Glen St. Mary, Canada
December 2012

Now old friends are acting strange

"No!" exclaims Izzie forcefully and plants a hand firmly on the open book, preventing me from turning the pages.

"But it says here that if we want to go visit Timmy the Timid Hedgehog, we need to turn to page 72," I point out, tapping my finger on the relevant line.

Izzie pouts. "No."

"So you don't want to visit Timmy? Shall we go looking for Liza the Lazy Porcupine instead?" I suggest. "If so, we need to go to page 31."

"No!" Izzie shakes her head forcefully.

"But darling…" I sigh helplessly. I cast a quick glance around the living room, but although my entire family plus assorted Merediths are gathered around us, they're all locked in conversation. It looks like I'm on my own.

"Read here," demands Izzie and points to the page immediately after the one I just read to her.

A quick glance tells me that while the previous page had us conferring with John the Jovial Wildebeest about what Timmy the Timid Hedgehog might know about the stolen chocolate cake, the following page catapults us right into the middle of a boat ride with Chip the Chipper Dolphin.

"That's not how it works, sweetie," I explain weakly. "We don't just read from the beginning. You get to choose how you want the story to continue. Isn't that fun?"

Apparently, it isn't, for Izzie throws me a very exasperated look, takes the book from my hands and stomps off without another word, presumably in search of someone who isn't thrown into mental dizziness by her way of reading it. Looking after her, I lean back in my armchair and can't help feeling a little grateful for her departure.

"I already tried explaining it to her. No luck," states Jake and comes to perch on the armrest of the couch next to me.

"You loved those Choose Your Own Adventure-stories," I remark, feeling a little wistful. "Used to drive me crazy with your insistence on going through them very methodically so you wouldn't miss even one possible ending."

"I was just being thorough," replies Jake with a shrug and a tilt of his chin.

I smile at him. "Weren't you just? You made me write lists of every path already taken. I was not allowed to stop reading until you had found your way to ever single ending."

"It pushed back bedtime," explains Jake, attempting to appear nonchalant but looking far too pleased with himself to succeed.

For a moment, I stare at him, open-mouthed. "You did that deliberately? Why, you little…"

Jake is openly grinning now. "I also really wanted to know every ending," he amends. "But you were easy to convince when it came to holding off bedtime. Mum never let me stay up as late as you did."

I groan. "Let's never tell her, alright?"

"Scout's honour!" promises Jake impishly.

Reaching out, I try to ruffle his hair in retaliation, but he quickly ducks out of the way.

"You're looking entirely too much like the cat that got the cream," I grumble.

Jake laughs, but waits until I have withdrawn my hand before he sits back down on the armrest, his legs swinging lightly back and forth. "How is King George?" he asks. "Does he like England?"

"He lords over it with the self-assuredness of his late namesake," I assure him. "Stalks the streets, hisses at the reporters, demands cuddles from neighbours and befriends the girl cats. In short, he's his usual self."

"Good," states Jakes simply.

"He's also charmed our immediate neighbours. Lovely elderly couple who strongly support the royal family. It's convenient because they're looking after him while I'm here and Ken's up in Scotland," I continue. I don't want Jake to think I deserted George so soon after he orchestrated his return to me.

Jakes gives me a thumb's up to show his approval.

"Did I ever thank you properly for getting him back to me?" I ask pensively.

He nods. "You did. On the phone. Several times. It was embarrassing."

The pillow I throw at him sails right over his head and he grins at me.

"Well," I continue, trying to maintain decorum in light of the misaimed pillow. "I am very grateful you did it."

"Good," repeats Jake.

He considers me for several seconds, before slipping down from the armrest. "Tell Ken I don't see any reason to call him anytime soon but I still have his number," he adds.

His expression is earnest, his posture straight. He's obviously trying to appear grown up and I feel a little tug as I realise that as the next few years go by, we will see less and less of the little boy who tried to beat the Choose Your Own Adventure-stories. Not that I don't have full faith in the young man he'll grow up to be, but…

"I'll tell him," I promise. "I know he's grateful to know he can rely on your help."

A smile lights up Jake's face as he takes two steps towards me gives me the briefest of hugs. I don't even have time to return it before he bounces backwards again, looking slightly embarrassed at this unplanned show of affection (hugs from Jake have become a rare commodity) and takes off towards the kitchen.

