The Other F-Word
Page 32
I shook my head. “Is that what y’all do for fun up north? Bite each other?”
She laughed, but it wasn’t a real laugh. It was the first time I recognised what people referred to as a ‘cynical laugh’. Kids our age laughed because something was humorous, but Sylvie wasn’t like other kids. That much was obvious. “Yeah, so I guess you should stay away from me before you turn into a vampire.”
“Shoot, that don’t scare me. I got a twelve-gauge that’ll take care of anything with fangs.”
“I don’t think bullets stop vampires.”
“I beg to differ,” I replied, using one of my father’s patented phrases. Sylvie sounded very adult in some ways 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.”
“Can you keep this a secret?”
I stared at her dubiously. My daddy had talked to me about this kind of stuff, and told me if any of my friends said things that didn’t seem right that it was my job 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 ain’t a snitch.”
“No matter what happens, you can’t tell. You have to swear on it.”
“Who did it? Was it your daddy?” There was no way I would swear to it if it was her daddy.
“No. Now swear.”
I expected a further explanation, but she didn’t provide one. She just stared at me expectantly with her arms crossed.
“I swear I won’t tell about this bite mark.” I figured if there was another I could always go back on my word, since I was so specific in the promise.
She exhaled a long breath. “Thank you.”
I nodded, not sure if I’d done the right thing, but I didn’t think too much on it because Mandy returned, flinging a dozen more daisies in Sylvie’s lap. Sylvie smiled appreciatively and picked several of them up. She removed the leaves and began weaving them together in tiny knots, forming a perfect chain. It must have really impressed my sister because she watched in awed silence, which was very rare for her. I wondered if Sylvie knew how to tie other knots like the ones I needed to know for my Boy Scout merit badge.
“Will you teach me how to fish?” Sylvie asked suddenly. The request surprised me. Most girls wanted nothing to do with grubby worms or bloody fish.
“How do you know I fish?” I asked, trying to sound like the detective my dad was.
“Cal, you dummy, I just told her that. Weren’t you paying attention?” Mandy chimed in. She probably had said that. I tended to tune out my little sister after the first two sentences.
“You wouldn’t like it. You’re a girl,” I said, as if Sylvie didn’t know that.
She pressed her lips together and stared me down. It was hard not to laugh at her. She was tiny trying to act tough. “Don’t tell me what I’d like. I want to learn how to fish, but if you’re not good enough to 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’d 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?
“But you’re not. 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 know, 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’d forgotten she was there.
“Tell her he said ‘ass’, then he’ll really get in trouble,” Sylvie retorted, placing the crown of daisies on Mandy’s hair.
“Good idea,” Mandy chirped.
“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 didn’t know what that word meant, but even at ten, I knew she was insulting me.
I narrowed my eyes and gave her my most threatening look—the one I typically reserved for when the older boys tried to take over our baseball diamond. I stared her straight down, squaring my shoulders and trying to be intimidating. She just smirked at me, fluttering those long lashes over her earth-coloured 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.”
“I wasn’t planning on making any,” she replied, turning her attention back to Mandy’s hair.
I had no idea what to say. Who the hell didn’t want to make friends? Certainly not anyone our age.
“Good, because 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.
“Relax, 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? Bitch, fuck, shit, ass, piss—”
“Caleb James Tanner, what on God’s green earth are you saying?” My mother’s piercing wail halted my flow of expletives as if she’d electrocuted me. My behind involuntarily twitched from the sting of the beating it would receive as a result of my swearing spectacle. “I’m so sorry, Harry, I have no idea what’s got into him.”
“Don’t worry about it. He’s a boy,” Mr Cranston answered as if that was an explanation.
“I can’t believe you swore like that 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. “It’s quite all right. I have to admit, I’m a bit shocked at the language, but I won’t hold it against him.”
“Apologise this instant, Cal,” my mother demanded.
I swallowed, but I knew better than to resist. “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 replied, smiling at the grown-ups while patting me on the shoulder.
“When his daddy gets home, he’ll know what sorry really means.”
I took a deep breath, knowing what was in store. This was the South. In other places, like where Sylvie was from, the solution to a mouthy kid was probably 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 then a stern sermon where my ‘feelings’ never came into the conversation. It sucked, but it always worked.
* * * *
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. One thing I knew for sure. Sylvie Cranston was trouble and I planned to stay as far away from her as possible. It would prove difficult, though, since part of my punishment was to mow the Cranstons’ yard for the rest of the summer along with ours.
I tried to swallow back the last of the Tabasco flavouring on my tongue. I lifted my head when I heard the sound of rustling leaves under my window and the whispering sing-song East Coast accent as it floated a
round the mild Texas air. “Should’ve taken me fishing, asshole.”
“When hell freezes over,” I whispered, throwing my head back into the pillow. I knew better than to say it any louder. Despite my resentment at her for getting me into trouble, I started laughing.
It was a cynical laugh.
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About the Author
MK Schiller is a hopeless romantic in a hopelessly pragmatic world. By day, she dons a magic cape, calculator (sometimes an abacus), and an assortment of gel pens for her work in the world of finance. But by night, she sits by the warm glow of her computer monitor, and conjures up handsome heart-warming heroes and the vivacious heroines they love.
A wife and mother of two loveable, but angst-ridden teenagers, she enjoys movies, gardening, and travelling. Although she loves to write, she is a reader first and enjoys nothing more than curling up with a good book and some tasty Italian (the food, of course!). She hopes you will enjoy her stories and write to her.
Email: mk.schiller@yahoo.com
MK loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.totallybound.com.
Also by MK Schiller
In Other Words: The Other C-Word
What’s Her Secret: A Girl by Any Other Name
Paramour: Lucky Fall
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