A Girl by Any Other Name (45 page)

I shifted my pole and reached for her hand. I hadn’t quite comprehended the value of hugging.

“Maybe you should pray on it. Pastor Morrison says that prayer can solve a lot of problems.”

“You really think that will work?” she asked dubiously.

I shrugged. “I wouldn’t know for sure. I don’t pray right myself.”

She frowned, wrinkling her nose. “How can you pray wrong?”

“Momma says I do it wrong all the time.”

“I don’t get it.”

I sighed, staring up at the blue sky. “She always asks me what I prayed for. The first time she

asked, I told her it was for a new bike and football cleats. She got real mad and said ‘Son, you are

praying to God, not Santa Claus’.” I used my best Amelia Tanner impression, and the edges of

Sylvie’s mouth curved upward.

“That sounds like your momma.”

“Yeah, but I guess I didn’t learn my lesson because I asked her what I should pray for then. She

said I should pray to be a better person.”

“That’s a good idea.”

“That’s what I thought too. I started praying that I could throw the football longer and run faster

so I could make the team in high school.”

Sylvie cupped her hand to her mouth to cover her laugh. I didn’t care. I wanted to make her

laugh, even if it was at my expense. “What did she say?”

“She got pretty mad and said that’s not what she meant. She told me I was being selfish and since

I couldn’t pray for myself correctly, I should pray for someone else.”

“Who did you pray for?”

I stared down at the lake. “I prayed for Mandy.”

“That’s so sweet.”

“Yeah, I asked God to make her less annoying.”

Sylvie cracked up so much I was sure she’d run all the fish away, but I didn’t care. It was one of

the best feelings in the world to make this girl laugh. “You didn’t.”

“I did, but at least now I know what I need to pray on.”

“What’s that, Cal?”

I squeezed her hand, noticing how hypnotic her eyes were. “I’ll pray that you’re not scared

anymore, Sylvie.”

She was quiet for a minute and I wondered if I had said the wrong thing. Then she whispered,

“Thank you.”

I let go of her hand before she got too mushy on me. “You can pray that I run faster and throw the

ball harder.” She stared at me curiously. “It’s not selfish if someone else is doing the praying for

you.”

Chapter Four

Present day

“Good morning, folks. Please pass your essays up to Jessica. Today, I want to know what you

found out about each other and possibly yourselves. Who’d like to start?”

Melanie Adams started. It wasn’t surprising. She was crushing on me. I wasn’t vain, but I’d

grown accustomed to this. I was a young instructor, teaching a class on literature, which consisted of

many passages of romantic prose. There were a handful of girls every semester like Melanie Adams

who applied fresh lipstick before my class, sat in the front row in tight sweaters and always made

sure they had the right answers.

“I got
The Great Gatsby
, Professor. I’ve read it before so I already knew all about it.”

“Just for clarification, I’m an instructor, not a professor.”

“What’s the difference?” she asked.

“A chance for tenure, the word ‘doctor’ before my name and thirty thousand dollars.” A few

students chuckled. Some just seemed confused. “I’m still working toward my PhD. Please go on, Miss

Adams. Tell me, what character traits would you attribute to a person who loved such a novel?”

“They’re a hopeless romantic.”

“I would have to disagree. I believe it was a tragedy, not a romance.”

And so the discussion continued. I kept staring at the back of the lecture hall, trying to get a

better look at the girl in the baseball hat, but my view was obstructed by all the tall guys who chose to

sit in front of her. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I wasn’t one of those instructors who put

students on the spot, but this time I made an exception.

“Miss Sophie Becker, can you please let us know what your essay was about?”

“Herman Melville’s
Moby Dick
.” She said it barely louder than a whisper in a shaky voice.

Was it just nerves at being picked at random, or something more?

“Tell us what you would assume about a person who is a Melville fan. And please speak up this

time.”

“It’s a classic book.”

“So I’ve been told,” I replied dryly. “Miss Becker, would you feel more comfortable answering

the question from my podium?” I never used the podium. I felt like a tool whenever I stood behind it.

But maybe the threat was enough to coax a real answer from this girl.

“No,” she said quickly, her voice infused with panic.

“Then turn up the volume and answer the question,” I demanded through clenched teeth.

“I think the person who chose it would most likely be a man who enjoys love stories.”

I smiled at the interpretation. “You consider
Moby Dick
a romance? I would take even more

exception to that than
Gatsby
. Tell me, Miss Becker, how a book about an obsessive, tyrannical man

in pursuit of a whale could be considered romantic?”

“I don’t know.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose and took a deep breath, trying to calm down.

“That’s not an acceptable response, Miss Becker. There are no wrong answers, but your theory

requires further clarification so we can properly analyze it. At this level, I expect my students to

justify their reactions to the written word.”

“The search for the whale was symbolic. The man was never really looking for it.” Her voice

was monotone, almost like she was masking it…or maybe she was just bored.

“If not the whale, what was he searching for with such desperation?” I challenged.

“His salvation, his spirit, his will to live. The whale was a metaphor for his peace, but it was a

wasted effort since Moby Dick couldn’t provide the catharsis he desired.”

“Why is that?”

“He thought he was seeking revenge, but he was really just repenting.”

“In order to repent, you have to commit a sin.”

“That’s not true. You just have to be remorseful and he was.”

“Excuse me, that’s my book, and I’d like to add—”

I held my hand up to quiet the lanky kid in the second row. “Please continue, Miss Becker.”

“That’s all.”

I wanted to ask her more, but the class was almost over, and I could tell by Jessica’s suspicious

glances that I was making a scene.

