’s the music. All the music I’ve grown up listening to and loving. It’s proof! Of course he’s my dad. We like the same music? Genetic taste buds! I smile. Like really smile for the first time in a long time. Only London doesn’t smile back. She frowns. Deep and almost threatening.

She’s dressed in leggings and an oversize green sweatshirt that says Curington Girls Basketball in bright gold letters. She tosses her backpack onto the floor and pulls off the sweatshirt in one fell swoop, flinging it onto the bed, not even a trace of modesty as she stands before me in her pink cotton bra, showing off what probably doesn’t come from my dad’s side of the family: giant boobs.

“Sorry I’m late. I was studying for the SATs with a friend. So exhausting.”

“SATs? Isn’t it kind of early?”

“It’s my senior year.”

“You’re a senior? I thought you were fifteen?”

“I am. I skipped a few grades.”

“Oh. I didn’t know people could do that.”

“People skip grades all the time.”

“I guess. But I mean...you must be supersmart to do something like that.”

She shrugs as if yes, she is, but also, it’s not very interesting. “Dad says your transcripts were mostly As.”

“But I’m not all that smart. I study a lot.” I’m trying my hardest not to gape at her way-too-big-for-a-fifteen-year-old breasts. In fact, I’m focusing so intently on her eyes, my own are starting to cross, and now my vision is blurry. I’ve never given my A cups much thought. Every so often Keelah would tease me and declare that one day my children would starve to death if I didn’t find some sort of miracle grow, but it never much bothered me. Until now. In the presence of my new half-dressed, half-naked half sister, I suddenly feel inadequate and quite frankly...underdeveloped. Why are my boobs so freaking small?

“Weird you had to study so much. You went to, like, a basic, public school, right?”

Like a reflex, my face twists into a scowl. Basic? Who is she calling basic? “I’m not sure what you mean by that.”

“Curington’s upper-class curriculum is college level. No offense or anything. Don’t feel bad if your GPA drops.”

I untwist the cap off my bottle and take a tiny sip, swallowing hard as if I’m drinking a clump of sand. There doesn’t seem to be a lot of pretense with London. No polite tilts of the head. No syrupy sweet voice to match. Could she be my new mean girl?

I had a plan for this new phase of my life. It definitely included a mean girl who hated me but I wasn’t supposed to meet her until I started school on Monday. She’d call black people “coloreds” or “those people” as if we were a strange species from another planet and she’d ask me offensive questions like “What’s it like having nappy hair?” and “Can the sun make your skin darker or is that as dark as it gets?” And then she’d ask me if she could touch it.

“Hey.” I smile, attempting to lighten the sour mood. “I saw this boy outside—”

“Let me guess. White face, weird, serial-killer vibe?”

“Yeah. Does he always look like that?”

“Even at school. They tried to suspend him until he took it off, but his mom hired some fancy lawyer. Sued the school and won.” She rolls her eyes. “So, as long as girls can wear makeup, then Marcus McKinney can look like a crazed maniac.”

“Why does he wear it?”

“Lots of theories but no one really knows for sure. I think he wishes he was white or something. The whole family is weird. He has two moms. And they’re always having barbecues with their ’hood-rat relatives and blasting annoying music. Did you talk to him?”

“No. He only waved at me.”

“Seriously? Creepy. He never talks. I think he’s half-mute or something. One of his moms won the lottery. That’s the only reason they can afford to live here and send him to Curington. Curington’s expensive. I mean, now that Heaven, Nevaeh and you are at Curington—”

“Heaven and Nevaeh? They go to Curington, too?”

“It’s sixth through twelfth grade. You didn’t know that?”

“I didn’t.”

“Anyway. Now that you’re going, too, Mom and Dad are under a financial strain.”

“That makes me feel really bad.”

“I didn’t mean to make you feel bad,” she says with a half smile that gives me the feeling she really did mean to make me feel bad. She turns and unhooks her bra, tossing it onto the bed with a simple flip of the wrist as she heads toward a door under the spiral staircase and emerges a moment later wearing a fluffy white robe. “I’m gonna take a quick shower. Apparently, we have to dress up for this thing.”

