Daria 2007: The Girl from Hope

DARIA 2007:

The Girl from Hope

Feedback (good, bad, indifferent, just want to bother me, whatever) is appreciated. Please write to: theangstguy@yahoo.com

Synopsis: What might Daria have been like if the show had taken place in 2007, ten years later than it did? And what if Daria had gone to an alternate high school back in Highland? One answer to those questions lies in this response to two fanfic challenges.

Author’s Notes: This story is rated R for language and dramatic situations. It began with two challenges from PPMB. Roentgen, on 8/5/06 (“Highland’s Other High School,” in the Deep Thoughts forum), wrote:

“In the Beavis and Butt-Head episode “No Laughing” (June 2, 1993), the little dumb asses get into trouble in school when they can’t stop laughing at any remotely salacious remark. The principal has finally had it with them and Coach Bradley Buzzcut informs the rest of the class about the boys’ fate:

‘You see, class, Beavis and Butt-head here are not allowed to laugh for a whole week. That’s right, and if they do laugh they’ll be expelled, and they’ll have to go to Hope High School where they’ll get their asses kicked on a daily basis by all the other delinquents. . . .’

My question: how come there haven’t been any more fanfics about this infamous Hope High School, a school that’s even worse than Highland High?”

Prince Charon, on 7/30/06 (“Iron Chef: Retro Dariana” in the Creative Writing forum), wrote:

“The opening of IICY includes a series of historical ‘What Ifs’ set in earlier decades. Pick one, and show what Daria would have been like, if the show had been set in that era. . . . So, any takers?”

Here is the story, showing what Daria might have been if the show had taken place in 2007, ten years later than it did. This tale appeared on SFMB from August to October 2006. Background notes are appended at the end of the story (“Author’s Notes II”), but reading them is not necessary to enjoy or understand the story.

Acknowledgements: Thanks to both Roentgen and Prince Charon for the push. E. A. Smith, Sleepless, DigiSim, and Mr. Magnum found several errors in the story I had to fix, and B.T.L., Brother Grimace, and Scissors MacGillicutty suggested changes and clarifications I adopted. Roentgen, Custos Sophiae, Tildessmoo, Richard Lobinske, and Sleepless made astute and prescient guesses about the background and content of this tale that influenced my overall plotting. Thanks, all!

I dreamt the past was never past redeeming:
But whether this was false or honest dreaming
I beg death’s pardon now. And mourn the dead.

—Richard Purdy Wilbur, “The Pardon”

The future is an enormous question mark, and

I don’t know what lies ahead. I only know that if

it moves, I’m shooting it.

—Daria Morgendorffer, The Daria Diaries

The flame-red Lincoln Navigator rode through Lawndale’s morning traffic like a stallion passing through a mob of peasants and dogs. Daria Morgendorffer turned from the GPS mapper and glanced down from the front passenger window, peering into cars with an impassive face. If a driver or passenger looked up at her, she stared back through her rectangular-lens glasses without blinking until traffic separated the vehicles or the subject looked away. She then resumed chewing her gum and peered at the nav system until another victim came into view.

“Daria,” said the driver without looking her, “I know the move here was difficult, but I want you to look at this as a fresh start. You’ve got a clean slate, and not many people get that.”

The gum chewer offered no sign that she heard. She continued watching the streets scroll by on the dashboard nav system.

“Daria,” said the driver in a louder tone.

She tucked the gum in her cheek. “Transmission received,” she said in a monotone.

“You’ll have a chance to make real friends here. I want you to go the extra mile and get to know people. And let them get to know you. This isn’t like Highland.”

Daria inhaled, held her breath for a reflective moment, then let it out. “Unless I let it be,” she said softly.

The driver frowned. “What exactly did you mean by that?”

“Nothin’.”

“Look, I want you to drop—”

The wordless melody of a long-ago Joni Mitchell tune filled the air: Don’t it always seem to go, that you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone? The driver sighed and punched the handless phone button. “Helen Morgendorffer here.”

