by MK Schiller
Her frown crinkled at the edges, wavering slightly in her battle to fight a smile. “You don’t want to have sex with me? Why not?” There was a lilt in her voice. She’d caught me fibbing.
“Shit, you know what I mean. I want to, but not until you’re ready. We have this really weird relationship, and I just want to define it. Can’t you give me some peace of mind?”
“You have it. We’re friends. You’re my best friend, and that’s enough for me. You can go out with other girls, Cal. You don’t need my permission. I’m sorry I acted jealous.”
I laid my forearm across my face and sighed deeply. “Woman, you’re fucking frustrating as hell, you know that?”
“Go to sleep. It’s late. You woke me up reeking like cheap perfume.”
“It’s cologne, smartass. The stuff you bought me last Christmas, remember?”
“It’s not your cologne I’m complaining about. It’s her perfume, and it’s making me sick. Does she use a crop duster to apply it?”
My jaw dropped.
“What?” she asked.
“Just wondering if you’re being mean in general or if your jealous.”
“Mean.”
“I don’t think so.” My smile is two shades too high for my own good.
“You can do whatever you want.”
“Why don’t I leave then?” I said, sitting up.
She reached out and clasped my wrist. “No. Don’t go. Stay, please.” There was something needy in her words. I couldn’t leave even if I wanted to, and I sure as hell didn’t want to.
“Whatever.” I crossed my arms behind my head and lay down on my back. I stared up at the starry sky we’d painted on her ceiling last year. The large brushstrokes and bright colors were reminiscent of Rembrandt. I could just make it out by the dim moonlight that streamed through her window. Sylvie had done most of the work. I’d just helped wherever she needed. Mostly, I held the ladder and handed her paintbrushes so she wouldn’t fall on her beautiful ass. I hadn’t minded. It was a nice view.
I lay there for at least twenty minutes. I knew by the way she shifted in the bed she wasn’t asleep yet.
“We need rules.”
“Why?” she asked.
“I need them.”
“We can do rules.”
“Here are the terms. Keep it friendly with Tommy if you want, but nothing else. I won’t go out with Shelly either…or anyone else, okay?” I whispered in the dark room.
“Why?”
“Because it’s hard to keep it friendly with her. She’s really hot.”
She elbowed me in the ribs. “That’s not what I mean.”
I grabbed her hand. My thumb grazed the back of her wrist. She sucked in a deep breath. I made a mental note to remember what that did to her. “It doesn’t matter what we call ourselves. We belong to each other. We are each other’s one person, and we always will be.”
She didn’t say anything for a while, but I saw her smile in the moonlight. “’Kay.”
* * * *
It had been a few months since my date with Shelly Watson. True to my word, I hadn’t gone out with anyone. Sylvie kept going out with Tommy, but she insisted they were friends. Tommy had his own group of friends so it wasn’t often, not that I was keeping track or anything.
Yeah, right.
I was totally keeping track.
Jealousy tasted bitter and thick, even worse than the dandelion tea my grandma used to brew. It gave me just as much indigestion, too. I trusted Sylvie, but it didn’t stop me from having a few man-to-man conversations with Tommy after gym.
Our team lost the championship last year, but we were in it again this year. The whole school buzzed around every game. In Prairie, Texas, you could seldom have a conversation that didn’t involve football, and the fact we might have a nice, shiny trophy to adorn the empty spot in the glass case made everyone hopeful. Everyone on the football team held celebrity status.
People insisted on paying for our food at restaurants. The hallways parted when we walked down them. Classmates offered to do our homework. The principal looked away if we cut class. It was somewhat surreal, especially for me. As captain and quarterback, I was the star of the show. It was enough to make a man’s head swell to the size of a hot-air balloon.
But all the women in my life kept me grounded. I still had to mow the lawn, take Mandy to ballet, and do the dinner dishes. I didn’t mind, though.