I take another sip from my sand water.

“And some of the boxes you had shipped are in the closet. Could you unpack them? It’s giving me claustrophobia to be in there. So cluttered.”

“As soon as I can. Sorry to invade your room this way.”

“That’s life.”

She quickly pushes through another door in the room. I imagine it’s a bathroom because within seconds I hear the shower running.

If Mom were alive and I told her about my first run-in with London Stone, she would probably say, “At least she’s honest, Tiff. It’s the people who are always smiling. Those are the ones with all the problems. Give her some time. She’ll come around.”

I glance at our matching beds, an area rug separating the space between them.

Time. Perhaps we’ll have plenty of that.

Or maybe just seven days.

4

He’s here. Omigosh, he’s here. My hands are trembling as I swipe across my phone and scroll through my favorites list. I press the icon for Keelah Bo Beelah.

“Thank you for calling the Center for Disease Control. What horrible disease do you think you’ve contracted?”

“Akeelah!” I whisper. “Help me.”

“Why you whisperin’? Your new dad lock you in the basement?”

“I’m in my closet. I’m hiding.” I nervously flip my braids over my shoulder and yank on them.

“Weird. Did you forget to take your anxiety medication today or something?”

“No. I took it.”

“Then why you hiding in the closet?”

“I’m scared. Talk me through this. He’s home. He’s downstairs. I can hear him with the other kids. I hear him!”

“What other kids?”

“I have siblings. I think.”

“The fuck? What do you mean, you think?”

“Keelah. Help me out of the closet!”

“Girls or boys?”

“Four girls.”

“Dang! How come nobody told you that you had sisters?”

“Keelah, focus!”

“But I’m sayin’. Four sisters and nobody told you? That’s so lame.”

“Keelah! I’m crouched in a closet hiding from this man! Help me.”

“Oh! Okay, I got something that can help. Remember that episode of Maury Povich where the girl thought her baby-daddy was between her cousin, her boyfriend’s brother and her boyfriend? And remember how happy the boyfriend was when he found out the baby was his?”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes, girl! I love that one. That’s how happy your dad is gonna be when he sees you for the first time. He’s gonna be like that baby-daddy. He danced all over the stage and did a backflip.”

Unless he’s not the father. And suddenly all I can picture is the episode of Maury Povich I remember very clearly. Not the one Keelah’s talking about. In this one, Maury opened up a manila envelope and said, “Lula-Mae. Jim Bob is not the father.” And then Lula-Mae fell on the floor and started crying and Jim Bob screamed, “Fuck all y’all!” and ran off the stage.

“Keelah, I’m hanging up now.”

“Wait!” Akeelah exclaims. “What do your sisters look like?”

“They’re mixed.”

“Mixed? With what?”

“White.”

“Does that mean you have a white stepmom?”

“I guess so.”

There’s a long pause.

“Hello?” I whisper.

“Sorry. I’m, like, trippin’. White stepmom? What if she hates black people?”

“She has black kids!”

“Half. Not the same thing. You’re all black. She might hate fully black people. She might Cinderella you, Tiff. Be careful. You’ll be sleeping in the attic with the rats.”

“Her husband’s all black! Uggh. You’re not helping. I’m hanging up on you!”

And I do, angrily tossing the phone into the opposite corner of the closet. I scratch my back. This stupid Anthropologie dress is making me itch like crazy. I do not like Anthropologie. I look like Suri Cruise in this getup. I almost passed out cold when I saw the price tag Margaret must’ve mistakenly left on it. Four hundred and fifty dollars. For one dress?

I hear a knock coming from the bedroom. I stand, smooth out my study-of-humans dress and push through the closet door and back into the Pottery Barn room. Another soft knock and I’m stuck in an Edgar Allan Poe poem with someone faintly tap-tap-tapping gently at my chamber door. ’Tis maybe my dad and nothing more.

I clear my throat. “Come in.”

