A Girl by Any Other Name (52 page)

her lips to secure my silence, which was ridiculous. The man was so far gone he didn’t know even

know what day of the week it was. She pointed to her room. I started walking toward it, but I stopped,

staring at her as she approached her dad.

“Daddy,” she said, gently shaking his shoulders. “Daddy, did you eat today?”

“What?” he replied, groggily.

“Did you eat?”

“No, I’ll get something later.”

She bit her lower lip. “Did Uncle Joe call today?”

Uncle Joe?
Sylvie never talked about any other relatives besides her dad.

“No.”

“Do you want me to fix you a sandwich?”

“Leave me alone, Gabby. Let me sleep.”
Gabby?

“Okay, but I’ll fix you a sandwich later and you need to eat it. There’s some leftover pasta too

that Mrs Tanner made for you if you want that.”

“What part of leave me alone did you not understand?” he said through gritted teeth, shoving her

away from him. My fists clenched, and I had a strong desire to knock those teeth right out of his

mouth, but I knew Sylvie would never talk to me again if I did that.

“Sorry,” she said, standing up. Our eyes locked. A crimson blush spread across her cheeks. She

was embarrassed I’d witnessed her private exchange. I should have felt guilty about it too, but my

anger superseded any other feelings. How could he talk to her like that? She was just being kind to

him. He didn’t deserve her.

We walked into her room in silence. I knew Mr Cranston wouldn’t say anything even if he was

sober. He didn’t acknowledge Sylvie in any way. My daddy would have had choice words for Mandy

if she had wanted to take a boy into her room, but Mr Cranston was completely ambivalent.

I headed to the record player I’d given her last Christmas. She loved it so much you’d think I’d

given her a diamond ring. I found the record I was looking for and put the needle against it. America’s

Sister Golden Hair
played softly. I wondered if I played enough of these songs for her if she’d finally

get the hint. Sylvie approached me with the first-aid kit she’d fetched from the bathroom. I sat on her

bed.

“Why did he call you Gabby?”

She concentrated on taking out the needed supplies to fix the small cut at my temple, the one

place where Nate’s fist had connected with my face. “He’s just confused,” she said, rubbing with

gauze soaked in disinfectant.

“Shit, that hurts.”

“Good,” she replied. “It serves you right for getting into a fight.”

“Do you get off on my pain or something?”

She laughed, placing a bandage on my wound. “I finished the book by the way.” Sylvie and I had

our own private book club. Whenever I bought a book, I’d lend it to her afterwards or vice versa. She

was the only person my age who loved to read as much as me.

“Did you like it?”

“Not particularly.”

“Why not? It’s a classic.”

She sat on the bed next to me. “I don’t think Steinbeck liked women very much.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, there was only one female character. She wasn’t very likable, and he didn’t even give her

a name. He called her Curly’s wife, for God’s sake, throughout the whole book.”

“Not every single character needs a name.”

“I think you’re wrong, Tex. Everyone needs a name. It’s a right, not a privilege.”

“I think you’re reading too much into it. It wasn’t intentional, I’m sure.”

She stood up and put her hands on her hips. “How could you say that? I mean think about it.

Sometimes a name is the only thing you own. For instance, I’d hate it if people started calling me

Cal’s nutty neighbor or Cal’s crazy friend.” She looked so damn beautiful when she was aggravated. I

grabbed her waist and pulled her onto my lap.

“What about Cal’s hot girlfriend? Would you be okay with that title?” I whispered against her

ear.

She stood up, pushing my hand away. “We’ve talked about this.”

“Shit, why not? Is there something wrong with me? I recall you mentioning that I was perfection

so I just don’t get it.”

“Yeah, and you let it go straight to that big head of yours,” she replied sarcastically.

I smirked. “Girl, stop acting hard to get.” I patted my chest, knowing full well she’d been

checking out my abs at the pool yesterday. “You know you want this.”

“I know vanity is a sin,” she said, crossing her arms and fighting a smile.

“Seriously, Sylvie, why not? You have to know how I feel about you. Don’t you feel the same?”

“I care about you, Tex. It’s not you. I told you, my dad won’t let me date.”

I laughed cynically. “Your dad? You mean the man who’s so drunk he can’t even remember your

name? That guy?”

She clenched her fists, and I winced, knowing I’d majorly fucked up this conversation. “You

need to leave.” She hated it when I brought up her dad’s drinking. Instead of agreeing with me on any

level, she made excuses for the guy.

“Sylvie—”

“Leave!” she choked, pointing at the window, my usual exit.

I stood up, but instead of leaving, I pulled her close to me and hugged her. I whispered in her

ear, “I’m sorry, don’t get mad at me. You know I can’t stand it when you’re pissed off at me. Just talk

to me, please.”

“I was talking. You weren’t listening.”

“You know me. You know I don’t want to just sleep with you.”

“We sleep together every night.” I could feel her tightly coiled muscles loosening in my arms as

she retuned my hug. I was chipping away at her irritation.

“Funny, smartass, you know what I mean. We don’t have to have sex until you’re ready. I’ll

never push you. Hell, we’ve only kissed twice. Turtles probably get to second base faster than I am,

but I don’t care about that. I don’t want you to be my girlfriend for that reason.”

“Why then?”

“I want all the guys at school to know you’re off limits. That they can’t talk about you, or look at

you, or worse, fantasize about you.”

She laughed. “You’re too much, Tex. When did you get so possessive?”

“I’ve always been. You just never noticed.”

“I have no interest in anyone else, but I can’t be your girlfriend. Will you settle for being my best

friend in the whole world? Don’t stop being my friend…please.”

