thank you everyone for the reviews! thank you all for being so sweet and Seeing The Vision, teenage freyafrida feels much less alone about shipping rilla and carl now. lol at the blythes and merediths really not needing one more hookup...truly they don't but let's be real, the blythes are the borg, they cannot be resisted. (also full disclosure i haven't read the blythes are quoted in about 10 years...ken has an island? who is he, a cullen?)

disclaimer: i feel like handling random rodents you find in a barn is dangerous but carl canonically makes a pet out of a rat he finds in the incredibly unhygienic wwi trenches so like, clearly he's immune to hantavirus, pls just roll with it.

title from "jackie onassis" by elio.

drive away from this adolescence

Carl braces himself against the side of the Douglas buggy and steps down slowly, gaze on the ground. Once, he could've leapt right out, landing on his feet easily as a cat — but his depth perception's shot now. Ha — literally. The last thing he needs is to trip embarrassingly over himself on the Glen road, in plain sight of anyone passing by the Douglas farm.

He tries not to dwell on it too much. The doctors had said so, when he was recovering in England: You mustn't think of it as no longer being able to do all the things you used to. You are still perfectly capable of good work, you only have slight limitations.

Carl will admit, he'd felt pretty optimistic by the end of his time in England. He'd been at the hospital long enough to memorize all its hallways and turns; by the end of his time there, he no longer bumped into the walls and the nurses always announced their presence so he didn't turn around and bump into them, either. It had been…discouraging, he supposes, to return home and find himself walking into the walls and doorways of the manse he'd lived in nearly his entire life, to realize it was only memorization, not really improvement.

Still, he remembers, most of the time, to lift his cup so that the pitcher balances against it when he pours milk or tea. He's getting used to turning his head to see what his right hand is doing, to ignoring the strange looks people give him when they see him writing — to apologizing because he didn't see Mrs. Martha Carr behind him in the store, just past his shoulder, and she had to clear her throat before he stepped aside so she could pass. And his left eye still works perfectly well, so — it's alright, then.

And he has work this summer, for which he's grateful to Mr. Douglas. Since Miller has gone to work in Carter Flagg's store, Carl is helping around the farm, mending fences and trimming shrubbery and making odd deliveries. In truth, driving is the one thing Carl can't do very well with just one eye, but at least everyone in the Glen goes slowly enough that he always sees them coming.

Jem Blythe comes to pick him on his way back into town, Dr. Blythe's automobile rumbling as he presses it up the hill to the Douglas household. Carl gazes out the window, watching the red roads roll past, the gentle valleys of the Island.

"Did you hear about Ken Ford's party?" Jem asks, breaking the silence. "He said he'd sent an invitation to the manse — all of you are welcome, you and Una, too."

"Yes, Jerry and Faith are going. I'll think about it — I don't know about Una," Carl says. He doesn't know Ken Ford very well; the chap's always been more Jerry and Faith's friend, but he's not a bad sort — he always included Carl and Una in things when they were younger, though he didn't have to.

Jem whistles. "A nurse, can you believe it? Ken would manage to still get a girl when he's laid up with an infection and a bedpan. I'm a lucky man that Faith already said yes to me, because I can't say I looked good when she saw me in the hospital."

"Same here — not that it mattered. I had an old battleax for a nurse — I swear she looked just like that aunt of yours, Sophia Crawford — "

"Hey, she's not my aunt!"

Jem leaves him at the manse gate, but instead of going to the house, Carl goes around to the barn. Late afternoon sun slants through the windows, dust motes floating in the hazy summer light. The manse pony whickers softly, and Carl gives his nose an absent-minded pat as he slips past into an empty stall. There's a family of rats nesting in the corner that he's been keeping an eye on.

"Hello there," he murmurs, sitting in the corner opposite, so as not to bother them. He pulls out his journal, prepared to take notes, although really he's content to simply watch them — the rituals of their small world, oblivious to the cares of humans. He'd started a treatise on trench rats when he'd been in France — he hadn't been joking about that — and it might be nice to have some more work on it done, for when he goes to Redmond. Perhaps some professor will find it interesting.

He is rather — anxious — to go away to college. It's not bad, being home — after he'd dreamed of it for so long — but sometimes it feels as though he's in a play, trying to recall his lines, and Carl has never been one for the theater. Sometimes Carl thinks it's the war, and sometimes he just thinks — well, they're older now, aren't they? He can't simply come back, twenty-one years old, and slot back into the place of an eighteen year old schoolteacher. Father, too, is older — and Rosemary — Una — and Bruce! When he'd left, Bruce had been a slip of a boy, so worshipful of Jem and Jerry and Father. Now he's in that funny place where he is not an adolescent, but still not quite a child — he is starting to pull his hand from Rosemary's when he goes with her to the store, starting to care more for the opinions of schoolmates like Alfie Drew and Fred Warren than that of his parents'.

