Tiffany

TIFFANY WAS IN one of those moods again. This wasn’t the first time she’d implicated others. I can’t entirely explain it; we’d get called to attend to her at someone’s house, always someone else’s house—this time it was Felix’s basement while his folks were gone. Felix was my old boyfriend; he was her new boyfriend but I didn’t mind. I was with Andrew and we were always taking turns with each other like that. Anyways, she’d call us up for some grand plan she’d come up with just then and we’d all show up because what were we doing anyhow, and Tiffany was always good for a good time.

So I showed up with Andrew and two forties of Black Bull at about a quarter after ten. She greeted us in a cocktail dress that was really a skirt hand-stitched to a sweater. She had reappropriated a telephone cord to serve as a belt, and two different-sized hoop earrings jangled from her ears. “Hello, darlings! Come in, come in.” She was speaking in a vaguely European accent and reeked of vanilla. We walked down the greyish cement steps into the half-finished basement where Felix was sweating on the couch wearing nothing but a Confederate flag around his sullen shoulders; his barely haired chest succumbed to waves of belly skin.

“Sweetie, I do wish you would dress for our parties,” she said, glancing to Felix.

He shot her a half-assed eye roll and reasoned, “I told you, my boys need air.”

Chuck chuckled, his face jovial and red. He was leaning against the paint-splattered wall in a construction uniform. He was always laughing, he liked absurdity. He held his can of Molson, always a can of Molson, watching the world like it was a sitcom built entirely around him. “Ya can’t make a guy do what he doesn’t want to do,” he horked and spat, and Felix laughed hyena-like while scraping the back of his neck with his fingernails. Tiffany pouted, took our forties and poured them into martini glasses with apple juice, then dropped a single olive into each and handed them back to us.

There were others there too. There was Jett, who was rolling a joint on the coffee table. There was Mike, who had tried at least; he was wearing a little bow tie and kept his chin up so everyone would take notice. Then there was Jess, who could never be bothered to excite over much—she reapplied her lip gloss and kept her face pinned to the mirror in the makeshift bathroom that had a wall frame instead of an actual wall. Everyone was there because, after all, Tiffany had called us there with the promise of a big announcement and a real party. Given Felix’s getup and the cloud of disappointment that hung around the room, it was quickly apparent that Tiffany had miscommunicated those credentials that might render her event a “real party.” To Tiffany, “real” meant adult outfits and fancy drinks and grown-up conversations, while to others, it meant girls and crowds and drugs and the kinds of crazy stories that are born of such realness.

“Attention,” sang Tiffany, clinking a spoon to her glass, “attention, everyone, everyone pay attention, it’s announcement time, gather round.” Jess waddled out of the washroom. Jett leaned back and lit his joint, growing more irritated with each clink of Tiffany’s glass. Mike adjusted his posture to resemble something like loyalty or genuine concern, and Chuck shifted his weight from one foot to another, his mouth open in a big dumb smirk, a gratified bulldog. Felix stayed naked and slumped on the couch, unfazed, while Andrew and I just held our ground, he with his arms around me, leaning himself on my back. I could hear him sniffing my hair.

For a moment Tiffany seemed almost mischievous with the curl of her lip and how she sipped her straw. She looked this way only when anticipating a reaction—she first had this look when she pulled out a pack of cigs outside the seventh-grade dance, proclaiming, “What? It’s not even a big deal . . .” She also had this look when she was the first to lose her virginity, which she didn’t lose per se, but sold to the seventh-grade teaching assistant after he said he loved her and showed her his very own apartment and promised he would buy her a house. There were other times too, times that would always be associated with Tiffany, whose decade in foster care was an education in dissent: she taught us about sneaking through our bedroom windows, hitchhiking to Niagara Falls, and preparing for anal sex. She grabbed us by our childhood braids and dragged us kicking and screaming into adulthood. It was frightening and exciting, growing up, Tiffany initiating us into the world of grown-ups because, after all—anal sex, martinis, hitchhiking—these things are all very grown up.

