by MK Schiller
Maybe my obsession had finally rendered me psychotic.
I handed her the sack of apples. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
She let out a laugh—a cynical laugh. “Well, you sure have a strange way of counseling your students, Mr. Tanner.”
I decided to repair some of the damage I’d done, both to my professional pursuits and her sense of security. I wasn’t sure if my statement would do that, but I had nothing else except a small hope that like most girls, sympathy was part of her genetic makeup. “Yes, I do. This is going to sound crazy, but you know how I said you remind me of someone I used to know?”
She nodded, but chose to stare out the window instead of looking directly at me.
“That girl was the love of my life. We grew up together, and she was my best friend. She left when she was seventeen, and I’ve just never recovered. It’s no excuse, but I’m a touch eccentric as a result of that experience. Luckily, those traits aren’t rare in my line of work, but I have stepped over the professional line with you. Please forgive me.”
She stared at the mint green nail polish on her fingertips. “I understand,” she said softly.
“Thank you.” I stood to leave and then I remembered what she said about my class. “Look, don’t withdraw from the course. It’s too late for it not to influence your transcripts. Even if you do have a degree, you might need this class for other pursuits. Also, several of your other papers were first-rate. I can tell you’re an avid reader and a strong writer. The teacher may have many faults, but the class itself is valuable. Finish it.”
I offered her an apologetic smile, and she gave me a wary one in return, but at least she smiled back.
“’Kay,” she said.
My heart stood still, stopping mid-beat. Then it beat twice as hard, rumbling faster than a piston.
“What did you say?” I barked, grabbing her arm.
Her eyes widened at the drastic change in my tone. “I said ‘okay.’”
I sat back down and leaned in close to her. “You said ‘’kay.’”
“Let go of me,” she seethed. I complied, but kept my eyes on her.
She moved to get up.
“Sit down. We’re not done yet,” I commanded in a quiet growl.
I thought she might run away. If she did, I had no qualms about chasing her. She looked around for a second, debating her choices. Finally, she sat.
I took my seat again, swallowing hard, deciding that I was going to lay all my crazy across the table for her. The evidence was circumstantial at best, but the hope in my chest busted out like a dam about to break. I pulled out my wallet, taking one of my business cards out. Someone had left a pen on a nearby table so I reached for it. The conversation was so surreal that I could barely remember my own home address. I had to do this now or never do it. I didn’t look up at her, concentrating on my words. She moved to stand.
“Don’t even think about it.”
“Are you crazy?”
“Jury’s still out.” I looked up. “Sylvie always said that. She said ‘’kay’ all the time. I don’t know why. It was just one of those weird things about her, the odd habits you notice about a person you love.”
Her posture stiffened so fast I wondered if she was in pain. “It’s a common expression. You only need to look at me to see I’m not a dead girl.”
I sucked in a deep breath before allowing myself to look at her again. I was unable to stop the tight smile that formed on my face. It was not a smile born from joy or relief as I had expected when this moment came. I was angry. So angry with her. I wanted to shake the truth from her the way you jiggled an orchard tree to dislodge the decayed fruit.
“I never told you she died.”
The coloring in Sophie Becker’s face faded. She turned stark white, and her hands trembled. I took the paper cup from her and set it on the table so she wouldn’t spill it. “You implied—”
I interrupted before she could tell the lie—another lie. “Here’s the thing, Miss Becker. I’m willing to risk losing my job and my freedom for the nice lodgings at the Portland Mental Health Institute where I’m sure they’ll outfit me with my very own terrycloth robe and fuzzy slippers. I’m willing to face those consequences to make the following statements to you, so I would appreciate it if you would shut the fuck up and hear what I have to say. I believe you are Sylvie Cranston, but either you don’t remember or you want to hide that fact from me. The girl I loved would never put me through something this hurtful, so I want to believe you don’t remember. However, judging from your responses, I’d say the latter was true.” I slid the card over to her. “This is my home address. When you’re done playing games with my head—and my heart—please come see me. We need to talk.” I sucked in a deep breath. “Sylvie.”