Rosemary frets over Bruce, sometimes. One night, Jerry had said — rather curtly — that there were worse things for Bruce to be doing than following Alfie Drew around, and the dinner table had gone a bit quiet. Carl doesn't know what to do about that.

In the corner, one of the rats reaches to try to bathe the other's face, and the other rat chitters and scampers away. Carl huffs out a quiet laugh. He supposes rats have these problems too.

One of the rats darts to him, and Carl turns his hand over so he can skitter up his palm. This particular rat — Carl's been calling him Lewis — is friendly. Like Captain.

Carl had found Captain trying to gnaw his way into Carl's knapsack, one idle day in a support trench. He'd had a little spot around his eye, like the monocle one of Carl's training officers had worn, so Carl had called him Captain and he'd been Carl's only companion when one of their shelters had caved in, and all the men Carl had been huddling with had been lost…

Captain had still been in his pocket when the shell landed. But when Carl had woken up in the field hospital, the rat — and his eye — had been gone. Whether he'd run for safety or the nurses had chased him off, Carl doesn't know.

"Carl? Oh, Una, he's in here."

Carl looks up to see Rilla Blythe in the doorway to the barn, the sun catching the loose strands of her hair and making a fiery halo around her.

"It's just rats," Carl calls to Una, who is still hovering behind Rilla. She doesn't mind his creatures, but she prefers not to approach until she knows what she's dealing with — like a general wanting intelligence before an attack, Carl thinks with a wry smile.

Rilla crouches in front of him, seemingly with no care for her skirt. He's glad to see that hasn't changed about her, either — for all her airs, she was never afraid to go running through Rainbow Valley with him, or to let his bugs and beetles crawl on the edge of her skirts when they did schoolwork together. Funny — he hadn't expected Rilla to be the most familiar thing about the Glen when he returned. Perhaps it's because she writes just the way she speaks — getting her letters at the front, he always felt like he could hear her voice, as though they were sitting together behind the schoolhouse again.

Rilla extends a finger to pet the rat resting in Carl's hands. "Who's this?"

"This one is Lewis."

Rilla laughs. "Lewis?"

He shrugs. "Seemed to suit him." He doesn't say that he's pretty sure Lewis was the name of someone he served with, a round-faced fellow from Cape Breton, and he'd gone down the line for something two days after arrival and never came back, and Carl's got a whole list of names that jump easily to his lips and he's not sure who they all belong to or what to do with them.

"Well, hello, Lewis." Rilla opens her palm and lets Lewis run up her arm, his tiny paws clinging to the fabric of her sleeve.

"What are you girls up to?"

"Rosemary sent us out to tell you that supper is ready — and afterwards we could play cards, if you'd like. Una and I are done studying for the day. My head is absolutely swimming with all these names and dates and facts, and I need a proper distraction."

"Cards sound fun," Carl says. "Speaking of distractions, are you going to the Fords' party?"

Rilla looks down, turning her hand to let Lewis run over it. "I might. Are you?"

"Jerry and Faith are going, so I might as well."

"Oh, thank goodness," Rilla says, with such feeling that Carl thinks she might've said another word that begins with G. "Let's all go together," she adds, taking Una's hand.

"Are the rest of you Blythes going, then?"

"Yes — well — I'm not sure about Shirley, but I'll ask him. It'll be nice to have him along. Where is he tonight, anyway?"

"Probably over-harbor," Carl supplies. A few of their old Queen's friends live over there — George Crawford, Floyd West, the Vickers siblings — or just the one Vickers girl, now.

"Oh, right. Well, I'll tell him whenever he comes back home tonight. So we'll all go? Together?"

There's something anxious in her voice that makes Carl pause, look askance at her. Rilla doesn't meet his eyes. "Sure," he says slowly. "Together."

His hair is not behaving.

Maybe his old jar of pomade is starting to go off. He hasn't picked it up since before he enlisted — but it smells alright, so maybe it's just that he doesn't remember how to do his own damn hair. It looks strange and unnatural slicked back. Was there a trick to doing it that he used to know? Is this even the style anymore?

With a sigh, he rakes a hand through his hair and lets it fall back into its natural state. It's a little unruly, but there's no helping that. He's managed to shave, at least. The first time he'd tried, in the hospital, his hands were shaking so badly he'd dropped the razor in the sink and it fell down the drain.

