but my eyes always searched for Sylvie in particular when I entered the field. It was part of my pre-
game ritual. That, and looking up at the sky to say a little prayer for my dad. I knew he was there too.
I sat next to Sylvie in art, watching her sketch the stuffed bear that sat on the table. I was
supposed to be doing something along those lines too, but I found it difficult to look away from her
delicate hands when she was drawing.
“Cal, do you want to come to Sadie Hawkins with me?” Wendy asked. As usual, I wasn’t paying
attention to the fact that she was sitting on the other side of me.
Sylvie jerked her shoulders, managing to drop her pencil. I picked it up.
“No, I’m sorry, Wendy, I can’t go,” I replied, hoping she’d drop it.
“You’re not going to the dance?” she asked in shock, like I’d told her I was dropping out of
school or something.
“I’m not sure yet.” I was talking to Wendy Watson, but staring at Sylvie.
Ask me,
I kept saying to
myself.
Ask me to the dance, you stubborn girl.
She never did. She just resumed drawing that stupid-
looking bear instead. I would have asked her, except that this was Sadie Hawkins and the tradition
was that girls asked the guys. S
tupid-ass tradition
.
“Okay, class, I know everyone is excited about the prospects of our team making the
championship, but I wanted to draw your attention to another great accomplishment for our school,”
Mrs Peters said, clasping her hands.
We all turned our attention to her. Usually art class was brief instruction followed by lots of
drawing, or, in my case, doodling. It was rare that Mrs Peters interrupted us in the middle of class.
“I was informed this morning that one of our students won the National Art Competition.”
I sat straight up, suddenly nervous. I knew Matt Sampson had entered, but I hoped to God it
wasn’t him that Mrs Peters was talking about.
“Please join me in congratulating our very own Sylvie Cranston, whose work will be displayed
in New York and in some major papers for the portrait she did in this very room entitled ‘Renee’.”
Everyone turned to Sylvie. I smiled proudly, but it didn’t last long when her eyes went wide and
her lower lip trembled in panic. I put my hand over hers to calm her, but it didn’t seem to help.
“I… I…um…don’t understand. I didn’t enter,” she stammered nervously.
Mrs Peters wrinkled her brow. “They have your entry, dear, and your photo. I don’t know how
they would have gotten it otherwise.”
“My photo?”
“Yes, they needed one for the article,” Mrs Peters said, walking over to Sylvie. “They sent me a
mockup. As your art teacher, they called me for a quote. They will be calling you too. Probably
tonight, since the article’s supposed to go to press tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? But I don’t want that.”
“Oh, dear, well, I don’t think we can stop it now. Now, I know you’re just nervous, but this is a
great opportunity for you. I believe they will even fly you out so you can view your artwork
personally. You’ll get to stay in New York and visit all the museums with the other winners. Your
father will be so proud of you, dear.”
I doubted that. Mr Cranston didn’t even talk to her, except in slurred commands. The only real
conversations he was having these days were with Mr Glenlivet. They were old friends.
Mrs Peters walked over to the empty easel where Sylvie’s painting had been. “I sent it out this
morning. I would have waited, but I thought you’d already know about it and I wanted to make sure it
got in the mail.”
Sylvie’s face became whiter than it did when she put all that powder on it.
“Relax, girl, you’re going to get me in trouble. I entered you,” I whispered into her ear.
She turned to me slowly. My heart sank with the look she gave me. It wasn’t gratitude, surprise
or even anger. It was disappointment as if I’d betrayed her somehow. It was definitely not the
reaction I’d been expecting.
“I have to go,” she announced, standing up and gathering her books.
“Class isn’t over,” Mrs Peters stated more firmly.
“I’m sorry. I’m sick. I have to go home.”
I stood up. “I’ll walk her home,” I said.
“No, you won’t,” Sylvie barked on her way out the door.
