Page 7 of Playing for Keeps

I pushed the door open with my foot and held the laptop so they could see it. “Look at this shower. It’s ridiculous.”

Mum whistled. “Oh, that’s lovely.”

“It’s like standing in a warm cloud,” I said, then winced at myself. “I know, that’s not a thing. But it’s really good. When winter comes, I might never leave the house. I’ll just stay here.”

Dad pointed. “Is that a proper extractor fan?”

“Yes, Dad.”

“And the tiles are sealed?”

“I assume so. If not, I’ll seal them. I’ve become very practical with all this moving around.”

“You always were,” Mum said softly.

I took them back to the living room. We talked about small things then. About the London weather. About the neighbour’s new fence, which was apparently controversial. And about the tomatoes in the garden that had finally decided to turn red. Mum held up the phone so I could see them through the kitchen window.

“We’ll let you get back to your boxes,” Dad said, being practical again. “Eat something. Please. Biscuits and crisps don’t count. And call us if you can’t figure out how to use the thermostat.”

“I will. Love you.”

“Love you.”

When the call ended, the room was too quiet. I stared at my faint reflection in the dark laptop screen. We always said goodbye with a smile, it being difficult for me to admit that I got homesick more often than I cared to let on. I told myself I liked the silence, and in that moment, I almost believed it.

I closed the laptop and reached for the next box. Inside, wedged between a cardigan and a pair of shoes, was my notebook. I sat on the edge of the coffee table and carefully wrote the date down, like that would make the move official.

“Toronto, first week: light, settling in, white walls, big shower. Bookshop with cat. Plants: Doyle, Poe. Mum’s paella triumph. Dad relieved. Weather like a held breath.”

I continued to unpack a few more boxes, focusing on arranging my things in a way that suited my new space, rather than how they were before. I found the small lamp that would sit on the floor until there was a table, its warm light softening the empty corners. I hung my heavy coat by the door, hoping I wouldn’t need it for weeks.

When I put the kettle back on, the sun was going down and the street outside sounded like people coming home. I sliced a tomato, sprinkled it with salt, cut a piece of bread, and called it dinner. I ate standing at the window watching the sky turning a shy pink at the edges. The house felt expectant now, as if it were waiting to see what I would do next.

I didn’t know what the book would be yet. I’d done this before. I’d fill my notebook with street names and overheard phrases. But first I had to flatten boxes, take that ridiculous shower, and try to get comfortable on an air mattress. I wrote one last line, a promise to myself to explore my new surroundings: “Tomorrow, walk.” Then I tucked it away like a small secret and listened to the new house make its night-time noises.

4

EMMA

The lecture hall was filled with students, all focused on their notebooks and laptops. In the beginning, I had clung to the lectern for safety, but as I grew more comfortable, I found that pacing helped me better explain my points. I still wasn’t entirely sure I belonged up here, but years of debating books with my dad had at least taught me how to think out loud without panicking.

“…and so,” I said, pointing to Olivia in the second row, who’d just asked if Jane Austen could really be called a feminist, “we need to think about this: does a woman need to openly declare war on her society to resist it? Or can resistance be found in heroines who refuse to marry for money or turn down the wealthiest man until he learns to treat her right?

That got a few laughs. I let it roll a moment. “Why did Elizabeth Bennet refuse Darcy the first time? That’s not passivity. That’s guts. She tells the richest man in the neighbourhood, who is also good-looking, that he’s insulted her family and she won’t stand for it. That’s a feminist move with teeth.”

A hand shot up in the back row. It was Noah, a tall boy with unruly hair, who had been quiet up until now. “But isn’t that just personal? Like, she doesn’t say, ‘I won’t marry you because you’re the patriarchy.’ She just says, ‘You were rude to me.’ Isn’t that different?”

“Great point,” I said, smiling. “Yes, it is personal, but personal choices can be political because they challenge societal norms and expectations. When Elizabeth denies a man who could ensure her survival in a marriage-dependent society, it’s a powerful statement. Even if she doesn’t label herself a feminist, her actions speak volumes.”

Murmurs of agreement, nods, pens scratching. I felt that familiar spark, the kind that follows a good lecture, when ideas are vibrating in the air.

“All right,” I said, glancing at the clock. “We’ve got five minutes left. Write down – don’t overthink it – the most radical choice any Austen heroine makes. One sentence. Go.”

The room rustled with the sound of their pens. I strolled between the rows, catching glimpses: Emma Woodhouse apologises. Elizabeth tells Mr Collins no. I smiled.

When time was up, I called on a few students. Ava in the front row said, “I think it’s radical that Fanny Price won’t be impressed by Henry Crawford, even though everyone tells her she should.”

“Yes,” I said, delighted. “Moral resistance. Quiet, but explosive.”