A Girl by Any Other Name (19 page)

was no audiophile and it was difficult to tell if it was a match for Sylvie.

The next song took a while to recollect too, but when I did, it brought a smile to my lips. They

played a more folksy, almost country version of
Save Me, San Francisco
by Train. They didn’t even

pause as they continued on to
Jane Says
by Jane’s Addiction. It was not a song I expected to hear on a

Saturday at the WC, but somehow they made it work.

After the third song, she handed Mr Hippy ZZ Top back his tambourine.

“A pleasure as always,” she said with a mock curtsy. I made my way to the front, hoping to hear

more of their conversation.

“You should play with us all the time.” There were people between us and the mic was turned

off, so I had to strain to hear her.

“Why, because my tambourine skills are so impressive?” she asked with a healthy dose of

cynicism.

“I’ll get a piano out here for you.”

She patted his round belly. “You’re gonna drag a piano out here? You’ll need to eat more apples

if you’re going to do that,” she said, shoving an apple into his hand.

“Naw, a keyboard.”

She laughed as she walked away from him, rubbing an apple against her blouse before biting

into it. “No, thanks.”

“How ’bout a keytar? You know the keyboard with the strap so you can play next to me. That

would be cool, right?”

She turned, staring at him, walking backward. “Are you going to get a time machine too?

Because I believe those went out in the Eighties. See you next week, Gus.”

I scrambled not to lose her in the crowd. She slipped into a coffee shop at the point where the

market ended and businesses began. I followed her inside. I’d just found out Sophie Becker sang,

played the piano and, judging from the splatter paint at the hem of her shorts, I assumed she painted as

well. This was too coincidental for comfort.

I allowed myself one more minute of gawking at her beautiful backside as I stepped behind her

in line. She smelled good, like vanilla and roses. That shiny brown hair with touches of gold was just

calling to be touched, or caressed…or pulled.

Fuck—I was hard. I took a deep breath and drew mental images of Mona Simms in her swimsuit

at the community pool. It was enough.

“Hello, Miss Becker,” I greeted finally.

Her shoulders stiffened at the sound of my voice. She turned and gave me a nervous smile.

“Hello, Mr Tanner. Strange meeting you here.”

“Please, call me Cal.”

I heard her give her simple order of black coffee. “Please allow me,” I replied, paying for her

drink and ordering the same for myself.

“You don’t have to do that,” she objected, but I waved her away.

“You can repay me with your company,” I said, gesturing to a comfortable area with two

overstuffed velvet chairs.

“I was just going to go home with it.” She looked uncomfortable.

“I would like to have a word with you. I promise it won’t take long.”
Yeah—just the rest of my

life, please.

She looked around, but gave me a slight nod, walking over to a vacant small table with two

overstuffed velvet chairs.

I set down our drinks on the table. “Is this the place you complained about in your unsent letter?”

She gave a slight laugh. “No, I stopped going to that place.” Her head circled around the room as

she avoided my gaze. “Isn’t this against the rules?”

“What rules are those, Miss Becker?”

“You’re a professor and I’m a student. I thought the college would frown on personal

associations.”

“As I’ve stated, I’m not a professor, and you can relax. I want to discuss your grades. I happened

to see you here and thought it was the perfect opportunity. There is nothing inappropriate or

underhanded about that.”

“Do you give all your students this kind of personal attention?”

“Just the ones who aren’t working to their potential. Your unsent letter wasn’t the emotional

response I was looking for. Your essay on
The Raven
was deplorable. And you missed my exam.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll do better,” she stammered, shifting in her seat. It was apparent she wanted to end

the conversation.

“I heard you singing.”

She flushed red and twirled a strand of glossy hair around her delicate finger. “Oh, that’s

embarrassing.”

“You were very good. My sister insists I’m tone deaf so I’m definitely not a qualified expert, but

the crowd seemed to enjoy it.”

“I should go.” She made a move to pick up that stupid bag of apples she’d been toting

everywhere, but I grabbed it and put it beside me. My sudden movement left her speechless.

“Please indulge me for a few more minutes.”

“I have somewhere to be.”

I sighed, not wanting to end the conversation. “I was wondering if you wanted to do that as a

career—the singing.”

“No, it’s just for fun.”

“You play the piano as well?” I asked, drawing on anything to keep her in my company.

“Yes, just as a hobby.”

“Where are you from?”

“Are you this curious about all your students?” she asked.

“I’m just curious about people. Not all good stories originate from the written word.”

“Well, my story is very boring.”

“I would love to hear it in any case.”

She looked away. “What is it you’d like to know?”

“Why are you in my class, Miss Becker? According to your records, you already have a degree

in communications, although your answers reflect that you may not have gotten your money’s worth

with that choice of major.”

She narrowed her eyes at me and squeezed the cardboard cup so hard I thought the coffee would

spill out. “I didn’t realize taking your class would be an open invitation to violate my privacy or that

I’d be forced into an inquisition about my choices.”

I shrugged. “Not an inquisition, just a conversation. Your degree is a matter of public record

anyway.” It was a lie. I didn’t have a right to view it, but Shirley in admissions liked me so she had

let me see the records. “How old are you?”

“I don’t think that’s an appropriate question, but I’m twenty-two.” Sophie Becker looked about

twenty-two. Sylvie would have been twenty-five, but it wasn’t like I totally trusted what this woman

was saying anyway. Shirley had let me see Sophie Becker’s transcripts but not the documents

containing her birth date and social security number.

“Why did you take my class?” I asked again. I knew I was throwing questions at her, waiting for

her to crack, like a homicide detective interviewing a potential suspect, but I wasn’t exactly prepared

for this confrontation.

