Anne of Manhattan by Brina Starler

Then

Anne stepped into her first class of seventh grade at Avonlea Preparatory Academy with the same sense of determined optimism she carried everywhere. A new school, a new academic year, a new home, and new friends—there sat Diana Barry in the second row, the girl who lived next door to her most recent foster family—and Anne was ready to jump in with both feet.

Again.

Because for the first time in a long time, her good luck seemed to be holding. Due to a paperwork mix-up, in which the adoption agency sent the Cuthberts a girl when they’d requested a boy, what was supposed to have been a very brief temporary placement had turned into what just might be a permanent home. Her new foster parent Marilla had agreed to a trial period, instead of returning her to the group home she’d been living at before. Being that the older woman had first been vehemently opposed to Anne staying, it was more than a surprise, although a happy one. Apparently, Marilla’s brother, Matthew, had been “moping about” the house at the thought of the young girl being sent back into the foster system when they themselves had so much to share. The older woman had insisted that she was only offering the probationary period so that he would stop driving her crazy with sad faces and deep sighs.

But when Anne threw her arms around Marilla’s waist in gratitude, the woman’s returning hug was just as firm, her hands gently patting the young girl’s back.

So, the unlikely trio settled into a comfortable summer routine. Anne would get up at dawn and wolf down breakfast, then head out with Matthew for the morning. He never seemed to mind her tagging along, even though she had countless questions about . . . everything. Once a week, she’d stay back with Marilla instead and they’d clean the house from top to bottom. Anne wasn’t sure why they needed to do it every single week, because nothing was ever out of place under the older woman’s eagle eye, but she grew to appreciate the sense of precise order.

The summer flew by, evenings becoming chilly enough that Anne had to throw on a sweatshirt to sit on the porch after dinner. Her favorite time of day was when the sun started to set behind the trees, flooding the sky with brilliant pinks and oranges. It was quiet there, except for the crickets, a kind of quiet she’d never experienced before, and she was able to let her mind wander far and wide. Too soon, however, Marilla was talking about school enrollment, and the next thing she knew, Anne was signed up for the fanciest school she’d ever seen in her entire life. The older woman explained it was a private academy, one that would challenge her, so she could make the most of “that big brain, endless curiosity, and disturbingly extensive vocabulary.” It was almost too late to apply, especially for an academic scholarship, but Marilla went into the front office with that determined expression that the girl had already come to recognize as her no-nonsense face. She came back out an hour later, welcome packet in hand, and thanked the slightly shell-shocked headmaster, then swept out with Anne in tow.

Marilla Cuthbert was a force of nature.

So here Anne was, dressed in the school’s regulation tan shorts and white polo shirt, which did nothing for her pale complexion, her new sneakers making a squeaking noise on the linoleum as she crossed the room to Diana. The dark-skinned girl looked up and sent her a wide smile, jerking her thumb toward the seat she’d saved with her backpack. Anne felt a wave of gladness that she’d met Diana over the summer and they’d had an immediate connection. Even with only one good friend, nearly anything else was bearable. After handing Diana back her bag, she fell into the seat with a gusty sigh, untangling her long braid from the straps of her own backpack before dropping it at her feet.

“I was almost late!” Making a face, she laid out several sharp-tipped pencils with military precision. “Marilla insisted I eat a full breakfast, even though I told her there’s a definite possibility I might puke from anxiety this morning. She said I was being a drama queen again, which—I guess that’s fair. But then Matthew realized his truck was running on empty when we were supposed to leave, and I wanted to die at the idea of walking in on the first day with everyone already in their seats, staring at me.”

“Well, you made it with five minutes to spare,” her friend replied as the final bell rang and the rest of their classmates spilled into the room at the last second, talking loudly. She propped her chin on her hand, brown eyes amused as she watched Anne pull out a pristine notebook and center it exactly on the desk. “Do you need a ruler or something?”

“Ha ha ha, you’re hilarious,” Anne said in a dry voice. “Listen, I have a lot of feelings about organization now. Marilla corrupted me over the summer, it’s not my fault.”

“Riiiight.”

As the other kids jockeyed for seats in the back of the class, Anne subtly gave her desk one last critical survey, the feeling of new girl nervousness making her chest tight again. Shoving it deep down inside where she could pretend it didn’t exist, she turned back to Diana. She felt a stab of envy at her friend’s height; the other girl had to have grown two inches since they’d met at the beginning of the summer. One of Anne’s former foster moms had said she must have been the runt of the litter, being skinny and short, which was really rude and kind of mean. It was hard not to let people like that get in her head, especially on bad days. But her nose was pretty cute, and her freckles were tolerable. Hopefully someday the shocking fiery color of her hair would darken to auburn, like her mother’s had been. There wasn’t much Anne remembered from before her mother died, when she was five, but she would never forget how fascinating the dark, fiery curls looked wrapped around her small fingers. Hopefully, one day she would be able to look in the mirror and see some piece of her mother looking back at her. But until then, she’d just have to make the best of what she had to work with.

