A Girl by Any Other Name

by MK Schiller

  It didn’t matter. Reading was not only fundamental, it was subjective. Someone said Stephen King and I nodded in appreciation. I devoured all kinds of books, especially the classics, but I loved King too. He was… Well, he was King.

  I checked 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 was staring at me, as was the rest of the class. I hadn’t interrupted the whole time.

  Sophie Becker stood, but not completely. She was in 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-five. 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 as did the sweet thickness of those seductive lips that I could just barely make out. Sylvie? Had I finally lost my mind? Was she a ghost? An angel? A maddening spirit the likes of which had visited Scrooge on that fateful Christmas Eve? Fuck… What the hell was going on?

  She quickly sat down. Her head disappeared into the arena of faces like a fox jumping back into its hole. “We have to move on, Cal,” Jessica warned, 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. 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 know if we haven’t read the book?” a girl in the front asked. I remembered her name as Melanie Adams. Jessica started walking around making sure everyone was grabbing a piece of folded paper from her basket. I immediately regretted not doing the task myself. At least then I could clearly 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 quite easy to gather information. Google, Wikipedia and SparkNotes are a few sites to get you started. Just 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. Even a reference site deserves acknowledgment. I’ll 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. I rushed toward the exit, but was stopped by 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 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 I’d been down this path before. I’d acted a fool in the presence of many tall girls with golden-brown hair and eyes the color of sweet melted chocolate.

  Chapter Three

  Excerpt from Raven Girl

  Age 11

  Every school had a weird girl and Sylvie Cranston was ours. She even managed to beat out paste-eating Paula and gassy Jeannie Massey for that title. She dressed in all black most days in clothes that I was pretty sure she Velcroed to her tiny body so they wouldn’t fall off. She practically painted her face in white powder and dyed her hair jet black. We didn’t classify her with fancy terms like goth or emo, although that was what she was. The kids in Prairie Marsh opted for a description that was much simpler and to the point. They called her a freak.

  It was odd enough to be the town freak, but to manage it at age eleven was a feat of astounding proportions.

  Sylvie had been right. She never made friends. The girls looked upon 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 Mandy was sunshine and bluebirds and Sylvie was more like full moon and bats. Still, Sylvie came to our house all the time and played with my sister. I wasn’t sure who was doing whom the favor. Sylvie and I grunted our acknowledgments rather than actually conversed, but we had an understanding. We had some easy-going, silent respect for each other.

  My mother loved Sylvie too, although my father had made a few comments about how it might not be a good idea to let Mandy hang out with her. My father saw Sylvie as a girl he might have to arrest in a few years for drunk driving or drugs, but my mother saw her as the poor child who’d lost a parent. Mandy saw her as an awesome older best friend. To me, she was a spirit that floated in and out of our house. I was comfortable with her, but I had no idea why.

  Mr Cranston hardly ever left home. He stayed in the house as if he was afraid of the outdoors. He had told my mother he worked from home—what they called a ‘telecommuter’, which sounded like a foreign word in Prairie Marsh. I still thought it strange that he chose to be a hermit, especially since every single woman in a fifty-mile radius had asked him on a date. My mother had told them all to leave him alone since it was obvious the man was still mourning the death of his wife.

  Sylvie did the shopping, except for that one time a month when he’d get in his Cadillac and come home with several large boxes, the contents too heavy for brown paper bags. Sylvie helped him carry them inside. The remnants of those trips would be visible in the coming weeks when his garbage bin was full of empty Glenlivet bottles. The sound it made when the garbage men emptied it into the truck was ear-splitting.

  My mother invited Sylvie to church with us, but Sylvie always refused. I found it interesting that my mother liked Sylvie despite this. We weren’t religious nutcases or anything, but Momma had very specific feelings when it came to God and His house. It didn’t matter if you were black or white, Muslim or Jew, straight or gay, you would receive no judgment from Mrs Tanner. It was for God to judge you in the end, but you had better get your ass to some kind of worship so you could be properly judged by your Maker.

  One particular Sunday, Momma had me and my buddy Glen carry out an old church door that needed to be refinished to my dad’s truck. My job was pretty much carrying stuff, so I was used to it. On the way back I noticed her. Sylvie was sitting behind the church on the swing set that was installed as a way to tire out the more rambunctious kids before service.

  “Are you coming?” Glen asked.

  “You go ahead,” I replied.

  “They’re going to start service soon. Your momma’s gonna be pissed.”

  I wasn’t worried. Momma had joined the choir. When she was up there in that flowing purple robe, she was too distracted by the Lord’s song to be looking for me. My sister and father would be preoccupied watching her. “Go on.”

  Glen shrugged his shoulders and went inside.

