by MK Schiller
I almost laughed at her lame attempt to intimidate me, but I was too focused on what she’d said. I was no snitch, but the fact she’d told me not to tell made me want to tell even more.
She added in a hushed, sad whisper, “It won’t happen again.”
“Is that what y’all do for fun up north? Bite each other?”
She laughed, except it didn’t sound quite right. Kids our age laughed because something was funny. There was nothing carefree or happy about her laugh. It was the first time I recognized what people referred to as a “cynical laugh.”
“Yeah, it’s what we do. So, you should stay away from me if you don’t want to become a vampire.”
“You don’t scare me. I got a twelve-gauge that’ll blow the fangs off anything.”
“Bullets don’t stop vampires.”
“I beg to differ,” I said, using one of my dad’s catchphrases. Sylvie sounded very adult, and I wanted to match her.
“Do you really have a gun?”
I shrugged, considering the ramifications of another lie, but decided against it. “Yeah, but I’m not allowed to use it yet. My daddy says I have to be older.”
“Yeah, you might blow your big toe off on accident.”
“Ha, not in this life.”
“Will you keep my secret?”
My dad told me about this kind of stuff. He said if any of my friends said things that didn’t seem right, I needed to tell him. But Sylvie Cranston was not my friend. Besides, she’d said it wouldn’t happen again.
She shook her head, appearing disappointed by my silence. “I knew you were a tattletale.”
“I’m not a snitch.”
“Then promise. You have to swear on it.” She held out her pinky to me.
I didn’t take it. “Who did it? Was it your daddy?” There was no way I would swear to this secret if it was her daddy.
“No. Not him. Now swear.”
I waited for her to tell me more. But she didn’t provide any explanation. She stared at me with her stupid pinky between us.
“I swear I won’t tell about this bite mark.” I hooked my pinky finger around hers, figuring if I ever saw another bite mark, I could go back on my word since I was so specific in the promise. Yeah, real smart on my part.
She exhaled a long breath. “Thank you.”
I nodded, not sure if I was doing the right thing by keeping her secret, but I didn’t think too much of it because Mandy returned, flinging a dozen more daisies in Sylvie’s lap.
Sylvie picked several of them up, removed the leaves, and began weaving them together in tiny knots, forming a perfect chain. It must have impressed my sister because she watched in awed silence, which was rare. I wondered if Sylvie could tie other knots, like the grinner knot, that might just hook me a big bass.
“Will you teach me how to fish?” Sylvie asked. Most girls wanted nothing to do with grubby worms or bloody fish. Even if she could tie the best grinner knot in the world, I wanted nothing to do with her.
“How do you know I fish?” I tried to sound like the detective my dad was.
“Cal, you dummy, I just told her. Weren’t you paying attention?” Mandy said.
I usually tuned out my little sister after the first two sentences.
“You wouldn’t like fishing. You’re a girl,” I said as if Sylvie didn’t realize.
She pressed her lips together and stared me down. I tried hard not to laugh. She was tall, but as thin as a stick. She tried so hard to act tough. “Don’t tell me what I like. I want to learn how to fish, but if you can’t teach me, then I’ll find someone who will.”
“Not someone as good as me. Trust me I’m the best.”
“I don’t trust anyone. If you’re so good, prove it.”
“I don’t fish with girls.”
“Then pretend I’m a boy.”
I never met a girl who didn’t want to be treated like a girl. What planet had Sylvie Cranston come from? Would her species come back for her?
“I ain’t going fishing with you or any other girl…ever.”
“I thought you’d talk different. You don’t sound Southern except for some words. By the way, it’s ‘I’m not’, not ‘ain’t.’ ‘Ain’t’ is not a word.”
“Are you making fun of my accent? You can get your butt kicked around here for that.”
She laughed. “Oh, yeah, and who will do the kicking?”
“Cal, I’m gonna tell Momma you said ‘butt,’” Mandy chimed in. I almost had forgotten about her.