I look after him, but out of the corner of my eye, see Joy coming up to stand beside me. "When did he start growing up, Joy-Joy?" I ask without turning my head.

My sister sighs. "I know. Isn't it awful?"

"Yes, it is," I agree with my own sigh.

But of course, neither of us means it.

Turning to look at her, I see Joy shake her head, as if trying to clear it from whatever thought filled it before. "The King's Speech is on in a few minutes." She indicates the TV on the other side of the room. "Do you want to watch or make a strategic escape?"

"If I watch, I'll just have everyone bug me about when I finally get to meet the King and Queen," I point out, grimacing. "I'll pass. According to Ken, it's a boring speech this year anyway."

Joy nods, but I can positively see her mind whirring as she tried to come up with a way to ask the question I obviously don't want to be asked without actually saying the words.

I let her stew for a few moments before delivering her from her dilemma. "The answer is 'soon'. I'm meeting his siblings next month and we're looking into finding a date his parents can do afterwards. They aren't Mr and Mrs Doe. They don't just pop over for Sunday dinner when it pleases them."

"True," concedes Joy. She looks like the might say something more, but given that this is exactly the kind of interrogation I'm actively trying to avoid, I get up from the armchair before she has a chance to.

"Anyway, I guess this is my cue to go and hide. Enjoy the speech!" Giving her my most innocent smile, I slip past her and out into the hall.

It's quiet here, which is a relief after the hustle and bustle of the living room. I lean against the wall, close my eyes and revel in the silence for a moment, hoping that I might have managed to slip away undetected – when I hear the sound of a door opening.

"Don't you want to watch your prince walk to church for the umpteenth year in a row?" asks Carl.

Wearily, I open my eyes to look at him. "Thanks, I'm good here."

He closes the door behind himself and takes position on the other side of the hall, hands stuffed in his pockets and a frown edged between his brows.

I study him for several seconds, but when he doesn't offer up anything else, just remains standing there, my patience grows thin. "If you have a problem, spit it out. Otherwise, go glower somewhere else."

"I'm not glowering," argues Carl, clearly on the verge of becoming defensive.

Deciding not to dignify that with an answer, I merely raise an eyebrow and wait. He's been getting on my nerves for ages now, so either he finally starts talking or he can leave me alone.

"I don't have a problem," he asserts, even though his entire stance contradicts his words.

"Yes, you do!" I snap. "You've been acting weird ever since you learned about me dating Ken. Considering that was over a year ago, it's a long time to be acting weird!"

Carl folds his arms across his chest and glowers some more.

"I assure you he neither eats kittens for breakfast, nor does he delight in drowning puppies in his free time," I continue. "Look, if you were to give him a chance, you two might end up getting along!"

(Knowing both of them, I don't think the likelihood of that happening very high, but then, you never know, right? Besides, I'm making a point here.)

"I don't think so," replies Carl, echoing my thoughts. (Not that I'd ever admit it.) "I will never be friends with someone who –"

"Hunts?" I interrupt, my voice rising. "Jesus, Carl! Give me some credit here. I know perfectly well that you only get so hung up on the hunting because you don't want to say what's truly eating away at you."

"Hunting is a serious issue!" Carl persists.

I roll my eyes at him. "As is the issue of how the meat industry stables their livestock before slaughter. And yet, despite almost all of us eating that very meat, you're still talking to us. Therefore, your problem with Ken isn't that he sometimes shoots a bird out of the sky!"

Emotions play over his face and I know for a fact that he wants nothing more than to contradict me and can't. I'm right and we both know it. Whatever his issue with Ken is, it runs much deeper than the question of grouse shooting.

Watching Carl through slightly narrowed eyes, I wait for an answer, but none is forthcoming. Instead, the front door opens to reveal a tightly swaddled Shirley, his arms laden with fir branches that Nan insists belong over the windows for extra festive cheer. (We drew straws to determine who had to go out and get them. Shirley got the short one.)

Dropping the branches on the floor, he looks from me to Carl and back again. "Am I interrupting something?" he enquires, raising both eyebrows. "You look ready to claw each other's eyes out."