I got up anyway, but Mrs Peters called out my name. “Cal, I know you think you can do what you
want since you’re the captain of the football team, but let me be clear that in my classroom, I am the
captain. Now sit down. Sylvie can leave, but you, young man, need to stay.”
I stared after her, wondering what the hell had just happened. I’d only meant to enter her as a
way to show her that her art was really good—New York museum good. It was to give her
confidence, but her reaction was so harsh, I knew I had made a serious mistake.
I considered skipping practice, but I knew it would be a mistake this close to the championship. I
shouldn’t have gone, though. My mind wasn’t in it, and Coach Brown made us all stay late and run
extra laps because of it.
Sylvie didn’t come over for dinner either. I shoveled food in my mouth to appease my momma,
but as soon as I could, I ran out the back door, making a beeline for Sylvie’s bedroom window. I tried
opening it, but it was locked with the shades drawn. She’d locked me out. I tapped on it gently. When
there was no answer, I knocked. Finally, I resorted to pounding until she opened it.
“What?” she demanded. Her faced was streaked with fresh tears and her hair was a mess.
“Why the hell are you so mad at me?”
She laughed hysterically. “I wasn’t ready to show my art. That was my decision, not yours.”
“I was trying to do you a favor.”
“A favor? Do me a real favor and stay the hell away from me.”
“Girl, are you smoking crack? What the fuck is wrong with you?”
She went to slam the window down, but I held my hand in the sill. The wooden barrier hit it and
I howled out in pain. “You know I need that hand, right? How do you expect me to chuck a football
down the field without it?”
She opened it again, staring down at my hand. “You need to go, Cal. I’m serious,” she said in a
softer voice.
“You know I can’t stand it when you’re mad at me.” I shook out my aching hand.
She wiped her face, but she didn’t turn her head toward me, “You’ll just have to get used to it.
I’m sorry, Cal. We can’t be friends anymore.”
I felt like she had sucker-punched me. In a way, that was exactly what she’d done.
“You can’t mean that, Sylvie. You’re my best friend. You’re my good luck charm.” I looked
down at her small hands. They were shaking. I lowered my voice, leaning closer to her through the
opening in the window. “You’re my family. Whatever I did, I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”
“I just want to be left alone. Please leave me be.”
“Fine, I’ll leave for now, but I know I mean as much to you as you do to me. I know you can
never stay mad at me for long. I’ll just wait for you. I’ll leave my window unlocked for you and I’ll
wait.”
She didn’t say anything. She closed the window, more gently this time. I let her.
Sylvie didn’t talk to me after that. I felt horrible, but it was even worse that she didn’t talk to
Mandy or Momma either. My mother even went over to check on her several times, but her father kept
saying she was sleeping. She wasn’t at our fishing hole. She wasn’t in the woods. She wasn’t at the
swing set during Sunday service. I saw her at school, but she didn’t acknowledge me. She did look
sick, though. She had lost weight and her clothes were hanging off her even more than usual. She
changed seats in art class telling Mrs Peters the lighting was better at the other table.
I thought for sure we’d lose the championship game. I’d been acting like a freshman in practice,
making stupid mistakes and constantly getting sacked. The game was sixty miles away in Beaumont at
a real college stadium. I entered the field, feeling the palpable push and pull motion of the crowd like
a tangible force, but it wasn’t enough to motivate me.
I looked for her. Momma and Mandy sat in the front row, cheering loudly in the school colors of
gray and blue. She wasn’t there. My heart slumped in my chest and I took a deep breath.
I shouldn’t have heard it over all the other noises vying for attention, but the whistle pierced
through the night air…and it wasn’t coming from the ref. She was sitting away in the far corner. I
couldn’t make her out, but it was her, holding up a sign written in gold glitter. ‘You can do it, Tex’. I
turned my head toward heaven and said a few words to my father as I always did before every game.
I added a special thanks to the man upstairs for making brown eyes, beautiful girls and gold glitter.