I scraped my chair back and headed toward the exit.
Chapter 12
Excerpt from Raven Girl
Age 16
“I can’t believe you made a casserole,” I said, taking the large pan from Sylvie. We usually cooked on Sundays to give momma a break. Actually, Sylvie and Mandy cooked. I did dishes and set the table. Everyone agreed it was less dangerous that way.
Sylvie still came over for supper every night. Mandy and she often practiced on the piano after we ate. It comforted my mother to hear them sing.
“It’s your mom’s recipe,” she said with pride.
I moved it up and down in my hands. “I can tell from the weight. I’ve carried her casseroles a lot.”
She laughed and followed me into the kitchen.
“I can’t believe you’re going to take art class with me. Didn’t the guys on the team make fun of you?” She pulled plates from the cabinet. Mandy prepared the salad.
“I don’t care what they think. Milk or juice?” I asked them as I reached for glasses.
“Milk,” Sylvie replied.
“Juice,” Mandy answered.
We all moved effortlessly in the small kitchen, working efficiently around each other.
“I told you I planned to take art as an elective this semester,” I said.
“Since when don’t you care what the boys on the team think?” she asked dryly.
“Since I figured out I could beat all of them up.”
“Sylvie, are you going to help me with my presentation?” Mandy, the interrupter, chimed in.
“Sure, what’s it on?”
“I have to give a speech on who I think the most popular president of all time is.”
“Who did you choose, princess?” I asked.
Mandy shot me a sarcastic glance. She didn’t like the nickname anymore, but I still used it once in a while to irk her.
“Lyndon B Johnson.”
“Hmm, I don’t know if he was the most popular of all time,” Sylvie said.
“Sure he was,” Mandy insisted.
“I’m pretty sure he’s not on anyone’s top list,” I added.
She stopped her work, giving me a look that could cut through ice. “He was to, and I’ll tell you why. When I was a little kid, I knew only three presidents. George Washington because he was the first, our current president because he was current, and Lyndon B Johnson, and he was the thirty-sixth president, so what does that tell you?”
“It tells me you were a dumbass kid,” I said.
The front door creaked open then. I doubt Momma heard the comment, but that didn’t stop Mandy.
“Momma! Cal just called me dumb,” Mandy whined, running out of the kitchen.
“Go on, throw yourself a nice little hissy fit, princess,” I yelled after her.
Sylvie gave me a chiding look, but she was trying not to laugh. “You shouldn’t be so mean, Tex.”
I shrugged. “That’s what brothers are for. Someone’s gotta knock her off that pedestal once in a while.”
“You put her up there, too. I don’t know how many brothers would insist on taking their sisters to ballet practice, coaching their softball team, or taking them shopping for
shoes. You’re a good brother, and she’s lucky to have you.”
Of course, I did that. It’s what my father would have done, and I was doing my best to be a pathetic replacement for him. Sylvie did all those things with me, too. She was Mandy’s best friend as much as she was mine.
I concentrated on gathering the silverware so she wouldn’t see my expression. “She didn’t have a choice. She’s stuck with me. What’s really lucky is that she has you.”
“We’re all lucky, Cal.”
Sylvie was right. We were.
* * * *
“It’s good,” I said, staring at the portrait.
“You think?” Sylvie asked.
“Damn good.”
“Thanks. It was my first time I painted an actual person.”
The subject of her painting was a beautiful woman with stunning brown eyes and cascading black hair. It looked a lot like Sylvie, not as she was now, but maybe who she’d be in a few years. But it wasn’t a self-portrait. She’d named it Renee.
“It’s your mother.”
She nodded.
“I’ve been trying to convince her to enter it into the Young Artist nationals,” Mrs. Peters said behind us.
I hadn’t even heard her approach. “What’s that?”
