Back in August 2022 I wrote down a short version of the dialogue between Anne and Phil that you'll find in this chapter. It all started with a conversation with a friend who teaches kindergarten. They casually asked if another friend had a little one starting school that year. This simple question sparked an idea, but back then, I didn't know where it would lead or if I'd even explore it any further. But I couldn't let go of that thought, and I kept adding bits and pieces to the story. There's still a lot I have to figure out, but I'm excited to share what I have so far. I hope you enjoy it!
Toronto shimmered in the late August sun, a hazy blur under a sky clinging desperately to summer. Heat waves danced off the asphalt, warping the straight lines of the city skyline. Inside their apartment, Anne and Phil sprawled on the floor like melted popsicles, surrounded by a chaotic sea of paperwork, preparing for the new school year that would start in a few days. A lazy fan stirred the hot air halfheartedly, valiant but ultimately useless against the oppressive heat. Anne's cat, Rusty, was also affected by the high temperature, laying sprawled on a cooling mat in the corner, his eyes half-closed in feline resignation.
"I can't believe I'm stuck with those twins this year," Phil muttered, scanning a form with a furrowed brow. "Weren't we supposed to keep them apart?"
Anne shuffled the papers on her lap and adjusted the cushion behind her back. "Guess Kathryn changed her mind. There must've been a reason."
"I gave up figuring out her decisions long ago. Here you go, this one's for you - Ivy Trent."
"Thanks," said Anne, grabbing the questionnaire from Phil's extended hand. "Ah, looks like Mrs. Trent had something to do with it. Listen to this: 'IF POSSIBLE,' - all caps and underlined, twice! - 'MOVE IVY TO A DIFFERENT GROUP THAN RAYMOND TWINS''. Well! I wonder what sort of meltdown happened in the junior year. We'll have to dig into their files."
Phil snorted, busy scribbling a giant red exclamation mark next to 'Gerald' and 'Geraldine' on her list.
"Ugh, I guess I could sit them on opposite sides of the classroom. Different hemispheres, even? And if that doesn't work, a different solar system altogether!"
"Dramatic much?" Anne teased, a playful glint in her eyes as she reached for her iced tea, condensation clinging to the glass like tiny beads of sweat.
"Says the queen of overreacting herself! Did you forget how you practically fainted when you thought Anthony Pye snuck in a real snake for show-and-tell?"
Anne's cheeks flushed a faint pink. "Hey, it looked very realistic! It even hissed! Stop laughing, here's your next one."
"Theodore Armstrong," Phil jotted down in her well-worn notepad. "His dad wrote that he prefers to be called 'Teddy'."
"Teddy? Are you sure it's not 'Laurie'? Anyway, I heard he's best friends with Lewis Allen. You might want to sit them together."
Phil nodded, adding Anne's advice to her notes. Then she got up, went to the kitchen, and filled a bowl with ice cubes from the freezer. Returning to the living room, she dropped the ice into both glasses and sat back on the floor by the coffee table.
"Looks like I have Elizabeth Grayson on my end. Apparently, she responds to any name except Lizzie." Anne grabbed her pen and scribbled a note in the margin. "Elsie, Betty, Bess, Elisa, Lisbeth, Beth... but definitely not Lizzie. Got it."
They continued sorting through the forms, exchanging information about students and sharing anecdotes from the previous year. The afternoon wore on, interrupted by bursts of laughter, groans at particularly outrageous parental requests, and the occasional existential question about the sanity of their chosen profession.
"Seriously, Phil, what are we getting ourselves into this year?" Anne asked, shaking her head with a smile. "I have a request over here from Wilfred Bryce's dad to sit him next to somebody with good penmanship. And since they're five, I guess that means me."
"Hey, at least it'll never be dull. Could you pass me that list of Sophy Sinclair's allergies?"
"Anything unusual on it?"
"There's peanuts, so we'll send the usual reminder to all the parents about the allowed snacks. Dairy, eggs, and... fish food? No Ben & Jerry's for her then," Phil wrote down everything next to Sophy's name. "How do you even find out you're allergic to fish food? Actually, I don't need to know."
Just as Anne was about to declare a tea break essential for survival, Phil picked up a form and studied it intently before she asked.
"Anne? What was the name of that guy you told me about?"
"'That guy'? Any specifics? Do you mean our postman, or the guy from the corner sandwich shop who always throws in an extra pickle?"
"You know which guy. The elusive one who got away."
A heavy pause hung in the air. Anne busied herself shuffling papers, her movements deliberate but betraying a growing sense of panic. Her pen scratched furiously across a form, the sound echoing in the sudden stillness of the room. Even the fan seemed to be listening.
"You mean Gilbert," she finally managed.
"Yes, Gilbert!" Phil exclaimed. "What was his surname again?"
Anne hesitated, her fingers tightening around the pen. "Blythe," she answered, her voice barely audible, a flicker of something she couldn't quite name sparking in her chest.
"B-L-Y-T-H-E?"
"Correct," Anne croaked, her throat suddenly dry. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this interrogation and impromptu Spelling Bee?" she forced a playful tone.
Phil's smile faltered slightly. "Well," she began, her gaze lingering on the form in her hands, "according to the list of our new starters, Mary Anne Blythe is joining our school. Your class, to be precise.
"Wait, really?" Anne snatched the new student list. Sure enough, there it was in black and white: Mary Anne Blythe. A familiar warmth bloomed in her chest.
"Any relation?"
The weight of the question settled over them like a storm cloud. Anne's breath hitched. The heat seemed to intensify, prickling her skin like a thousand tiny needles, mirroring the nervous flutter in her stomach. She reached for the photo stapled to the back of the pupil's questionnaire. A little girl with beautiful hazel eyes and a mass of dark curly hair, grinned back at her, dimples in her round cheeks. A lump formed in Anne's throat. Mary Anne Blythe. Gilbert's daughter.
"No idea," she paused. "Haven't kept in touch with him since our high school graduation. We went our separate ways."
It was true. Mostly. In moments of weakness, she allowed herself the harmless indulgence of typing his name into a search bar. He wasn't on social media, but she'd learned he graduated top of his year ("of course he did!"), a fact that filled her with a mixture of joy and pride. Now he worked as an ophthalmologist, his name attached to some research papers she'd read. She tried to find him in photos from conferences where he was listed as a presenter, searching for a familiar mop of chocolate curls and a dimpled smile she hadn't seen for years. "It's only reminiscing," she'd say to herself, the excuse sounding hollow even to her own ears. This wasn't stalking, not at all. Just a classic, 3:00 AM "where are they now?" Google expedition. Everyone did it, right? Totally normal. Like she'd totally do this with, uh, anyone else from Avonlea High. Well, maybe not Charlie Sloan.
And now, out of nowhere, there was a very good possibility Gilbert Blythe was coming back into her life.