Even if there wasn’t even a hint that someday in the next decade she might get boobs.

“I like the new hair,” she said to Diana instead of continuing an internal lament of her flat chest, gesturing to the long, thin braids streaked with vivid blue in the front.

“Thanks.” Her friend ran a hand gently over the top of her head, looking pleased. “My mom didn’t want me to get them, she’s obsessed with me competing in the Prix des States in October. She says the judges will take points for not having the traditional bun or French twist. She says everything has to be perfect, that I can’t give them any excuse.”

“Will they? Give you a bad score just for that?” Anne knew nothing about competitive horse jumping except that Diana had done it since she was a little girl and seemed pretty into it, regardless of how hard a time the judges seemed to give her.

Her friend shrugged, mouth turning down for half a second before her expression smoothed out again. “Probably. If it’s not my hair, it’ll probably be something else. It always is. But I don’t care anymore. I wanted something different this year and the straightener was killing my hair. The chemicals just fried it. But, ugh, I was in the chair forever.”

Their teacher entered then, forestalling any further conversation, followed closely by a tall, broad-shouldered boy with a mess of dark curls. As the teacher made his way to the whiteboard at the front of the room, the boy looked around, flashing a grin toward a few kids who called out greetings. His eyes passed over Anne as he searched for a seat, then snapped back, narrowing. The way he studied her, as if cataloging every detail, had her dropping her eyes, unsettled. She bent to rummage through her backpack, like she was actually looking for something and not just trying to cool flushed cheeks.

A bright red face and orange hair was never a good look.

As soon as his shoes passed her desk, she sat upright again, shifting uncomfortably when she heard him slide into the empty desk behind her. Going all twitchy over a boy just wasn’t something she did. Ignoring the skin prickling on the back of her neck, Anne opened her notebook and tried to pay attention to the teacher as he introduced himself. Mr. Philips enumerated the many, many rules he expected them to follow as his condescending gaze drifted over the students. Then he picked up a piece of paper from his desk and scanned it before looking right at Anne.

“Class, we have a new student this year. Anne Shirley, please stand up and tell us a few things about yourself.”

This was always the worst part, but she had perfected a short speech over the last few years, moving from school to school, and was able to recite it smoothly.

“Hi, I just moved here from Deer Park. I like to bake, love to read, and my favorite color is blue.” She started to sit, then popped back up. “Oh, and my name is spelled A-N-N-E.”

Mr. Philips looked down at the paper again, then raised one brow. “Your transfer form says A-N-N.”

“That’s the official spelling, but I like ‘Anne’ with an E much better. If you leave the E off it feels really short and unfinished, so that’s why I always add it to the end.”

“Well, the correct version of your name is spelled without the E, regardless of how you feel about it. That’s the one I intend to use.”

Anne swallowed a sigh, knowing already that she and Mr. Philips were not going to get along well. His sort never liked her; she was too talkative, too loud, too enthusiastic, too full of imagination. Just too much, she’d been told. But she focused her entire attention on him anyway, as he directed them to open the books that had been passed out and launched into a dry, monotone lecture on the Napoleonic Wars.

After a couple minutes, the eraser tip of a pencil prodded her right shoulder from behind.

A loud whisper followed. “Hey, can I borrow some paper?”

It was the brown-haired boy who’d sat in the next seat back, she realized with a blink of surprise. Next to her, Diana seemed to be trying to tell her something untranslatable using only her eyebrows when a second nudge came. With a sigh of irritation, Anne ripped out a couple sheets of paper and passed them back without turning around. It was the first day of school and he didn’t remember to bring a notebook? Seriously?

Leaning forward, hopefully out of pencil-poking range, she refocused on what Mr. Philips was saying, copying neat notes down of what he’d written across the board. She had no time for boys right now, even really cute ones, but most especially ones who thought jabbing someone with a writing tool was the best way of getting their attention. This was the best school Anne had ever gotten to go to, with its pristine books and new computers lining the tables along the wall. The dizzying possibilities of what she could do here were endless. At first, she’d been apprehensive about going to a private school, but Marilla staunchly informed her that she had just as much right to be here as any of the other kids. Maybe more, since she was here on merit and top grades alone. Never in a million years had she thought she’d end up in a school like Avonlea Prep, things like that just didn’t happen to her. She wasn’t about to waste even a single moment of it. Marilla had said if she kept her place at the school until the end of eighth grade, she had a good shot at making it into the upper school as well. Which, the older woman stated, would give her a solid foundation to build on, so she could get into a good college.

Then Anne would never have to rely on anyone else’s goodwill and charity again.

Absorbed in the writing assignment the teacher had given, she almost missed the bump of a sneaker against one of the back legs of her chair. That boy again. Gritting her teeth, she bent over her work and ignored him. The next nudge was a little harder, making the chair squeak against the linoleum.