“Tell her he said ‘ass,’ then he’ll really get in trouble,” Sylvie said, placing the crown of daisies on Mandy’s hair.
“I will,” Mandy said, an evil gleam in her eyes.
“Don’t swear in front of my sister and do not tell her to fib.”
“Fib?’ You mean ‘lie.’ Do you have a colloquialism for everything, Cal?”
I had no idea what the word meant, let alone if I could pronounce it, but I did know she was insulting me. I narrowed my eyes and gave her my threatening look, the one I reserved for the older boys when they tried to take over our baseball diamond. Squaring my shoulders, I stared her straight down. She smirked at me, fluttering those long lashes over her earth-colored eyes. It pissed me off even more.
“You think I’m a dumb hick? You’re no better than us. Y’all are livin’ here, too, so you best lower that nose of yours a few inches. It’s going to be hard enough for you to fit in and make friends.”
She turned her attention back to the crown, adjusting it until it sat straight on Mandy’s big head. “I’m not going to make friends.”
I had no idea what to say. Who the hell didn’t want to make friends?
“Good. You won’t, especially not with me.”
“Why would I want to be friends with a wuss like you?”
“What did you call me?” My blood boiled as it coursed through my veins.
“It’s not a swear word. I don’t want to offend y’all’s virtuous ears,” she replied sarcastically, putting on a fake country accent of her own.
“You think I can’t swear?”
“Prove me wrong.”
“Bitch, fuck, shit, ass, piss—”
“Caleb James Tanner, what on God’s green earth are you saying?” Momma’s stern voice halted my flow of expletives as if she’d electrocuted me. My behind involuntarily twitched from the sting of the beating it was sure to receive. “I’m so sorry, Harry. I have no idea what’s gotten into him.”
“Don’t worry about it. He’s a boy,” Mr. Cranston said.
“I can’t believe you swore, and in front of your sister.” My mother clasped her hand on her mouth as she stared at Sylvie. “Oh, Sylvie, dear, please forgive my son. I promise we’ve raised him with manners.”
Sylvie turned around and smiled sweetly at my mother. “I’ve never heard any of those words.”
“Apologize this instant, Cal,” my mother demanded.
I swallowed, wishing Sylvie Cranston had kept her annoying self up north instead of setting roots in my town. “I’m sorry.”
“’Kay.”
’Kay? Sounded like Sylvie had a problem pronouncing, too, but I knew better than to say anything with Momma throwing invisible daggers in my direction.
“I know you didn’t mean to do it,” Sylvie said, smiling at the grown-ups while patting me on the shoulder.
“When his daddy gets home, he’ll know the meaning of sorry.”
Yes, yes, I would. This was the South. In other places, like where Sylvie came from, the solution to a mouthy kid might be a talk about feelings and emotions. Here we had more direct methods. My punishment would involve Tabasco sauce on the tongue, a switch on the ass, followed by a stern sermon where my “feelings” never came into the conversation.
That night I slept on my stomach because my butt throbbed too much from the welt marks in the shape of my father’s leather belt. I grumbled every swear word I knew at my new next-door neighbor. At least in my head I did.
&nb
sp; ****
I planned to stay as far away from Sylvie Cranston as possible. It would prove difficult, though, since part of my punishment was to mow the Cranston’s yard for the rest of the summer along with ours.
Trying to forget about my weird neighbor and ruined summer, I focused on fishing and camping with my friends while I tried to fall asleep. It almost worked too, except, I could still taste tabasco on my tongue, even though I’d swallowed enough water to fill the Grand Canyon. Momma’s perfect remedy to cure potty-mouth was hot sauce on the tongue.
I hated her.
My spine went ramrod straight at the sound of rustling leaves under my window.
“Who’s that?”
A whispering, singsong voice floated around the mild Texas air. “Should’ve taken me fishing, asshole.”
“When hell freezes over,” I whispered and threw my head back into the pillow. I was pissed at her, seething mad. But for some reason, I started laughing.