The door opens and suddenly he’s here. He doesn’t do a backflip or anything. He only stands there looking at me. He’s really tall and thin but sadly the similarities between us end there. He’s light-skinned. And the eyes. Fuck my life, for real. They’re blue.

“Tiffany Sly. You look so much like your mom. It’s as if I’ve gone back in time.”

I barely hear him. I’m too busy looking at his hair. It’s cut short but the texture looks soft and wavy. It couldn’t be possible, could it? He’s mixed?

He moves into the room and sits uncomfortably on the edge of the bed. “Tiffany, I owe you an apology.”

I can’t even muster up a sound. I can only manage to stand, frozen in place, staring at this man that I’m most certain is definitely, probably, maybe not my real dad.

“When your mother contacted me and told me she was sick, that was the first time she told me about you. I should’ve flown to Chicago right then to meet you.”

I’ve still got nothing. Still standing as frozen as an ice sculpture.

“But she made me promise. She had a plan, I suppose. Told me to go through with DNA testing but I didn’t want you to endure the stress of that process. I didn’t think it was fair. I know you’re mine. I don’t need some DNA test to prove that.”

“She asked you to take a DNA test?” So did Mom know? Is there really a possibility Anthony Stone is not my real father?

He nods. “Sometimes you know things. The heart doesn’t lie. I knew. I know. Jehovah knows I know.”

I raise an eyebrow. Jehovah?

“Right away I hired a lawyer. Right away I started making arrangements for you to be here with us after your mom passed away. It was what she wanted. It was what I wanted, too. And so here we are.”

“Yes.” I look down at the floor. “Here we are.” Then I cover my face with my hands and burst into tears.

“Please don’t cry, Tiffany,” Anthony begs. He stands and pulls me toward the bed and we sit side by side.

I wipe my eyes and runny nose with the back of my hand. Feeling so snotty and gross next to my statuesque-looking possible father. Cheeks twitching like crazy, palms sweaty, throat aching from all the guttural sobs.

“When did you find out about me, Tiffany?”

“Right before Mom moved into hospice care. She told me then. She said when she died she wanted me to live with you.”

“But before that. What did she tell you about your father?”

“Artificial insemination. She said she wanted a child and that’s how I was conceived. All my life that’s what I’ve thought.”

He lowers his head into his hand, rubbing his temples, and I take a quick moment to study his hair again. That soft, silky mixed-people hair. Not like my kinky hair, not even close. He looks up and his bright blue eyes stare into my dark brown ones. Uggh. We don’t look anything alike.

“We have to find a way to move on from here.” Anthony places a hand on my knee and I instinctively jerk away. He looks stunned. “Tiffany, I apologize if that made you uncomfortable.”

“I’m nervous,” I admit, feeling terribly guilty for shutting down his first attempt at affection. “I’m really sorry.”

“Would it make you feel more comfortable if Margaret were here with us? She wanted to give us privacy but I can have her come sit here while we talk.”

“No, no. I’m not scared of you or anything like that. I’m just...” Afraid you’re not my real dad. That’s how I’d like to end that sentence.

“I’m actually from Chicago, you know,” he says with a hint of embarrassment in his voice. Like being from Chicago is equivalent to being from Mordor. “Born and raised in Englewood. We moved to California when I was thirteen.”

I give him a curious look. Englewood has to be one of the worst neighborhoods in Chicago. Anthony doesn’t strike me as the Englewood type.

“Do you have any questions for me?” he asks. “Anything at all.”

Only about a thousand. I decide to start with one of the dumbest questions I can think of. “How come you’re so light-skinned? Are you mixed with something?”

“My mother is white, Irish American. Yes. And your grandfather, my father, is African American.”

“Omigosh. Are you serious?” I cover my face with my hands again, a fresh eruption of tears wetting my face. “I’m sorry I’m crying. So, so sorry.”

“Stop apologizing, Tiffany. This must be terribly confusing for you.”

He’s right. This is terribly confusing. Oh, why did I come here? Why didn’t I just take the stupid DNA test with Xavior? What am I supposed to do now? “What...do you want me to call you?”

