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___ "Surely it can't be that awful?" Diana reassured Anne as Marigold and them stood at the entryway of the school house.
"I'm a monstrosity, Diana," Anne explained, "In fact, you best forget me now and forever. I'd never, ever want to bring this humiliation upon you too."
"Best take off your hat." Anne was reluctant as she slowly took off her hat. Diana was quick to pull her bow out of her hair and tie the ribbon around Anne's head. "I made a promise never to forsake thee. Besides it's only hair. It'll grow back soon."
"Not nearly soon enough." Marigold was quick to loop an arm around her sister's.
"No matter what happens, I'm here," She whispered as they stepped forward into the class. The students didn't notice the redhead's new look at first, to engross in their own conversation. Be that as it may, as the students glanced at the sisters, their voices started to die down and their eyes locked on to the girls. Marigold instinctively pulled Anne closer to her side, trying to act as a shield from the judging looks. The students began to scatter, forming a tunnel around the sisters.
And at the end of the tunnel... was Gilbert Blythe.
Marigold looked up at him. She noticed the way his eyebrows raised a centimetre or two, lined with something between worry and concern and his eyes, his eyes twinkled in amusement as if he knew something she didn't. They glazed like honey and turned into million shades of gold as sunlight from the open windows reflected off them. His eyes were like melted chocolate. Warm and oh so addictive.
He broke the silence, "Anne. Marigold."
"You're back," Anne gasped, shocked to see him after reading his letter.
"Yes."
"Hi... There's no gold!"
"I-I know. I-I heard. That's not why I'm here," His eyes lingered over to Mary, who was frozen still at the sight of the boy, "It's really good to see you."
Marigold opened her mouth to say something before Mr. Phillips spoke, "Open your readers to page 20."
The students shuffled to their seats, Gilbert and Marigold taking longer as they remain having eye contact.
"It appears we have a new boy in class today," Mr. Phillips snickered at Anne, "Are you sure you're sitting in the right place, young man?"
"Human speech is like a cracked kettle on which we tap crude rhythms for bears to dance to, while we long to make music that will melt the stars."