“Knock it off,”she hissed, whipping around in her seat to glare at the boy behind her. He just sent her an innocent smile, one cheek dimpling. The little dent only made him cuter, which annoyed Anne even more in the face of his obnoxiousness. She’d met boys like him before; every school had their good-looking popular boys, so sure of their place at the top of the social pyramid. And she’d learned to steer clear of them, because too many times they turned out to be jerks who liked to make fun of her. They’d pick on her for being a foster kid, for being a “nerd,” for her bright hair, for being too easy to wind up.

“I’m Gilbert Blythe. Everyone calls me Gil, though,” the boy clarified, unaware of her thoughts as he slouched back in his seat, clearly pleased he now had her attention.

“Fascinating.” She rolled her eyes. Honestly. They really were all the same. “Just knock it off. Some of us are actually interested in learning something.”

“I’m interested in learning,” he protested, then winked at her. Of all the . . . “Like who you’re going to sit with at lunch.”

Oh, for—

“I’m going to eat with Diana,” she whispered furiously in return, hoping to shut him up. “Who doesn’t jam her pencil in my back. Now can you please hush!”

“Anne Shirley.” Mr. Philip’s voice cracked, whip sharp, from the front of the room. A chill of humiliation washed over her. “Would you care to share with the class what could possibly be so interesting that you feel compelled to hold a conversation with Gilbert rather than complete the work you’re supposed to be doing?”

Ignoring the guilty look Gilbert sent her as he mouthed “sorry,” Anne squared her shoulders and turned back to face the teacher.

“I wasn’t having a conversation, because that would mean he had something to say that I was interested in, which I am not.”

“Hey!”

The teacher ignored the boy’s exclamation, eyes narrowing as he stared her down. “Is that sarcasm I hear, Ms. Shirley?”

It definitely was, but she hadn’t meant for it to come out like that. Adults like Mr. Philips just put her on the defensive. Their opinions were formed too quickly, as fixed and immovable as cement. She was always and forever the outsider, too smart-mouthed for her own good, too proud for her circumstances. All she could do was take the hit, put her head down, and suck it up.

“No, sir. I’m sorry,” Anne said, resigned to apologizing for something that was absolutely not her fault.

“Not as sorry as you will be if you don’t respect the rules in my classroom.”

She nodded, mute with embarrassment. Maybe some of her former teachers had taken a dislike to her, but she never got in trouble in school. Never. Pretty much everywhere else, due to the curse of having no filter when she spoke, but not in school. Seemingly satisfied, Mr. Philips returned to his desk and resumed typing on his laptop.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to get you in trouble.”

The sound of Gil’s low voice had Anne closing her eyes briefly, reaching deep down into her soul for patience. Was he talking to her again? Some people should come with a mute button, and it was clear he was one of them. In her head, she counted to ten. Unfortunately, there was no mute button, so she’d just have to be the bigger person and ignore him.

“Psst. Hey. C’mon, Carrots, don’t be mad—”

Carrots? Carrots?!

Anne sucked in a sharp breath, shocked to the absolute core by his insult to her hair, forgetting her resolve to stay calm and composed. Furious, she snatched up her notebook, whirled around, and whacked that horrible boy over the head with it.

“Ms. Shirley! I have never had such a disrespectful student in my ten years of teaching, your behavior is unacceptable!” Mr. Philips rushed up the aisle toward them, his face red, eyebrows pulled down into a scowl. Anne felt a surge of dread, but refused to flinch, lifting her chin stubbornly.

“I had to do it, sir. Did you hear what he said?” Surely, he’d see she was the innocent one here. Anyone with an ounce of pride would have reacted the same way when attacked like that.

“I don’t know what you were allowed to get away with at your other school. Here at Avonlea Prep, however, we do not assault other students.”

That awful boy spoke for the first time since the teacher had stormed over. “I’m okay, it’s not really a big deal. It didn’t even hurt.”

Anne glanced back at him, narrowing her eyes. “I don’t need you to defend me, thanks.”

“Look, I already said I was sorry.”

A hand held up in front of his face blocked any further words. “He called me Carrots, Mr. Philips. Carrots.”

“Not in a mean way!”

“Not in a mean—” She threw her hands up as he defensively crossed his arms over his chest. “How exactly is that not mean?”

“Enough!” Mr. Philips raised his voice over Anne and Gilbert’s bickering, the whispers and snickering that had started up from the other students during their argument going silent. He made a sharp slashing motion through the air with one hand. “Ms. Shirley, congratulations on earning detention on the first day of school. And Mr. Blythe, since you seem so eager to continue your conversation with her, who am I to stand in the way of what’s sure to be a charming reunion? Both of you, three o’clock on Friday, in the media center.”

Anne snapped her mouth shut, face flaming with mortification and fury as she realized the entire class was staring at them. So much for making a good impression at her new school. She wanted to sink through the floor. She wanted Gilbert Blythe to sink through the floor.

He was an awful, horrible boy and she would never forgive him.