It shouldn't — it doesn't — matter what he looks like. Perhaps before the war he would've tried to look good, in case there were any girls at the party whom he hasn't known since the age of nine, but the Fords' party promises to be fairly small. It's meant to be just their Island relations, which means the West family and a few odd relations-by-marriage, and some friends like the Blythes and Merediths.

"Don't you look tall and distinguished," Faith says when Carl comes down the stairs. "Are you really my boy-brother Carl?"

Carl grins. "Sure I am. I'll put a beetle on your pillow later to prove it."

"I'd say you wouldn't dare, but I know you would," Faith says with a laugh. "Well, we're all ready — Una's been ready for ages, I don't know how she does it…"

"I'd better go if I want to meet you there," Carl says. Jem is picking Faith and Una up, but the Blythe car can't seat all of them, so he and Shirley are walking to the party, as in days of old.

He meets Shirley in the Glen road. "Rilla already left?" Carl asks.

"Yes," Shirley says, monosyllabic as always.

They fall into step, Shirley moving to walk on Carl's right, but Carl also swerves to the right, and they bump shoulders.

"Sorry," Carl says. "You're on my blind side."

"Ah."

Shirley doesn't say anything more, and Carl feels that usual cross of relief and slight disappointment. He doesn't particularly enjoy being peppered with questions, especially not in the way of Mr. Clow last week ("What sort of work d'you think you'll do, with one eye? You can still see, eh?") but sometimes he does wish people would ask what it's like, let him get it all out at once. It's much less awkward than having to bring it up himself all the time, feeling as though he is constantly reminding everyone yes, I have a blind side; no, I didn't see you there; yes, I'm missing a bloody eye.

The party is being held at house of one of the West relations, a little ways outside of the Glen. Shirley and Carl take the Upper Glen road, the late sun turning their shadows long and thin. A few red-bellied snakes are curled along the road, their brown bodies nearly blending with the dirt; flies and mosquitoes swirl in the humid air.

Up the lane, a buggy comes into view, carrying a few of the Vickers and Wests from over-harbor. Peter West is driving; his fiancée, Catherine Flagg, is in the seat next to him.

From the backseat, Laura Vickers waves at them. "Hi, Shirley! Carl!" She's smiling brightly — she's always smiling — showing the chip in one of her top teeth, and her wild blonde hair is escaping out from under her hat. "Are you going to — where are you going?"

"There's a little get-together over-harbor, for Ken Ford's new wife," Carl says.

"Oh, excellent. We're on our way there, too, but I didn't know if you were invited. Shall we give you a lift? There's plenty of room."

Carl raises an eyebrow at the claim, for the buggy is already quite crowded. Besides Peter and Catherine, Laura and her cousin Jen are in the backseat. Still, they gamely climb in, Carl next to Peter, Shirley wedged next to Laura and Jen.

Once, Laura's brother Harry would have been with them — he was less than a year younger than her; "Irish twins", a few Glen ladies had called them with a sniff. Frankly, the appellation applied to more than a few siblings in the Glen as well, but it only ever seemed to be used for Laura and Harry — maybe because the over-harbor Vickers' house was in a permanent state of disrepair, and the youngest few of their nine children were always causing trouble racing chickens or chasing dogs in the main Glen road. "Those Vickers have more children than sense," Miss Cornelia had said once.

Eight children, now. Harry had died in France, a few weeks before the war ended. Carl hadn't found out until he'd come back and seen the "In Memoriam" published by the Journal, accompanying the news of the war's end. Jesus, poor Harry. He'd been a friendly, smart fellow; always willing to share his notes and study together. His tutoring had saved Carl more than once in their Queen's days. That was one of the many terrible things about the war — it took the best of them; the bravest men, the kindest ones, the most brilliant. Harry Vickers. Walter Blythe.

Peter and Catherine make polite small talk with Carl, about how they've all been, about how their families are. In the back, Laura and Jen are talking about the party.

"We're related to Kenneth," Jen is explaining, presumably to Shirley. "Through my mother. She's a West by birth, and Kenneth's mother is…is she Mother's cousin, Laura? Laura?"

"Goodness, I don't know," Laura says. "She has ever so many. It was generous of the Fords to invite us, though, they're really not very close relations…"

Carl turns around with a grin as Laura proceeds to list off all of the West-Vickers cousins. She can be a chatterbox, he remembers this about her now. He glances at Shirley, expecting to exchange a laugh or knowing look, but Shirley is listening — or at least pretending to listen — to Laura, a small, amused smile on his face.

The West house comes into view, Jem and Jerry and the others waiting outside. Faith and Nan are on Jem and Jerry's arms; Di is laughing; Una is standing among them but not saying anything.