I released her and placed a strand of hair behind her ear. “Sylvie, I would kick all the Nate

Mitchells of this world to China before I stopped being your friend.”

* * * *

I snuck into her room that night, later than usual because I had gone to a party with some friends.

She was tossing in bed, crying and shaking through her nightmare. I felt guilty for not getting here

sooner as I gently rubbed her back to wake her.

“Cal?” she asked, feeling around for me.

I took her hand and placed it on my chest. “Shhh, you were having a nightmare.”

“Oh, did I wake you?”

“No, I just got here. I was at the party.”

She settled back over at her side. I snuggled next to her. She often told me that my presence

usually kept the nightmares away, but she still had them even when I was here. I worried about it. It

didn’t seem natural for someone our age to have so many nightmares. We were quiet for a long time,

and I thought she had fallen asleep.

“Did you have a good time?” she asked.

“It would have been better if you were there. Why don’t you ever come out?”

“You know I’m shy.”

There was nothing shy about Sylvie…at least not to me. “You know I wouldn’t leave you

without anyone to talk to.”

“I know. You’re a good friend.” There was that word again, ‘friend’. “It’s just not for me.”

I sighed, deciding to drop it. We’d had this conversation umpteen times and it always ended the

same. Besides there was something else I needed to tell her. “I have a few overnight games coming

up, and football camp this summer.”

“Yeah, I know that.”

“I won’t be able to stay with you. I’m going to be gone a lot.”

“I understand. I don’t expect you to, Tex.”

I lay on my back and stared at her tiny hand on my chest. “Why do you have so many

nightmares?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered.

“Do you want to talk about them? You never tell me what they’re about and it might help you.”

“I’ve always had them.” It wasn’t an answer, but I decided to drop it. I’d been down this road

with her too many times to count. Even with me, she was private about some things. I was there for

her and helpless at the same time.

I sat up, removing my St Michael’s medallion. “Sit up for a sec.”

She did and I placed it over her head. “What are you doing?” she asked, turning over the shiny

piece of silver in her hand.

“It’ll be like I’m here when I’m not.”

“I can’t take this. Your father meant for you to have this. I can’t—” She made a move to take it

off, but I grabbed her hand before she could.

“Relax, girl, I’m not giving it to you. I’m lending it to you. I want you to have it in case you have

a nightmare or get scared.” I knew the only way she’d accept it was if I added that contingency. She

was quiet for a moment.

“When do you want it back?”

“You keep it until you don’t need it anymore.”

“That could be a long time.”

“I know.”

“Thank you.” There was some deeper gratitude than I was expecting with those words. I didn’t

have an appropriate response so I just nodded and lay back down.

“Let’s hit the hay. We gotta get up early tomorrow.”

She settled back down. I lifted the comforter over her. “’Kay,” she said softly.

Chapter Nine

Present day

I scanned through the assignments looking for Sophie’s. Jessica and I usually split up the essays,

but I insisted I would grade them all and the unsent letters. After all, Jessica would become

suspicious if I just asked for Sophie’s.

Jessica had asked me out before, but, of course, I had refused. Besides the fact that it was against

school policy, it just felt wrong. It actually never felt right with anyone. I was too busy, or some might

say obsessed, with looking for my Lenore. My relationships were sexually satisfying but devoid of

emotional investment.

The paper on Sophie’s favorite book by Thomas Hardy was well-written and interesting, but it

gave me no insights. Thomas Hardy novels were so sad that I wasn’t sure if Sylvie would have

picked it, but then again, it had been almost ten years.

The unsent letters proved much easier. I decided not to grade them, but just give credit for

turning them in. They were, after all, emotional responses, and how could you judge something that

came from the heart? I used a lined sheet of paper to cover the next sentence as I read so the words

would be revealed to me. I thought maybe if I did this without any pretenses I would be able to tell

which one was hers. One in particular gave me great hope.

Dear Professor,

I watch you from my perch, a tall, beautiful man full of passion and grace. As you read from a

book, I can see the flexing of your strong arms and the anguish in your lovely face. The sweet

Southern twang of your voice drips with tantalizing tones of mischief. It makes me drip. The

gorgeous golden locks of hair that fall just so across your brow in a perfect flip. The graceful walk

hindered by the slightest limp. The sweet dimple that appears when you smile melts my heart with

consuming desire. The smile is so rare, I wonder why that is. All I wish for, all I want is for the

charming professor to look my way just once.

Was this Sylvie? I hesitated revealing the last line, trying to get my heartbeat in check.

Love always, Miss Melanie Adams.

Fuck.

I should have known better. Sylvie wouldn’t have written me a gushing poem, rhyming ‘drip’

with ‘flip’ in some lame-ass lyrical prose that didn’t meet any stanza requirements. It wasn’t her

style. Why had I assigned this dumbass homework in the first place? Now I’d have to talk about the

impropriety to that damn girl in the front row who obviously had some misguided crush on me.

I did away with the whole anonymous thing and just read the rest of the letters in plain sight. It

would be an understatement to say Sophie Becker’s letter was a disappointment, although it was a

poem.

Dear Barista,

I waited in line for twenty minutes. I dislike the pretentious atmosphere here. Why must it be

your call to rename large, medium and small? Why are there so many blends? I just want

something hot with caffeine…maybe some sugar and cream? Is it too much to ask? Too much to

dream? Coffee should be brewed and consumed not contrived in the boardroom. I don’t want it

steamed, whipped or blended. I want it in an old-fashioned sort of way with a paper cup that I

don’t have to display.

Sincerely,

Sophie Becker

Nice. I asked for an unsent letter to anybody and the girl wrote a complaint sonnet to her local

coffee shop.

I was acting a fool. If she were Sylvie, surely she would just tell me and not have me go through