The Other P-Word(64)

Mr Cranston's eyes searched the room and he scratched his head like my  father did when he lost his reading glasses. Did he not realize his  daughter wasn't here? "I'm not sure. She has a way of disappearing.  She's probably in the backyard."

"Cal, why don't you take Mandy and go find Sylvie." It wasn't a  question. I sighed, but caught myself when my mother turned her sharp  green eyes on me. Momma always received compliments on her eyes, the  same eyes Mandy had, but I always thought they looked mean, especially  now. I had my father's gray eyes and sandy-blond hair. Momma referred to  it as ‘model' hair, but I really didn't care for that expression. "That  way us adults can talk. Go on, you two."

"Yes, ma'am." I tightened my clasp on Mandy's hand, knowing expensive  items had a tendency of shattering in her presence. I also knew it would  be my fault if they did. For some reason, I'd been assigned the role of  my sister's keeper.

The former Miller, now Cranston, backyard was a carbon copy of ours,  except we had a swing set and there was a noticeable shift between the  lush green of our yard and the canary coloring of theirs.

It didn't take long to find Sylvie Cranston. She was walking along the  back of the property where the grass blended into a field, which led to  the woods behind our houses. If you followed it down the path for a  short distance, it would lead to the best fishing lake in the world … or  at least, my world. I wanted to be there right now.                       
       
           



       

The girl was so skinny, I thought a strong gust of wind could knock her  over. She was tall, though, with long brown hair that curled in a  hundred different directions. She wore a long blue flowery dress that  came down to her calves, and appeared to eat her up. It looked like  something my momma would wear to church. There was a red bow in her hair  that dangled as if it might fall out any minute and pink Converse shoes  on her feet with black socks. It was weird. She was weird. I wondered  if the Cranstons belonged to one of those nutty religions that made  girls wear dresses all the time. That was just what I needed. Next-door  cult neighbors.

I thought she didn't hear us because she didn't look up. It didn't stop  Mandy, though. She bounded down the steps and ran straight up to Sylvie.

"Hi, I'm Mandy and this here's my brother, Caleb, but you can call him  Cal. You're in the same grade. We live next door. I like Barbies. My  favorite color is pink just like your shoes. Maybe when we get to know  you better, you can babysit me when you get older. My daddy's the  sheriff." Mandy's face reddened, matching her hair color, as it always  did when she talked without taking a breath.

Sylvie smiled and bent down so they were at eye level. It was then she  took off the ear buds, and the lyrics floated in the air between us for a  few moments until she turned off her Walkman. It was a familiar tune,  but the name escaped me. The few lyrics I heard would stick with me  until dinner that night when I slapped my hand to my forehead and yelled  out, "Crazy Love, by Van Morrison." I only knew it because my father  sang it to my mother occasionally. It was definitely not the type of  song one typically heard on a Sunday in Prairie Marsh.

Sylvie didn't say anything to Mandy. She just stroked her hair and sat  on the ground. Mandy didn't stop, though. She went on and on talking  about the merits of Prairie Marsh like it was an urban metropolis of  sophistication. She extolled our many attractions such as the Summer  Saturday tractor pulls, the Fourth of July fireworks and the fact that  we were due to get a Walmart next year. For her part, Sylvie listened  and nodded, crossing her legs, tenting her hands and resting her chin on  them, like she was actually interested.

Mandy ran off toward the field after a few minutes. "Mandy, don't go into the woods," I yelled.

"I'm picking Sylvie some roses," she declared, giving me a warning  glance. Mandy didn't like it when I told her what to do. Little did she  know I never asked for that job.

"Fine, but stay where I can see you. By the way, those are not roses,  dummy," I replied, gesturing to the wild daisies that grew at the edge  of the property. Mandy was under the impression all flowers were called  roses.

Sylvie turned to me then, glaring at me with the darkest brown eyes I'd  ever seen. "A rose by any other name still smells as sweet," she said,  waving her finger at me. "That's Shakespeare for your information." Her  voice froze me. I'd heard the unmistakable cadence of an East Coast  accent on television and in the movies, but it was still strange hearing  it in real life. It was sharp and clipped, and for some reason it made  me smile.

"I know that," I spat out. No, I didn't. I had no clue who Shakespeare  was, but I wasn't about to let this girl think she was smarter than me.

Mandy was humming to herself picking those stupid daisies when Sylvie  came and sat next to me on the steps. I tried not to grimace.

"Why are you so mean to her?"

"I'm not, and it's none of your business."

Mandy came up just then. "Look," she exclaimed, dropping a dozen or so daisies in Sylvie's lap.

"They're so pretty. Do you want me to put some in your hair?" Sylvie  asked, taking one and sniffing it, although I was pretty sure it held no  scent.

Mandy squealed in that loud little-girl voice that usually gave me a  headache. She sat on Sylvie's lap and I watched as Sylvie threaded the  daisy heads through Mandy's hair. I should have been bored, but I wasn't  and I had no idea why. I was a little surprised at how my sister  responded to this stranger. Mandy was an outgoing kid, but her instant  liking for this odd girl seemed out of character.                       
       
           



       

"Can I do you?" Mandy asked, pulling Sylvie's long hair toward her.

That was when I noticed the red circle at the nape of Sylvie's neck,  which had been covered by her long hair. Sylvie quickly pulled Mandy's  chubby little hand away and readjusted her locks back in place, hiding  the mark. Mandy's eyes went wide. Not over the mark, because I doubt my  sister had seen it and if she had she probably wouldn't even know what  it was. No, Mandy was upset because she thought Sylvie was mad at her.  Sylvie must have sensed it too because she patted Mandy's hand.

"I'm sorry, I'm picky about my hair. It's not as beautiful as yours."

"I think it's very pretty, like Barbie's hair but brown and curly."

So nothing like Barbie's hair.

"Can you get some more of these?" Sylvie asked, pointing to the few  daisy heads that remained in her lap. "The bigger ones? I'll make you a  crown out of them."

Mandy bobbed her head so hard I thought it might fall off. Promise the  princess a crown and she forgot about everything else. Mandy ran back  toward the field, looking determined in her new mission. "Is that  ringworm or a bite mark?" I asked Sylvie when Mandy was out of earshot.

"None of your business, Cal."

"If it's ringworm, it's everyone's business. I need to know so I can stay away from you. I don't wanna catch that."

She considered my statement for a while as if she wasn't sure what it was. "It's not ringworm," she said quietly.

"Who bit you?"

"A vampire. I'll probably turn into one myself." She stared at me,  narrowing her eyes. "I promise not to turn you into one if you won't  tell." I almost laughed at her lame attempt to intimidate me, but I was  too lost in what she'd said. The fact that she'd told me not to tell  made me want to tell 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.