During the games, everyone held up signs and cheered me on, but my eyes always searched for Sylvie when I entered the field. It was part of my pre-game ritual. That, and looking up at the sky to say a little prayer for my dad. He was watching me, too.
“Quit daydreaming,” Sylvie said, pointing to my blank paper.
She sketched the stuffed bear that sat on the table. I was supposed to be doing something along those lines too, but I found it difficult to look away from her delicate hands when she was drawing. “I’m thinking.”
“You should be sketching,” she said. “Mrs. Peters will fail you.”
I sighed and drew something that resembled a bear, but looked more like a snowman.
“Cal, do you want to come to Sadie Hawkins with me?” Shelly asked. As usual, I wasn’t paying attention to the fact she was sitting on the other side of me.
Sylvie jerked her shoulders. She squeezed her pencil so hard it popped out of her hand. I picked it up and handed it back to her.
“No, I’m sorry, Shell, I can’t go,” I said, hoping she’d drop it.
“You’re not going to the dance?” she asked in shock, as if I’d told her I was dropping out of school to sell meth or something.
“I’m not sure yet.” I was talking to Shelly Watson, but staring at Sylvie. Ask me, I kept saying to myself. Ask me to the dance, you stubborn girl. She never did. She just resumed drawing that stupid-looking bear instead. I would have asked her except that this was Sadie Hawkins, and the tradition was that the girls asked the guys. Stupid-ass tradition.
“Okay, class, I know everyone is excited about the prospects of our team making the championship, but I wanted to draw your attention to another great accomplishment for our school,” Mrs. Peters said, clasping her hands.
We all turned our attention to her. Usually art class was brief instruction followed by lots of drawing, or in my case, doodling. It was rare that Mrs. Peters interrupted us in the middle of class.
“I was informed this morning that one of our students won the National Art Competition.”
I straightened in my chair, suddenly nervous. Tommy Castings had entered, but I hoped to God it wasn’t him that Mrs. Peters was talking about.
“Please join me in congratulating our very own Sylvie Cranston, whose portrait of Renee will be on display in New York as well as featured in some major papers.”
Everyone clapped and yelled their congratulations. I smiled proudly, ready to bask in her glow. But the glow never came. Her eyes went wide with shock. Her lower lip trembled in panic. Her olive skin turned pale. I put my hand over hers to calm her, but it didn’t seem to help.
“I-I—um—don’t understand. I didn’t enter,” she stammered nervously.
Mrs. Peters wrinkled her brow. “They have your entry, dear, and your photo. I don’t know how they would have gotten it otherwise.”
“My photo?”
“Yes, they needed one for the article,” Mrs. Peters said, walking over to Sylvie. “They sent me a mockup. As your art teacher, they called me for a quote. They will be calling you, too. Probably tonight since the article’s supposed to go to press tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? But I don’t want that.”
“Oh dear, well, I don’t think we can stop it at this point. Now, I know you’re just nervous, but this is a great opportunity for you. I believe they will even fly you out so you can view your artwork personally. You’ll get to stay in New York and visit all the museums with the other winners. Your father will be so proud of you.”
I doubted that. Mr. Cranston even talked to
her except in slurred commands. The only real conversations he was having these days were with Mr. Glenlivet. They were old friends.
Mrs. Peters walked over to the empty easel where Sylvie’s painting was. “I sent it out this morning. I would have waited, but I wanted to make sure it got in the post.”
I swear I heard Sylvie’s heart beating right though her chest.
“Relax, girl, you’re going to get me in trouble. I entered you,” I whispered into her ear.
She turned to me. My heart sank with the look she gave me. It wasn’t gratitude, surprise, or even anger. It was disappointment, as if I’d betrayed her.
“I have to go,” she announced, gathering her books.
“Class isn’t over,” Mrs. Peters stated more firmly.
“I’m sorry. I’m sick. I have to go home.”
When I stood, my chair scraped back, causing some kids to cover their ears. “I’ll walk her home.”
“No, you won’t,” Sylvie said on her way out the door.
