Glen St. Mary, Canada
January 2011
When we were kids, when we were young
When I knock on the door to Shirley's room, there's no answer, not that I expect one. If I am right, he's rendered deaf to the outside world by a pair of outsized headphones and some highly questionable music (if we can even call it that).
Thus, I just let myself in and do, indeed, find Shirley sitting in front of his computer, his headphones making his head look strangely out of proportion. When he notices me entering the room, he raises a hand to ask for a moment, does some clicks on his computer and finally takes the headphones off. Before he cuts the sound, some shreds of rap music float over, making me wince.
"You want anything specific?" Shirley asks, swivelling around in his chair to face me.
"Do I need a specific reason to want to spend some quality time with my little brother before I head back to New York tomorrow?" I ask in a sing-song voice, making a point to smile extra pleasantly.
Shirley looks like he does very much think people need a specific reason to disturb him, but after a second of consideration, gives a long-suffering sigh. "Okay. Right. Bonding time. Shoot."
Ignoring his apparent sarcasm, I cast my eyes around the room in search for a place to sit. It looks… exactly like you'd expect the room of teenaged boy to look. Which is to say, less than tidy. How he managed to create such a mess in the short time we've been here is actually quite admirable.
Shirley doesn't miss my appraising glance. "Yes, this is what my room looks like. Either you deal with it or I'm afraid our bonding time is over," he informs me.
Not too many options, then.
Seeing as Shirley is occupying the only chair in the room, the most obvious place to sit would be the bed, but that, too, looks a right mess, and, teenage boys being teenage boys, is not a risk I want to take. Under Shirley's increasingly annoyed gaze, I therefore push some clothes aside with a foot and plop myself down on the floor, sitting cross-legged and looking up at him.
"Has Nan been in here recently?" I enquire with an innocent smile.
Shirley nods. "She came to fetch me for lunch the other day. I think it caused her physical pain to stop herself from tidying up." This, with one corner of his mouth rising reluctantly.
"Now that I can imagine," I state, grinning to myself as I picture our sister being confronted with this mess.
"Good on you. Now, what did you want to talk about?" His mouth, I see, is back in even position.
"Oh," I make a vague gesture with one hand, "Nothing in particular."
"Well, you came here. So, you get to talk," Shirley decides. As he speaks, his gaze is sneaking over to his computer, clearly hoping I will say my bit and be gone.
But stubbornness isn't a prominent trait in this family for nothing.
"Hacked the CIA yet?" I ask innocently.
This, at least, gets his attention.
"What?"
"I asked whether you hacked the CIA yet," I repeat, biting back a grin at his expression.
He frowns. "What makes you think that?"
"Dad is worried you might attempt it," I explain with a shrug.
Shirley's frown deepens, but he says nothing in response.
"Have you?" I press.
He half-shrugs. "Not recently."
Not…?
Right.
"Well, Dad will be mighty pleased to hear that," I remark cheerfully, causing Shirley to throw an annoyed glance my way.
Fairly unconcerned by this, I let my gaze drift through the room once more. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Shirley swivel his chair from side to side, clearly impatient with me, but don't let myself be hurried.
"I didn't know you had taken an interest in biology," I finally remark blithely and smile up at him.
Shirley blinks. "Come again?"
"Your biology project over there," I explain, nodding towards one corner of the room.
Looking to where I indicated, Shirley rolls his eyes when he realises what I mean. "Har, har," he makes, his voice faintly dripping with sarcasm.
"You mean you aren't trying to culture cells in here?" I ask, feigning surprise. "I was fairly sure I just saw that spoon move."
"Ate a clown for breakfast, did you?" Shirley shoots back.
I shake my head. "God forbid, no! Can't stand clowns. Haven't ever since Jem made me watch It when I was nine. I had nightmares for months!"
"That was… mean," Shirley concedes reluctantly.
"Classic Jem." I shrug. "But I went prattling to Joy, who told Dad, who grounded him for a fortnight, making him miss that concert he had saved for. So… there's a lesson there for sure."
"Don't make your younger sibling watch horror movies?" Shirley dead-pans.
"Something like that," I agree vaguely.
In fairness, I think Jem did feel bad about it afterwards. I was expressively forbidden from telling it to anyone (presumably because it would have hurt his oh so manly reputation to have people know about it), but he allowed me to sleep in his bed for weeks afterwards. And he threatened to punch that awful little Jayden for making fun of me being scared of a clown costume the next Halloween, so there's that.
