A Girl by Any Other Name (43 page)

“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 gotten 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.”

“Apologize 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 flavoring 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.

Chapter Two

Present day

Teaching at a community college was like working in purgatory in that it acted as a waiting room

of sorts. You had three kinds of students. There were the older ones who wanted to reclaim what had

been lost in their youth by bettering themselves—they were my favorite students. They had a purpose.

Then you had the in-betweens of all ages who still weren’t sure what they wanted to be when they

grew up—they thought a stint in college might guide them. With classes at half the price, it was a Saks

education at a Walmart price, so why not? Finally, there were the losers—the kids who couldn’t

make it to real school because they were too busy partying in high school, and thus were doomed to

the community college circuit until they brought their grades up.

We weren’t a final destination, but a pit stop on the journey to betterment. Still, I loved the job

and was grateful for it. Living in Portland, Oregon was expensive and I had student loans to pay. I

enjoyed being a teacher too. It allowed me to open the door to good literature for a new class of

hopefuls. Unfortunately, most of them wanted to slam it back in my face.

At least it gave me the opportunity to write. It was just too bad that I was suffering from a severe

block the size of a polar ice cap. Unlike those structures, it showed no signs of melting any time soon.

I walked into the lecture hall prepared for the normal nonchalance and indifference, but looking

forward to the few enthusiastic hopefuls I had in every class. I usually had more luck than most

instructors did, but then again I was teaching a subject I loved.

“Good morning, class. I’m your instructor, Caleb Tanner. You may call me Cal. Thank you for

attending what I hope will be the origins of a love story for you.” I smiled at the sea of faces in the

crowded lecture hall as I continued, “The love of literature. We’re going to read some great books.

Then we’re going to perform our own autopsies and find out how the authors influenced our personal

thoughts and feelings, whether intentional or not. We’re going to deconstruct, debrief, discuss and

possibly denounce and even debate these books. Hate it or love it, it’s a journey, and I’m honored to

be your tour guide.”

I heard a few groans at my cheesy introduction, but I also received a few wide-eyed expressions

of excitement, particularly from the girls in the front row. This wasn’t unusual. I was teaching a class

on literature. Girls flocked to this course and guys… Well, guys either had to take it as a prerequisite,

or the ones who chose it as an elective knew the girls would be here.

“Let’s get to know each other. You might be wondering how we can possibly do that with a

class of a seventy people, but rest assured it can be done. Like a good book, we will start with the

cover.”

“I thought you never judged a book by its cover,” a curly-haired, jock-looking guy said from the

third row.

Ah, my resident smartass making an appearance already. “It’s an interesting saying. It’s true, of

course, but then again, sometimes the only thing you have to judge is the cover. We’re going to

explore that for a moment. Everyone is going to introduce themselves and then tell me their favorite

book, title and author. You have to be fast, but I’m going to track it, or at least Jessica is,” I said,

nodding toward my TA. “And then I’ll assign your first paper. So let’s get started. State your name

and your favorite book.”

The first few rows were the typical. Jane Austen, Margaret Mitchell and Louisa May Alcott

made my lists every year. One girl, whom I assumed desperately wanted to be teacher’s pet, said my

novel. Some eyebrows rose, but I signaled for them to keep going. I loved this exercise, but I hated

when this happened. This was in no way a means to promote my book. In fact, it was out of print so

any mention of it was like rubbing salt in a festering wound.

You could find out a lot about people from the books they read. I instantly knew the students who

mentioned Wally Lamb, Frank McCourt and Dan Brown were true fans of the written word. Not that I

doubted the ones who chose classic novels, but I knew the modern authors weren’t assignments from

a previous class. These students liked to read. There were a few intermittent jokesters, who claimed

their favorites were comic books or children’s books that really didn’t meet the definition of novel,

but I didn’t correct them. The assignment was not to judge, but to be judged. Some talked about the

ever-famous vampire love stories, while others named authors I wasn’t familiar with.

It didn’t matter. Reading was not only fundamental, it was subjective. Someone said Stephen

King and I nodded in appreciation. I devoured all kinds of books, especially the classics, but I loved

King too. He was… Well, he was King.

I checked each introduction against my attendance roll when one unmistakable East Coast accent

jostled me. It came from somewhere in the back row. I held up my hand to stop the progression.

“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