“You can call me Anthony if that feels comfortable. I’d prefer you to call me Dad. I’d really like that.” He reaches out and touches my hair. “Are these extensions?”

I look up. My vision blurry through my tears. “Um, yes.”

“If you’re going to live here with us, Tiffany, then I will treat you like I treat my other daughters. Same rules. You understand?”

My heart nearly stops, but I nod in understanding.

“I don’t allow extensions. You’ll have to take those out. Will you be able to have that done before school on Monday?”

“But—” I got my extensions fresh back in Chicago two days before I left. They took seven hours to put in and Grams paid nearly three hundred dollars. Plus, I can’t wear my real hair. Not yet, anyway. It’s just starting to grow back. It was about two months after Mom got her diagnosis when I got my own special diagnosis.

“Alopecia,” my longtime pediatrician, Dr. Kerstein, explained to my mom with me sobbing by her side. Beanie pulled almost to my eyes to cover all the bald patches on my head. I was rocking the sideways comb-over like the middle-aged white men do when they start to go bald. But underneath the sideways swoop of hair I looked like I had donated my head to a science experiment.

“Alopecia?” my mom replied in horror. “How in the world she get something like that?”

“Stress,” Dr. Kerstein replied sympathetically. “My instinct says it’s psychosomatic. Understandable, considering.”

After that, Mom made some changes at home. She no longer talked about her condition or all the chemo she had to endure that was making her so sick. In fact, no one was even allowed to speak the word cancer. There was a designated “crying” room because tears were no longer permitted in the main areas of the apartment. No sad movies or slow music or even regular TV. Mom mostly kept the TV on Disney Junior. Grams and I watched so many episodes of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse that we started to have existential debates about Mickey and his friends. Did Mickey age? Did his mouse parents already die? Or were they all eternal?

“Tiffany?” Anthony repeated. “Do you think you can have those braids out before school on Monday? You can’t go to school like that.”

“Could you maybe make an exception for me?” I plead. “My hair—”

“Absolutely no exceptions. I’m sorry. Rules are rules.”

Thump-thump, thump-thump: But he’s not even your real dad!

Thump-thump, thump-thump: And you’re gonna look like a troll doll without braids!

“I have alopecia,” I whisper. As if whispering can somehow cover my shame. “You know what that is?”

“Tiffany, I’m a doctor.”

“I know. Right. So you understand why I can’t take them out?”

“Perhaps I’m not communicating clearly. I don’t allow extensions. You must take them out.”

“That seems unreasonable. What about the bald spots on my head? The braids are placed strategically to cover them up. It’s no one’s business that I’m sick.”

“Alopecia’s not a terminal illness, Tiffany. We’ll get you on a vitamin therapy and we can schedule an appointment with the girls’ beautician. She’ll come up with a style you’re comfortable with.”

“You mean a style you’re comfortable with? I’m already comfortable.” I stand and move toward my new dresser. Staring blankly at the collection of music “gifted” to me.

“Tiffany—”

“Look, I’ll take them out tomorrow.”

“Good. Do you have a phone?”

“It’s in the closet.” I wipe my nose again, my back still turned to Anthony. “Do you want me to get it?”

“You can give it to me tomorrow after you’ve programmed your numbers into your new phone and I’ll send the old one back to your grandma.”

I sigh. Uggh. This is getting complicated. I spin around. “I just got that phone. It was a birthday present from Grams.”

“Margaret and I got you a phone. That’s the one you’ll be using from now on. You’re on the family plan. Only texting and phone calls allowed. No internet. And you have to hand it over every night. We keep the phones in our room so we can monitor them. That means we have all passwords. And we do read texts, so keep it PG.” He rubs his forehead in that way grown-ups do when they seem stressed or overworked. “We’re Jehovah’s Witnesses. Did you know that? Did your grandmother tell you?”

“You’re what?”

“Jehovah’s Witnesses.”

I remember Jehovah’s Witnesses knocking on our door once in Chicago. They had a pamphlet and on one of the pages were cartoon images of very happy, smiling people walking away from a burning city. At the top of the page, it said, Get Ready for Armageddon. Grams was nice, but told them proselytizing wasn’t allowed in our particular apartment complex before she swiftly shut the door. When I asked her what proselytizing meant, she said it was “when people who think they know everything annoy everybody around them.”