It was a cynical laugh.
Chapter 2
Present day
Teaching at a community college wasn’t much different than working in purgatory. The place acted as a waiting room of sorts. You had three kinds of students. There were the older ones who wanted to reclaim what had been lost in their youth by bettering themselves. They were, by far, my favorite students. They had a purpose. Then you had the in-betweens of all ages who still weren’t sure what they wanted to be when they grew up and thought a stint in college might guide them. With tuition at half the cost, you could get a Saks education at a Walmart price, so why not? Finally, there were the losers, the kids who couldn’t get in to a real school because they were too busy partying in high school and thus doomed to the community college circuit.
We weren’t a final destination, but a pit stop on the journey to betterment. Still, I loved the job and was grateful for it. Living in Portland, Oregon was expensive, and I had student loans to pay. I enjoyed being a teacher, too. It allowed me to open the door to literature for a new class of hopefuls. Unfortunately, most of them wanted to slam it right back in my face.
At least my profession afforded me the opportunity to write. Too bad I suffered from a severe block the size of a polar ice cap, which showed no signs of melting any time soon.
The first day of class was always a mixed bag. I walked into the lecture hall prepared for the usual nonchalance and indifference but looked forward to the few enthusiastic hopefuls I had in every class. I usually fared better than most instructors, but then again, I taught a subject that’s easy to love.
“Good morning, I’m your instructor, Caleb Tanner. You may call me Cal. Thank you for attending what I hope becomes the origins of a love story for you.” I smiled at the sea of faces in the crowded lecture hall as I continued, “The love of literature. We’re going to read some great books. Then we’re going to perform our own autopsies to find out how the authors influenced our personal thoughts and feelings, whether intentional or not. We’re going to deconstruct, debrief, discuss, and possibly denounce and even debate these books. Hate it or love it, it’s a journey, and I’m honored to be your tour guide.”
There were a few groans at my cheesy introduction, but I also received a few wide-eyed expressions of excitement, particularly from the girls in the front row. This was typical. I taught a class on English Literature, after all. Girls flocked to this course and guys…well, guys either had to take it as a prerequisite or they chose my course as an elective because the girls would be here.
“Let’s get acquainted. You might be wondering how we can possibly achieve this with a class of seventy people, but rest assured, it can be done. Like every good book, we will start with the cover.”
“I thought you never judged a book by its cover,” a curly-haired, jock-looking guy said from the third row. Ah, my resident smartass making an appearance already.
“It’s an interesting saying. It’s true, of course, but then again, sometimes the only thing you have to judge is the cover. We’re going to explore that for a moment. Everyone is going to introduce themselves and then tell me their favorite book, title, and author. You have to be fast, but I’m going to track your answers, or at least Jessica is,” I said, nodding toward my TA. “And then I’ll assign your first paper. So, let’s get started. State your name and your favorite book.”
The first few rows were the typical. Jane Austen, Margaret Mitchell, and Louisa May Alcott made my lists every year. One girl, who clearly wanted to be teacher’s pet, said my novel. Some eyebrows rose, but I signaled for them to keep going. I loved this exercise, but I hated when this happened. The exercise was not meant to promote my book. In fact, the title was out of print, so any mention of it was like rubbing salt in a festering wound.
You could find out a lot about people from the books they read. I instantly knew the students who mentioned Wally Lamb, Frank McCourt, and Dan Brown were true fans of the written word. I didn’t doubt the ones who chose classic novels, but the modern authors weren’t assignments from a previous class. These students liked to read. There were a few intermittent jokesters who claimed their favorites were comic books or children’s books that didn’t meet the definition of novel, but I didn’t correct them. The assignment was not to judge. Some talked about the ever-famous vampire love stories and others authors I hadn’t read.
It didn’t matter. Reading was subjective. Someone said Stephen King, and I nodded in appreciation. I devoured all kinds of books, especially the classics, but I loved King. He was…well, he was King.
