||What's up, it's the pos writer formerly known as BayouWizzard (S.N. Miller is my real name and not a horrible pseudonym, I have a terrible name, I'm sorry) with an unwanted author's note.
I'm kind of notorious for short chapters and going two years between updates, so this time I'm going to force myself to write as much and as often as I can. That's why the chapters are going to be short, it's how I keep my thoughts in line on account of being a shit writer. BUT now I have Microsoft word on my phone and on my computer, therefore excuses for a lack of updates are null and void. If I can get out a chapter every day, that'd be magical as all get out.
That's all for now, y'all ¬¬-Miller||
Chapter 3. Irish Pub Song
"Will ye geddof yer feckin' high horse an' get away from MY pub!" Maura's eyes fly open at the sound of her father's shouting out the hall window. "Ye bleedin' cows!"
A confused Maura props herself up to find her eight-year-old sister staring out of their window. "It's the Temperance League," Cailyn glances over her shoulder at Maura. "They're putting signs up on the pub."
"For the eighteenth ammembent. Daddy says they've already made it nigh impossible for him to sell a pint on this street, but now they wanna make it illegal altogether."
"WHY DO ALL YE UPPITY BITCHES WANNOO TAKE THE BREAD OUTTA MY CHILDREN'S MOUTHS?!"
Maura winces at the unsavory word. He only ever used it when referring to the Temperance League, never turning it on Constance or even the suffragettes, whom he supports wholeheartedly. "Amendment," she corrects her sister without fully realizing she's doing it, turning back over and closing her eyes.
If the pub closes, her father will no longer have a job, and everything he's worked for will be lost. He'll have to go back to bricklaying, and her mother will have to take in washing, and Maura will have to leave school in order to help her…they were never rich, but her father could afford them small luxuries like a high school education. And he'd have to fire Mr. Rizzoli! Their family was just off the boat, Mr. Rizzoli was barely able to speak English when her father hired him. Paddy is paying him enough so that his children can go to school instead of working to help support their family. Nobody in their neighborhood really understands the friendship between Paddy and Mr. Rizzoli, but Maura finds it endearing.
Her thoughts are punctuated by her father's slippered footsteps running down the hall, punctuated by the door slamming behind him. A few seconds later, Colin runs into his sisters' room to join Cailyn at the window. "Daddy's gone to tear down all of their posters," informs he, his strawberry curls bouncing as he speaks. "Says they haven't a right to be marking his property with their propapanda."
"Propaganda," Maura mumbles.
"She's in a teenaged mood," Cailyn quotes their mother's explanation for Maura's quiet moodiness.
In truth, their older sister's despondency came about when thoughts of Mr. Rizzoli's possibly impending unemployment turned to his daughter. Jane.
If Mr. Rizzoli loses his job, then Jane wouldn't be able to go to school, either, and Maura won't get to see her every day. They've never exchanged words, but the shy blonde has always found Jane's company comforting to the point that she wishes she could come up with a viable excuse for seeing her more often. Then, when her father informed her that Jane would be going to her school, the excuse made itself.
Before she knows it, she's on her feet, moving with the same righteous rage that made her father run after the Temperance League. As of a few weeks ago, all of these women will be able to vote on their 18th amendment, and if she doesn't get out of bed now, she will probably never get to see Jane again.
That can not happen, under any circumstances.
If Jane were a boy, this is what she'd look like, thinks Maura, blankly taking in the features of the child who'd opened the door. From inside the house, a woman wonders loudly who would be calling so early, and Maura's tongue glues itself to the roof of her mouth.
Angela Rizzoli appears over the boy's shoulder, "Oh, it's Signor Doyle's daughter! Come, come inside, Jane and I are making gnocchi, come, come," before she can argue, the woman's hands are on her shoulders, steering her into the house.
At the sight of the silent girl, Jane allows a small laugh. "Maura, your face is as red as this tomato sauce," she teases, but quiets when the girl stiffens even more.
"What brings you over, dear?" Angela doesn't even look away from Maura to smack a dish rag at Jane, which Maura can't help but laugh at.
The sound nearly throws Jane off her feet.
Angela notices, and joins in, the little blonde's joy contagious. "Come over here, maybe you will be better at shaping the gnocchi than Jane."
Without question, Maura joins them, well aware of Jane's dark chocolate eyes following her movements. The warmth of Jane's gaze is nearly palpable on her skin as Angela shows her how to form the dough.
"Your first time ever making the Italian food, and already your attempts are better than Jane's!" Angela jokes, and Jane's grumbly response resonates in Maura's belly.
"Can I come every day?"
Both women's eyes widen at the question, and after a few moments of odd silence, Angela envelopes Maura in a floury hug.