Tiffany Sly Lives Here Now. Dana L. Davis
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.
“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