by MK Schiller
“They’re a hopeless romantic.”
“I would have to disagree. I believe the novel is categorized as a tragedy, not a romance.”
And so the discussion continued. I stared at the back of the lecture hall, trying to get a better look at the girl, but the tall guys who sat in front of her obstructed my view. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I never put students on the spot, but I made an exception this time.
“Miss Sophie Becker, can you please tell us what your essay was about?”
“Herman Melville’s Moby Dick.” She said it barely louder than a whisper in a shaky voice. Was she nervous being picked at random, or something more?
“Tell us what you would assume about a person who is a Melville fan. And please speak up this time.”
“It’s a classic book.”
“So, I’ve been told,” I said, not hiding my irritation. “Miss Becker, would you feel more comfortable answering the question from my podium?” I never used the podium. I felt like a tool whenever I stood behind it. But maybe the threat was enough to coax a real answer from this girl.
“No,” she said quickly, her voice infused with panic.
“Then turn up the volume and answer the question,” I demanded through clenched teeth.
“I think the person who chose this book would most likely be a man who enjoys love stories.”
I smiled at the interpretation. “You consider Moby Dick a romance? I would take more exception to that than Gatsby. Tell me, Miss Becker, how a book about an obsessive, tyrannical man in pursuit of a whale could be considered romantic?”
“I don’t know.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose and took a deep breath, trying to calm down.
“Your response isn’t acceptable, Miss Becker. There are no wrong answers, but your theory requires further clarification so we can properly analyze it. At this level, I expect my students to justify their reactions to the written word.”
“The search for the whale was symbolic. The man was never actually looking for it.” Her voice was monotone, almost like she was masking it…or maybe I had read one too many spy novels.
“If not the whale, what was he searching for with such desperation?” I challenged.
“His salvation, his spirit, his will to live. The whale was a metaphor for his peace, but it was a wasted effort since Moby Dick couldn’t provide the catharsis he desired.”
“Why not?”
“He thought he wanted revenge, but he was repenting.”
“To repent, you have to commit a sin.”
“Not necessarily. You just have to be remorseful, and he was.”
“Excuse me, that’s my book, and I want to add—”
I held my hand up to quiet the lanky kid in the second row. “Please continue, Miss Becker.”
“I’m finished.”
I planned to ask her more, but time had run out on us.
“Next week, you will write about your favorite piece of literature and what it says about you as a person. It’s always an interesting exercise to compare the notes. Also, you’ll need to finish the first five chapters of Virginia Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway.” I kept my sights on the back of the class, trying and failing to get any kind of visual. Why did she sit so far away? It was pure torture. If she wouldn’t let me see her, maybe I could figure out another way to satisfy the burning in my gut every time she spoke. “Also, I want you to read the poem The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe and write a one-page essay on the emotions it invokes.”
“That’s not in the syllabus,” the curly-haired joker-type kid said.
Damn. Someone read the syllabus?
“First off…Mr…”
“Adkins. Roy Adkins.”
“Thank you, Roy Adkins. Please raise your hand if you wish to address the class. As for your point, you are correct. It’s not in the syllabus, but you’re not here for three credit hours.”
“We’re not?” he asked, completely serious.
“You’re here to learn about literature and how it impacts a person’s perspectives. This poem means a great deal to me. I hope you’ll enjoy it, too.”
Roy Adkins sighed in frustration. It didn’t matter. I wasn’t talking to him anyway.
“See you next week.”
Determined to get a clear look, I headed out of the room before Jessica or Melanie Adams intercepted me. I stood in a corner down the hall and watched as the students trailed out. Unfortunately, my class and the one next door let out at the same time. They merged, cramming the narrow hallway. I only caught a glimpse of her.