Putting the topic of Jem and clowns to one side, I turn my attention back to Shirley. "If you're not currently hacking the CIA, what are you doing on that computer of yours?"
Shirley's face immediately turns suspicious. "Why do you want to know?"
"I'm just making small talk, Shirl. It's nice. You should try it sometime," I answer patiently, not quite succeeding in suppressing a smile.
In addition to suspicious, Shirley now also looks decidedly sceptical. "Sounds more like a waste of time," he mutters.
I take a deep breath. Dear God, give me patience.
"It's how we bond with fellow human beings. Living, breathing ones, I mean. The kind that have faces instead of avatars," I explain, using my hands to emphasise my point.
"The people I talk to on the net also have faces in real life," Shirley argues.
"You think," I amend, drawing an involuntary snort of laughter from him.
Now, this is better.
"So, what secret business are you undertaking, all shut up here in your room?" I ask, making sure to keep my voice light and encouraging.
Shirley eyes me from above. "Why the sudden interest? It's not like people usually ask."
"Maybe they would ask more if you weren't in the habit of biting their heads off over it?" I suggest innocently.
He grimaces slightly but doesn't protest my point. After a moment, he even deigns to answer the question. "I'm programming."
"Good." I nod, because this is progress at least. "Programming what, exactly?"
"Not nosy at all, are we?" Shirley murmurs under his breath. But when I just smile at him, he turns to his computer and waves for me to join him. Clambering up from the floor, I walk to stand behind him at his desk.
While clicking with rapid speed, he explains, if still somewhat reluctantly, "I've been trying to decide where to go for college these past months –"
"So, you do plan to go study?" I interrupt. Because as far as family consensus goes, no-one is quite sure whether Shirley is planning to head to university, nor whether he is actively working towards making it happen.
He gives an impatient nod in answer, without even bothering to look at me. "It's such a drag though, finding the right college," he then continues. "You have to look at endless pages not only of the colleges themselves but finding out info on the places they're in and everything. And don't get me started on the actual process of applying. It's… ugh."
"True," I agree. It's criminal how much time goes into finding the right college and subject and everything.
"So, I got bored with it all and thought about how to make it easier," Shirley adds. Some more clicks, and a page opens on his screen that looks somewhat like a search engine of sorts.
"I've been working on a program that does the work for you. Not just 'which subject can be studied at which college', but all the other stuff, too. See here? You can define all kind of search criteria, if you want to." His cursor flies over the screen, making it hard for my eyes to follow.
Putting a hand on the back of his chair for stability, I lean forward a little to get a better look. And truly, there are a lot of criteria that can be set, some of which I never would have thought of myself. There's distance from home town, number of students, number of inhabitants in town, type of student accommodation, scholarships and grants offered… I even spy a criterion that says, 'minimum number of pizza places in a five mile-radius', making me smile.
"The program does all the annoying work for you. It pulls the information from various sources and amalgamates them. So, if you're looking to study, I don't know, law at a university in a mid-size town no more than 100 miles from your hometown, the program will give you all your possible options" Shirley explains.
And we were suspecting him of either doing illegal hacking or possible playing an endless succession of computer games!
"This is great, Shirl! Really impressive stuff. And useful!" I mean it, too.
"It's still in early stages though," he immediately amends. "Far too many glitches even for beta testing. But I'm getting there, I think."
"I'm sure you will," I nod, smiling at him from the side. Then, reaching out to ruffle his hair, "I'm proud of you, little brother."
Immediately, he pulls away and glares at me in warning. Patting his hair down with a hand, he turns back to his computer, frowning at the screen.
He never was any good with compliments.
Clicking wildly, Shirley makes the previous page disappear, instead opening a window full of what looks like code. "I've got something else programmed that should be ready for testing," he informs me, nodding at the gibberish on his screen and throwing me a quick look.
"What is it?" I enquire, genuinely curious.
"You're aware of how Dad is always going on about something happening to one of his precious daughters in all those big cities they've decamped to?" Shirley asks, turning his head slightly to raise both eyebrows at me.
I nod. "Hard to miss." It's sweet how concerned Dad is for our well-being, but he's also being a bit of a worrywart.
"I programmed an app for that. For when you're walking home alone at night," Shirley continues. "Want to know how it works?"
"Sure," I agree, peering at the screen again before giving it up as a bad job. It's all just nonsense to me anyway.
Shirley clears his throat slightly. "Know how in prisons, they give you these little alarm devices that are secured to your body?"
I can't say that I do, no.
