A Girl by Any Other Name (4 page)

“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