I got up anyway, but Mrs. Peters called out my name. “Cal, you may be under the impression that you can do as you please since you’re captain of the football team. Let me clear that up for you. In my classroom, I am the captain. Now sit down. Sylvie can leave, but you, young man, need to stay.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I stared after Sylvie, wondering what the hell had just happened. I only meant to enter her so she could see how good she was—New York museum good. It was to give her confidence. My greatest idea backfired right in my face.
I considered skipping practice, but it would be a mistake this close to the championship. Others were counting on me. I shouldn’t have gone, though. My mind wasn’t in it, and Coach Brown made us all stay late and run extra laps because I’d somehow forgotten how to throw a football.
Sylvie didn’t come over for dinner either. I shoveled food in my mouth to appease my momma. As soon as I could, I ran out the back door, making a beeline for Sylvie’s bedroom window. I tried opening it, but she’d locked the latch and had the shades drawn. She’d locked me out? I tapped on it gently. When there was no answer, I knocked. I resorted to pounding until she finally appeared.
“What?” she demanded. Her faced was streaked with fresh tears and her hair was a mess.
“Why the hell are you so mad at me?”
She narrowed her eyes at me. The cynical laugh I hadn’t heard in years suddenly reappeared with a newfound vigor. “You asshole. I wasn’t ready to show my art. That was my decision, not yours.”
“I was doing you a favor.”
“A favor? Do me a real favor and stay the hell away from me.”
“Girl, are you smoking crack? What the hell is wrong with you?”
She slammed the window down, right on my fingers. The wooden barrier hit my knuckles with a hard force. I howled out in pain and shook out my aching hand. “You know I need that hand, right? How do you expect me to chuck a football without it?”
She stared down at my hand. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
“Hell no, I’m not okay.”
“You should put ice on it right away.”
“Talk to me first.”
“You need to go, Cal. I’m serious,” she said in a softer voice.
“I can’t stand it when you’re mad at me. I don’t even know what I did.”
She wiped her face, but she didn’t turn her head toward me. “You’ll just have to get used to it. We can’t be friends anymore.”
That sucker-punch came out of nowhere. It pummeled every cell in my body and hurt ten times worse than my hand.
“You can’t mean that, Sylvie. You’re my best friend. You’re my good-luck charm.” I lowered my voice, leaning closer to her through the opening in the window. “You’re my family. I’m sorry for what I did. I was thinking with my heart and not my head.”
“I know you were. That’s why this is so hard.”
“I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”
For a moment, I saw a flicker of regret in her features. She would forgive me. She loved me. This whole argument was stupid.
“I just want to be left alone. Please leave me be.”
The crushing finality of her words hit me like a grand piano. It felt so heavy I thought I might crumble to dust. “Fine, I’ll leave for now, but I mean as much to you as you do to me. You can’t stay mad at me forever. I’ll give you time. I’ll wait as long as it takes. I’ll leave my window unlocked for you and I’ll wait.” I said it as much to convince myself as to sway her.
She didn’t say anything. She closed the window, more gently this time. I let her.
Sylvie didn’t speak to me after that. I felt horrible, but even worse she didn’t talk to Mandy or Momma either. My mother even went over to check on her several times, but her father kept saying she was sleeping. She wasn’t at our fishing hole. She wasn’t in the woods. She wasn’t at the swing set during Sunday service. I saw her at school, but she didn’t acknowledge me in any way. She did look sick, though. She had lost weight and her clothes were hanging off her more than usual. She changed seats in art class by telling Mrs. Peters the lighting was better at the other table. The table where Tommy Castings sat.
I thought for sure we’d lose the championship game. I’d been acting like a freshman in practice, making stupid mistakes and constantly getting sacked. We had to take the ferry to all our away games. But this one was a good sixty miles away in Beaumont at a real college stadium. I entered the field, feeling the palpable push and pull motion of the crowd like a tangible force, but it wasn’t enough to motivate me.
