Tiffany Sly Lives Here Now. Dana L. Davis

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