A Girl by Any Other Name (2 page)

sidewalk and crossing over the ten slabs of cement to the driveway of another almost identical brick

ranch. It was easier to cut across the grass, but I knew better. My momma would have a few remarks

if I dared cross the patch of grass between the houses. It was not proper. It was not neighborly. And

we had manners. This philosophy applied even though the other house had been vacant so long it was

more like weedy thistle than a real lawn. Still, my father mowed it down once a week for

appearances’ sake when he tended to our lawn. “Can’t let the neighborhood go downhill,” he’d say. I

knew with his promotion to sheriff, he would be working longer hours, and the chore would soon be

mine. At least I’d only have to mow our lawn.

I stepped aside so my mother could knock on the door. A moving van was in the driveway and

several men were unloading it. The whole thing was a little weird. No one ever moved to Prairie

Marsh, Texas. Sure, there were people who left to pursue life in other parts of the country, only to

return homesick or bitter from their experiences, but it was a strange occurrence to see a new family

here. We were a small town in the middle of nowhere, East Texas. Even at ten, I knew that much.

A tall dark-haired man in black trousers and a crisp white shirt answered the door. This was

strange too. People around here either wore Sunday clothes or regular clothes. This man was in semi-

Sunday clothes. If you were doing heavy lifting, you definitely wore jeans. I doubted he would fit in.

“Well, hello, we’re the Tanners, your neighbors next door. I’m Amelia. This is my son, Caleb,

but you can call him Cal. And this little princess is Amanda, but please call her Mandy.”

“It’s nice to meet you. I’m Harry Cranston.” He shook my mother’s hand and smiled widely at

Amanda. I one-armed the casserole dish to shake his hand, happy he wasn’t ignoring me like most

adults. “Nice grip, son.”

We walked into the three-bedroom replica of our house I’d always known as Mrs Miller’s

place. Mrs Miller had died last year and her son had sold it, but that had been months ago. We’d

begun to think the new owners had changed their mind until my mother had spotted the moving van

this morning. The old house appeared new again. The oak floors were so shiny they looked wet, and

the furniture was brand new with the store tags still on it. The whole house smelled of fresh paint and

lemon juice. That would please my mother. She liked a clean house.

I held up the casserole and thankfully Mr Cranston took it from me before I dropped it. I had no

idea how my mother made that pan feel heavier than my dad’s old medicine ball in the garage, but she

did. My dad always said, “The heavier the casserole, the better it is.” If that was the case, I was

pretty sure my momma made the best casserole in the county.

“I hope you like this,” my mother said, pointing to the pan.

“It smells divine.”

Did he say
divine?

“My husband, John, would be here too, but he’s on duty today. He’s the sheriff.”

“I’ve heard. I’ll feel very safe living next to the sheriff.”

“We don’t want to intrude. We know y’all must be busy today.”

“It’s no interruption. The workers are still bringing in boxes.” Mr Cranston went to the kitchen

and set the pan down slowly, as if he was afraid it might break. “Thank you for this. It’s been so long

since we’ve had anything homemade.”

“Oh, your wife doesn’t cook?”

Mandy started snooping, picking up random items and turning them in chubby fingers. I grabbed

her arm before she could touch one of the walls and smudge her grimy fingerprints on it. The

‘princess’ had a problem keeping her hands to herself. I stood with her against a corner, hoping my

momma wouldn’t ask for a complete breakdown of the man’s dietary history.

“My wife passed away six months ago. It’s just Sylvie and me.”

Oh boy, this wasn’t good. My momma’s gossip senses were spinning. I knew she was already

lining up a number of churchgoing single ladies to set Mr Cranston up with when he was ready.

“I’m so sorry,” my mother cooed. I knew what that meant. I’d be bringing over a casserole to

this man every week.

“It’s been difficult on my daughter, but we’re adjusting.”

“I can’t even imagine. A girl needs her mother.”

“Can I offer you some coffee?” Mr Cranston said, gesturing to the round oak table by the kitchen.