She wore the damn cap again. It was enough to make a fan hate the Raiders. Her hair was that perfect shade of brown highlighted with strands of honey. She had wide sunglasses on too, shielding her eyes from me. That seemed suspicious, especially on an overcast day. The girl had a fine figure—slim waist with wide hips, long legs perfectly displayed in her fitted, frayed jeans, and a white cotton shirt tied in a knot at the front. No pink Converse. She wore beige sandals instead. She didn’t dress like Sylvie, but so many years had passed, and there was no telling who Sylvie would be today.
My heart stammered in my chest so hard I had to lean against the wall for support. Is it you, Lenore? I restrained myself from grabbing her arm, snatching off those sunglasses, and releasing her hair from the baseball cap. It was a surefire way to get myself canned or grant me a one-way hall pass to a psychiatric hospital. I sympathized with my old friend, Edgar.
I was searching for a dead girl, too.
Chapter 5
Excerpt from Raven Girl
Age 12
“Come on, Tanner, we have to roll,” Nate yelled, hopping on his Schwinn. We’d stopped at Walmart to grab a few sodas before heading out to the high school. We needed to get to the football game as early as possible or the good seats would be gone, making it difficult to study the plays effectively. We dreamed of owning that field in a few years, so we took our football very seriously, although some of us were more interested in watching the cheerleaders. I had to admit there were a few times when I’d gotten a glimpse of a few colorful panties, so I couldn’t say I never looked.
One thing about living in Texas, you always knew what you were doing most weekends. Friday nights everyone attended the high school football game. Saturdays were chores, barbeques, and pick-up games of football. Sundays were church followed by watching more football, but on television. In the spring, we did the same thing except it was baseball.
Nate gave me an impatient look. Typically, all the guys would be eating my dust as we biked to the game, but I was loitering, unable to stop staring at her. She sat by herself on the bench outside the store, alternating between playing with the buttons on her black lace dress and twisting a strand of her long hair.
“I’ll meet up with y’all.”
“I can’t save you a seat. It’s gonna be a full house.” Nate wanted to get what we called the sweet spot. The center bleachers about three-quarters of the way down that offered us an opportunity to view the cheerleaders and easily observe the game. We weren’t obsessed with girls yet, but hell if we didn’t have a strong curiosity.
“Don’t worry about me.”
Nate followed my gaze to Sylvie. He sighed with irritation. “You don’t want to come so you can hang out with the freak?”
I clenched my fists, fighting the urge to kick his ass. My dad might be the sheriff, but Nate’s dad was the mayor, so it wouldn’t do me or my ass any good to punch him. Plus, he was my best friend. “You call her that again, and you’re going to see how powerful my throwing arm is.”
Nate stared at me for a few seconds. “Whatever. Suit yourself.” He hopped on his bike and rode off with the rest of our friends. I walked through the parking lot toward her, my shoes sticking where the tar had started to melt from the harsh midday sun. I took the seat beside her. I shot straight up again. “Ouch.” The metal bench burned against my skin. This had to be the hottest fall Prairie had ever seen. The sun blared down on us, and not ev
en the oak trees could provide enough shade. How the heck could she be comfortable in that heavy black dress?
As usual, she didn’t acknowledge me right away. We didn’t need the pretense of conversation to create comfort. It was just there.
“What’s wrong?” I finally asked, not daring to sit on the bench from Hades again.
“Nothing,” she replied.
“What happened to you at school?” She hadn’t been in math class. Say what you will about Sylvie Cranston, but she wasn’t the kind of girl to skip school.
“I had to go to the nurse’s office.”
“Are you sick?”
She laughed. “Not exactly.”
“Then what?”
“I have to buy something, and I’m sort of nervous.”
I chuckled. “Is your daddy having you buy his booze now?” It was a mean thing to say, but I decided a long time ago I didn’t care for Mr. Cranston much.
“Funny.” She flashed me with her brown eyes, wide and bright with anger. About ten shades hotter than the damn bench.
“Sorry.” I was sorry. Sorry her dad cared more about Glenlivet than his daughter.
“Just for that, you’re coming with me.”