“Eric Schrecter!” said a hearty male voice. “Helen, how’s our firm’s new partner this morning?”

“Eric, hi!” The brunette behind the steering wheel punched another button, activating the wireless headset hooked over her right ear. “I’m taking the girls to their first day of school. How are things at the office?”

Daria looked away. “Over and out,” she whispered. Walking teenagers crowded the sidewalks. The school had to be nearby. Daria pushed her glasses up from their usual perch on the end of her nose and peered ahead. At the base of a five-story flagpole with an oversized American flag snapping from it, an enormous massive block of stone was visible, the writing on the marker clear from a block away.

LAWNDALE MAGNET HIGH SCHOOL

High Security, Higher Standards, Highest Results!

GO, LIONS!

The logos of a dozen corporations decorated the lower border of the marker, signaling the companies’ financial support of higher education in exchange for shameless in-school advertising. Daria noted Ultra-Cola, two pizza restaurants, three radio or TV stations, a cyber-café, four clothing stores, and some place called The Zon were among the school’s sponsors. A man in a blue uniform stood near the marker, a holstered yellow stun pistol, plastic handcuffs, a nightstick, and a radio hanging on his belt. He was scratching his forehead, a blue duckbilled cap in hand. SECURITY, read the yellow letters on the cap.

“Just a minute, Eric,” said Daria’s mother to an invisible presence. “Can I call you back? I’m about to drop the girls off. Thanks.” Helen punched the hang-up button on the dash, then raised her right hand so it was visible to the back seat and snapped her fingers.

“What?” came another girl’s voice.

“Quinn, we’re here,” called Helen. “Turn off the TV and get your books.”

Daria heard a sigh and the sound of her sister taking off her earphones and tossing them in an unused seat. “Let us off on the street!” she called. “Don’t pull up to the doors!”

“All right,” called Helen. “Wouldn’t want to embarrass you.” The enormous SUV slowed and edged over to the sidewalk behind a line of parked cars. “I remember when I was your age, and my parents once drove my sisters and me to school, and I—”

The Navigator’s right rear door opened and slammed shut. Daria’s sister was already out and gone, her windblown Faith Hill hairstyle burning holes in the libidos of every male in sight. Students everywhere stared at Quinn’s flawless skin, orange-peel hair, and tube top with dropped jaws and wide eyes. Hardly anyone paid attention to the tiny cross on her gold necklace, hanging from the J of the necklace’s WWJD? charm.

Daria again tucked the gum in her cheek, then picked up her backpack from the car floor. A hand caught her arm before she could pop the door and escape.

“I know this is a difficult period of adjustment for you, Daria, and you don’t make friends easily,” said her mother, “but stick with it. Do the right thing this time. You know from what happened that you can’t say anything that comes into your head just to shock people.”

Daria regarded her mother with a blank expression. At last, she opened her mouth. “Is Eric available?” she asked.

Shock spread over her mother’s face. “Wha—what the hell did you mean by—”

Daria jerked on the door handle and jumped out of the high seat before that sentence was completed. She whirled when her boots hit the sidewalk and slammed the heavy door shut on her mother’s rage, then turned and walked toward the school, backpack dangling from the straps coiled around her left hand. That shot was for Daria’s father, left back in Highland in the pending divorce. Payback was a bitch, indeed.

It was warm for early autumn in the suburbs. Loose black jeans over black boots, a long-sleeved black jacket unbuttoned in front, and a burnt orange t-shirt filled the bill. Daria palmed her gum and dropped the wad into the street gutter, then felt in an inside jacket pocket for her smokes. She had already spotted a small group of teen smokers standing on the sidewalk just down from the school entrance. She shook the open cigarette pack, took one in her lips, and exchanged the pack for her lighter. She stopped well short of the group, dropped her backpack, and lit up with a hand cupped around the lighter. The first drag she took, she held in for five seconds to get the maximum nicotine punch. Smoke then roared from her nostrils like dragon fire. She was careful to look away from the group and make no eye contact, so no one would speak to her. Everyone was leaving her alone. Bliss.