“It’s a national competition,” Tommy Castings said. He took a few steps toward us. He’d been listening. He was friends with Russell Foster, who was the right guard on the team. “You submit the entry form and a pic of your painting. If you win, your artwork is displayed in a New York City museum with a photo and bio of the artist. Plus, you get your name and artwork printed in some national papers and art magazines. It’s pretty awesome. I’m entering, too. Sylvie, you’re so talented. You should totally go for it.”
I tried not to give him a dirty look. Tommy and Sylvie often had lunch in the art room together. I had a feeling he was trying to steal my girl.
“Thanks, Tommy, but I don’t think its national-competition good,” Sylvie said.
“I disagree, but if you change your mind, I have the forms on my desk,” Mrs. Peters said.
“You should do it, Sylvie. If you win, you could start making a name for yourself,” I said, placing a strand of hair behind her ear. She smiled, but shook her head.
“Yeah, it’s totally awesome,” Tommy said. Why was he still here?
She dropped her voice a few notches, standing between Tommy and me. I didn’t like the fact that he was sharing this moment with us. Or any moment with her for that matter.
“It might be good enough for Mrs. Peters, but I don’t think a national art committee would look at it that way.”
“At least give it a try. You’ll never know if you don’t try,” I said, hoping I could change her mind. Sylvie was talented in so many ways, but she always seemed to shrug off any compliments. Almost as if she didn’t want people to notice her gifts.
“Hey, Cal, are we going to the movies tonight?” Shelly Watson asked, appearing out of nowhere. She put her hand on my shoulder. I stared at Sylvie, who didn’t seem to notice. I wasn’t dating Shelly or trying to make Sylvie jealous, but it annoyed me she never reacted. The girl could frustrate the hell out of me.
I held her in my arms every night. I comforted her when she had a nightmare. She confided in me. She cheered for me on the football field, ate supper with me, and sat beside me on the swings at church. But she’d drawn some weird line between us that we could never cross.
It drove me crazy because I loved her so much. Granted, I hadn’t told her that, but she’d be stupid not to know. And Sylvie wasn’t stupid. When we were alone, I got an inkling that she loved me, too. Still, I thought admitting my feelings wasn’t the greatest idea. I would not fuck up what we had so I could call her my girlfriend. No, sir. I’d wait until she was ready. Unfortunately, the stiffness in my pants every time she brushed up against me made it hard…literally.
“I got practice tonight, Shell.”
“What about after?” Shelly asked, leaning her big boobs against my back.
“Sylvie and I have plans,” I said. We were just going fishing, but it was still a plan.
“Oh, hi, Sylvia,” Shelly said, eyeing Sylvie as if she’d just noticed her. I think Shelly called her Sylvia to get some rise out of her, but it never worked.
“We can cancel,” Sylvie replied quietly.
“Sylvie, I finally got my license. Want to take the ferry to the mainland? Over in Melba, they opened an art museum. I can take you to dinner after,” Tommy asked.
Shit.
I had forgotten he was still here.
“Sure, Tommy,” she said. I wanted to shake her and punch him. Was she actually accepting another date right in front of me? The girl was torturing me.
“Okay, Shelly, I’ll pick you up at eight. And let’s skip the movie and go for a drive.” I stared straight and hard at Sylvie. “A very long drive.”
Shelly jumped up and down as if I’d just given her the winning lottery numbers. I could make out her nipple through her thin T-shirt. I wasn’t ashamed of looking. I was a guy, after all.
“Awesome!” Shelly said, sliding her hand down my arm. “Can’t wait.”
The bell rang, signaling class was over. I usually walked with Sylvie to her next class, but I was so pissed off that I stormed out. Fuck her.
Two periods later, I had calmed down. I even felt a little guilty. Not guilty enough to cancel my date or anything. Still, when I walked past the art room and saw her painting on the easel I stopped. She was wrong. The painting was good enough to hang in a museum. I clicked a quick pic with my cell phone and grabbed one of the forms on Mrs. Peter’s desk.
