A Work of Fiction

Chapter Three

Updated and Edited 16/06/12.

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Chapter Three

“Jane Eyre? Since when do you read classics, Vi?” I looked up from the armchair I was sitting in to see my Mum looking at me from the couch where she was watching the evening news on the T.V.

“You sure you're feeling all right, love? Maybe you're coming down with something,” Dad said when he walked into the room from the kitchen with a glass of milk for Toby. He stopped by me and placed his hand on my forehead, as though to check my temperature.

“Oh, you two are so hilarious,” I said sarcastically, whilst both my parents chuckled. My Dad handed over to milk to Toby, who was sitting on the floor, playing with his toy cars and then went and joined my mother on the couch. As he sat down, my Mum placed her hand on my Dad's knee and he held on to it. Whenever I looked at my parents, I always thought they were made for each other. They had been married since they were in their early twenties and even after all these years, they were still happy and content with one another.

“So what gives, Vi? Why the classics? You were reading Austen last week and now it's Bronte's turn?”

“I just thought I'd give the adventure stories a rest for now, Dad. Nothing serious as an illness,” I joked and he smiled at me. I went back to reading and I soon found that I couldn't help but agree with the note that was placed in the book. Jane Eyre was better than Wuthering Heights, or at least I thought so.

Strange, who would have thought I would be agreeing with a stranger that I had never met before. We had made a lot of progress with Wuthering Heights in English, but me being me, I had already finished the book. I had liked it a lot, but for the life of me, I couldn't understand why the heroine would give up her supposedly 'undying love' just for leisurely comforts. In fact, she reminded me a little of the girls in school. They would give up happiness, just so they could fit into the popular crowd. It was almost like selling yourself out, lying to yourself. I know I couldn't do that. If reading as many books as I did classified me as a geek in the high school social hierarchy, then a geek I was, through and through.

It wasn't long before Mum had literally dragged my brother to bed and when she came back, it looked like she would do the same with me. I looked at the clock and I hadn't realised how late it had gotten. I caught my Dad's eye and he just laughed. This, for both my parents, wasn't an unusual thing, and from the look on my Mum's face, I could tell she was tempted to hide my book, like she used to do when I was younger, when I refused to sleep until I had finished the whole book. After all, sleep could wait; there was always time for sleep later.

I got up and kissed both my parents and they did the same to me. Mum had made her way to the kitchen for a glass of water, so Dad clearly took his opportunity to speak while she was out of ear shot.

“Don't stay up to late, love,” he said trying to look stern, but failing as I could see his blues eyes sparkling and the corners of his mouth pulling up.

“Okay, Pops,” I joked, while kissing him again. He chuckled and ruffled my hair. He would always indulge me like this. After all, it was Dad who had encouraged me to read so much at a young age, and it was Dad who would sometimes give me back the book Mum had taken away from me. A part of me knew that Mum also knew about this, but she never let on or said anything. From the look on her face last year at the parent/teacher evening at school, I secretly thought she was glad I turned out the way I did, especially when compared to other teenage girls.

As I was getting ready for bed, a part of me thought she would probably have a heart attack if I started taking an interest in guys who weren't fictional characters.