Seeing my obviously clueless face, Shirley elaborates, "They not only go off when you press a button but also when they're ripped away from you. So, the emergency call is sent out even when you're in a dangerous situation that doesn't leave you with enough time to actively press the button."
Nodding slowly, I look between him and the code on the screen. I can't say I'm following, exactly.
"I adapted that idea to my app," Shirley adds. "See, you load the app on your phone, obviously. When it's activated, you have to keep the home button pressed. If you do that, nothing happens. If you let go of the home button without switching off the app, it'll send out a call for help to a pre-set phone number, with your GPS whereabouts attached to it. Ideally, it would directly call emergency services, but for now, it's got to be someone else who will then call proper emergency services for you. You know, all old-fashioned." He grimaces slightly at this.
"That's actually quite clever," I remark slowly.
Shirley does a mock bow. "Glad it meets Her Majesty's approval."
And immediately, my heart is in my throat.
But he's only joking, I remind myself. He doesn't know. He can't know. He's only joking.
As I calm my breathing, Shirley continues talking. Come to think of it, he's already talked a surprising amount in the past half an hour. For him, anyway.
"You want to test the app?" he offers.
Swallowing heavily, I nod. "Sure, if you want me to."
He nods, all business-like. "If you give me your phone, I can rig you up. Won't take long."
No.
No way I'm giving him my phone.
Seeing my reluctance, Shirley raises an eyebrow. "Or does that phone hold secrets you're unwilling to share?"
You have no idea, little brother…
"I do like my privacy, thank you very much," I declare haughtily. "Which you, of all people, should understand."
"True," he concedes. "If you're set on being stubborn about it, I can send you a download link instead. Tomorrow maybe, or the day after that. If you have trouble setting the app up, just call me and I'll walk you through it."
That sounds more like it.
"Who'll be my contact?" I ask
Shirley points to himself. "For now, me. I'm working on a feature that allows you to set your own contacts, but we can test that later."
Nodding, I'm just about to ask what else he programmed, all alone in his bedroom, but I never get that far. Instead, the door is thrown open, revealing a thickly-swaddled winter monster that only reveals itself to be Jem at second glance.
"There you are!" he declares. "Come out! You don't want to spend the entire day holed up inside, do you?"
"I'll have you know that I was already over at Miranda's for breakfast this morning," I immediately point out to him.
Jem blinks beneath his bobble cap. "Miranda who?"
"My friend Miranda. Miranda Pryor," I answer, feeling slightly annoyed. On account of our families being so intertwined and with him being a mere nine months older than me, Carl was always my most natural friend in Glen, but he was never the only one. Over the years, Miranda was over at Ingleside far too often for Jem not to remember her at all.
"Oh. Her." Jem shrugs, obviously less than interested in Miranda. "Still, you should come outside with us. You, too, Shirl."
Exchanging a long-suffering glance with Shirley, we obviously both come to the silent conclusion that it's just easier to go along with whatever scheme Jem has concocted. He's not known to go away easily when denied.
Under Jem's watchful and slightly impatient eye, Shirley switches off his computer and we traipse downstairs, where we proceed to bundle ourselves up in coats and scarves and woollen hats. Whatever Jem has planned, it's unlikely to be over soon.
Ever moving, Jem is out the door, before Shirley and I are even fully dressed. Seizing the moment, I quickly lay a hand on Shirley's arm and stop him from following.
He turns, looks at me questionably.
"Say, Shirl… I know you're not currently attempting to hack the CIA, but could you, theoretically, hack a government agency of sorts?" I ask haltingly.
He blinks. "US government, you mean?"
I wave a vague hand. "US, Canadian…" A beat. "Or… British?"
"Hm…" he frowns in thought. "I suppose, with the right tools and enough time, I could have a decent stab at it. Why are you asking?" His expression, now, is veering between curiosity and scepticism.
I force a laugh. It's half-way convincing. "Nothing specific. Just wondering."
Thankfully, out of everyone in the family, Shirley has always been the least one to pry. Instead of pressing the matter, he just shrugs it off and turns towards the door again. I hurry to follow, putting on my woollen hat as I walk.
Outside on the lawn, Jem has gathered not only our family but the Merediths as well. Everyone is tightly swaddled in warm clothes, though some manage to look more enthusiastic at being outside in the cold than others do. Dog Monday, most enthusiastic of them all, runs circles around everyone's legs.
Faith, meanwhile, just looks indignant. "Hey! That's unfair! You already outnumbered us as it was!" she protests. The dog backs her up with a loud yap.