I didn’t want to, but I nodded. Whatever she needed to buy was really upsetting her. Besides, there was air-conditioning in the store at least. “Fine. Let’s go before we turn into prunes.”
A whoosh of cold air hit us as we entered. I wiped my forehead, grateful for the change in temperature. But Sylvie didn’t look relieved at all. Her posture stiffened, and she chewed on her lower lip.
“Well, go on,” I said, gesturing towards the grocery aisle. She hesitated. Why was she nervous? She’d gone shopping by herself a million times. I stepped aside so she could lead the way. She didn’t go toward the groceries. She went the other way where the cosmetics and soaps were. Had I given up the good bleacher seats to shop for shampoo?
When she stopped in the middle of an aisle in the back of the store, studying the rows of brightly colored packages and cardboard boxes, my stomach churned.
“Girl, are you crazy?” I asked.
She grabbed my arm. “Just stay here.” She said it with a desperate plea in her voice—the one that got me to do the dumbest things.
“What the hell for?” I demanded, feeling duped into the chore.
“Because I need you.” She didn’t have to say anymore. This was the last place in the world I ever wanted to be, but here I was…because she needed me.
She stared at all the choices, raising her eyebrows in confusion. How did she not know what to get? I thought girls just knew this stuff. An innate knowledge, the way birds knew how to fly. The queasiness in my gut got stronger. I worried I might puke at any minute. I could almost hear it. “Clean up in aisle eight.” Damn, then everyone would know I was here.
“Why are there so many choices?” she asked. As if I had an answer.
“Who cares? Pick one so we can go.”
“I don’t want to get the wrong thing.”
“Jesus, girl, make up your mind already,” I grumbled in a hushed whisper. I wanted to get the hell out of aisle eight and never look back. At least there was no one else here.
She didn’t make a decision right away. Instead, she chose to torture me by reading every label. I shifted uncomfortably, trying to decide if I should run or stay. I’d never been so uneasy in my life. Finally, I picked up the largest box. The label said extra absorbent in big pink letters.
“Let’s go.”
“A few more minutes.”
I chucked the box at her head.
“Ouch, what did you do that for?” she asked, rubbing her face.
“Take it and let’s go, now!”
She picked it up, and I grabbed her hand before she could do any more comparison shopping.
“Wait,” she said, stopping as we neared the end of the aisle.
I sighed. “What now?”
“We should buy some more stuff. I don’t want it to be too obvious.” Her hands trembled so much I thought she might drop the package. Today couldn’t be easy for her. “Yeah, you owe me some candy or something after this shit.”
I left to grab a basket. By the time I returned, she was in the candy aisle, clutching the box against her chest. I held out the basket for her. She carefully placed the item with the picture of pearls on it inside as if she was handling a live grenade. Why did it have pearls on it? Never mind. I didn’t want to know. I flung bags of Laffy Taffy, gummy worms, Snickers, and licorice rope on top of the box. She added a bag of chocolate kisses, placing them on top of the mounding pile. It was our very own house of cards, and I prayed it wouldn’t topple.
“This is why you went to the nurse, right?” I asked as we headed to the checkout.
“Yeah, I got my period.”
I pressed my hand against her mouth. “Jesus, girl, don’t say it out loud.”
She laughed against my palm, tickling me with her breath. I dropped my arm, surprised how soft her lips felt. “Well, it’s what happened. The nurse gave me some stuff, but I need more.”
“Why didn’t you tell your dad?”
“He would have freaked out.” Somehow, I couldn’t imagine Mr. Cranston freaking out, but I also doubted he would have helped her. He pretty much ignored her.
“Cal, will you check us out?” she asked timidly, staring at the lines.
“You want me to buy this?” I asked, as if it was an illegal item. I thought it might be in this case.
She smiled coyly. “Let’s do it together.”
“No way. You’re on your own.” I shook my head in disbelief, even though she was completely serious.
“All boys are cashiering or Mona Simms, and she’s super nosy. I don’t want her to ask me questions. Please, Cal, don’t make me do this alone.”