I looked for her. Momma and Mandy sat in the front row, cheering loudly in the school colors of gray and blue. Sylvie wasn’t there, though. My heart slumped in my chest, and I took a deep breath. The field was huge and the lights so bright I had to blink my eyes. She really wasn’t here.
I shouldn’t have heard it over all the other noises vying for my attention, but the whistle pierced through the night air, and it wasn’t coming from the ref. Someone in the stands let out that whistle.
She sat in the far corner. I couldn’t make her out, but it was her, holding up a sign written in gold glitter. You can do it, Tex. I turned my head toward Heaven and said a few words to my father as I always did before every game. I added a special thanks to the man upstairs for making brown eyes, beautiful girls, and gold glitter.
We won the game, which was good because afterward Coach told me there were a few college scouts in the audience who came to see me.
My excitement dampened when Sylvie still didn’t acknowledge me. She kept me locked out, but I was all done with the silent treatment. I stormed over to her house a few days after the game. A black town car was parked behind Mr. Cranston’s Cadillac. It was strange since they never had any visitors, but I could care less if she had company. I knocked on the front door, feeling a little weird. I hadn’t knocked on the front door in years. It wasn’t her father who answered, but a tall guy with short brown hair and sunglasses. He wore a dark suit…and it wasn’t Sunday.
“Is Sylvie here?” I asked when he didn’t give me any greeting.
“She’s busy.”
“Who are you?” I was being rude, but I didn’t care.
“I’m Joe,” he replied, as if that should mean something to me.
“I need to talk to her.”
“This isn’t the best time.”
“Sylvie, are you in there?” I screamed.
Joe pushed me out the door. I wasn’t prepared for the assault. “Look, kid, I was trying to be nice, but if you keep this up, I’m going to show you exactly what kind of guy I am.”
“Let him in, Joe,” Sylvie said in a meek voice behind him. Her eyes pleaded with him. There seemed to be some kind of silent exchange going on between them, but he finally moved aside so I could come in.
“Can we talk?” I asked. I resisted the urge to hug her. She was so tiny and pale. I wasn’t just afraid she’d reject me—I was afraid of hurting her. “Please?” I added.
“In my room,” she replied, taking my hand. I was happy for the contact, but her hand felt limp inside of mine.
“Sylvie, do you think that’s a good idea?” Joe asked. It was so strange since her dad was sitting on the couch watching it all. He didn’t say a word. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was in some kind of a trance.
“Yes, it’s a great idea, Joe. It’s all a great idea,” she said through clenched teeth. I wasn’t sure if it was directed at him or me.
Once we were inside her room, she closed the door and stared at me.
“What do you want, Cal?” Her lower lip trembled, and her whole body seemed to wince all at once. She was holding in her need to cry.
“Who is he?”
“My uncle.”
She’d never mentioned an uncle, but now was not the time for questions. I closed the gap between us until the release of her warm breath hit my skin. “You don’t look good. Are you sick?”
“Well, thanks. Is that why you came? To tell me how bad I look?”
“Are you okay?”
She blew out a long breath. “Fine. I’m busy. What do you need?”
“Why are you icing me out like this?”
“I told you. I can’t be friends with you anymore. It’s too complicated.”
“Our relationship is as simple as breathing.”
She shook her head. “You’re suffocating me. Can’t you see that? You need to leave me alone like I asked.”
“I don’t believe you. I saw you at the game. Just let me make this right.”
“You can’t.” She took off the St Michael’s medallion around her neck and held it out to me. Her hand shook so much it swung like a pendulum between us.
“You keep it. You need it more than I do.”
“It wouldn’t be right.”
There was no way I was letting her return it to me. It would be too final. “Yes, you can.”
“Cal, please don’t make this harder.” There was raw pain in her voice.
I searched my soul, trying to find the words to make things right between us again. My brain ran through the hundreds of books I’d read, searching for the perfect phrase from Byron to Shakespeare, but I was only sixteen, so I ended up saying the dumbest thing I could. “Are you planning on asking me to Sadie’s?”
