Chapter Text
The spring air in the Avonlea schoolhouse was deceptively sweet, carrying the scent of apple blossoms through the open windows. Miss Stacy stood at the chalkboard, her eyes bright with a new project.
"Class, as you know, the annual Avonlea Talent Showcase is approaching," she began, smoothing her skirts. "I want our contributions to be more than just pretty melodies. I want them to be provocations. I want them to hold a mirror up to society."
She turned her gaze toward the front row, where Anne Shirley sat, her red braids neatly pinned. Diana Barry was already practicing a soft piano piece in her head, and Ruby Gillis was dreaming of a solo about a lonely swan.
"Anne," Miss Stacy said, her voice dropping into that serious, intellectual tone she reserved for her star pupil. "I have a specific task for you. I want you to perform a song that explores the gaze—specifically, how men see women. Whether that is a song of adoration, or one that critiques the way women are perceived as objects or ideals... I leave that to your imagination. But I want it to be powerful."
The room went silent. Josie Pye let out a quiet, skeptical sniff. Billy Andrews leaned back, a smirk playing on his lips as he looked at Anne’s back. "A song about how we see 'em? That’ll be a short song," he whispered to Charlie Sloane, who chuckled nervously.
Gilbert Blythe, however, didn't laugh. He looked at Anne, his expression unreadable. He knew better than anyone that when you asked Anne Shirley to explore a "gaze," you were inviting a storm.
Anne stood up slowly, her fingers tracing the edge of her desk. She didn't look at Miss Stacy; she looked out the window, her eyes reflecting the wild, untamed woods.
"How men see women," Anne repeated, the words sounding heavy on her tongue. "The pedestal they put us on... or the cages they build around us to keep us 'pure.' You want the truth of it, Miss Stacy? Or the version that won't make the Minister faint?"
Miss Stacy hesitated, seeing the sharp, dangerous glint in Anne’s eyes. "I want your truth, Anne."
"Very well," Anne said, a slow, enigmatic smile spreading across her face. She turned her head slightly, her eyes catching Gilbert’s for a split second—a look of such raw, intellectual challenge that he felt his breath hitch. "I think I have just the song. But I warn you, it might not be the 'pretty melody' the Mothers' Auxiliary is expecting."
Diana reached out and touched Anne’s sleeve, her brow furrowed with worry. "Anne, you aren't going to do something... scandalous, are you?"
"I'm going to do something honest, Diana," Anne replied.
As the class was dismissed, the air felt different. Jane Andrews and Tillie Boulter whispered in the coatroom, wondering if Anne would sing a tragic ballad. Moody Spurgeon looked terrified, as he always did when Anne got that specific look in her eye.
But as Anne walked out into the sunlight, Gilbert caught up to her.
"How do we see you, Anne?" he asked, his voice low and private, his pace matching hers.
Anne stopped and looked at him, her gaze piercing. "That depends, Gilbert. Are you looking at the girl the world wants me to be? Or the woman I actually am when no one is watching?"