“You’re right, this isn’t an inquisition. It’s an interrogation. For your information, I’ve always

loved reading. I just thought it would strengthen some skill sets for me, but you don’t have to worry

about me anymore.”

“Why is that?”

“I’m dropping out of your class. It’s clear that you have some really deep issues, and I’m not

comfortable with the way you’ve approached me.”

Like an invisible ton of bricks, my stupidity came clamoring down on me. This girl looked like

Sylvie, she played the piano, she sang, she loved books, maybe she even painted, but those were not

extremely unique things. Neither were brown hair and eyes. If she was Sylvie, she wouldn’t put me

through this kind of torture. Sylvie was no sadist. In fact, the girl I loved didn’t have a mean bone in

her body. Sophie Becker could not be Sylvie Cranston. But it was a strong possibility my obsession

had finally rendered me psychotic.

I handed her the sack of apples. “I’m sorry, Miss Becker. I didn’t mean to make you

uncomfortable.”

She let out a cynical laugh. “Well, you sure have a strange way of counseling your students, Mr

Tanner.”

I decided it might be a good idea to repair some of the damage I’d done, both to my professional

pursuits and her sense of security. I wasn’t sure if my statement would do that, but I had nothing else

except a small hope that, like most girls, sympathy was part of her genetic makeup. “Yes, I do. This is

going to sound crazy, but you know how I said you remind me of someone I used to know?”

She nodded, but chose to stare out the window instead of looking directly at me.

“That girl was the love of my life. We grew up together and she was my best friend. She left

when she was sixteen and I’ve just never really recovered from that. It’s no excuse, but I’m being

extremely melodramatic and eccentric as a result of that experience. Luckily, those traits aren’t rare in

my line of work, but I have definitely stepped over the professional line with you. Please forgive

me.”

She turned to me, but her expression was difficult to read. “I understand,” she said softly.

“Thank you.” I stood up to leave then I remembered what she had said about my class. “Please

don’t withdraw from the course. It’s too late for it not to influence your transcripts. Even if you do

have a degree, you might need this class for other pursuits. Also, several of your other papers were

very good, and I can tell you’re an avid reader and strong writer. I know the teacher has many faults,

but the class itself is valuable, I assure you.” I gave her an apologetic smile and she gave me a wary

one in return, but at least she smiled back, although she continued to regard me with apprehension.

“’Kay,” she replied. My heart suddenly stood still in my chest, stopping in mid-beat.

“What did you say?” I barked, grabbing her arm.

Her eyes widened at the drastic change in my tone. “I said, okay.”

I sat back down and leaned in close to her. “No, you said ‘’kay’.”

“Let go of me,” she seethed. I complied, but I kept my eyes on her.

She moved to get up.

“Sit down. We’re not done yet,” I commanded in a quiet but authoritative voice. She complied.

I took my seat again, swallowing hard, deciding that I was going to lay all my crazy across the

table for her. All the evidence was circumstantial at best, but the hope in my chest burst forth like a

dam about to break. I pulled out my wallet, taking one of my business cards out. Someone had left a

pen on a nearby table so I reached for it. The conversation was so surreal that I could barely

remember my own home address. I had to either do this now or never do it. I didn’t look up at her,

concentrating on my words. “Sylvie always said that. She said ‘’kay’ all the time.”

“It’s a common expression. You just need to look at me to see I’m not a dead girl.”

I sucked in a deep breath before I allowed myself to look at her again. I shook my head, unable

to stop the tight smile that formed on my face. It was not a smile born from joy or relief as I had

expected when this moment came, but pure, palpable anger.

“I never told you she died.”

The coloring in Sophie Becker’s face faded as she turned stark white and her hands trembled. I

took the paper cup from her and set it on the table before it fell out of her hands. “You implied—”

I interrupted her before she could conceive the lie she was about to tell. “Here’s the thing, Miss

Becker. I’m willing to risk losing my job and my freedom for the nice lodgings at the Portland Mental

Health Institute where I’m sure they’ll outfit me with my very own terrycloth robe and fuzzy slippers.

I’m willing to face those consequences to make the following statements to you, so I would appreciate

it if you would shut the fuck up and hear what I have to say. I believe you are Sylvie Cranston, but

either you don’t remember it or you want to hide that fact from me. The girl I loved would never put

me through something like this, so I really want to believe you don’t remember. However, judging

from your responses, I’d say the latter was true.” I slid the card over to her. “This is my home

address. When you’re done playing games with my head—and my heart—please come see me,

Sylvie. We need to talk.”

I walked away before she could say anything else.

Chapter Twelve

Excerpt from
Raven Girl

Age 18

I sat on the football bleachers, drinking a beer. It was one of the safe places for me. I didn’t like

going to the church, the woods or the lake. I didn’t even care for being at home. There was too much

of her everywhere I looked. The bleachers, like Switzerland, were cold, comfortable and most of all

neutral.

I came out here as I did most nights, trying to drink away the pain. It didn’t always work, but like

Sylvie had once told me, pain dulls. As it turned out, alcohol helped with the dulling process.

I leaned back and stared up at the stars, wondering if she was looking at them too. They seemed

exceptionally bright tonight, “Why did you leave me, Sylvie?”

“She didn’t leave you, Cal,” a quiet voice came from behind me.

I should have been freaked out, but it was part and parcel of the delusion I’d been living for the

past two years. I turned and saw the shadowy figure approach me. He was so quiet as he walked over

the steel benches that I almost wondered if he was a ghost.

“Want something stronger?” Matt Sampson asked, handing me a paper bag.