* * * *
It was close to midnight when I snuck into her room. She always left the window unlocked for me. I’d thought of forgoing our nightly ritual, but the truth was, I couldn’t sleep alone anymore. I needed her as much as she needed me. It wasn’t sexual, although I wouldn’t have minded if it became that. We just talked and sometimes I held her. Sometimes she held me. I don’t think I would have gotten through that dark period after my father’s death if it hadn’t been for those talks.
I lifted the covers and slid next to her. She had her back to me, her shoulders tensing with my presence, making it clear she was faking sleep.
“How was your date?” I asked, not hiding the animosity in my voice.
“It wasn’t a date. We hung out. You were the one on a date.”
I smiled, relishing the hint of sharpness in her voice. “You cancelled our plans, remember?”
“We can go fishing anytime. You don’t always get a chance to make out with Shelly Watson.”
I laughed because the girl had no idea what she was talking about. You always had a chance to make out with Shelly Watson, at least if you were on the football team—and I was the star quarterback. I had a free pass anytime I wanted to cash in.
Shelly had even brought condoms, but I hadn’t been fool enough to go there with her. I’d kissed those gooey glossed lips of hers until we were both chapped, the whole time thinking about another girl. How fucked up was I?
“I’d rather gone fishing with you.”
She didn’t answer.
“Doesn’t it mean anything that I’d rather be bitten by mosquitoes, catching smelly fish with you, than making out with her?”
She rolled over on her stomach, burying her head in the pillow. It was her signal that the conversation was over, but I wasn’t going to accept that…not this time.
“By the way, it was definitely a date with Tommy, even if you didn’t think of it that way.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. Shut the hell up, Tex.” She put the pillow over her head.
I moved the pillow out of the way and shifted closer to her. “Are you really this naïve, girl? Did he try anything with you?” My voice was chock-full of agitation.
“Keep your voice down. My dad’s sleeping.”
“You mean he’s passed out, don’t you? He won’t hear us.�
��
“I’m warning you.”
“You shouldn’t live with him. He doesn’t take care of you like a father should.” I moved her hair away, trying to get a better look at her face, but she screwed her eyes shut.
“Cut it out. I’m serious.”
“Fine, I’ll drop it like I always do, but we are going to talk about Tommy Castings.”
“We didn’t do anything. We’re friends. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“You’re my business, Sylvie. Whether you admit it or not.”
She turned her head, and even in the moonlight, I could see her eyes blazing. “Is that so? Are you my business, too?”
“Damn straight, I am.”
“Well then, did you do anything with Shelly Watson?”
Shit.
“We just made out, that’s all. Jesus, Sylvie, I’m a man, you know?”
She sucked in a long breath. I’d be lying to say it didn’t relieve me she was a bit jealous. Welcome to the club, girl. All this time, I thought I was the only member.
“Did you enjoy the fine cherries of Durbin Farms?” The sharp edge of her question cut right through me.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. You don’t owe me a thing.”
“I owe you everything.” My voice sounded low and strained. I swallowed. “I owe you for being there for me when my dad died. I owe you for helping me stand when all I wanted was to crawl under a rock. I owe you for being the one person I can always count on. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should stop owing you. What we’re doing is really fucked. It’s screwing with my head.”
She sat up, her eyes wide and lips pressed tight. “It is and it isn’t.” A tear rolled down her cheek. “I can’t give you what you want, but I can tell you this. You’re my one person too, Caleb. Yeah, this is fucked up, but is there anything normal about me? About us?”
I was angry. The anger masked the hurt. We were quiet for a long time. I shut my eyes and tried to sleep. But I couldn’t. Not without having her hear me. “I’m so confused by you. I don’t want Shelly Watson or any other girl in the world. You know what I want. And it’s not that I want to have sex with you either.”
