A Girl by Any Other Name (42 page)

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

even more. Then she added in a hushed, sad whisper, “It won’t happen again.”

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 recognized 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-colored 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—”