A Girl by Any Other Name (5 page)

staring at me with wide eyes and a wistful smile. Even my ignorant eleven-year-old self could

appreciate that smile.

“It’s so pretty. I wonder what it means.”

“I know what it means. He thought he heard the ghost of some girl named Lenore who he used to

know, but it was just some stupid bird screaming that he’d never see her again.”

“That sounds sad and romantic.”

“Romantic? He was crazy,” I said, twirling my finger next to my head.

“I think it is. He had to love her very much if he kept searching for her.”

“Maybe he just went batshit.”

“Cal, don’t swear. We’re in church,” she scolded, wagging her finger at me.

“It’s okay. We’re outside of it,” I said, gesturing to the open space between us and the building.

“God can hear everything.”

I chuckled. “Yeah, but my momma can’t.” She punched me in the arm. “Did you just punch me or

was it the wind? ’Cause I can’t tell.”

“Very funny.” She looked off into the woods, and I wondered if she was going to bolt early. “I

think there might be a raven calling to me too. Do you think I’m crazy?”

“Heck yeah,” I replied, impressed with myself for not saying ‘hell’. I felt lousy, though, when

she looked at me with those big chocolate-colored eyes full of sorrow. I wanted to make her feel

better. I wanted her to smile again. I knocked my knee into hers. “Girl, you’re such a weirdo,” I said,

finding the most poetic words my childish mind could muster.

She laughed in that cynical way of hers. “Yeah, you’re right. Bye.” She took off, sprinting into

the woods.

“Hey, Sylvie,” I called after her before she blended into the landscape. She stopped and turned,

almost out of earshot. “Let’s go fishing tomorrow after school.”

“I knew you’d take me,” she yelled back, giving me a real smile.

* * * *

“Are you ready to run yet?” I asked, holding the fat, grubby, wiggly worm close to her face.

Sylvie didn’t even flinch. The girl had guts. “Give me that,” she said, grabbing it out of my hand

and hooking it on the line the way I’d shown her. “Are you trying to scare me?”

“Yeah,” I admitted.

“Why?”

“Because it’s fun. How come you’re not screaming or something?” Girls were never this calm in

the face of writhing worms and bloody fish.

She shrugged her shoulders, casting the line, letting her long legs dangle over the dock. Her skirt

skimmed the water, but it was obvious she didn’t care. “I’ve seen much scarier things than dangling

worms.”

“Like what?”

“Like stuff. Now let me fish.”

We sat in silence for a while. I was curious about what she meant, but I didn’t ask. She didn’t

want me to. Even at eleven, I knew that. “Nothing bad ever happens in Prairie Marsh. My father

protects this town. You don’t have to worry as long as he’s around. Or me. I’m your Huckleberry.”

She arched her eyebrow in confusion. “Like Huckleberry Finn? And I’m Tom Sawyer then?”

I laughed. “Sort of. It’s what Doc Holiday said in
Tombstone
. It just means I’m your buddy,

that’s all.”

“I’ve never seen it.”

“We’ll have to watch it some time. It’s not a girly movie, but I think you’ll like it.”

“’Kay.”

“So, you never get scared, huh?”

“I didn’t say that.” She concentrated on her line, watching for movement as I’d shown her.

“You don’t seem like it,” I replied.

“Because I’m not afraid of a stupid worm that can’t hurt me?”

“Because you walk around the woods at night like a zombie. I’ve heard you.” It wasn’t

something kids our age did. I’d never admit it to her, but it impressed the hell out of me that Sylvie

wasn’t afraid of the woods…unlike me.

“It doesn’t matter if you’re behind a locked door under the covers or walking around in the

middle of the night. If something’s gonna get you, it’ll get you no matter what.”

“I got a twelve-gauge that says different.”

She tilted her head. “Your daddy showed you how to use it?”

I slumped my shoulders and sighed. “Not yet. He says maybe next year.” My father was really

into gun safety. He talked to me about guns all the time—how to clean them, take care of them and

most importantly when to use them—but he had not let me shoot one off yet. It was embarrassing

because my friends’ dads had no problem with it. I was the sheriff’s son for God’s sake. I should

know how to use a gun.

Daddy promised that if I passed his tests I’d go hunting with him when I was fourteen. At least I

had that to look forward to.

“I’m glad you don’t know. You might shoot your foot off,” she said in a mocking tone.

I gave her the bird. In my opinion, it was the coolest way to swear. After all, if no one heard

you, you weren’t really swearing. “I’m going to be a good shot, don’t you worry about me—or

yourself. Nothing bad ever happens in Prairie Marsh.”

“Just promise me you’ll be careful.” Usually our conversations were lighter than this, but she

stared me down with complete conviction in those brown eyes, waiting for an answer.

“I’m not the one wandering around the woods in the dead of night.” It was my way of warning

her.

She put her hand on my arm. Her voice wavered, shifting into a soft whisper. “I can’t sleep at

night and it helps me. Sometimes I get so scared that it actually hurts. I feel it in my bones, like they

might crack open any minute, breaking my insides apart.”

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.