She had that look now and the room was dark and she was sort of half smiling and waving herself side to side. Studying her hopeful almost-dress, her big cheeks coated in Dollarama makeup, and her half-unstuck fake lashes drooping toward her temples, I realized how much she still resembled a child. Tiffany was fifteen but her double-D tits allowed her to get away with more years than she had to give. Yet, in the dank basement, her face and belly were round and her fingers skirted over her hips nervously and she moved like a toddler dancing and I noticed that somewhere in there she was still a baby.

She took a monumental gulp from her glass and set it on the floor. “Get out with it already, would ya,” hollered Felix while looking at Chuck, who looked into his beer can and smiled at it affectionately.

Tiffany breathed deep as a politician before a national address: “I am with child.”

There was a brief, honest silence that followed. It was a layered silence, thick with secrets. As her best friend, I knew all the stories, but only me. Where there was behind the trees with Chuck, there was also Mike in the back room of the Notre Dame theatre, and then there was the time Jett got a new minivan, and there were countless times with Felix. There was even once with Andrew, after too many drinks, she said, for which I slapped her and then forgave her, kind of, but never let them alone together ever again. Like I said, we’d all had our turns with each other and I’d had my go with Felix as well. Official titles were merely a formality among us, but in the moment that followed the big announcement, our tangled histories were now more pronounced. Here we were, in a grubby basement in Welland, grappling with the realities that came with having known, and known intimately, Tiffany, and the grown-up ramifications for wilful volunteers partaking in her adventures, wanting a piece of her, even if just a taste.

The silence was abruptly broken by a collective laugh, followed by “No fucking way” and “You’re such a fucking idiot.” Jett choked on smoke and handed the spliff off to Jess, who inhaled and asked, “Are you gonna kill it?” Chuck wiped a tear from his bloated cheek and Tiffany held her belly, doing her best impression of maternal consideration. “Nah, I think I’m just going to keep it. It’ll be fun. Don’t you think? We can teach it things—like we can dress it all sweet and we can teach it how to talk, not like stupid talk, not like school talk and shit, but we can teach it to talk like us and to like cool music and bring it to . . . like . . . shows and shit and give it a wicked name like ‘Blade’ or ‘Yolandi.’” Everyone was laughing now.

Mike piped up. “Yeah, and we can get like a massive fucking house.”

Tiffany obviously liked this idea. “Yeah, we’ll get a massive fucking house with a swing set and a Wii and all that shit we always wanted but never got and we can raise it together and we can all be its parents and we’ll have numbers, like ‘Mom 3’ and ‘Dad 5,’ and we’ll throw big-as-shit parties and make it sing like in the fucking Sound of Music.”

Andrew even contributed his two cents: “Yeah and instead of sending it to its room or like spanking it or whatever, we’ll make it listen to Nickelback or Hedley or some shit. That’ll set it straight.”

If there was even the slightest hint of sarcasm, it was completely lost on Tiffany, who was immersed in the idea of spending every day with her friends and having a baby to give her the kind of love she was always searching for.

She was beaming. “Yeah, man, and we’ll love it so much, this kid, we’ll all get jobs so we’ll always have like a shit ton of cash, and if it’s a girl, we’ll beat the fuck out of whoever tries to date her.”

Andrew again: “Yeah, we’ll just get a big gun and keep it in the house just in case.”

Tiffany squealed. “We’ll get so many guns! Unless it’s a dude, then we’ll help it pick up chicks and tell it honestly if any of them are real trolls. Like we’ll have a rule that it can have girls over but they have to be hot or else we’ll kick ’em in the box, kick ’em right in the box, and tell ’em to go ugly up someone else’s giant fucking house.”

Felix was quiet through most of this. He was the kind of guy who didn’t say much, but when he did, it really meant something. He had really thought it out and took his time speaking, treating every word like its own sentence. “If we can’t have ugly girls in the house then where will you live, Tiffany?”