“Next week, I want you all to write about your favorite piece of literature and what it says about

you as a person. It’s always an interesting exercise to compare the notes. Also, you’ll need to finish

the first five chapters of Virginia Woolf’s
Mrs Dalloway
.” I stared toward the back. Why did she sit

so far away? It was pure torture. If she wouldn’t let me see her, maybe I could figure out another way

to satisfy the burning in my gut every time she spoke. “Also, I want you to read the poem
The Raven

by Edgar Allen Poe and write a one-page essay on it.”

“That’s not in the syllabus,” the curly-haired joker-type kid said.

Damn. Someone had actually read the syllabus?

“First off…Mr…”

“Adkins. Roy Adkins.”

“Thank you, Roy Adkins. Please raise your hand if you wish to address the class. As for your

point, you are correct. It’s not in the syllabus. However, it is a very short poem and definitely worthy

of your attention.”

Roy Adkins sighed in frustration.

“Class dismissed.”

This time, I bounded out of the room before Jessica or Melanie Adams intercepted me. I stood in

the corner of the hallway and watched as the students trailed out. I was getting a good look today.

Unfortunately, my class and the one next door let out at the same time. They merged, cramming the

narrow hallway. I only caught a glimpse of her.

She wore that damn cap again, but her hair was that perfect shade of brown highlighted with

strands of honey. She had wide sunglasses on too, shielding her eyes from me, making me more

suspicious. She had a nice figure—slim waist with wide hips and long legs perfectly displayed in her

fitted frayed jeans and white cotton shirt tied in a knot at the front. No Converse, but I loved the high

sandals that capped her feet. She definitely didn’t dress like Sylvie, but there was something in the

graceful way she moved that flooded me with memories.

My heart stammered in my chest so hard that I had to lean against the wall for support.
Is it my

Sylvie? My Lenore?
I restrained myself from grabbing her arm, snatching off those sunglasses and

releasing her hair from the baseball cap. It was a surefire way to get myself canned or grant me a one-

way hall pass to a psychiatric hospital. I sympathized with my old friend Edgar Poe.

I was searching for a dead girl after all.

Chapter Five

Excerpt from
Raven Girl

Age 12

“Come on, Tanner, we have to roll,” Nate yelled, hopping on his Schwinn.

We’d stopped at Walmart to grab a few sodas before heading out to the high school. It was

necessary to get to the football game as early as possible or the good seats would be gone, making it

difficult to study the plays as effectively. We dreamed of owning that field in a few years, so we took

our football very seriously, although some of us were more interested in watching the cheerleaders. I

had to admit there were a few times when I’d gotten a glimpse of what I was sure was pussy, so I

couldn’t say I never looked.

One thing about living in Texas, you always knew what you were doing most weekends. Friday

nights everyone attended the high school football game. Saturdays were chores, barbeques and pick-

up games of football. Sundays were church followed by watching more football, but on television this

time. In the spring, we did the same thing but changed it to baseball.

Nate stared at me impatiently. Typically, all the guys would be following my bike tracks, but I

was loitering, unable to stop staring at
her
. She sat by herself on the bench outside the store,

alternating between playing with the buttons on her black lace dress and twisting a strand of her long

hair.

“I’ll meet up with y’all.”

“You know I can’t save you a seat. It’s gonna be a full house.” Nate wanted to get what we

called the sweet spot. It was three-quarters of the way down the center bleachers, and afforded us an

opportunity to view the cheerleaders and easily observe the game. We weren’t obsessed with girls

yet, but we were very curious.

“Then don’t,” I replied more forcefully.

Nate stood in front of me then followed my gaze to Sylvie. He sighed with clear irritation. “You

don’t want to come so you can hang out with the freak?”

My fists clenched and I fought the urge to kick his ass. My dad was the sheriff and Nate’s dad

was the mayor so it wouldn’t do me or my ass any good to punch him. Plus, he was my best friend.

“You call her that again and you’re going to see just how powerful my throwing arm is.”

Nate stared at me for a few seconds, shaking his acne-ridden face, before riding off with the rest

of our friends. I made my way to the bench and sat next her. As usual, she didn’t acknowledge me

right away. We didn’t need the pretense of conversation to create comfort. It was just there.

“What’s wrong?” I finally asked.

“Nothing,” she replied.

“What happened to you at school?” She hadn’t been in class in the afternoon.

“I had to go to the nurse’s office.”

“Are you sick?”

She laughed. “Not exactly.”

“Then what?”

“I have to buy something and I’m sort of nervous.”

I chuckled. “Is your daddy having you buy his booze now?” It was a mean thing to say, but I’d

decided a long time ago that I didn’t like Mr Cranston very much.

“Very funny.” She turned to me, flashing me with brown eyes, wide and bright with anger.

“Sorry.”

“Just for that, you’re coming with me.”

I didn’t want to, but I nodded. Whatever she had to buy was really upsetting her. I didn’t like

seeing her like this. “Fine, because if we keep sitting out here, we’ll get in trouble for loitering.”

We walked into the store. I stepped aside so she could lead the way. When she stopped in the

middle of an aisle in the back of the store, studying the rows of brightly colored plastic packages and

cardboard boxes, my stomach churned.

“Girl, are you crazy?” I asked, walking away. She grabbed my arm.

“Just stay here.” She said it with a desperate plea in her voice—the one that got me to do the

weirdest things.

“What the hell for?” I demanded, feeling duped into this chore.

“Because I need you to.” That was all she had to say. This was the last place in the world I’d

ever want to be, but here I was…because she needed me.

She stared at all the choices, raising her eyebrows in confusion. How did she not know what to

get? I thought girls just knew this stuff like birds knew how to fly. The queasiness got stronger, and I

worried I might puke at any minute. How would I explain that when they came to clean up the aisle?