How could I say no? I scanned our options. She was right. Mike Turner manned one register and Stan Watkins the other. This was not good. Mike’s parents played poker with mine. Stan Watkins was a senior at the high school, and the last thing I wanted was to be a product of Prairie High’s rumor factory. I settled for the lesser of three evils.
“This one,” I said, aiming for the only viable choice…Mona Simms.
Mona Simms had two jobs. She cashiered at Walmart and collected gossip. Both didn’t pay much, but came with great benefits. Sylvie and her father were curious inhabitants of Prairie, a fact Miss Simms found alarming. She disguised her insatiable prying as concern. Hell, when they’d first moved here, she made public pleas for any information about them, reasoning it was a community service. After all, we should know who are neighbors were.
I threw our items on the conveyer belt, strategically hiding the blue and white box under a mountain of sugary sweets. It was a dumb idea since it only made that stupid box more obvious. Sylvie stood close behind me, trying to be invisible. Funny how she managed to do that while wearing ill-fitting clothes and white powder.
Adults rationalized her peculiar style with false tones of concern. They’d assumed she craved attention or was a drug addict. I’d heard some say her daddy knew her more intimately than a father should. My mother and father always defended the Cranston’s. A stern warning from my parents carried enough weight so that the loud voices hushed, but the murmurs still echoed through our little island.
I had a feeling Sylvie knew what people said about her just as I knew the reason she acted like an oddball. She wasn’t trying to attract attention. She was trying to avoid it. It worked. People talked about her, but not to her. The girls didn’t invite her to their slumber parties. The boys called her a witch. The adults said she needed help, but no one ever volunteered. And she preferred it that way. She didn’t want people in her life. Well, except for Mandy and me. We were Sylvie’s only friends, and for some reason, it made me feel special.
I didn’t choose her. She chose me. We never hung around at school, but I spent just about every day with her in some capacity.
Miss Simms scanned
our purchases. All the plastic bags of candy made their way across the belt with a loud beep. I held my breath when she lifted the bag of kisses. She adjusted her glasses, her eyes fixed on the damn blue and white box. “Cal, why on earth are you buying maxi pads?”
Shit. Most people used their personalities to attract friendship and acceptance, but Mona Simms relied on gossip. She bartered it like currency, using it to spread scandal from one end of Prairie to the other, the same way bees passed pollen from plant to plant.
I should have picked another checkout line.
“I’m shopping for my mother,” I said, impressed by my own quick thinking.
Mona arched one of her drawn-on eyebrows at me. I noticed the mole on her right cheek moved independently from the rest of her features. She smacked her orange-glittered lips together. Some of the color had bled outside her lips. “You’re a sweet boy, Caleb. I always say so.”
I exhaled.
Mona Simms was just getting started, though. “What about all this candy? Surely, your mother doesn’t have this much of a sweet tooth.”
“It’s for…Mandy,” I stammered, wanting to shut her up quickly. I could have said it was for me, but I wasn’t thinking too clearly.
“Your momma allows her to have candy? Mandy’s already heavy for her age. I don’t think it’s wise to encourage her.”
What? Was this woman calling my sister fat? Mandy might be plump, but that was baby fat. It was ironic as hell since Mona Simms looked like a cow in woman’s clothing.
“Miss Simms, I’m in a hurry. Momma’s waiting on me.”
She laughed, looking down at the maxi pads. “Of course, she is. You’re a good son for doing this for her, Cal. Not every boy would.”
No shit. To my relief, she finished scanning our items. Sylvie pressed a twenty in my hand, trying to be all slick about it. I held it out to Miss Simms before she gave us the total. I didn’t even want change.
But Mona Simms wasn’t done with us. She buzzed around us, getting ready to release a harsh stinger. She tilted her chin at Sylvie. “Now, it’s this girl who could use some candy. She’s a beanpole, this one. I bet a gust of wind could knock her to the ground.”