Tiffany's Epiphany

Tiffany Higgins had been sitting on the hard plastic chairs, feeling her behind get numb and her courage failing. She was still in her office clothes and the sweat was gathering in her polyester armpits. The sudden silence and the anxious stares became the prompt for her rehearsed lines. Her voice was hesitant.

“Oh, is it my turn now? First of all, I just wanted to say thank you for letting me join this group. I know, you know why I’m here. I know, you know about my problems. Thank you for being so patient with me. This is new for me, exploring my creativity like this.”

She paused and looked at her notebook.

“I was going to write a poem, but not much rhymes with Tiffany – so I’ve called this short story Tiffany’s Epiphany.”

Tiffany cleared her throat, a nervous giggle and then read aloud.

**********

Something you might not know about Tiffany is that she knows how people talk about her; what the gossips say, how other people think she is slow, awkward, a bit of a weirdo. She is well aware that the other people in the group look down on her. People on the edge always know. They can see it in the way you shuffle away from them. They can hear it in your curt answers. They can sense your discomfort as you treat them and their despondency as contagious. People on the outside are left feeling dirty and humiliated by your little gestures. Tiffany has had to watch the other students in this class snigger as she gets out her notebook. She has clocked their frustration when she asks them to repeat themselves or to go slowly, for her notes. It makes Tiffany nervous, but she keeps taking notes anyway. She knows that you see her constant taking minutes as some kind of syndrome, or a punchline.

This is a creative writing course, so it would probably help to share some of the most creative writing Tiffany has ever seen. Tiffany would like to share the highlights of her anti-social behaviour file with the group, so that everyone has a mutual understanding of what is really going on here.

It started quite innocently with people complaining that her and Kimberly Hardy were playing knock-a-door and throwing chips at pigeons, like silly teenagers. Nobody thought to ask Tiffany what she had against pigeons and why she needed to let off steam. Nobody asked her if she was o.k. Instead she was just told to stop having the one bit of fun that she could find in her sad, dull life.

And then the anti-social behaviour file, it got a little darker, because sweet, simple and easily-led Tiffany started stalking a celebrity. Stalking is such a deliciously, dark word isn’t it? It doesn’t really seem to match the doe-eyed, child-like idiot in front of the writing group. Harassment doesn’t feel like something Tiffany would be capable of. Harassment sounds too powerful, like men in suits at cocktail parties, lewdly picking on waitresses. It’s not the behaviour of a lowly office temp, who takes messages and has a good typing speed. Somebody who lives alone in a bedsit shouldn’t have the capacity to frighten anybody. But Tiffany was reported to the police for threats that caused alarm and distress. Tiffany excelled at creative insults. Her words could be pointed and malicious and her vocabulary, crude.

And now, as Tiffany reads this out, she knows the people in her class will start to shift in their seats as they begin to fear what Tiffany might be capable of?

Yet somehow, here she is. With all these diplomatic people that think they’re being so liberal letting her join in, on their weekly writing course. She knows that the teacher took them to one side at the beginning of term, to let them know that Tiffany was ‘special’ and was having a hard time. She knows the teacher asked them all to be kind. But they haven’t been kind. Through their little gestures they have made it clear that Tiffany is different to them. She knows they stare at her and try to imagine what they could write about her, once the course is over. What an excellent character study Tiffany would make! The woman in the flowy dresses and the ornate jewellery, who barely looks at Tiffany, she could write Tiffany’s story as if it were hers to tell.

People have been writing and re-writing Tiffany’s story for years. Before the anti-social behaviour file, there were plenty of other files that documented how Tiffany didn’t have a great start in life. There was a lot of moving around from one placement to another. Placements are what you call home, when you don’t have one. Placements are what you have when you scoop up your belongings into a black bin bag while a social worker looks on with her head on one side and pity in her eyes, but won’t buy you a suitcase. Tiffany doesn’t blame her parents. Mum and Dad needed help they didn’t get. These things happen and none of that should have been important, because Tiffany was kind, clever and diligent. She did well at school, when she was allowed to attend. Her friends were mainly nice, but also sometimes teased and bullied. She learnt how to be one of the trendy kids, without having to do anything cool or outlandish, but just by being in the vicinity of those who did. She was doing o.k. Imagine fifteen year old Tiffany, studying for her exams, working hard at fitting in and learning to flirt.

The school she attended had a good reputation. Everybody recognised the uniform. It was strong on discipline, which has always been prized above compassion. But Tiffany knew important bits of education were missing, especially for girls. No teacher had ever taught her how to say no, or even why she might need to say no. No one told her you could say yes and keep yourself safe. She liked what she did with Mark; she wanted to do it. But she didn’t know how to keep herself safe.

Before she goes on, Tiffany will need to take a big pause here, because… well, you’ll see.

Pause completed. Tears quelled.

When she started showing, Tiffany was called to Sister Catherine Pugface’s office. Tiffany thought she was going to be congratulated on her mock results. She was in line for A’s in English and History and was top in RE. She had written about forgiveness and the Sermon on the Mount. Blessed are the peacemakers. Blessed are the meek.

But Tiffany hadn’t been called to the headteacher’s office for a friendly chat to discuss good results. Her excellence with a turn of phrase, her insightful discussions of motivations, her memory for details - all counted for nothing. Instead, that sour-faced, virgin told Tiffany that she needed to pack up her locker and not return.

Tiffany remembers the long walk up the school drive way, with a heavy bag and no-one to take her home.

Kimberley was the only friend who kept in touch. She was the only one who could tell Tiffany that her name had been erased from the register. It was Kimberley that told Tiffany about that time Mrs Kemp said her name in form-time by mistake and got all flustered. Kimberley told her Baby Katie had beautiful big dark eyes like hers and a crop of dark curls like that knobhead, Mark (who Tiffany never saw again).

And then Tiffany never saw Baby Katie again. The social worker, head on one side, said it was for the best.

Another pause. Another gulp.

Anyway, here she is, with her 60 words per minute, short hand and audio typing. She has worked bloody hard to get here. She had to. School wouldn’t let her back on the premises, let alone sit exams. And that’s why sometimes she throws chips at pigeons. She pretends they are cruel, po-faced nuns. She still spends time with Kimberley Hardy, who is wild and immature and kind.

And now she is trying her hand at creative writing. So, that she can have a chance to do something meaningful. But instead, she is in a class with people who look down on her, happy to make up their own stories about her. Their low opinion means they think she hadn’t realised that “Tiffany” and “Epiphany” rhymed.

And Davina McCall, you skinny, self-righteous idiot, did you really have to call the police? It was just a few tweets, a couple of Insta DMs. Tiffany just wanted to be on Long Lost Families – you bitch.

Tiffany also knew it would go quiet once she’d read out her story.

There will be a long pause. Tiffany will pick up her notebook and then she’ll say, with a certain defiance and a twinkle in her eye:

“So, for the minutes, shall I just write that Tiffany shared her story?”

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