The laughing hushed to embarrassed snickers. Tiffany looked down at her belly, clutching it between two palms, somewhat ashamed, understanding she’d been punished.

“You know what, Tiff? I’ll tell ya what. I think this plan of yours is somewhat ill-advised. I’ll pay ya five bucks to let me punch you in the gut. You’ll be fine. This’ll all be fine, and then we can either go back to having our party or everyone can get the fuck out and let me alone.”

The comment was somewhat off-putting. Everyone, in one way or another, directed their focus to one of the basement’s empty corners.

Only Andrew was getting a kick out of the situation, but he never had much trouble getting his kicks. He said, “Heck, I’ll give you ten.”

Felix barely raised his head. “See that, Tiff? Fifteen bucks right there. With all that, you could get an actual dress or some earrings that come in pairs.”

Before her fingers could reach her ears, Chuck shouted, “Make that twenty-five,” and not long after, Jett upped the ante, “Forty! I just got paid!”

Mike was silent. Jess was giggling. “You’re all so fucked,” she said, “this is sick.” Everyone stared at my friend with carnivorous anticipation. Felix bartered, “Come on, Tiff, forty bucks, maybe you can get a real belt.”

The laughter was loud and Tiffany hated nothing more than a bad sport. Since sports can be won, Tiffany raised her head to face the crowd. “Make it fifty.”

Felix was pleased. “Okay, fifty, but I better get a BJ tonight, and not a stupid one, not one that’s all toothy and you just sort of sit there and take it.”

It wasn’t too long thereafter that Felix was standing in front of her, naked except for the Confederate flag that was now tied around his neck like a cape.

“Whatever, you can’t punch for shit, you’re a pussy and everyone knows it,” said Tiffany, wild eyed and basking in the hawing of her audience.

Felix massaged his hands together, his body savage in the candour of the confrontation; his eyes squinted, he looked at her stomach like it was a carnival game or some sort of birthday pinata. Then, when she was not suspecting, as she faced me with pupils so dilated that she became only eyes—looking into me as if to show me something about myself—that was when Felix delivered a fist to her abdomen, making a squishing sound and causing Tiffany to faint sideways on the floor, forehead pressed to knee.

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There was another silence. We knew we were capable of sometimes taking things too far, but perhaps now we’d really done it. I went to look at her. I don’t know why, to see if she was breathing, I guess. I thought she might be crying, but she raised her head and let out a primal and grotesque cackle that grew into a howl and then we all started laughing too. Whether it was fear or respect, I do not know, but if Tiffany designated laughter, then we would laugh with her, we would all laugh.

She stood up and said, “You’re a pussy.” Felix settled back on the couch and visibly readjusted his testicles.

Next came Chuck’s turn. He rolled up the flannel sleeves of his plaid cardigan and dug his knuckles into Tiffany’s torso. Chuck was a good deal bigger than Felix and two years older; his calloused hands and brawny arms evinced his time on the construction site after dropping out of school. His blow to Tiffany made a louder sound and caused her to run and puke in the exposed toilet.

By now the mood was lighthearted, so no one took her disposition as one of ill humour. “You fucking asshole,” she said between choking sounds. Chuck picked up his Molson and sat next to Felix, who patted him on the shoulder, nodded, and said, “You did good, my man, you did good.”

Everyone had their go. At one point Tiffany began to puke blood, which alarmed Jess, who shouted at the others, “She’s puking blood.” Felix laughed and nonchalantly yelled back, “Yeah, she’ll do that alright.” Tiffany laughed too; she seemed to like this game.

After every punch was administered, and every man had their fill, after Tiffany had recovered from her third trip to the toilet, there was a ceremonial smoking.

Mike asked, “So do you feel any different? Do you think it did anything?”

Tiffany raised her shirt to reveal the deep purple circles just below her belly button; “I’d call that something.” She chewed on a piece of fresh-mint gum and paused a minute. “But if you mean am I still preggo? Yeah, probably.”

