even more. Then she added in a hushed, sad whisper, “It won’t happen again.”
I shook my head. “Is that what y’all do for fun up north? Bite each other?”
She laughed, but it wasn’t a real laugh. It was the first time I recognized what people referred to
as a ‘cynical laugh’. Kids our age laughed because something was humorous, but Sylvie wasn’t like
other kids. That much was obvious. “Yeah, so I guess you should stay away from me before you turn
into a vampire.”
“Shoot, that don’t scare me. I got a twelve-gauge that’ll take care of anything with fangs.”
“I don’t think bullets stop vampires.”
“I beg to differ,” I replied, using one of my father’s patented phrases. Sylvie sounded very adult
in some ways and I wanted to match her.
“Do you really have a gun?”
I shrugged, considering the ramifications of another lie, but decided against it. “Yeah, but I’m not
allowed to use it yet. My daddy says I have to be older.”
“Can you keep this a secret?”
I stared at her dubiously. My daddy had talked to me about this kind of stuff, and told me if any
of my friends said things that didn’t seem right that it was my job to tell him. But Sylvie Cranston was
not my friend. Besides, she’d said it wouldn’t happen again.
She shook her head, appearing disappointed by my silence. “I knew you were a tattletale.”
“I ain’t a snitch.”
“No matter what happens, you can’t tell. You have to swear on it.”
“Who did it? Was it your daddy?” There was no way I would swear to it if it was her daddy.
“No. Now swear.”
I expected a further explanation, but she didn’t provide one. She just stared at me expectantly
with her arms crossed.
“I swear I won’t tell about this bite mark.” I figured if there was another I could always go back
on my word, since I was so specific in the promise.
She exhaled a long breath. “Thank you.”
I nodded, not sure if I’d done the right thing, but I didn’t think too much on it because Mandy
returned, flinging a dozen more daisies in Sylvie’s lap. Sylvie smiled appreciatively and picked
several of them up. She removed the leaves and began weaving them together in tiny knots, forming a
perfect chain. It must have really impressed my sister because she watched in awed silence, which
was very rare for her. I wondered if Sylvie knew how to tie other knots like the ones I needed to
know for my Boy Scout merit badge.
“Will you teach me how to fish?” Sylvie asked suddenly. The request surprised me. Most girls
wanted nothing to do with grubby worms or bloody fish.
“How do you know I fish?” I asked, trying to sound like the detective my dad was.
“Cal, you dummy, I just told her that. Weren’t you paying attention?” Mandy chimed in. She
probably had said that. I tended to tune out my little sister after the first two sentences.
“You wouldn’t like it. You’re a girl,” I said, as if Sylvie didn’t know that.
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-colored 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 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.