Chapter Seven: Fair Game

Sha-la-la-la-la-la

My oh my

Looks like the boy’s too shy

Ain’t gonna kiss the girl

Sha-la-la-la-la-la

Ain’t that sad?

It’s such a shame, too bad

He’s gonna miss the girl…

-Kiss the Girl, The Little Mermaid

Returning to Redmond as Sophomores, the “parlor-sitters” agreed unanimously, was decidedly better, because now they were neither top nor bottom, and knew their way around Kingsport.

One day in late October, Gilbert went to the post office to mail a letter home, and found that he had received some mail of his own.

“Roger Stuart!” he exclaimed almost aloud, as he opened the letter, alone in the room he shared with Charlie.

Gil,

Ahoy! How are you? The spirits that be have informed me that you’re a Sophomore at Redmond now. I wish I could join you, and have all the same sorts of larks we enjoyed at Queen’s, but the fact that I will be in Italy studying architecture by the time you read this puts somewhat of a damper on my even coming up to Kingsport on the weekends.

Gilbert laughed aloud. Good old Roger.

But speaking of Redmond, I’ve got a favor to ask of you. You remember I’ve mentioned my sister, Christine? Well, she’s enrolled somewhat late at Redmond—I think she said she’s not even going to be attending until the spring—and will be studying music. She doesn’t know anyone at all.

So could you possibly watch out for her when she shows up? Be a friend, take her round, introduce her to girls you know.

You haven't met Christine, so I'll desciber her to you: tall, with black hair and blue eyes. I swear there's no man alive ever had such a pretty sister to beau about; at least I would, if the others weren't doing it for me. Which is as it should be. But just to warn you off, Gil—Christine’s already engaged. I’m sorry to disappoint you, and every other lad at Redmond, but there it is.

Then again, I know that you’ve got your Anne Shirley.

Why was everyone calling Anne his?

Just keep every other man away from Christine for me, all right?

Find enclosed my hotel’s card, so you can write back.

Your friend,

Roger Stuart.

At this interesting moment Gilbert was jarred out of his letter-world by a door slamming. He looked up to see Charlie, damp—there was a thick fog rolling in—and furious.

“Charlie!” exclaimed Gilbert, folding up his letter. “What’s the matter?”

Charlie threw himself into a chair and pulled a cushion over his face. “I’ve never been so insulted in my entire life. That’s what has happened.”

“Insulted?” asked Gilbert blankly, “by whom?”

“Nsrly,” came the reply through the cushion. Then Charlie, perhaps realizing this, sat up and said clearly, “Anne Shirley.”

Gilbert stared.

“This is the part where you ask another question,” said Charlie sarcastically.

“…oh. Well, what did Anne do to insult you?”

“Refused.”

“Refused?

“…Oh! you asked her?!” exclaimed Gilbert, sitting upright, and referring to the incident without directly referring to it…a strange talent which many men seem to possess.

“Yes.”

“And she refused to marry you?” said Gilbert, abandoning his talent.

“Yes!” cried Charlie, flying up from behind his cushion again. “I just can’t believe it! I mean, doesn’t Anne Sloane sound well?”

Gilbert could not trust himself to answer that.

“And, you know how Avonlea is. All of us, interconnected. So many Sloanes…I would have thought Anne would like to be a part of that…to feel even more a part of Avonlea than she does already.”

“Besides the fact that you think very highly of her,” suggested Gilbert, in a peculiar voice.

“Of course. And Anne was…is…just…utterly insensible of the honor. So,” continued Charlie, “I tried to impress that honor on her—to show her what I was trying to do! And do you know what she did! She flared up at me! It put me in mind of the time in school that she smashed her slate all over your head.” Charlie glared. “Gilbert, are you ill?”

“No,” choked Gilbert, subduing his sudden coughing fit. “I’m all right.”

Charlie was too Sloaneish and too upset to inquire further. “It’s no wonder that I’m angry.

“But…what have I got that Anne would admire? She’s so beautiful, and graceful, and kind and caring and gentle…”

“Yes…” agreed Gilbert dreamily, celestial music in his head wafting about as he envisioned Anne, not even wondering why on earth he was talking about such a delicate matter—or person—with Charlie Sloane. “She is…”

“…and as far as you’re concerned, she’s fair game.”

The celestial music screeched to a halt.

“Wait, what?” asked Gilbert.

Charlie looked, with a strange combination of pity and bitterness, upon his handsome best friend. “Don’t be stupid, Gil. Your names are intertwined on the tongues of everyone at Redmond. I know you love Anne. And do you know what else? I know she feels the same way about you. I’ve seen the way she looks at you.”

“…she does?” asked Gilbert dazedly. “I mean I know she looks at me, but…”

“Yes. She does,” said Charlie impatiently. “I’m no fool, Gil. I know I’ll get over having loved Anne. Eventually. So I have no bitterness in telling you to…er…” His brief spurt of heroism ended, the Sloaneishness taking over once more, as Charlie cast about for the Latin phrase. “Seize the…you know. Carp.”

“Right. Carp.”

Charlie clapped Gilbert on the shoulder. “Good man. Thank you for hearing me out. I am going to go find Geoff now.”

“Carp.”

In a very few minutes his letter in response to Roger was complete. It was also very, very brief.

Roger:

Received your letter. Good luck in Italy. I’ll take care of Christine, don’t worry.

I’m sorry for the brevity of my reply…it’s just I’m very preoccupied with something right now…

Gilbert

Postscript: She’s not “my Anne”, so don’t carry on so.

Gilbert considered the postscript.

Carpe diem, was what Charlie had meant. Seize the day.

He scratched out “so don’t carry on so”, and added one word.

…yet.