“As you might know,” Anthony continues, “Jehovah’s Witnesses don’t celebrate birthdays or holidays.”

“Oh. So why are you having a birthday party for me?”

“It’s a family reunion. Margaret made a cake and...we want you to feel at home here. This is your home, after all, Tiffany.” He stands. “Is it just me? I feel like we may have gotten off to a bad start.”

“Yeah, me, too.” I turn back toward the dresser and pick up a copy of The Jimi Hendrix Experience. “One of my all-time favorite songs is ‘Bold as Love.’ So cool you have this. It’s got to be one of the most beautiful things ever—”

“Let’s join the others downstairs and talk more later. Okay? We don’t want to be rude and stay away from the family too long.”

I scratch at my trembling cheek. They’ve been around him their whole lives; I’ve only had five minutes, but, “Sure. Yeah.”

“You’ll want to wash your face a bit?”

“O...kay?” Rude much? I wipe at my runny nose again, self-conscious and majorly uncomfortable. “Can I ask you one more question please?”

“That’s fine.”

“Why do you think my mom wanted you and me to take a DNA test?”

“Legal reasons, I suppose. I told her there was no need for any of that, though.”

“What did she say?”

“What do you mean?” He looks more than slightly frustrated.

“I mean, when you told her there was no need for a DNA test, was she all ‘Oh, okay, great’? Or was she like...? I mean, what did she say after that?”

Anthony folds his arms across his chest. “She thanked me for trusting her.” He smiles. But it’s not a happy smile. More of an I’m-done-talking-about-this smile. “May I hug you, Tiffany?”

I nod and he steps forward to embrace me. He smells like hospital soap and laundry detergent and his arms feel strong and defined. Like, this is a doctor who hits the gym before and after he delivers babies. But more important...they feel stiff. This time I don’t jerk away like a crazy person, but the hug still feels cold. It’s about as comforting as being embraced by the principal at my old school. And I hated that guy.

“We’re so glad to have you here. It’s a blessing to have my family all together. A real blessing.”

He leaves the room and I stand for a long moment feeling as if I’ve arrived at Disneyland to find out the whole park is closed for repairs. Or worse. Like I’m a millionaire stepping out of the Dublin airport. The sky is bright blue, and it’s a hot, sunny day.

“G’day, miss,” one of the locals would say. “Dinna unnerstan this weather, aye? So lovely. Forecast says no rain in sight. Not for a long, long time.”

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.”

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 obliges and I snatch up the towel, throwing it back over my head.

“Can I ask why? They look real nice and brand-new.”

I rewrap the towel, tucking it tightly behind my ear, then slowly kneel, with one hand holding the towel, to gather the mail spread in all directions in front of the door. “I’ll be sure to tell them you stopped by.”

“You know, I do hair.”

I look up. “Seriously?”

“Mmm-hmm. I can help you. You look like you could use some help. Can I take a look?”

I hesitate.

“Child, I done already seen it.”

I stuff the mail under my arm and stand, removing the towel to reveal my mess of hair.

“Don’t mind if I touch it, do you?”

“Go ahead, I guess. Hopefully it won’t cut you.”

She forces her fingers through my natural hair where I’ve removed the extensions and my head moves from side to side with the motion of her hand. She pulls my head down for a closer examination. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Huh?”

“What you got? Alopecia?”

My jaw drops. “You can tell?”

“Honey, I do hair. Now, why you taking brand-new braids out, anyway, when you got alopecia? Braids is the best thing for you.”

“My...dad told me to.”

“What’s wrong with your daddy? He got a problem or something?”

“He doesn’t allow extensions. Anthony Stone... I’m his daughter.” I’m hoping she doesn’t notice how not sure of myself I sounded when I said the words daughter and dad.

“Anthony Stone is your father? Well, damn. How many kids does this man got?”

“Pretty sure I’m the last of them.”

