Page 35 of Que Será, Syrah

“It’s spelled just like it sounds. How else would you even spell it?”

Legs rolls her eyes. “Well, that’s what I’m asking. Maybe it’s spelled with a K. Or with an E, like in Hey. Or with an E-I. Or an E-I-G-H. Or?—”

“Or an E-I-E-I-O? No. It’s just Clay. Just C-L-A-Y. Okay?”

“Okay, Just Clay,” she replies, and let the record show that, this time, she does not roll her eyes. But it’s a close thing. I can tell she wants to. “So, let me see if I’ve got this straight. You’re saying that you were gifted, I presume at birth, with an entirely unobjectionable, perfectly serviceable, one syllable, easily spellable name. Which, I might add, when combined with your last name, gives you a total of only four syllables. Which is the same number of syllables in just my last name alone. So, unless you have a couple of obscenely long middle names…?”

“No middle name,” I assure her, and just barely stop myself from asking what kind of name she would consider obscene—because, of course, she had to go there.

“Lucky you,” she says, grimacing slightly. “I have three. You can have one of them, if you’d like.”

“Thanks,” I tell her, just as our desserts arrive. “But I don’t think so.” And I do not spend the next few minutes, while our water glasses are refilled and our silverware is replaced, imagining scenarios that would involve the two of us giving or taking each other’s names. Because that would be stupid. All the same, and perhaps even more surprisingly, that’s also a close thing.

“So, then what exactly are you complaining about?” she asks, startling me, just as I’ve dug my fork into my apple tart.

“Complaining?” My gaze shifts—from her face to my plate, then back to her face again. “I wasn’t. What do you mean?”

“No. Not the pie. I’m still trying to understand about your name. Why don’t you like it?”

“Why is this so important to you?” I ask, putting down my fork and resting my arms on the table. “You can’t possibly find it that interesting.”

“I don’t know why you’d say that.” She shrugs. “But, after all, this is just basic getting to know you conversation.”

“Exactly. It’s basic. So…”

Her cheeks turn red as she toys with her flan. “What can I say? I find you interesting. But obviously sharing makes you uncomfortable. So then, let’s talk about something else. Do you follow any specific type of sports? My family really hasn’t until recently. Now we’re all learning about hockey, thanks to Bee’s relationship with Jansen Beck. So, that’s been different.”

I’m being a dick. I’m letting her carry the whole conversation, then giving her shit about it. “I guess what bugs me most about my name is what it represents, where it comes from, how I got it.”

“Really?” She perks up right away. “Is it an old family name? Like, do you have a rich uncle and your parents were hoping that if they named you after him he’d leave you all his money when he dies?”

“As if.” I roll my eyes, pick up my fork and finally get a mouthful of apple tart. Which is delicious, by the way. Rich, crispy crust, paper-thin, sweet-tart apple filling, offset by the sharp, vaguely yeasty taste of cheese. “You must be thinking of yourself. Because I have zero rich relatives—either living or dead.”

“Okay, then…was it the last name of the doctor who delivered you? And before you say no one does that—yes, they do. I grew up with a girl that happened to. She always said that her mom picked it to piss off her dad. See, her mom went into labor while her father was on the golf course. By the time he got to the hospital, Cameron had already been born.”

“I’m starting to think you know a lot of people with unusual stories,” I observe.

She nods. “I know. It is surprising, isn’t it? But I think that’s because most people feel comfortable telling me about themselves. Present company excepted. You don’t want me to know anything about you.”

“That’s not fair,” I tell her, even though I’m pretty sure I’m lying.

“We’ll see.” She looks at me thoughtfully for a moment then says, “In that case, my money is on it being either the street where your parents’ first house was located, or the name of a beloved family pet. You know, like the dog in Indiana Jones?”

“He wasn’t named after the dog,” I’m forced to point out. “He just called himself that beause he didn’t like his given name.”

“Aha! That’s it, isn’t it?”

“What? No!” I’m startled into replying. “That doesn’t even make sense. Why would I give myself a name I don’t like to take the place of another name that I also don’t like?” I take refuge again in my beer glass, steeling myself, because I know I’m about to give her another ‘fun story’ to add to her collection.

“Well, I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

“Fine,” I say at last, giving up, like I should have known I would. “So, the first thing you should know is that my mom’s a little cray cray.”

She pauses with a spoonful of flan partway to her mouth and blinks at me in surprise. “Well, sure. Isn’t everyone’s?”

“What? No, of course not.”

“If you say so,” she replies, not bothering to hide her skepticism. Then her grin turns sly, and she adds, “But that’s like, just your opinion, man.”

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