The Other P-Word(63)

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What's her Secret?: A Girl by Any Other Name

MK Schiller



Excerpt



Chapter One





Excerpt from Raven Girl



The worst part of being a kid was that you never knew how good you had it until it was too late.

Childhood was simple. My parents told me it was because I didn't have  bills to pay or mouths to feed, but it was more than that. It was  because nothing was planned. When you didn't plan for it, you didn't  worry about the consequences. They just happened naturally without the  coercion, manipulation or mindfuck games that came with becoming an  adult.

I never planned for Sylvie Cranston to be my best friend. I never  expected her to be the muse in all my dreams, or the girl who later  haunted my nightmares. I certainly never planned to fall in love with  her, but that was exactly what happened.

Everyone told me I needed to move on. That was like asking me to pierce  my own flesh and crush my empty, beating heart. They wanted me to toss  it away and continue to breathe. How could a man function without his  heart?



Age 10



"Caleb, the neighbors are moving in. Come on, I need you to carry the  casserole." My mother's hurried voice echoed down the hall to my room.

I didn't think that woman knew the term ‘lazy Sunday'. I had no desire  to meet the new neighbors let alone bring them a casserole. I wanted to  get out of my Sunday suit and fish before it was time to worry about  Monday.

"Why can't Mandy carry it?" I asked. My little sister and my momma were  pretty much a package deal. Wherever Amelia Tanner went, Amanda Tanner  followed. Mandy was my momma's mini-me with long, curly red hair and  dark green eyes that my father fondly referred to as sharply sweet. They  even had the same pattern of freckles across their noses. However, my  momma was elegant whereas my sister was as clumsy as a blind dog in a  figurine factory.                       
       
           



       

"It's way too heavy for her, and I'm not risking it. I worked too darn hard on it. Now get your butt in gear and help me."

I begrudgingly walked out of my room to the foyer where the two females  in my life waited for me impatiently. "Can I at least change first?"

My mother sighed, putting her hands on her hips. "They're going to see  you looking like a bum every day this summer. At least make a good first  impression. I hear they're from up north, and we want them to think of  you as a perfect Southern gentleman, not the wild ruffian you are." I  shook my head, but didn't protest. You didn't argue with my mother. Even  a peaceful protest was out of the question. "You know, there is no  hospitality like the Southern kind, so let's go show these folks how  lucky they are to be living here."

I tried not to roll my eyes, but it was exactly what I wanted to do. She  smiled at me, ruffling my hair. "You never know, they might have a  little boy your age."

"Geez, Momma, you act like I'm five. I'm not a little boy and I don't need a playmate."

"You sure are throwing a temper tantrum like a little boy," Amanda chimed in, who actually was five.

"You will always be my little boy. Now come on," my mother stated.

I led the procession of Tanners, carrying the cheesy casserole dish that  felt like it weighed at least twenty pounds. We marched outside our  little brick ranch, walking all the way out to the sidewalk and crossing  over the ten slabs of cement to the driveway of another almost  identical brick ranch. It was easier to cut across the grass, but I knew  better. My momma would have a few remarks if I dared cross the patch of  grass between the houses. It was not proper. It was not neighborly. And  we had manners. This philosophy applied even though the other house had  been vacant so long it was more like weedy thistle than a real lawn.  Still, my father mowed it down once a week for appearances' sake when he  tended to our lawn. "Can't let the neighborhood go downhill," he'd say.  I knew with his promotion to sheriff, he would be working longer hours,  and the chore would soon be mine. At least I'd only have to mow our  lawn.

I stepped aside so my mother could knock on the door. A moving van was  in the driveway and several men were unloading it. The whole thing was a  little weird. No one ever moved to Prairie Marsh, Texas. Sure, there  were people who left to pursue life in other parts of the country, only  to return homesick or bitter from their experiences, but it was a  strange occurrence to see a new family here. We were a small town in the  middle of nowhere, East Texas. Even at ten, I knew that much.