"Oh, you know. Carl was just divulging what kind of problem he has with my boyfriend," I tell him, my tone hitting just the right balance between airy and cutting.

Carl scoffs.

Shirley gives us both another look, before shrugging and starting to unwind his scarf. "Well, don't mind me."

I don't really expect Carl to say anything, especially not with Shirley present, so I'm quite surprised when he does choose to speak. "He's changing you."

What on earth…?

Looking over to where Shirley is hanging up his jacket, I can see that his eyebrows are back up in his hairline. At least I'm not the only one who didn't expect that.

"What makes you say so?" I ask Carl.

"You're different from how you used to be," he states stubbornly, even though that's really just the same thing rephrased in another way.

"Different how?" I want to know.

Unfolding his arms, Carl waves them around in a haphazard fashion. Shirley quickly ducks sideways before he gets hit in the face.

"He's turning you into some kind of… trophy wife!" The way Carl says it, it sounds like an insult. "He wants you to look good and take care of your appearance and otherwise shut up."

Over by the door, Shirley drops his boots to the floor. When he notices me looking at him, he raises his shoulders in a shrug. No help to be had from him, it seems.

"I always took care of my appearance, Carl," I point out carefully. After all, I'm the girl who used sharpie for eyeliner, wore pinching shoes on her feet without complaint and spent her entire allowance on cute clothes that generally didn't last more than a season. The only thing that has truly changed since then is that I have somewhat better taste now!

"It's not the same," insists Carl.

It's the ultimate passive-aggressive answer and the more petulant part of me wants to respond in kind. I swallow the words when I notice Shirley shaking his head at me in warning. He's right, my little brother is, much as I loath to admit it. Once I start snapping, this will all go downhill fast.

Rubbing my hands over my face, I organise my thoughts so that when I look at Carl again, I know what I want to say. "He's never told me to shut up over anything. He's never criticised my appearance. I don't know what you imagine our relationship is like, but I assure you it's much more… normal than most people would expect. As a couple, I bet we aren't fundamentally different from you and Kara. There's him and me and everything else is just… circumstance."

Carl doesn't look convinced. Even Shirley has now given up every pretence of not listening, instead studying me with interest. The fir branches lie forgotten by his feet.

"Okay, how's this?" I try. "If a trophy girlfriend was what he was after, it would have been nonsensical to choose me. I have no impressive ancestry nor any connections to speak of and I definitely don't speak Toff. He could have had his pick from among several pretty, well-bred, titled English girls who all would have fit the bill much better than I do."

"Then why not chose one of them?" asks Carl. "Why is he dating you?"

Geez.

He's no more beating around the bush than he did when we were children, is he? Looks like the years brought age, but no restraint. (Nor wisdom, I wager.)

"Maybe because he loves me?" I suggest, not quite able to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. "Maybe he really doesn't have any ulterior motives?"

"I find that hard to believe," Carl counters. (Behind him, Shirley rolls his eyes in a way he knows will amuse me and I appreciate the effort, even if I don't feel much like laughing right now.)

"Seeing how adamant you are that there needs to be ulterior motive when it comes to dating me, I'd love to know what yours was." I've arrived at full-blown sarcasm now and don't feel much inclination to try and hide it.

At least my words serve to visibly confuse Carl. "It wasn't like that," he claims. "We dated because…"

He breaks off and I can't blame him. I wouldn't voluntarily wade into that particular mess either. The answer, if there is any, is a complicated combination of genuine fondness, childhood friendship, familial pressure and plain old availability.

Shirley, much more aware of the nuances of social relationships that people usually give him credit for, does a rather bad job at concealing his amusement. I glare at him for good measure, but with little success.

When Carl doesn't say anything else, I pick up the thread he dropped. "If it's not like that, why is it so hard to believe that he could love me for me?"

Carl shrugs, raising both shoulders to just below his ears. "It's him I don't trust."

And that's the heart of the matter.

"If you talked to him, you might find he is not so bad," I repeat my earlier offer.

It is not received rapturously, but when I look at Carl closely, I have a feeling he's not as opposed to the idea anymore. Still, he was never going to agree just like that. "I don't know what we could possibly talk about. He hunts, he has more houses than anyone needs, he takes private jets and helicopters…"

He isn't wrong, of course. Thinking about it like this, I did make quite the U-turn between my first boyfriend and my current one. Their similarities, if there even are any, are negligible. (Shirley, judging from his thoughtful expression, has probably arrived at the same conclusion.)

