Finding Hiccup - Modern!Au ✔️

fourty three

Mum's in an organizing mood. She's sweeping around the house, tidying and shouting and saying "Whose shoes are these? What are they doing here?" and we've all hidden in the garden. I mean me, Heather, Astrid, and Snotlout. It's a warm day anyway, so it's nice, just sitting on the grass, picking daisies.
There's a rustling sound, and Dad appears round the side of the bush we're lurking behind.
"Hi, Dad," says Heather. "Have you come to join the Rebel Alliance?"
"Heather, I think your mother wants you," says Dad.
Your mother. Code for: Don't associate me with Mum's latest nutty plan, I have nothing to do with it.
"Why?" Heather gives an unpromising scowl. "I'm busy."
"Busy hiding behind a bush?" I say, and snort with laughter.
"You offered to help?" Dad says. "For the Avonlea fete catering? I think they're starting."
"I did not offer to help," says Heather, looking outraged. "I did not offer. I was forced. This is forced labour."
"You have such a great attitude," I observe. "Helping your fellow woman and everything."
"I don't notice you helping your fellow woman," Heather shoots back.

"I'll help my fellow woman." I shrug. "I don't mind making a few sandwiches."
"Anyway, fellow woman?" counters Heather. "That's sexist. Glad you're such a sexist, Henry."
"It's an expression."
"It's a sexist expression."
"I think we should go," Dad cuts in. "Mum's on the warpath."
"I'm entertaining Ally," says Heather, without moving an inch. "I'm entertaining a guest. You want me to abandon my guest?"
"She's my guest," I object.
"She was my friend first." Heather glowers at me.
"I have to go anyway," says Astrid diplomatically. "Water polo practice."
After Astrid leaves, we hear Mum yelling, "Steven! Heather! Where are you!" in her most ominous You'll-pay-for-this-later voice and it's like we all realize there's no point hiding out here anymore. Heather trudges back to the house looking like a condemned woman and I take a few deep breaths because I'm feeling a little edgy.
I mean, I'm fine. I'm not panicking or anything. I'm just a tiny bit—
Well. A bit jittery. Dunno why. I'm probably just getting back to normal after all those months polluting my body with chemicals. I mean, when is the last time I knew what normal even was?
The house is full of the most motley crew of people. There's one old lady in an ancient purple suit and hair which is clearly a wig. There's one middle-aged lady with plaits and sandals. There's a plump couple who are wearing matching St. Luke's Church sweatshirts. And a white-haired man on a mobility scooter.
The mobility scooter's pretty cool, actually. But it is kind of getting in everyone's way.

"Right!" Mum comes in and claps her hands. "Welcome, everybody, and thank you for coming along today. So, the fete starts at three. I've bought lots of ingredients..." She starts emptying food out of supermarket carriers onto the dining table—stuff like tomatoes and cucumbers, lettuce and bread, chicken and ham. "I thought we could make some sandwiches, stuffed wraps, um...does anyone have any other ideas?"
"Sausage rolls?" says the plump woman.
"Right." Mum nods. "D'you mean buy sausage rolls or make sausage rolls?"
"Ooh." The plump woman looks baffled. "I don't know. But people like sausage rolls."
"Well, we haven't got any sausage rolls. Or any sausage meat. So—"
"That's a shame," says the plump woman. "Because people like sausage rolls."
Her husband nods. "They do."
"Everyone loves a sausage roll."
I can see Mum getting a little tense. "Maybe next time," she says brightly. "Moving on. So, I thought...egg sandwiches?"
"Mum!" Heather says in horror. "Egg sandwiches are rank."
"I like egg sandwiches!" says Mum defensively. "Does anyone else like egg sandwiches?"
"Sweetheart, I think we can do better than egg sandwiches." A man's voice cuts across Mum's, and we all look up. A bloke I've never seen before is striding over to her. He must be in his twenties. He's got a shaved head and about six earrings in one ear and is wearing one of those chef outfits.
"I'm Ade," he announces. "My grandad's Derek Gould—he just moved into Avonlea. Told me about this. What are we doing?"
"Are you a chef?" Mum goggles at him. "A professional chef?"