The Other F-Word (40 page)
She pressed her lips together and stared me down. It was hard not to laugh at her. She was tiny trying to act tough. “Don’t tell me what I’d like. I want to learn how to fish, but if you’re not good enough to teach me then I’ll find someone who will.”
“Not someone as good as me. Trust me, I’m the best.”
“I don’t trust anyone. If you’re so good, prove it.”
“I don’t fish with girls.”
“Then pretend I’m a boy.”
I’d never met a girl who didn’t want to be treated like a girl. What planet had Sylvie Cranston come from? Would her species come back for her?
“But you’re not. I ain’t going fishing with you or any other girl…ever.”
“I thought you’d talk different. You don’t sound Southern, except for some words. By the way, it’s ‘I’m not’, not ‘ain’t’. ‘Ain’t’ is not a word.”
“Are you making fun of my accent? You know, you can get your butt kicked around here for that.”
She laughed. “Oh yeah, and who will do the kicking?”
“Cal, I’m gonna tell Momma you said ‘butt’,” Mandy chimed in. I’d forgotten she was there.
“Tell her he said ‘ass’, then he’ll really get in trouble,” Sylvie retorted, placing the crown of daisies on Mandy’s hair.
“Good idea,” Mandy chirped.
“Don’t swear in front of my sister and do not tell her to fib.”
“‘Fib’? You mean ‘lie’. Do you have a colloquialism for everything, Cal?”
I didn’t know what that word meant, but even at ten, I knew she was insulting me.
I narrowed my eyes and gave her my most threatening look—the one I typically reserved for when the older boys tried to take over our baseball diamond. I stared her straight down, squaring my shoulders and trying to be intimidating. She just smirked at me, fluttering those long lashes over her earth-coloured eyes. It pissed me off even more. “You think I’m a dumb hick? You’re no better than us. Y’all are livin’ here too, so you best lower that nose of yours a few inches. It’s going to be hard enough for you to fit in and make friends.”
“I wasn’t planning on making any,” she replied, turning her attention back to Mandy’s hair.
I had no idea what to say. Who the hell didn’t want to make friends? Certainly not anyone our age.
“Good, because you won’t, especially not with me.”
“Why would I want to be friends with a wuss like you?”
“What did you call me?” My blood boiled as it coursed through my veins.
“Relax, it’s not a swear word. I don’t want to offend y’all’s virtuous ears,” she replied sarcastically, putting on a fake country accent of her own.
“You think I can’t swear? Bitch, fuck, shit, ass, piss—”
“Caleb James Tanner, what on God’s green earth are you saying?” My mother’s piercing wail halted my flow of expletives as if she’d electrocuted me. My behind involuntarily twitched from the sting of the beating it would receive as a result of my swearing spectacle. “I’m so sorry, Harry, I have no idea what’s got into him.”
“Don’t worry about it. He’s a boy,” Mr Cranston answered as if that was an explanation.
“I can’t believe you swore like that in front of your sister.” My mother clasped her hand on her mouth as she stared at Sylvie. “Oh, Sylvie, dear, please forgive my son. I promise we’ve raised him with manners.”
Sylvie turned around and smiled sweetly at my mother. “It’s quite all right. I have to admit, I’m a bit shocked at the language, but I won’t hold it against him.”
“Apologise this instant, Cal,” my mother demanded.
I swallowed, but I knew better than to resist. “I’m sorry.”
“’Kay.” ’Kay? Sounded like Sylvie had a problem pronouncing too, but I knew better than to say anything with Momma throwing invisible daggers in my direction. “I know you didn’t mean to do it,” Sylvie replied, smiling at the grown-ups while patting me on the shoulder.
“When his daddy gets home, he’ll know what sorry really means.”
I took a deep breath, knowing what was in store. This was the South. In other places, like where Sylvie was from, the solution to a mouthy kid was probably a talk about feelings and emotions. Here we had more direct methods. My punishment would involve Tabasco sauce on the tongue, a switch on the ass then a stern sermon where my ‘feelings’ never came into the conversation. It sucked, but it always worked.
* * * *
That night I slept on my stomach because my butt throbbed too much from the welt marks in the shape of my father’s leather belt. One thing I knew for sure. Sylvie Cranston was trouble and I planned to stay as far away from her as possible. It would prove difficult, though, since part of my punishment was to mow the Cranstons’ yard for the rest of the summer along with ours.
I tried to swallow back the last of the Tabasco flavouring on my tongue. I lifted my head when I heard the sound of rustling leaves under my window and the whispering sing-song East Coast accent as it floated around the mild Texas air. “Should’ve taken me fishing, asshole.”
“When hell freezes over,” I whispered, throwing my head back into the pillow. I knew better than to say it any louder. Despite my resentment at her for getting me into trouble, I started laughing.
It was a cynical laugh.
About the Author
MK Schiller is a hopeless romantic in a hopelessly pragmatic world. By day, she dons a magic cape, calculator (sometimes an abacus), and an assortment of gel pens for her work in the world of finance. But by night, she sits by the warm glow of her computer monitor, and conjures up handsome heart-warming heroes and the vivacious heroines they love.
A wife and mother of two loveable, but angst-ridden teenagers, she enjoys movies, gardening, and travelling. Although she loves to write, she is a reader first and enjoys nothing more than curling up with a good book and some tasty Italian (the food, of course!). She hopes you will enjoy her stories and write to her.
Email:
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MK loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at
http://www.totallybound.com
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Also by MK Schiller
In Other Words: The Other C-Word
What’s Her Secret: A Girl by Any Other Name
Totally Bound Publishing