Jem grins like her in a very 'cat that got the cream'-kind of way. "Well, there just happens to be more of us. You can't fault us for what's fact."
Putting a calming hand on his sister's arm (who looks very much like a different kind of cat), Jerry suggests in a very reasonable voice, "We might select teams. That way, our individual strengths would be more evenly distributed."
Both Faith and Jem seem to consider this, while Monday looks from one to the other. I take the moment to scoot closer to Walter and whisper, "What are we doing? And when did I sign up for participating?"
"We're having a snowman building conquest," Walter murmurs back. "And I don't think you ever signed up to anything – I certainly didn't –, but I also don't think Jem much cared about your consent once he figured out that in roping you and Shirley in, he could significantly beef up our numbers."
At least now I understand why Faith is complaining. The way it's standing, it's six against ten.
"Are we now supposed to select teams like back in school?" I quietly ask of Walter.
"I hope not," he mutters. "They'd just start arguing who gets to pick."
True.
Sometimes, living in a family as opinionated as mine can be pretty exhausting.
Up front, Joy has just stepped forward, making eye contact with Jerry. "So, I suppose that first-borns get to choose?"
At least now Jem and Faith are united in their indignation. (The dog, however, is still wagging his tail excitedly.) You want to bet this wasn't what they had in mind?
But before either of them can come up with a good reason for why second-borns make far better team captains, Nan throws her hands in the air in an exasperated motion. "For Heaven's sake! Di and I will join the Meredith side, and everyone will be happy, alright?"
Di looks up, mildly surprised at this announcement, but I don't suspect her to be emotionally involved enough to care either way. And while Jem, after mentally doing the maths, does open his mouth in protest (probably to argue that at six years old, Lily is much more helpful than Izzie at three and a half), Joy stifles this by putting a firm hand over his mouth. "Excellent solution," she announces, and I guess that settles that.
Beside me, Walter breathes a soft sigh of relief.
"Very well," declares Faith with an encouraging clap of her hands, already back to her usual upbeat self. "Merediths – and honorary Merediths – convene!"
"And Blythes to me!" calls Jem, having shaken off Joy's hand, and waves an arm in the air. Monday leaps at least a meter upwards.
"Do I really have to?" comes the despondent question from behind me. I turn to look at Shirley, looking fairly miserable beneath his striped bobble hat.
Shirley spoke too quietly for his voice to carry towards the more enthusiastic members of the family, but Walter heard and, clearly, feels him. "Unfortunately, I can't see a way out," he answers sympathetically. "If you leave, it skews our numbers again. It won't do."
Never one to argue with logic, Shirley nods and gives a long-suffering sigh. "Best get it over with, then."
Over where Jem is sticking his heads together with the Raine side of the family – an excited Izzie perched on her father's back and an equally excited Monday trying to climb up there as well – I just catch Joy say the words: "…someone to go inside and get stuff we can use for the face. A carrot, some buttons –"
"Me!" I interrupt her loudly, raising a hand. "Me, I'll do it."
Joy nods in my general direction. "Alright, you do it. Now as to –"
But, having thus gotten out of the better part of this endeavour, I tune her out. Instead, I smile a smug little smile to Walter and Shirley – both giving me dirty looks in response –, pivot on my heel, and march back inside the house.
Unfortunately, it doesn't take long for me to be reminded of the flaw in my plan. For while quick reflexes got me out of that ominous snowman building competition, they led me right into the next pitfall.
I haven't so much as stepped a foot into the kitchen, when Mum pounces.
"Rilla! Sweetie!" she calls out.
I stop dead.
"I, uh… I just wanted to… I just need a carrot, real quick…" I stammer, caught between just walking backwards and trying to disappear, and getting the carrot to keep Joy and Jem happy.
Mum tuts at my use of the word 'carrot' (Though what else am I supposed to call it? 'Beetroot in a colour mixed from red and yellow'?) but is not to be deterred either way. "Ah, yes, we have some in the pantry," she announces. "Let me just show you."
To their credit, Grandma Bertha and Grandmother Marilla exchange a surprised glance at Mum's very blatant attempt to get me on my own, but to their discredit, neither comes to my rescue. Instead, without even listening to my feeble protest, Mum shoves me into the pantry, closing the door behind us.
It's a bit of a tight fit.
"Did you call him?" she asks, voice quiet, but eyes shining curiously.
"Mum!" I hiss back.