A minute later, a bus came through traffic, slowing with a squeal of brakes to a spot uncomfortably close to Daria. She looked up in irritation over the top of her glasses, which had slid halfway down her nose again.

“Fuckups are here,” someone muttered in the cluster of smokers.

The bus was a standard orange-yellow school model, but with “LAWNDALE COUNTY DEPT. OF SOCIAL SERVICES” on the side over a blue-and white seal showing a small child holding an adult’s hand. LYRE, read the initials under the seal. The doors shrieked open, and a handful of students got off, heading for the school.

All but one.

Daria studied the tall girl in the hip-hugging black skirt and midriff-revealing red V-neck top with sleeves that reached her elbows. I KICK DAMN HARD read the words on the back of her top, over the complex blue tattoo just above her hips. She was crowned by jet-black hair in a long shag cut that did not hide her artsy dangly earrings. Her lips were the color of new-drawn blood; black eyeliner accented her bright blue irises.

Instinct said the tall girl was an outcast. She might even be interesting. She’s going to ask me for a cigarette, Daria thought.

The outcast spotted Daria, her gaze lingering a half-second too long. She sauntered over.

Daria took out her pack and held it out without being asked. She had never done that before.

“Thanks,” said the outcast, taking one. She put it between her blood-red lips and leaned close. The ends of their cigarettes touched as they inhaled and the virgin cigarette caught.

The new girl smelled of perfume—unlike Daria, who smelled of soap and a knock-off brand of dandruff shampoo. Maybe she’ll go away now that she’s got a smoke, Daria thought, but for some reason she hoped the outcast girl would stay. “What’s L-Y-R-E?” she asked.

“Lawndale Youth Residential Enterprise,” said the tall girl in a deep, gravely voice. She took the cigarette from her mouth and blew out a long cloud. “Everyone calls it Lyre.” She drew out the word so it sounded like liar. “County home for runaways, foster care, orphans, leftovers. I’m Jane, by the way.”

Daria knew the girl’s type; she just hadn’t met a friendly one before. “Daria,” she said, and she took out her cigarette and rubbed her nose to avoid shaking hands. She had never liked to touch or be touched, especially after leaving her last high school.

“First day here?” asked the tall girl, looking her right in the eyes.

Daria nodded. “Mom dropped me off,” she began, then instantly hated herself for saying it and sounding like a little kid.

“Where’re you from?” asked the tall girl—Jane, Daria reminded herself.

“Texas,” said Daria, getting nervous. She tried to moderate her voice. Goddamn hick accent.

“What part?”

“West Texas, Highland. Middle of nowhere.”

“You a Dubya fan?”

Daria looked up with a narrow, annoyed gaze.

“Guess not,” said Jane with a grin. She flicked ash from her cigarette, one arm crossed over her waist to hold the elbow of the other. “Had to be at least one.”

A bell rang in the distance. All the other students around began migrating for the doors to get into school.

“We have time,” said Jane. She studied Daria again. “You have any bad habits?”

Daria took a deep drag on her cigarette. “A few,” she said when she exhaled.

“They get you into any trouble?”

“Yeah.” Daria looked up into the taller girl’s blue eyes. Jane was smiling at her. Daria managed a slight smile in return.

“Welcome to the club. We get a lot of people like that, me included.” Jane looked at her speculatively. “Ever kill anybody?”

Daria’s smile faded. She looked away, drew on her cigarette until it burned down to the filter, then dropped it and crushed out the butt with the black toe of her right boot.

Jane watched, then took a last drag and flipped her cigarette away. “You gotten around town yet?” she asked, as Daria picked up her backpack.

Daria shook her head no, looking at the ground.

“What’s your homeroom?”

“Barch,” said Daria after a moment.

“Me, too. Tenth grade?”

“Yeah.”

“Great. I’ll fill you in on things.”

“Thank’ee.” Daria finally looked up at Jane and noticed something. “You got any books?” she asked, forgetting about her Texas twang and hick choice of words.

