Tiffany Sly Lives Here Now. Dana L. Davis
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