Rilla is standing off to the side, in a green dress and her hair pulled back. Carl's heart jumps for a moment before it quite occurs to him that it's Rilla, and he shakes his head. He's not the sort to stick his head in the sand; he knows perfectly well that Rilla is pretty, and he's always figured that if they're both unmarried when they're thirty — or if one of them becomes a leper or something — they could have each other. But despite everyone's teasing, he's never really been sweet on her. He'd heard enough of her more romantic fancies, when they were children, to figure that they wouldn't be particularly well-suited.

Still, she doesn't have an escort among their small party, so Carl offers his arm. She'll be on his blind side, but it won't be too bad, not at a party where he knows everyone. "You look very fine tonight, Marilla."

She smiles without teeth, arm slipping through his. "So do you."

Her voice is flat, and Carl glances over at her as they enter, a little worried. Her gaze is distant, her face pale. Does she get car-sick? He can't remember her ever being bothered by a buggy ride before.

Ken Ford and his new bride are in the parlor to receive everyone. The girl is pretty, with dark hair and fine features; her eyes are large and heavily lashed, like a doll's. She's got her head leaning on Ford's arm, smiling widely at everyone in greeting.

Next to him, Rilla suddenly grips his arm so hard that Carl thinks she might've bruised him.

"Good God," he says, forgetting to be polite. "What was that for?"

"Sorry," Rilla mutters, but before she can say anything further, their little group is in front of the Fords. Ken introduces them to the new Mrs. Ford — Margaret — who says, "So very pleased to meet you," in a lilting English accent.

"The Blythes and Merediths are old friends of mine," Ken explains. "They're from here, the Island, so I saw them every summer — this is Jem Blythe, Faith Meredith, her brother, Jerry…"

When he reaches Rilla and Carl, he pauses, a look crossing his face that Carl can't place. "…and this is Rilla Blythe and Carl Meredith," he says, his voice even, though he's staring at them as though he's never seen either of them before.

"It's so lovely to meet you," Margaret Ford says, smiling. "Ken's told me so much about all of you — "

Rilla's fingers dig into Carl's forearm. He shoots her a look of alarm, but she's not looking back.

" — and it's wonderful to finally meet."

"We're just thrilled to meet you," Faith says with a laugh, giving Margaret's hand a squeeze. "Fancy Ken showing up with a wife, we certainly never thought he'd be the first to get married…"

Carl thinks Rilla is going to break his arm at this rate.

"…you must visit us this summer, so we can all get to know one another…"

Before Carl can contribute anything to the conversation, Rilla is dragging him off, not releasing his arm until they've made it to the dining room, where the other guests have gathered. Shirley and Una join them; after a couple of minutes, a few more people round out the seats near theirs — Fred West, Jen and Laura Vickers. They lapse back into small talk, about work and school — Fred is in his second year at Redmond, Laura will be going this year now that the war is over.

Over in the corner, the piano and fiddle start up. The doors are open to the porch in the warm summer air; people are clustered around, talking; some of them get up to dance. The whole affair is…rather subdued, actually. Carl wasn't expecting the party to be a wild revel, but he did think there'd be a bit more excitement. Or perhaps it's just Rilla's presence next to him, her silence like a raincloud over them as she picks at her appetizers. She gets up once, when someone asks her to dance, but returns to the table immediately afterwards.

A cheer goes up, and Carl looks over to see that Ken and his wife are taking the dance floor. Everyone has moved away into a circle to watch the newlyweds dance, clapping and whistling.

"Oh, are we supposed to…?" Laura asks, her face turning pink as she stands.

Carl follows their table to the edge of the circle, as Ken takes Margaret in his arms. Over on the piano, Kate West starts playing a slow, romantic song.

Carl senses movement near him, and he turns to see Rilla slipping away, heading for the back door. He turns his head and realizes he can't see Una and Shirley, either. Perhaps they're all going to chat outside instead of watching the dance. He turns to follow Rilla, just a little disgruntled that they were going to leave him to watch the dancing alone.

But the back lawn is empty when Carl steps outside, just a few couples lingering in the shadowy porch corners or wandering down towards the shore.

"Rilla," he calls in the loudest whisper he can manage. "Rilla, wait up."

She turns, and it occurs to Carl that perhaps he's interrupting her on some kind of romantic assignation — but then he sees there are tears on her face.

"Rilla?" he asks, alarmed. "What's wrong?"

"Oh — " Rilla sniffles. "Don't ask me that. I think — I can — manage — if only no one asks me that."

"Very well," Carl says, approaching her slowly, like she'll spook if he's too sudden. "Well…I don't suppose you'd like to help me look for bugs, would you, like old times? I promised Faith I'd put a beetle on her pillow tonight."