“Left ‘em at school for the weekend,” said Jane. “Too heavy.”

Daria glanced at Jane’s lean, wiry musculature. Too heavy, her ass. Her new friend was built like an athlete, maybe a runner. She probably could kick damn hard, at that. Part of an elaborate blue tattoo peeked from the end of one of her red sleeves. It looked like it had the same pattern as the one across her lower back. Jane was the living embodiment of the phrase, I don’t give a shit.

It was exactly how Daria felt about things, too.

“Better get in,” said Jane, starting for the doors. “I’d love to go somewhere else, but we’re on camera.”

Daria’s gaze flicked around as she followed. No camera was visible. That meant the local Big Brother was subtle, unlike the one at Daria’s old high school. She would have to be careful wherever she went.

Memories of her old high school provoked a particular concern. “They make people go to special psychological classes here?” asked Daria with a raised eyebrow. “Self-esteem classes?”

Jane shook her head and grinned as they walked into the school. “No one here gives a fuck about your self-esteem.”

“Thank God,” Daria breathed. Jane laughed aloud.

The second bell rang. They were both late for homeroom and got detention. Neither of them cared.

“. . . so the old bum tries to crawl into our basement through the broken window, the police get him, and then they find me alone in the house asleep upstairs. I didn’t care about the bum, actually. He left me alone and I left him alone, except to lock the basement door to make sure he left me alone. My parents let everyone break into the house. It was part of their leftist tradition. Long story short, the county got me.”

Jane banged her locker shut and spun the combination dial. “That was a year ago. No one’s picked me up for foster care, not even my parents, who’re afraid to come back to this state because of the abandonment charges pending against them. My next oldest brother Trent stayed in the house until my folks forgot to mail in the mortgage, so that’s gone, too. He stuck around for a while, living in his car and trying to earn enough money to give some to me, when he made the mistake of walking past an Army recruiter and now he’s in Iraq, driving a supply truck. At least he’s got a steady job. That’s a first for the whole family.”

“You hear from him much?” asked Daria.

“Nah.” The girls headed for their next class, dangerously close to the next bell. “He’s not the writing kind, doesn’t even do e-mail. He recorded a tape for me with some songs he played on it—he likes to write music—but mostly he just complains. He hates it there. Some guys in his unit got killed by an IED a few months ago and he’s worried about his friends buying it. He never worries about himself, always about other people.”

Jane reached into a pocket of her skirt and pulled out a small piece of paper, handing it over to Daria. It was a printout of a color digital picture showing a tall, thin young man in camo, leaning against a large dusty truck and smoking a cigarette. He had a face that hinted that he and Jane were closely related. He looked hot, tired, dirty, and—Daria was not sure how she knew this—gentle and kind. He gave the camera a mocking half-smile as if saying, Life sure is funny, isn’t it?

“He’s the only one in my family who stuck around to look after me,” said Jane. She stared without blinking at the picture Daria held. “We raised each other, I guess, with everyone else gone. He sends me part of his paycheck every two weeks. I’ve got a real bank account now, but I don’t use it much. Nothing to spend it on since I can’t wander around on my own.”

“When’s your brother get back?” Daria had stopped thinking about her Texas twang, and it was back with a vengeance. She was thinking about Trent, wondering how old he was and whether Jane would mention her to Trent when they next communicated and would he write to her and why was she, Daria, even bothering to think about stupid stuff like this. Nothing like that would ever happen . . . especially now.

“He’s supposed to return stateside next summer, but they’ve been messing with rotation dates so much, I don’t know when I’ll see him.” Jane took back the picture that Daria offered and put it away. “Anyway, I’ve got two more years in LYRE and then I’m on my own for good. I haven’t thought about what to do after that. I’d like to work on my drawings, but I have to be practical. No one else in my family has been practical, except Trent, and I still wonder about him. I mean, the Army, jeez.”

Daria gave Jane a critical look. She had not thought of Jane as the artsy type, but it made a certain kind of sense. “What’d you like to draw?”