  I walked over and took the swing next to Sylvie. “You can come inside, you know.”

  She laughed. “I don’t think there’s enough holy water to put out the sparks if I walked in there.” She was bordering on blasphemy here, and I was just glad Momma wasn’t witnessing it. But then again, I knew Sylvie well enough to know that she’d never say anything even slightly disrespectful in front of my mother—or anyone’s mother for that matter. But she had no hesitation confiding her craziness to me.

  “Why are you here then? I know Pastor Morrison’s sermon is loud enough that you can hear it from this spot.”

  “I like the swings.”

  “The swings are always here. You don’t have to come during Sunday service to sit on the swings.”
>
  She turned to me and I saw a fat tear forming at the corner of her eye, “Do you really believe in this stuff, Cal? You believe in God?”

  I was surprised by the question, and a little uncomfortable with the whole tear thing. I didn’t handle crying girls well, except for Mandy and that was because her crying was more of a tantrum than anything else. “Yes, I believe.”

  Sylvie let out her now-familiar cynical laugh. “You believe that God let His son die? You believe the serpent and the apple? You believe a man lived in the belly of a fish?”

  “I believe that we were made by someone better than us and He loves us. That’s all I need to believe.”

  She nodded and put her head down, moving back and forth on the swing. She looked like she was in deep reflection. “I used to believe in God, but I don’t think He ever believed in me.”

  “You’re wrong. He loves all of us.”

  She turned to me with a half-hearted smile. “Some more than others.”

  She stared at me for a while and I watched with guilt as another tear rolled down her face, washing off the white powdery residue there and revealing her natural olive tone. Her lower lip trembled, but she didn’t make any other sounds.

  I had no idea what to do. Part of me wanted to run inside the church and slam the door. The other part wanted to scream for Pastor Morrison because I figured this was some kind of Biblical emergency and he was the right man for the job. In the end, though, I did nothing very dramatic at all. Instead of wiping her tears or coming up with a consoling statement, I just took her hand and held it.

  I expected her to seize up or run away, but she actually tightened her fingers over mine. We listened to the sermon from the swings in silence. She ran off before the doors opened and the parishioners came out. I stared after her as she disappeared into the woods, her long hair blending in with the oaks and elms that resided there.

  * * * *

  Every Sunday after that was the same. I’d sneak out of church and sit with Sylvie during service. My momma was on to me, and I expected a stern lecture, but she surprised me by saying, “Everyone prays in a different way, Cal. You’re at church whether you’re sitting inside its walls or outside on its swings. Sylvie’s there too.”

  That was how the First Methodist Church of Prairie Marsh ended up with two parishioners who preferred the swings over a pew.

  If it rained, I brought an umbrella. If it was cold, I brought a jacket for Sylvie. If it was hot, I brought juice boxes. I never asked her to go inside again. Most of the time we didn’t talk. I didn’t register what that meant at the time, but looking back, I knew it was because we were comfortable in silence. It was one thing to have a friend you could always converse with, but it was even more special to find someone to share silence with you.

  “What are you reading?” Sylvie asked in a hushed whisper.

  “The Bible.”

  “Shut up, Cal. I know you’re not reading the Bible. You’re using it to hide the book you’re really reading. What is it?”

  “None of your business, Miss Nosy.”

  “Show me,” she demanded.

  “No,” I replied, clutching the Bible and the paperback inside it closer to my chest.

  Sylvie jumped off her swing and practically pried it out of my hands. If anyone were passing by, it would look like we were literally fighting over the Scriptures. My paperback fell to the ground and she grabbed it before I could. She was surprisingly fast.

  “The poems of Edgar Allen Poe?” she asked with the clear inflection of a question, turning the book over in her hands. “We’re supposed to read this one in high school.”

  I snatched the book out of her hand. “I’m glad you can read.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know why you’re embarrassed. I thought you were looking at naked girly pictures the way you were trying to hide it.”

  It would have been better if I was. “Don’t tell anyone,” I warned her. I didn’t think the guys I hung out with would think it was cool I was reading poetry.

  She sat down on her swing again. “I think you’re the smartest boy I know.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  She blinked her eyes at my goofy grin.

  “I’m the smartest person you know.”

  “That can’t be, because I’m smarter than you,” she replied, jutting her chin out.

  “You’re a smartass. There’s a difference.” I returned to the passage I was reading, doing my best to ignore her.

  “Why don’t you want people to know you like to read?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it, Sylvie. You’re annoying me.”

  “Will you read one to me?”

  “We’re supposed to be paying attention to the sermon. The only reason my momma lets me sit out here with you is because she thinks we listen to it.”