Still, if we can't work with similarities, differences work almost as well.

"So talk to him about that," I suggest, shrugging. "Maybe not the hunting, but the rest of it. Tell him your arguments."

That succeeds in striking Carl mute for once. Gaping at me, he struggles for word several times, before finally managing, "Really?"

"Sure." I wave my hand airily. "Just chat with him next time he's around. Maybe then we can all get along and you can go back to normal. You were much more fun to be around before you knew about Ken and me."

"I'm not promising anything!" Carl clarifies quickly. (Shirley rolls his eyes heavenwards, looking almost as exasperated at this as I feel.)

"Fine with me," I reply, not having it in me to go through it all again. "But since we've agreed on that, I suggest you now make yourself scarce and go bug someone else. Otherwise, I might find myself forced to have you thrown into The Tower after all."

"You can't do that!" exclaims Carl (though his expression seems just the tiniest bit uncertain).

I shrug in the most nonchalant manner I can manage. "Do you really want to find out?"

"Friends in high places," Shirley reminds him jovially as he steps over the fir branches to stand closer to us.

Carl looks from me to Shirley and back again. "Better not risk it," he decided and for the first time today, I see an amused glint in his eyes.

Shirley slaps his back. "Good choice. Now bugger off before Bloody Mary over here changes her mind."

"I resent that," I remark mildly.

The two boys just exchange a grin, before Carl moves to gather the fir branches. "I'm leaving," he announces.

"Before she goes for your head?" Shirley asks slyly. I raise a fist to box his arm, but he looks unbothered.

"Or burns me on a stake," adds Carl.

(Did they really still burn people in… when did Queen Mary reign again?)

"Well, shoo then." I make an accompanying motion with my hands. "Don't test my patience."

Carl gives a mock bow, which surprisingly he manages without dropping a fir branch. Walking backwards, he exits through the living room door that Shirley is helpfully holding open for him. I roll my eyes at the both of them.

With the door firmly closed, Shirley turns back towards me. "Does your boyfriend know that you just damned him to very long discussions about all kinds of green issues?" The thought seems to amuse him.

I shrug. "I'm sure he's had worse in his field of work. Besides, if he loves me enough, he'll put up with it for my sake."

"And if he doesn't love you enough?" teases my brother.

"He does," I assert blithely.

Shirley inclines his head. "Fair enough."

"I'd love to know what his problem is though." I point at the closed door with my thumb, indicating Carl. "He reminded me of Jake with his irrational loathing of Ken, except that even Jake has come around by now."

"He would, wouldn't he?" replies Shirley in a way that implies I'm missing the obvious. "Jake is trying to protect you as you are. Carl is trying to keep his childhood friend from changing. They have different goals."

"It's nonsense though!" I exclaim. "I haven't changed that much! Nice clothes and pretty hairstyles is something that predates Ken by years!"

"Uh-huh." Shirley nods. "But frilly dresses notwithstanding, no girl was ever as unbothered by all his reptiles and insects as you were. Except for Faith and Una, I guess, who had no choice but to get used to it. You were always ready to go on those nature excursions of his, too. I should know. You always forbade me from coming along."

I quickly search his face, but he seems quite relaxed, so I just shrug. "And yet, you survived."

"So I did," confirms Shirley. "So will Carl. He just has to get used to the fact that people change and move on."

Briefly, I think of Cecilia and her version of 'change and move on' and maybe therein lies the root of the issue. Faith and Jerry seem to have learned to cope with the way their mother left them, but both Carl and Una still obviously struggle with it to this day. (It also makes me wonder whether Carl and Ken might not have one thing in common after all.)

"I didn't change," I tell Shirley. Then, after a second of hesitation, "Did I?"

Shirley considers me thoughtfully. "Truthfully? Yeah, you did. Could just be the normal process of growing up though."

"How?" I want to know, feeling more than a little surprised at his admission.

"You're more controlled. Less likely to get into scrapes. You actually think of the consequences of your actions, which was not something often observed when we were younger." He pauses, as if to think something over. "It also means you're less spontaneous. Not as light as before. I think that's what Carl meant when he talked about Ken changing you."