“People, mostly. I’d like to paint, sculpt, all that, but the dorm leaves a lot to be desired in terms of storage space, so I stick with sketchpads, pencils, charcoal, stuff like that. Some of the others at LYRE model for me now and then, but the staff doesn’t like it for various reasons. I get by.” Jane ran a hand through her layered haircut as they approached the classroom door. “Next time, it’s your turn to answer my questions.”

“I don’t recall agreein’ to that,” Daria grumbled as she followed Jane into the room. The bell rang a moment later.

Jane turned before she sat down and gave Daria a knowing smile: You’ll talk. You’ll tell me everything. You don’t think you will, but you will. Count on it.

With a grim look, Daria prepared to take a vacant seat next to Jane at the back of the room.

“Uh, Miss Morbid . . . um, Mor-gen-dorffer, sorry,” said the teacher, a mushy-looking man who frowned at a class seating roster. “Mrs. Manson in Intervention Services called before you came in. She needs to see you in room one-thirteen. It’s down the hall and down the stairs, to your left as you go out the door, past the water fountain.”

“Yes, sir,” Daria groaned, then left the room with backpack in tow as Jane waved goodbye. The teacher’s directions proved inadequate, but Daria was able to figure out the room numbering system and was at room 113 before long.

“Come in,” said a gray-haired woman with glasses when Daria opened the door. “Are you—” She held a sheet of paper to her eyes “—Dar-ee-ah?”

“Dar-ee-ah, ma’am,” said Daria, pronouncing it correctly. She glanced at a second person in the room, a stocky Oriental woman in a business suit with square glasses, short black hair, and an intense, narrow gaze.

“Of course, Daria, my mistake.” The woman laid the page on an open chart on her desk, then rose to her feet and extended a hand. When Daria did not respond to the offer of a handshake, the lady shrugged, motioned to the empty chair across the desk from her, and sat down again. “Daria,” she said, “I’m Margaret Manson, the school psychologist, and this—” She indicated the other woman.

“Angela Li, your principal,” said the other woman. She did not offer to shake hands. “Welcome to Laaawndale High School, Daria.”

“We spoke with your mother last week about your coming here,” Mrs. Manson continued. “I’d like to welcome you to Lawndale, too. We’ll do everything we can to keep you and the other students safe and secure in this facility while you’re here. Have you heard about Lawndale High before now?”

After a moment, Daria stirred. “Only that you will do everything necessary to keep the other students safe and secure while I’m here, ma’am.”

Mrs. Manson shook her head. “I meant, Daria, that we want to keep everyone here safe, including you. This is a special magnet school, I’d even call it an atypical one, with a unique focus on security issues. We live in an uncertain world, and Lawndale High responds to the wants and needs of the community. We want to be ahead of the times, not behind them. Ms. Li had a major hand in redesigning this campus to offer the highest level of physical security to the students and faculty. You probably noticed the metal detectors when you came in this morning, and perhaps the fact that access in and out of the school is fairly restricted.” She waited to see if there was a response.

Daria filled the silence after another pause. “My last high school was surrounded by a twelve-foot chain-link fence with razor wire ‘long the top, ma’am,” she said. “The metal detectors were set to airport security levels, and only school buses were allowed through the gates. We weren’t allowed to use backpacks, we wore school uniforms, adult guards were in the restrooms and halls, we were under video surveillance, and students who misbehaved were sent home or to juvenile hall. I mean no offense, but you have a way to go before this school reaches that level.” After a beat, she added, “Ma’am.”

“Hmmm, so it seems,” said Ms. Li. She eyed Daria thoughtfully. “That was Hope High School in Highland, Texas, correct? That’s the ‘second-chance’ alternative school for the Lubbock region?”

Daria nodded slightly but did not answer.

When Mrs. Manson saw that the principal would make no further comment, she looked down at the folder on her desk. “By the terms of the placement agreement that allowed your transfer here from the Highland school district, your complete school records from both Highland and Hope were sent to us. I want to emphasize that you are under no restriction here for any event that occurred while you were in Texas. You are a full-time high-school student with all the rights and responsibilities of such. As far as we’re concerned, you have a clean slate.”