I was checking each introduction against my attendance roll when one unmistakable East Coast accent jostled me. It came from somewhere in the back row. I held up my hand to stop the progression.
“Please repeat yourself, Miss—”
“My name is Sophie Becker. The Mayor of Casterbridge by Thomas Hardy is my favorite book.”
“Can you stand up, Miss Becker?”
Jessica stared at me, as did the rest of the class. I hadn’t interrupted the whole time. Sophie Becker stood, but not completely. She attempted some simulated skier position as if she didn’t want to show off her full height. She was nervous, but I was the one in danger of having a heart attack at the ripe young age of twenty-seven. She wore a baseball hat with a ridiculously large bill pulled over her forehead, successfully covering her hair and eyes. The inflection in her voice jolted my memories. Sylvie? Had I finally lost my mind? Was she a ghost? An angel? A maddening spirit, the likes of which visited Scrooge on that fateful Christmas Eve? Fuck…what the hell was going on?
Quick as a fox jumping back into its hole, her head disappeared into the arena of faces when she sat down.
“We have to move on, Cal,” Jessica said, tapping on her watch, pulling my focus back. I nodded, and we moved on to the last few people.
“Your assignment will be to write about how the book defines the person. Except you are not going to write about your own book, but rather each other’s. Jessica is bringing around a basket with everyone’s selections on folded note cards. Pick one and write an essay about what you think the choice says about the person who loves that book.”
“How are we supposed to write a paper if we haven’t read the book?” a girl in the front asked. I remembered her name was Melanie Adams. Jessica started walking around making sure everyone took a piece of folded paper from her basket. I immediately regretted not doing the task myself. At least then I could see the girl who had my mind racing.
“Good point, Miss Adams. I don’t expect you to read the book, but with the Cliffization of the great novel, it should be easy to gather information. Google, Wikipedia, SparkNotes are a few resources to get you started.” A cloud of disapproving murmurs echoed through the lecture hall. Yes, in other assignments this would be considered cheating. “Find out what you can, and tell me in three double-spaced pages what you think the book says about the person who loves it. In other words, judge the fan by its cover. Remember to use references. A reference site deserves acknowledgment, t
oo. See you all next week.”
I searched for her in the rush of students sweeping toward the exit, but she was too fast for me. I saw only the sway of gold-brown hair sticking out from the baseball cap that sported the Oakland Raiders emblem. Rushing toward the exit, I almost slammed into an overzealous Melanie Adams and another girl, who trapped me into a conversation about English versus American authors. I answered their questions, trying desperately not to snap.
I sat in the empty lecture hall after they’d left, letting my mind calm down. When I finally rose from my seat, the limp in my leg felt heavier than usual. It reminded me this was a familiar path. I’d acted foolish in the presence of many tall girls with golden-brown hair and eyes the color of sweet melted chocolate.
Chapter 3
Excerpt from Raven Girl
Age 11
Every school had a weird girl, and Sylvie Cranston became ours. She even managed to beat out Paste-eating Paula and Gassy Jeannie Massey for the title. She dressed in all black most days, in clothes she probably Velcroed to her body so they wouldn’t fall off. She painted her face in white powder and dyed her hair jet black. We didn’t classify her with fancy terms like “goth” or “emo.” The kids in Prairie opted for a simpler description that was straight to the point.
They called her The Freak.
Oh, let’s move, The Freak is coming. Oh no, The Freak is looking at me. Watch out, before the Freak puts a curse on you. Kids and cruelty went together like PB&J. It was odd enough to be the town freak, but to manage it at the young age of eleven was an epic feat.
Sylvie had been right. She never made friends. The girls looked at her with cold disdain and the boys were downright scared of her. She didn’t talk to anyone…except for Mandy and me.
Mandy and Sylvie were like kindred spirits, which was strange since my sister was all about sunshine and rainbows while Sylvie was more like bats and full moons. Sylvie and I grunted at each other more than we conversed, but we had an understanding. We had an easygoing, silent respect.