Jett was always full of suggestions, and this time was no exception. “What you gotta do is get thrown down the stairs. I swear to God, my Auntie Jeannie, she fell down the stairs when she was knocked up and it killed her kid. That was kind of different though, it was like really sad and shit and . . . like . . . we had to release these balloons and now she lives with my Grandma because she’s always tryin’ to off herself, but anyhow, if you’re gonna go all the way, you gotta throw yourself down the stairs.”

Tiffany chewed her gum loudly and leaned in, head bobbing. She was interested.

Andrew spoke up. “Yeah, yeah, and that’s what’s always happening in the movies. Like I watched this one with my mom, and when the chick fell down the stairs, it was a done deal. I think it has something to do with the ridges on the steps.”

Shortly thereafter, everyone was in agreement that Tiffany would get thrown down the stairs. We all stood at the top behind the basement entrance, and Chuck, the strongest and therefore most qualified, grasped onto Tiffany by the sweater of her dress (lifting her like a 2×4, pulling back slowly before skipping forward with more momentum) and sent her flying face first. Our friend torpedoed downward, landing on the crook of her spine about three steps from the bottom, then rolled like a tire before settling with her face sucking the floor. She stood up, unmoved, and said, “That was awesome!”

Andrew, who had fancied himself the director of the production, seemed unimpressed. “No, no, no, you’re doing it wrong, you have to land on your stomach or else it doesn’t work.”

Tiffany dusted herself off and rearranged her hair so that everything was in its proper place, and then responded, “Whatever man, that was fun.”

Chuck threw her again and again and again, until everyone grew bored and began to contemplate leaving. Tiffany was not tired of this game, she’d had everyone’s attention for a while now and become intoxicated by it. She said to the others, “Jess should do it. Come on man, it’s fun.” Jess, who was more beautiful yet always somewhat jealous of Tiffany’s imagination, agreed. “Alright, but you better not cripple me or nothing. If ya do, I’m suing your broke ass.”

After Jess was thrown down the stairs, I was thrown down the stairs. Then Felix showed up with a few toboggans he’d pulled out of the back shed. The rest of the night was spent drinking, smoking, laughing, and throwing ourselves down the stairs in a variety of vehicles, falling into lumps of human beings, giggling, forgetting Tiffany’s pregnancy.

Sometime after four a.m., Felix climbed, still naked, onto the roof of his house via a large telephone pole. After we noticed him missing, we searched and finally spotted him from the front yard.

Jett hollered, “Felix, what in God’s name are ya doin’?”

Felix held up a copy of The Great Gatsby, which we were reading in English class, and his father’s vintage revolver and screamed back, “I’ve got a gun and a book and I can’t figure out how to work either.” Felix was full of strange jokes like this.

As dawn broke, we followed Tiffany onto the roof in pursuit of our naked friend. She untied the Confederate flag from his neck and we fell asleep under it, swollen and happy, everything having been worth it even though Tiffany never received her fifty dollars.

We never heard about Tiffany’s baby again. She never grew and it wasn’t something we talked or even thought about. I guess there were bigger things then. Yet, even now as I think of it, it could have all just been a game, one of Tiffany’s elaborate fictions—it wouldn’t seem so far off. Though, there was an honesty to her confession, an honesty in the fancy glasses and the ambitious outfit and the poorly represented accent, in the brief but fleeting encounter with something we might consider a future. A version of our lives that seemed faraway and abstract. I don’t know why exactly that night was so poignant but I do know why I remember it, the same way I remember her, even now. It has to do with the fickleness of movement, the manipulation of language, the proclamation of having known everything, to be going everywhere—the mischievous sipping of her straw, the olives dropping into apple-juice martinis, the blurring of being and becoming. She could be an explosion. She could be a ghost. These possibilities and others, all in the flick of a false eyelash tickling against your throat, the warm breath of the strange fostered daughter, the secrets of Tiffany.

Julie Mannell is currently working on a novel titled Little Girls, from which this piece has been adapted.