Raising an eyebrow, Daria opened her mouth as if to speak.

“A clean slate,” interrupted Ms. Li, “in so far as your actions before coming to Lawndale are concerned. Being tardy for homeroom this morning is your problem. Don’t let it happen again. Right now, you have a half hour of detention after school. Penalties get progressively worse with continued infractions. Any school would do this, and we’re no different.”

Daria subsided.

“What were you going to say?” asked Ms. Li.

“Nothin’, ma’am.” Daria frowned. “Nothing, I mean.”

“I like your manners.”

There was no response to the praise other than a slight nod.

Mrs. Manson spoke next. “Though you have a clean slate here, we do need to talk about the past for just a moment. It won’t take long. Do you know why you were sent to Hope High School, Daria?”

Daria’s face grew tight. Her chin lowered as she looked at the psychologist.

Mrs. Manson began again. “Do you know why you were—”

“Yes, ma’am,” the girl interrupted, her voice tense.

“Why was that, then?”

The petite brunette looked down and mumbled something.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear—”

“Because I was involved in the deaths of a number of people,” Daria said in a barely audible voice. She shifted in her seat, then added, “Ma’am.”

Mrs. Manson nodded slowly. “How were you involved?”

“Isn’t it in my paperwork?” said Daria. Her throat was dry and she could tell her accent was back, but she was too nervous to do anything about it.

“I only want to hear your take on it.”

Daria drew in a deep breath and looked at the floor again, collecting her thoughts. “It started when I gave a speech to my English class at Highland High School,” she finally said. Her breathing grew more rapid. “It caused some of the students to . . . it caused two of the students to go crazy.” She swallowed. “They shot some people.”

Mrs. Manson nodded. “I remember that incident. In fact, I believe I saw the news as it was happening, last year. Those were special ed students, weren’t they?”

“Yes. They’d been mainstreamed, ma’am. They were—” Daria coughed and cleared her throat “—they were in my class. They sat—they sat behind me. I talked to them sometimes after school, but not often.”

“Were they friends of yours?”

“No! I mean, no, they weren’t, ma’am, not friends. I just knew ‘em. Not my friends.”

“This speech you gave, what was it about?”

Daria’s face was bloodless. “Had to give a speech about someone from history, ma’am,” she said softly. “I picked Lyudmila Pavlichenko. She was a soldier in the Soviet Union in World War Two.”

Mrs. Manson blinked, then looked at Ms. Li, who shrugged in return. “I’m sorry,” said the psychologist. “Lyudmila . . .?”

“Pavlichenko.” Daria roused herself. The tempo of her voice picked up. “She was a sniper in the Soviet army, killed over three hun’erd Germans in less than a year, using a bolt-action rifle with a four-power scope. Thirty-six of her kills were other snipers. After she was wounded by mortar fire, the Soviets sent her on a diplomatic mission to the United States and Canada. Pres’dent Roosevelt met her in the White House, making her the first Soviet citizen to have that happen. She made speeches all ‘cross the U.S., got postage stamps in her honor, got to be a Hero of the Soviet Union, and ever’thing, all ‘cause she was good at shootin’ people.” Her eyes looked skyward as she searched her memory. “She got some guns as presents while she was here, a Colt and a Winchester. The Americans liked her.”

In the silence afterward, only the faint tapping of Ms. Li’s finger against the arm of her chair was heard. “You know your subject very well,” she said.

Daria shrugged and nodded once, again avoiding eye contact.

“Why did you pick this particular person for your paper?”

After clearing her throat twice, Daria said, “Had to pick someone we admired.”

Mrs. Manson’s jaw dropped. She recovered after a moment with an effort.

“Did you admire this person for being a good killer?” asked Ms. Li crisply. She had not reacted to Daria’s words at all.

Daria shook her head immediately. “No,” she whispered. “That wasn’t it at all. It wasn’t like that, ma’am.”