We won the game, which was good because afterwards Coach told me there were a few college
scouts in the audience who had come to see me.
My excitement dampened when Sylvie still didn’t acknowledge me. She kept me locked out, but
I was all done with the silent treatment. I stormed over to her house a few days after the game. A
black town car was parked behind Mr Cranston’s Cadillac. It was strange since they never had any
visitors, but I could care less if she had company. I was determined to talk to her.
I knocked on the front door, feeling a little weird. I hadn’t knocked on the front door in years. It
wasn’t her father who answered, but a tall guy with short brown hair and sunglasses. I was surprised
by his appearance. He was wearing a dark suit…and it wasn’t Sunday.
“Is Sylvie here?” I asked when he didn’t give me any greeting.
“She’s busy.”
“Who are you?” I was being rude and Momma would have had choice words for me, but I didn’t
care.
“I’m Uncle Joe,” he replied as if that should mean something to me.
“I need to talk to her.”
“I don’t think this is the best time.”
“Sylvie, are you in there?” I screamed.
Joe pushed me out the door. I wasn’t prepared for the assault. “Look, kid, I was trying to be nice,
but if you keep this up, I’m going to show you exactly what kind of guy I am.”
“Let him in, Joe,” Sylvie replied in a meek voice behind him. Joe turned and stared at her. Her
eyes were pleading. There seemed to be some kind of silent exchange going on between them, but he
finally moved aside so I could come in.
“Can we talk?” I asked. I resisted the urge to hug her. She was so tiny and pale, I wasn’t just
afraid she’d reject me—I was fearful of hurting her. “Please?” I added.
“In my room,” she replied, taking my hand. I was happy for the contact, but her hand felt limp
inside mine.
“Sylvie, do you think that’s a good idea?” Joe asked. It was so strange since her dad was sitting
on the couch watching it all. He didn’t say a word. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was in some
kind of a trance.
“Yes, it’s fine…
Uncle Joe
,” she said through clenched teeth. I wasn’t sure if it was directed at
him or me.
Once we were inside her room, she closed the door and stared at me.
“What do you want, Cal?” Her lower lip trembled and her whole body seemed to wince like she
was holding in her need to cry.
I closed the gap between us, until the release of her warm breath hit my skin. “Why are you icing
me out like this?” I whispered.
“I told you. I can’t be friends with you anymore. It’s too complicated.”
“I think our relationship is as simple as breathing.”
“You’re suffocating me. You need to leave me alone like I asked.”
“Do you really want that? I saw you at the game. You’re the reason I threw so many touchdowns
that night. You know that. Just let me make this right.”
“You can’t.” She took off the St Michael’s medallion around her neck, holding it out to me. I
closed her fists back around it.
“No, you keep it. You need it more than I do.”
“I can’t keep it.”
There was no way I was letting her return it to me. It would be too final. “Yes, you can.” I
looked around her room, noticing the empty cardboard boxes she had there. “What’s going on? Why
are you packing?”
“I’m just rearranging some stuff, that’s all. You have to go.”
I searched my soul trying to find the words to make things right between us again. My brain ran
through the hundreds of books I’d read, searching for the perfect phrase from Chaucer to Shakespeare,
but I was only sixteen so I ended up saying the dumbest thing I could. “Are you planning on asking me
to Sadie’s?”
She shook her head in disbelief and let out that cynical Sylvie laugh I’d grown to love. “Are you
crazy? Why would you think I’d ask you to the dance?”
“Because girls ask the guys. I’ve been waiting for you to ask me.”
“Well, then you’ll be waiting forever because I have no intention of asking you, Cal Tanner.”
“Fine. I’ll break tradition and ask you.”
“Go with Wendy Watson or another girl. I know at least eight girls asked you.”
“I don’t want anyone else.”
She stared at me with those big brown eyes, shrouded in misery. “And I told you, I don’t want
you.”
“Damn it, girl, are you trying to hurt me on purpose here?” The anguish and defeat in my own