Rilla laughs, although it's slightly strangled through her tears. They amble along the lane, the sky still faintly light in the summer evening. Distantly, Carl hears a sandpiper chittering. They walk till the end of the Wests' fence, past an empty stretch of road, then turn back at the edge of the McAllisters' farm.

Finally, Carl asks, "Is this about Ken Ford?"

He's quite sure Rilla was sweet on Ken as a child. Most girls in the Glen were; even Faith was for a time, Carl's pretty sure — there was one summer where she was constantly stomping her feet and telling everyone how vain he was and how she couldn't stand him. Still, he'd never thought any of them would actually go to pieces if Ford got married. The man wasn't even here half the year.

Rilla doesn't say anything. He casts a glance at her — her arms are crossed tightly over her chest, her gaze trained on the road in front of them.

Gently, Carl bumps their arms together. "Rilla? I've only got one eye, you know, and I can still see that something's going on."

She looks up at him, her eyes glassy. "It's only that…it's difficult, you see, to wait for someone for years…and then have him show up with a wife at the end of it all."

For a moment, Carl does not grasp her meaning. Who was waiting for whom? What does this all have to do with —

"You — and Ken Ford?"

Rilla draws away from him, her arms tightening around herself. "I know it was foolish," she says, her voice cold.

"Hey — no, I didn't mean it like that. I just…didn't know…you two were…" His thoughts are chasing each other round and round like a dog after its own tail: Rilla and Ken? Rilla and Ken? Rilla and Ken?

"I suppose we weren't," Rilla says softly.

"Did he…I mean, does Ken know…you, er, feel this way?" Oh, Carl is hopelessly out of his depth — being the youngest, none of his siblings ever felt the need to come to him with their troubles, not that Faith or Una ever had troubles of this nature, anyway.

Rilla's smile is wry. "He's the one who asked me to wait."

Oh. Carl opens his mouth, then shuts it. He is quite at a loss for words, mostly because all the ones he wants to say can't be spoken in mixed company.

"I'm sorry," he manages, finally. Then he thinks of Jem, laughing and joking with Ken when they'd entered the party. "Your brothers don't know, do they?"

"No — and don't tell them!" she says, grabbing his sleeve as he turns to go back to the house. "They'll try to fight Ken — and it will be horrible — "

"I'd say he deserves it! Jerry and I will help — "

"No!" Rilla says, loud enough that her voice echoes slightly. She looks around, but they're still alone in the lane. "No," she repeats, more quietly. "All that will happen is that everyone will find out why, and then they'll all know — girls like Mary Vance and Ethel Reese and Olive Kirk will find out, and I can't bear the way they'd look at me — talk about me. Don't tell anyone. Please."

Carl sighs, understanding her point, though he doesn't like it. One just — doesn't allow a girl who is — well, not one's sister — a friend, anyway — to be treated this way. And what kind of fellow is Ken Ford, anyway, to do something like this to Rilla? Although…no, Carl does not need to ask that, for he knew many men at the front who spoke of wives and sweethearts at home in one breath, and girls in France or London in another. He'd always figured it was none of his business, but — the memories seem sordid now, unpleasant and unclean like so many other things about the war. He shoves his hands in his pockets to hide their shaking.

"Very well," he grumbles. "But…Rilla. Are you sure? You can't just — let him get away with it."

Rilla shrugs a shoulder. "He already has, hasn't he? Even if everyone were to find out…he'll still be married. It wouldn't change a thing."

"I guess not," Carl mutters. "Still. He's a real…" He searches for a word that he didn't learn in the trenches. "…idiot."

Rilla smiles, her mouth only trembling slightly. "Well. Thank you."

Carl takes her arm again, giving her hand a squeeze. He wishes he could put an arm around her, the way he might do with Faith or Una, but he supposes it wouldn't be appropriate.

Unbidden, he recalls one day when they were children — when Walter had read a poem he'd written for Mrs. Blythe's birthday. Carl had been young still, and the poem had only made him think of his own mother, and he'd found a hidden hollow in Rainbow Valley to cry. Rilla had come upon him, and instead of teasing him, she'd put her little, rather roly-poly child's arms around him. Carl has always thought of that as the day they became friends.

"Do you want to go back to the party?" Carl asks quietly.

"Not particularly." Rilla turns to look at him, a smile crossing her face — a real one, small though it is. "What was this about looking for a beetle?"

"Oh, right. Let me know if you see one — a big, shiny one, with pincers, preferably."

Rilla laughs and shoves him, and they head down the lane, as the party swirls on above.