Ms. Li frowned. “You didn’t admire her, or you did? I’m confused here.”

“I didn’t!” said Daria, looking anxious. “I know I said I did in class, but that was just—I just wanted to shock people, that’s all! I just—it wasn’t like ever’one said it was. She wasn’t really my hero or anythin’. It was—I just wanted to get a reaction, that was all. I was sick of school—I mean, I was bored with it, just tired and sick and bored and ever’thing, and—”

“You wanted to scare people?”

The diminutive student nodded rapidly. “That was all I wanted to do! I wrote the whole thing up just to drive ever’one in my class crazy and—” She broke off in shock, eyes wide “—wait, no! I didn’t mean that! I meant, I just—it was a joke! I didn’t want anyone to get killed or go crazy or nothin’, I really didn’t!”

“But the two boys, they took you seriously.”

Daria swallowed and nodded. Her hands trembled in her lap.

“They wanted to be famous, like Lyudmila . . . whatever her name was. Spencer.”

“Pavlichenko,” corrected Daria. “Brenda Ann Spencer was—” She flinched and looked from woman to woman, finishing in a rush “—somebody else! Lyudmila Pavlichenko was the one I was writin’ ‘bout!”

“Oh,” said Ms. Li. She shrugged and appeared to lose interest in the topic, glancing at Mrs. Manson. “I think that’s everything.”

“Um,” said Mrs. Manson, looking over a paper on her desk, “actually, I did have a few more—”

“We don’t need to bother,” Ms. Li said, cutting her off. She looked back at Daria with a kind expression. “None of this is going any further than this room, and we’re done with it. A clean slate, Miss Morgendorffer. We have plenty of people here who have more problems than you do, if you can possibly believe that. Furthermore, to the best of our knowledge, your name and photos were never publicly revealed, which made your transfer here infinitely easier. You really are starting over again, and that’s what we all need. I want you to focus on your schoolwork and graduation and nothing else, eyes on the prize. Are you with me?”

Daria nodded. Beads of sweat rolled down her white face.

“Good!” Ms. Li stood and motioned for Daria to follow her to the door. “You go on back to class. I’ll call ahead for you, but you can stop at the restroom on the way if you need to. Oh, get your backpack, you forgot it by your chair. There you go. Let’s make this a good year for all of us. Oh, and Daria?”

The little brunette’s knees were shaking. “What?” she said, holding the backpack in front of her like a shield.

“No smoking on or near school property.” Ms. Li held out her right hand, palm up. After a moment, Daria gave up her cigarette pack. “Good girl. Good time to quit. Stay healthy.”

When Daria was gone, Ms. Li stood at the door for several second, still looking off in the direction Daria had gone.

“What just happened, Angela?” asked the psychologist in irritation. “I had to find out—”

“She knows who Brenda Ann Spencer is,” said Ms. Li in a low voice. She turned from the door and walked back to her seat again, but she stopped before sitting down. “Do you have the results of her psych tests from Hope?”

“Here.” Mrs. Manson handed them over.

Ms. Li took the documents and sat down, flipping through them. She stopped to read a long paragraph. “They didn’t rule out conduct disorder,” she said, then flipped a page. “Elevated, elevated, scores are up all over. She’s depressed, very much so. That’s internalized anger. Scared, yes, and anxious and remorseful—I believe she didn’t mean for the shootings to happen—but she’s angry, too, very angry. Parents are getting divorced, she spent six months in an alternative school built like a prison after being secretly investigated for instigating the shootings . . . probably had a chip on her shoulder long before it all happened, too. She’s not antisocial, she won’t even try to get along with people the way a sociopath will, to throw everyone off. She just hates people, period.”

“Isn’t that a little strong, to say that she . . .” Mrs. Manson’s voice trailed off as Ms. Li eyed her over the top of the papers, then looked down and resumed reading. “Well,” Manson continued, “who’s Brenda Sue Spencer?”

