Finding Gilbert Blythe

Hating Gilbert Blythe

 September 1997 

 Ridley scowls at the girl in the mirror. She wonders if that really is her; the short, skinny child whose face is as round as the moon, whose nose is so upturned she's often considering cutting it off. Ridley wonders if that really is her; an ugly, skinny child with fiery red hair that matches her temper. And she sighs and looks away. I'll never be like her; she thinks wistfully, I'll never be like mummy.

Ridley glances up at a picture she's stuck up in the yellow-ish wallpaper of her poky bedroom. A picture of her mother. Ridley reaches out and touches the picture, and strokes it softly, and another sigh escapes her lips. It's black and white, scuffed at the edges, with a few stains here and there. Her mother isn't pretty, but to Ridley, she's the most beautiful woman in the world. Past the frizzy hair, past the round glasses she wears, is a woman Ridley admires and craves for dearly. 

Ridley then proceeds to sling her tattered school bag over her shoulder and walks out of her room. It's her first day of school. Ridley never thought she'd be so nervous because she's walked past that school so many times during her early childhood. It's a tall, towering building that is grey and boring and very school-like. But the thought of making new friends, the thought of finally being able to write her name on a piece of paper, R—I—D—that's all she can spell for now, is both terrifying and exciting. 

Her older sister Marcy calls her name from the kitchen downstairs and Ridley hurriedly rushes down the stairs. Marcy's six years older than her, but she has experience. Marcy's smart. She's street smart, and from what Ridley already knows, Marcy's popular at school. She's already given Ridley tons of advice—how to act around the older kids, how to act around teachers, how to act around boys—Ridley makes a face. She can't imagine why she'd ever have to act different around boys. They're...they're boys.

"Is Daddy home?" Ridley asks she sits down, waiting patiently for Marcy to give her some cereal. Marcy shrugs at Ridley with blank eyes.

 "Not today," she tells her. "He's looking for a job, remember? Got to start early. We don't have any food—here have a mint." 

Ridley takes it gratefully and pops it in to her mouth, ignoring the loud grumbling of her stomach. Marcy grabs the house keys from the kitchen counter and ushers to Ridley.

"Hurry," she says impatiently. "Don't want to be late for school, do ya?"  

Ridley shakes her head and hops off her chair, following behind Marcy like an obedient puppy. They get out of the house and Marcy firmly locks the door. Ridley chews silently on her mint—it's about to lose its flavour soon. Marcy observes Ridley with narrowed eyes and her eyes land on a speck of dirt on Ridley's cheek. She rolls her eyes and uses her thumb to rub it off.

"I told you, Rids," Marcy says. "You've got to stay clean. Don't want the social services people suspecting anything wrong do we?"

"What happens if they s'pect anything wrong?"  

Marcy clucks her tongue as if it's supposed to be glaringly obvious to Ridley. "Oh, you know," she says. "They take you away."

Ridley's eyes widen. "For...for...keeps?" she whispers. Marcy nods gravely—almost knowingly.

"Yeah. They take you away to a horrible care home—dumping ground, they call it. And they put daddy in jail for not taking care of us. And they give you new parents. You have to move homes and schools and everything," Marcy explains as they walk through a narrow alleyway. Ridley opens her mouth to say something but thinks better of it and clamps it shut.