“Maybe one cup if you’re sure.” My mother took a seat. I shifted uncomfortably, wondering if I

could ask to leave. Unfortunately, Amelia Tanner had other plans for me. “How old is Sylvie?”

“She’s ten.”

Momma clapped her hands together, forming a huge grin. “Cal’s ten. That’s wonderful. They’ll

be in the same grade.”

Mr Cranston smiled, but it looked more like a grimace, as if it was painful to make the muscles

in his face work. “That’s great. She has trouble making friends. It’ll be nice that she’ll have someone

her own age next door.”

The last thing I wanted was to hang around some girl. Obviously, if she had issues making

friends, there was a reason for it. Sylvie Cranston was going to be as irritating as a pound of blood-

hungry mosquitoes trapped inside a camping tent.

“Where is your daughter?” my mother asked, adjusting a loose red curl from the heavy bun that

sat on the nape of her neck. My father said she looked like Reba McEntire, and my mother always

disagreed, but it was funny that she wore her hair like Reba had in
The Gambler
.

Mr Cranston’s eyes searched the room and he scratched his head like my father did when he lost

his reading glasses. Did he not realize his daughter wasn’t here? “I’m not sure. She has a way of

disappearing. She’s probably in the backyard.”

“Cal, why don’t you take Mandy and go find Sylvie.” It wasn’t a question. I sighed, but caught

myself when my mother turned her sharp green eyes on me. Momma always received compliments on

her eyes, the same eyes Mandy had, but I always thought they looked mean, especially now. I had my

father’s gray eyes and sandy-blond hair. Momma referred to it as ‘model’ hair, but I really didn’t care

for that expression. “That way us adults can talk. Go on, you two.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I tightened my clasp on Mandy’s hand, knowing expensive items had a tendency

of shattering in her presence. I also knew it would be my fault if they did. For some reason, I’d been

assigned the role of my sister’s keeper.

The former Miller, now Cranston, backyard was a carbon copy of ours, except we had a swing

set and there was a noticeable shift between the lush green of our yard and the canary coloring of

theirs.

It didn’t take long to find Sylvie Cranston. She was walking along the back of the property where

the grass blended into a field, which led to the woods behind our houses. If you followed it down the

path for a short distance, it would lead to the best fishing lake in the world…or at least, my world. I

wanted to be there right now.

The girl was so skinny, I thought a strong gust of wind could knock her over. She was tall,

though, with long brown hair that curled in a hundred different directions. She wore a long blue

flowery dress that came down to her calves, and appeared to eat her up. It looked like something my

momma would wear to church. There was a red bow in her hair that dangled as if it might fall out any

minute and pink Converse shoes on her feet with black socks. It was weird. She was weird. I

wondered if the Cranstons belonged to one of those nutty religions that made girls wear dresses all

the time. That was just what I needed. Next-door cult neighbors.

I thought she didn’t hear us because she didn’t look up. It didn’t stop Mandy, though. She

bounded down the steps and ran straight up to Sylvie.

“Hi, I’m Mandy and this here’s my brother, Caleb, but you can call him Cal. You’re in the same

grade. We live next door. I like Barbies. My favorite color is pink just like your shoes. Maybe when

we get to know you better, you can babysit me when you get older. My daddy’s the sheriff.” Mandy’s

face reddened, matching her hair color, as it always did when she talked without taking a breath.

Sylvie smiled and bent down so they were at eye level. It was then she took off the ear buds, and

the lyrics floated in the air between us for a few moments until she turned off her Walkman. It was a

familiar tune, but the name escaped me. The few lyrics I heard would stick with me until dinner that

night when I slapped my hand to my forehead and yelled out, “
Crazy Love
, by Van Morrison.” I only

knew it because my father sang it to my mother occasionally. It was definitely not the type of song one

typically heard on a Sunday in Prairie Marsh.