My mother, after one attempt at the "Do you know what you're getting yourself into?"-talk (which I cut short by pointing out that I wasn't even sure if there was anything to get into), apparently decided to pretend that Ken is just like any other guy. Which is refreshing, but also simplifies matters in a way I'm not sure is helpful. Mostly, because she then proceeded to spend the better part of a week pestering me to call Ken and make him talk it out. She's nothing if not persistent, Mum is. (I, for my part, tried my best to avoid her. But there are only so many places one can hide.)
"I don't see why you won't call him," she insists.
"I can't very well call him and be all clingy while he's up there in his sodding castle in Scotland!" I argue, having to consciously remind myself to keep my voice down.
Mum's eyes glint in triumph. "Ah, but he's not in Scotland anymore. He had an engagement in Truro yesterday, which is down in Cornwall."
I blink at her, feeling a little gobsmacked. "Mum," I whisper. "Mum, are you stalking him?"
She looks mildly offended at the suggestion. "It's not stalking if the information is freely available on the internet," she declares loftily. "And anyway, my point is that he's not with his family in their castle anymore. I thought you might feel more comfortable contacting him now."
Well… maybe the littlest bit?
I purse my lips, thinking this over. Mum reaches out and strokes a hand over my head. "I don't mean to pressure you," she adds, more earnest now. "But I've seen you this past week, quietly trying to decipher some further meaning from those short text messages he sends, and I hate to see you this… unsure of yourself. It's not good."
No argument there. Because while Ken still fairly reliably responds to my messages, there was little in his replies to clear up this whole… situation.
"What would you have me do then?" I ask, swallowing down a lump in my throat.
"Talk to him. Ask him. The worst thing he can do is tell you he doesn't want to see you again, but at least then you'd know where you're at." It's the sympathy evident in her voice that tells me that she knows it's not half as easy as it sounds.
I sigh softly. "I don't want to do it over the phone." Not that I want to do it in person either, but… if it's between the Scylla and Charybdis, Walter did say to always chose Scylla as the slightly less undesirable option.
Mum nods slowly. "No, I guess I can understand that," she agrees. "How about you ask him when he'll be back in New York instead? Given the situation, I do think that's a perfectly reasonable question to ask."
Hm… she might have a point.
"I… I guess I can do that," I answer haltingly. I mean, there's nothing wrong with simply asking when he'll be back, right? It's a perfectly innocent, conversational question, isn't it?
Mum smiles encouragingly. "There's my girl! And always remember – he might have a title, but that doesn't make him special. You're all kinds of special yourself, and if he can't appreciate that, well…" She makes a gesture as if to say, 'chuck him'.
Laughing softly, I nod my head, slowly at first and then ever more firmly. "Yes. Thanks, Mum."
"That's the spirit! And now –" she reaches behind herself and produces a carrot, "– best take this and be gone. Your grandmothers are probably already wondering what we're doing in the pantry, and we all know those oldest two children of mine are not above sending out a search party for you either."
And lo and behold, there's a soft knock on the door.
"Rilla?" comes Dan's polite voice. "Joyce wants me to tell you that – and I quote – she knows you're hiding in here and if you don't come out of the house voluntarily, she'll come and get you yourself."
Mum raises her eyebrows comically. "Best not risk it," she advises in a whisper, her eyes alight with amusement.
Smiling, I nod agreement, but before I leave the pantry, I reach forward to give her a quick hug. I don't quite know how she does it, but no matter how much I may fight it, Mum always knows just how to make me feel better about myself.
The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'These Are The Days of Our Lives' (written by Roger Taylor, released by Queen in 1991).
To AnneShirley:
Oh, it's the iPod that is psychic. They're mysterious contraptions, working in mysterious ways. I can't claim that honour, much as I'd like to ;). It's a gorgeous song though, so your iPod has good taste (Joan Baez also sings it beautifully).
Very happy you like my Merediths! We'll get to see more of them at a later point, but I thought I'd spread out the introductions a bit. Lily sprang to life spontaneously during the writing of this chapter, but I hope to do something with her. And there's definitely more to Cecilia! She's a handful, indeed, and she has a deciding role to play before this story is over (plus, I'm having lots of fun developing her.)
How did Marilla take Gilbert the Rocker? That seems to be a popular question. I'm thinking she was quietly disapproving of him wasting so much time on all that noise, but ultimately happy that he was happy. Same as with Joy. Would she have liked for things to have played out differently? Certainly. Did she still defend her granddaughter from outside attacks? You bet she did!
I'm trying to do more with Anne as a confidant and advisor for her children here, so I'm glad you liked her and Rilla's conversation. Rilla desperately needed someone to talk to and who to turn to but Mum?