"I haven't noticed myself changing," I reply slowly.

"Do we ever?" asks Shirley, shrugging. "But really, just look at how you handled Carl just there. Three years ago, you would have scratched his eyes out for being so petulant. Or this morning, how you made sure the photographers got a good shot of you walking to church so they could pack up and go celebrate Christmas as well."

And here I was, thinking I had done it so niftily.

"Noticed that, did you?" I mutter.

"It's what I do. I notice things," he points out plainly.

At this, I can only nod. Being quiet means Shirley never misses much.

"I also noticed that you're not the only one who adapted because of the relationship you're in," he continues. "Carl also went from wanting to save that single injured Blue Jay to wanting to save the entire avian population."

"Why is that, what do you think?" I wonder. "Because of that Kara?"

(Whom, I might add, no-one has met yet, despite her being a part of Carl's life for as long as Ken has been a part of mine.)

"From what Carl said, I gather that her ideas are wider-ranging than his," Shirley explains carefully. "I imagine when he expects you to stop the entire Royal Family from hunting, that's really her expecting him to make it happen."

Interesting.

"You've become quite good friends, you and Carl," I observe.

"Three years between us were enough for the two of you to shut me out back when we were kids, but they don't make such a difference now. Besides, we both know a thing or two about how it feels not to fulfil the expectations your older siblings met." He says it without bitterness, very matter-of-factly, but it's a rare personal admission coming from Shirley. So much so that it immediately makes me listen more closely.

"What do you mean by not fulfilling expectations?" I ask cautiously.

"What I said. I'm not really excelling at life the way the rest of you are. Neither is Carl." Again with the matter-of-fact tone. "I know you also count yourself among those not reaching expectations, but look at you – getting a graduate degree from Oxford!"

I want to explain to him that I didn't get into Oxford on academic merit and detail to him that without Lucy and Josh and Dev stepping in when they did, I might as well have dropped out in November. I do neither.

Instead, I point out, "You're getting a degree from Georgia State. That's nothing to sneer at either!"

Shirley grimaces, but doesn't say a word.

"Shirl?" I ask, watching him closely through narrowed eyes.

He breaks off eye contact, looks to the side. "I'm not actually doing that anymore."

I blink, confused. "Studying?"

"Yes. Studying," he confirms.

"But…" I grapple for words. "Why? When? How?"

"Just before the holidays," answers Shirley.

When he doesn't volunteer anything else, I nudge his arm and frown at him. He sighs.

"I thought about dropping out before," he admits. "I just didn't feel like I was learning all that many useful things. I had no real reason to leave though, so I stayed."

"Until?" I prompt.

He sighs again. "They did a drug bust up during the last week of classes. Turned the entire dorm inside out. I don't know whether someone had given them a tip or whether they just figured it was a good idea."

"Shirley…" There's an ungood feeling rising within me.

"They also went through mine and Timmy's room. Found some of Timmy's pot in his wardrobe and dragged him off to do a drug test," he adds. "They're threatening him with expulsion."

I groan softly. "Please tell me they didn't find any drugs on you."

"Worried what the papers might write?" Shirley asks, raising a single eyebrow.

Yes, I am!

"I'm worried what they might do to you!" I clarify, struggling to keep my voice low. "They'll tear you apart and then they'll put you back together just so they can tear you apart again. They can be vicious. And you getting expelled from college for doing drugs is a story. They'll be all over it."

"Just because of who you're dating," Shirley replies quietly. "I didn't choose this."

"No," I admit. "But it'll still happen."

He shakes his head. "It won't. The pot was Timmy's and when they tried to do a drug test on me, I read them my rights until they eventually backed off. I didn't get expelled and any drug use I might or might not have done isn't proven."

'Might or might not have'? Yeah, right.

"If you didn't get expelled…" I leave the question hanging.

"I dropped out," he answers simply. "I saw them ride roughshod over Timmy and asked myself what I was even doing, studying at a university run by people like that."

That's madness, of course. To drop out of university for something like that.

And yet, in its principled-ness, it's also a very Shirley thing to do. Never say Joy and Di were the only ones who got the justice gene.