She gives me a once-over as I rewrap my hair with the towel. “You sure are pretty like his other daughters. Man got good genes. Where you been all this time? How come I ain’t never seen you around?”

“I’m from Chicago.”

“Girl, stop. We’re from Chicago.”

“No way! What part?”

“Just outside. Born and raised mostly in Joliet. But went to high school in the city.”

“Omigosh. We lived in Garfield.”

“Garfield?” She smiles. “I guess being here is a big, big change. How you like it?”

“I dunno. I got here yesterday.”

“Well, welcome. Why don’t you come on over to our house. I’ll fix your hair up real nice and neat.”

“But I don’t have any money.”

“Child. Does it look like I need your little bit of money?”

I hesitate again and she rolls her eyes in a way so similar to my mom it makes me smile. Mom was a big eye roller.

“Way I see it, you got two choices. You can take all them braids out by yourself and try to make sense of that head of hair of yours. Or you can come and relax in my chair and let me do all the hard work. I’ll be fine either way. Plus, that means I got the morning to relax and catch up on my DVR.”

“Okay, okay. Let me...clean up my mess and leave a note.”

“Now, that’s more like it.”

* * *

“You want something to drink?”

“Sure.”

I stand behind Mrs. McKinney as she fiddles with a lock on a door inside their six-car garage. Back in Chicago I saw two-car garages, sometimes even three...but six? I check out a sick silver Mercedes S-class Coupe parked beside the black Hummer I saw last night. I know for a fact these cars are over a hundred thousand dollars. Mostly cuz of Keelah. She’s really into cars and Mercedes is her favorite. There’s also a vintage Porsche, a Tesla plugged into a weird outlet and a BMW. Keelah would go ballistic if she knew I was this close to all these amazing cars. Mrs. McKinney finally pushes the door open and we step into a separate room.

It’s a hair salon. In their garage.

“Whoa. This is amazing.” The floors are bright white tile and there’s a salon chair, a washbowl and sink, wall-to-wall mirrors, a leather couch pressed up against the wall, a stainless-steel fridge and a mounted flat-screen TV.

“Thank you, sweetie. I’m supposed to be retired but I still do so much hair, the wife and I decided to have the garage remodeled. I got drinks in that fridge right there. Help yourself.”

She flips on the lights and I move toward the fridge pushed up against the back wall. A grin spreads across my face as I pull open the door. It’s pop! Rows and rows of it. Root beer, cream soda, Coke, even orange and red. I grab a can of cream soda, flip up the tab and down the whole thing within a few seconds.

“Slow down, now. You gonna make yourself sick.”

“They only drink water over there,” I say, out of breath. “And they put leaves in it to make it taste better.”

“Leaves?” She shakes her head and I grab another cream soda. “Come on over and have a seat in my chair.”

As I move toward the chair, the door to the shop opens and suddenly Marcus McKinney is standing across from me. I freeze, gripping the cold can so tightly I fear I might crush it and splatter pop everywhere. He’s about the same height as me and his thick makeup is smeared so heavily the edges of his hoodie, pulled low over his head, are slightly stained with a light dusting of white. His emerald green eyes are piercing, two dramatic flashes of color against the white makeup on his skin. Last night, from a distance, in the dark, he seemed so scary. But up close...he’s terrifying. He stands, hands deep into the pockets of his hoodie, staring at me like I’m the one who looks like the circus freak.

“This is my son, Marcus,” Mrs. McKinney says with a smile, like she’s introducing me to someone who doesn’t look like they could haunt my dreams and rip out my beating heart. “Marcus is eighteen. He’s a senior in high school. Marcus? Can you say hello to Tiffany? She’s Dr. Stone’s daughter. Just in from Chicago.”

Marcus continues staring at me for what feels like the longest moment of my life before turning to his mom. He pulls a cell phone from his pocket with a gloved hand and holds it up for her to see. Mrs. McKinney grabs her own cell, resting on the counter beside her, and reads what’s on the screen.

“I’m fine with that, Marcus. Take the Hummer, though. You not taking none of my babies out. The Hummer is your only option.”

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