Sylvie didn’t say anything to Mandy. She just stroked her hair and sat on the ground. Mandy

didn’t stop, though. She went on and on talking about the merits of Prairie Marsh like it was an urban

metropolis of sophistication. She extolled our many attractions such as the Summer Saturday tractor

pulls, the Fourth of July fireworks and the fact that we were due to get a Walmart next year. For her

part, Sylvie listened and nodded, crossing her legs, tenting her hands and resting her chin on them,

like she was actually interested.

Mandy ran off toward the field after a few minutes. “Mandy, don’t go into the woods,” I yelled.

“I’m picking Sylvie some roses,” she declared, giving me a warning glance. Mandy didn’t like it

when I told her what to do. Little did she know I never asked for that job.

“Fine, but stay where I can see you. By the way, those are not roses, dummy,” I replied,

gesturing to the wild daisies that grew at the edge of the property. Mandy was under the impression

all flowers were called roses.

Sylvie turned to me then, glaring at me with the darkest brown eyes I’d ever seen. “A rose by

any other name still smells as sweet,” she said, waving her finger at me. “That’s Shakespeare for your

information.” Her voice froze me. I’d heard the unmistakable cadence of an East Coast accent on

television and in the movies, but it was still strange hearing it in real life. It was sharp and clipped,

and for some reason it made me smile.

“I know that,” I spat out. No, I didn’t. I had no clue who Shakespeare was, but I wasn’t about to

let this girl think she was smarter than me.

Mandy was humming to herself picking those stupid daisies when Sylvie came and sat next to me

on the steps. I tried not to grimace.

“Why are you so mean to her?”

“I’m not, and it’s none of your business.”

Mandy came up just then. “Look,” she exclaimed, dropping a dozen or so daisies in Sylvie’s lap.

“They’re so pretty. Do you want me to put some in your hair?” Sylvie asked, taking one and

sniffing it, although I was pretty sure it held no scent.

Mandy squealed in that loud little-girl voice that usually gave me a headache. She sat on

Sylvie’s lap and I watched as Sylvie threaded the daisy heads through Mandy’s hair. I should have

been bored, but I wasn’t and I had no idea why. I was a little surprised at how my sister responded to

this stranger. Mandy was an outgoing kid, but her instant liking for this odd girl seemed out of

character.

“Can I do you?” Mandy asked, pulling Sylvie’s long hair toward her.

That was when I noticed the red circle at the nape of Sylvie’s neck, which had been covered by

her long hair. Sylvie quickly pulled Mandy’s chubby little hand away and readjusted her locks back

in place, hiding the mark. Mandy’s eyes went wide. Not over the mark, because I doubt my sister had

seen it and if she had she probably wouldn’t even know what it was. No, Mandy was upset because

she thought Sylvie was mad at her. Sylvie must have sensed it too because she patted Mandy’s hand.

“I’m sorry, I’m picky about my hair. It’s not as beautiful as yours.”

“I think it’s very pretty, like Barbie’s hair but brown and curly.”

So nothing like Barbie’s hair.

“Can you get some more of these?” Sylvie asked, pointing to the few daisy heads that remained

in her lap. “The bigger ones? I’ll make you a crown out of them.”

Mandy bobbed her head so hard I thought it might fall off. Promise the princess a crown and she

forgot about everything else. Mandy ran back toward the field, looking determined in her new

mission. “Is that ringworm or a bite mark?” I asked Sylvie when Mandy was out of earshot.

“None of your business, Cal.”

“If it’s ringworm, it’s everyone’s business. I need to know so I can stay away from you. I don’t

wanna catch that.”

She considered my statement for a while as if she wasn’t sure what it was. “It’s not ringworm,”

she said quietly.

“Who bit you?”

“A vampire. I’ll probably turn into one myself.” She stared at me, narrowing her eyes. “I

promise not to turn you into one if you won’t tell.” I almost laughed at her lame attempt to intimidate

me, but I was too lost in what she’d said. The fact that she’d told me not to tell made me want to tell