A tall dark-haired man in black trousers and a crisp white shirt  answered the door. This was strange too. People around here either wore  Sunday clothes or regular clothes. This man was in semi-Sunday clothes.  If you were doing heavy lifting, you definitely wore jeans. I doubted he  would fit in.

"Well, hello, we're the Tanners, your neighbors next door. I'm Amelia.  This is my son, Caleb, but you can call him Cal. And this little  princess is Amanda, but please call her Mandy."

"It's nice to meet you. I'm Harry Cranston." He shook my mother's hand  and smiled widely at Amanda. I one-armed the casserole dish to shake his  hand, happy he wasn't ignoring me like most adults. "Nice grip, son."

We walked into the three-bedroom replica of our house I'd always known  as Mrs Miller's place. Mrs Miller had died last year and her son had  sold it, but that had been months ago. We'd begun to think the new  owners had changed their mind until my mother had spotted the moving van  this morning. The old house appeared new again. The oak floors were so  shiny they looked wet, and the furniture was brand new with the store  tags still on it. The whole house smelled of fresh paint and lemon  juice. That would please my mother. She liked a clean house.

I held up the casserole and thankfully Mr Cranston took it from me  before I dropped it. I had no idea how my mother made that pan feel  heavier than my dad's old medicine ball in the garage, but she did. My  dad always said, "The heavier the casserole, the better it is." If that  was the case, I was pretty sure my momma made the best casserole in the  county.                       
       
           



       

"I hope you like this," my mother said, pointing to the pan.

"It smells divine."

Did he say divine?

"My husband, John, would be here too, but he's on duty today. He's the sheriff."

"I've heard. I'll feel very safe living next to the sheriff."

"We don't want to intrude. We know y'all must be busy today."

"It's no interruption. The workers are still bringing in boxes." Mr  Cranston went to the kitchen and set the pan down slowly, as if he was  afraid it might break. "Thank you for this. It's been so long since  we've had anything homemade."

"Oh, your wife doesn't cook?"

Mandy started snooping, picking up random items and turning them in  chubby fingers. I grabbed her arm before she could touch one of the  walls and smudge her grimy fingerprints on it. The ‘princess' had a  problem keeping her hands to herself. I stood with her against a corner,  hoping my momma wouldn't ask for a complete breakdown of the man's  dietary history.

"My wife passed away six months ago. It's just Sylvie and me."

Oh boy, this wasn't good. My momma's gossip senses were spinning. I knew  she was already lining up a number of churchgoing single ladies to set  Mr Cranston up with when he was ready.

"I'm so sorry," my mother cooed. I knew what that meant. I'd be bringing over a casserole to this man every week.

"It's been difficult on my daughter, but we're adjusting."

"I can't even imagine. A girl needs her mother."

"Can I offer you some coffee?" Mr Cranston said, gesturing to the round oak table by the kitchen.

"Maybe one cup if you're sure." My mother took a seat. I shifted  uncomfortably, wondering if I could ask to leave. Unfortunately, Amelia  Tanner had other plans for me. "How old is Sylvie?"

"She's ten."

Momma clapped her hands together, forming a huge grin. "Cal's ten. That's wonderful. They'll be in the same grade."

Mr Cranston smiled, but it looked more like a grimace, as if it was  painful to make the muscles in his face work. "That's great. She has  trouble making friends. It'll be nice that she'll have someone her own  age next door."

The last thing I wanted was to hang around some girl. Obviously, if she  had issues making friends, there was a reason for it. Sylvie Cranston  was going to be as irritating as a pound of blood-hungry mosquitoes  trapped inside a camping tent.

"Where is your daughter?" my mother asked, adjusting a loose red curl  from the heavy bun that sat on the nape of her neck. My father said she  looked like Reba McEntire, and my mother always disagreed, but it was  funny that she wore her hair like Reba had in The Gambler.