"What are you going to do now?" I ask, watching him closely.

Surprisingly, his face lights up at that. "I have investors for my app! Do you remember the university search engine I was working on two years ago? I got talking about it with some guys back at SXSW during spring break and they were really interested. They have some great ideas, too. At first, we just want to roll it out as a search engine, but ideally, we will get the universities on board in the future and use it to simplify the application process as well as helping students to get the best possible funding. It would save so much time and money!"

Well… I guess it would?

Also, what on earth is that SX thingy?

Shirley is looking at me expectantly and, rather belatedly, I realise that I'm not reacting in the way he'd want me to. Rearranging my face into a smile, I reach out to give him a brief hug. "That sounds great, Shirl. I'm proud of you!"

I am, too. I am also slightly befuddled by it all, but that doesn't mean I'm not proud.

Instead of returning my smile, however, Shirley is back to grimacing. "I just wish Mum and Dad saw it that way. They'll be disappointed that I dropped out of college."

"Perhaps. Very probably, even," I admit. "But the nice thing about our parents is that they've turned 'being supportive' into quite an art form. They'll get over it. They'll make themselves get over it."

"Let's hope so," sighs Shirley.

I give him an encouraging nudge. "I'm sure of it. Just maybe don't mention the drug bust as the catalyst of your decision?"

That draws a smile from him. "Yeah, that wouldn't be a clever thing to do."

"Not clever at all," I confirm. "Apart from that, you really should talk to them though. And if you do and it gets hard, never forget that I have wilfully brought myself into cahoots with the most archaic, conservative family on this planet. If you want to top that, you need to do more than smoke some pot and drop out of college. At least with the pot thing, I don't think they can be pointing fingers anyway."

"You're right. You're still the bigger disappointment," he concedes with a lopsided grin and ducks away when I aim to box his upper arm.

My attempt at retaliation is cut short anyway, because Walter choses that very moment to stick his head out into the hall. "Come in, you two! Nan and Jerry have an announcement to make."

Walter's head disappears again and I exchange a meaningful look with Shirley.

"Baby?" he asks, raising both eyebrows.

I shake my head, a smile creeping to my lips. "No. Wedding!"


The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Both Sides, Now' (written by Joni Mitchell, released by her in 1969).


To JoAnna:
You most certainly did :).
I'm glad you think they both took a step forward in the last chapter, because that's how I intended it. You're utterly right in saying that it's still quite a way towards a rock stable relationship (and an equal one as well, because we'll definitely be tackling the question of equality at a later point), but it was a step in the right direction. He was more attentive, she was more open-minded and the result was much more successful.
Ultimately, he needs to be more mindful of her needs (problem is that he perceives her as being stronger than she sometimes is, so he tends to ask too much of her) and she needs to be more mindful of her own needs as well and start taking her life into her hands. She really has little agency (because she doesn't take more for herself) and that's not good or healthy in the long run. Right now, she and Ken aren't hiding anymore, but they're still partly caught in their own little world, so for now, it works, but they won't always get to stay in their cosy little corner and things will be progressively more difficult the more public they are. But they'll get there, as we will get to Leslie - eventually ;).

To Mammu:
I think Ken actually cares about George himself by now, but even if he didn't, he knows that Rilla worries, especially so shortly after having gotten George back. He respects that and I dare say he probably also finds it a bit endearing. A little amusing, too, but in a nice way ;).
No, Saunders is one of the PPOs I fall back on when I think poor Hanson needs a break once in a while. Can't have the man working 24/7, can we? And if I send him and Beckett home, I have Saunders and Beaverstock (the new guy) and the unfortunately named Butcher to draft in. They all five combine to ensure that Sex Eyeore stays in his Norfolk retreat with preciously little to do but to grumble about the weather. Which is as it should be, as far as Rilla and I am concerned.
Ah, Rilla, too, thought we didn't like Tatty. But I like Tatty and so shall you ;). And Rilla needs her around, so she better like her as well. Tatty knows those circles inside out and she is sensitive about things that Ken doesn't think to prepare Rilla for (because he's a man). It'll help tremendously to have a girl friend on the inside who knows how things work and can make sure that engagement party never repeats itself. Of course, we're counting on Ken for that, too, but sometimes, it needs a woman's touch.