  “You’re not listening.” She had me there. “Just read me one. Your favorite one. Please?”

  I sighed. “Fine.”

  I flipped to my favorite poem and quietly read The Raven to her. When I looked up, she was staring at me with wide eyes and a wistful smile. Even my ignorant eleven-year-old self could appreciate that smile.

  “It’s so pretty. I wonder what it means.”

  “I know what it means. He thought he heard the ghost of some girl named Lenore who he used to know, but it was just some stupid bird screaming that he’d never see her again.”

  “That sounds sad and romantic.”

  “Romantic? He was crazy,” I said, twirling my finger next to my head.

  “I think it is. He had to love her very much if he kept searching for her.”

  “Maybe he just went batshit.”

  “Cal, don’t swear. We’re in church,” she scolded, wagging her finger at me.

  “It’s okay. We’re outside of it,” I said, gesturing to the open space between us and the building.

  “God can hear everything.”

  I chuckled. “Yeah, but my momma can’t.” She punched me in the arm. “Did you just punch me or was it the wind? ’Cause I can’t tell.”

  “Very funny.” She looked off into the woods, and I wondered if she was going to bolt early. “I think there might be a raven calling to me too. Do you think I’m crazy?”

  “Heck yeah,” I replied, impressed with myself for not saying ‘hell’. I felt lousy, though, when she looked at me with those big chocolate-colored eyes full of sorrow. I wanted to make her feel better. I wanted her to smile again. I knocked my knee into hers. “Girl, you’re such a weirdo,” I said, finding the most poetic words my childish mind could muster.

  She laughed in that cynical way of hers. “Yeah, you’re right. Bye.” She took off, sprinting into the woods.

  “Hey, Sylvie,” I called after her before she blended into the landscape. She stopped and turned, almost out of earshot. “Let’s go fishing tomorrow after school.”

  “I knew you’d take me,” she yelled back, giving me a real smile.

  * * * *

  “Are you ready to run yet?” I asked, holding the fat, grubby, wiggly worm close to her face.

  Sylvie didn’t even flinch. The girl had guts. “Give me that,” she said, grabbing it out of my hand and hooking it on the line the way I’d shown her. “Are you trying to scare me?”

  “Yeah,” I admitted.

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s fun. How come you’re not screaming or something?” Girls were never this calm in the face of writhing worms and bloody fish.

  She shrugged her shoulders, casting the line, letting her long legs dangle over the dock. Her skirt skimmed the water, but it was obvious she didn’t care. “I’ve seen much scarier things than dangling worms.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like stuff. Now let me fish.”

  We sat in silence for a while. I was curious about what she meant, but I didn’t ask. She didn’t want me to. Even at eleven, I knew that. “Nothing bad ever happens in Prairie Marsh. My father protects this town. You don’t have to worry
as long as he’s around. Or me. I’m your Huckleberry.”

  She arched her eyebrow in confusion. “Like Huckleberry Finn? And I’m Tom Sawyer then?”

  I laughed. “Sort of. It’s what Doc Holiday said in Tombstone. It just means I’m your buddy, that’s all.”

  “I’ve never seen it.”

  “We’ll have to watch it some time. It’s not a girly movie, but I think you’ll like it.”

  “’Kay.”

  “So, you never get scared, huh?”

  “I didn’t say that.” She concentrated on her line, watching for movement as I’d shown her.

  “You don’t seem like it,” I replied.

  “Because I’m not afraid of a stupid worm that can’t hurt me?”

  “Because you walk around the woods at night like a zombie. I’ve heard you.” It wasn’t something kids our age did. I’d never admit it to her, but it impressed the hell out of me that Sylvie wasn’t afraid of the woods…unlike me.

  “It doesn’t matter if you’re behind a locked door under the covers or walking around in the middle of the night. If something’s gonna get you, it’ll get you no matter what.”

  “I got a twelve-gauge that says different.”

  She tilted her head. “Your daddy showed you how to use it?”

  I slumped my shoulders and sighed. “Not yet. He says maybe next year.” My father was really into gun safety. He talked to me about guns all the time—how to clean them, take care of them and most importantly when to use them—but he had not let me shoot one off yet. It was embarrassing because my friends’ dads had no problem with it. I was the sheriff’s son for God’s sake. I should know how to use a gun.

  Daddy promised that if I passed his tests I’d go hunting with him when I was fourteen. At least I had that to look forward to.

  “I’m glad you don’t know. You might shoot your foot off,” she said in a mocking tone.

  I gave her the bird. In my opinion, it was the coolest way to swear. After all, if no one heard you, you weren’t really swearing. “I’m going to be a good shot, don’t you worry about me—or yourself. Nothing bad ever happens in Prairie Marsh.”