“Brenda Ann Spencer,” said Ms. Li absently, still reading the paperwork. “School shooter in San Diego, January nineteen seventy-nine, killed two people, wounded a bunch of children. Said she did it because she didn’t like Mondays. Daria got her full name right. If she researched Lyudmila whatever, she’s probably researched them all, every sniper and shooter there is. Thank God we don’t have a gun club here.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Manson, taken aback. “Are they sure she didn’t mean for the shootings to happen? That was pretty bad—eleven people killed, including the two boys, and it happened the afternoon after school, the same day she gave that—”

“One of the boys is alive, but brain dead,” said the principal. “He’s one of the eight wounded.” She flipped another page in the paperwork and squinted to make out the words. “Did you see her WISC-Four?”

“I did. That was a surprise. She has the highest score of anyone here by a long shot, except maybe Jodie Landon. She’s a damn smart kid. A point in her favor, I’d say.”

Ms. Li merely grunted. “MMPI wasn’t so good. Her Beck was worse. We’re going to have to watch in case she tries to hurt herself. I wonder if she’s seeing a counselor on the side.” When she finished reading, she tossed the paperwork back to Mrs. Manson’s desk and got to her feet. “I need to get Mrs. Bennett to set up a permanent Internet search for me,” she said, stopping at the door. “If word gets out that Daria Morgendorffer was the one who sparked the Highland shootings, it’ll be on the ‘net first, probably in someone’s blog, then the whole world will know and we’ll be up to our asses in reporters and angry parents trying to get Daria kicked out before they pull their own kids out. It’s probably just a matter of time. I couldn’t very well refuse her, though. She didn’t pull the trigger.”

“So, you do think she planned what happened?”

“No, but it won’t matter to anyone else.”

“You know,” said the psychologist, “she’s got a sister, Quinn, who’s—”

“I know. I talked to her this morning. She’s already been taken in by the Little Angels.” Ms. Li rolled her eyes. “I’m not worried about her.”

“But Quinn might say something.”

The principal laughed briefly and shook her head. “No, she won’t. She won’t say a thing. She was covering up like mad when I saw her. She told me she was from Lubbock, not Highland. She won’t even admit her parents are divorcing, says her father’s working out of town.”

“Oh.”

“Do me a favor, would you, Margaret?”

“Name it.”

Ms. Li turned the handle of the doorknob, but did not yet open it. She lifted her chin as she looked at Mrs. Manson. “If you see or hear anything unusual about Daria from other students or Security, and I mean if you hear anything at all, tell me instantly. If she swears, if she sneaks a smoke, if she’s seen with a pill bottle, if she cuts herself, if she draws a map, if she starts a list of names, if she uses the library computer lab to look up weaponry or shooter statistics, if she blows her goddamn nose wrong, you find me instantly and you tell me. Don’t waste a second.” She raised an index finger and moved it in time with her words. “Whatever else she is, that child is very . . . very . . . angry.”

She opened the door, closed it behind her, and was gone.

III

“Are you okay?”

Daria heard the words and came back to reality. She was walking down a crowded school hallway done in purple, with orange lockers on the walls. The tall athletic girl walking beside her looked at her in concern.

“Oh,” Daria mumbled. “Sorry.”

“You’ve been kinda out of it for a while,” said Jane. “Did anything happen when you saw Charlotte Manson?”

“Uh, oh, no, nothing. That was okay. It’s just . . . I am kinda out of it today.”

“I gotta tell you something. I love your accent.”

“My acc . . .” Daria gave a mock frown. “I don’t have an accent.”

“Yes, you do. It’s great. It’s like having a foreigner for a friend. I should make a recording of you talking and send it to Trent.”

Daria mustered the best evil look she could and turned its focus on Jane.

“You’ll have to do better than that, pardner,” said Jane with a grin. “You ride horses a lot in Texas?”

“Uh . . . no. Some of us have pickup trucks now. Those of us who became fully evolved, however, stay at home in front of the TV and never get up.”

“I like that, but it wouldn’t have worked for me. If I’d had a pickup truck, I wouldn’t have been home when the police came by after the vagrant.”

Daria sighed. “What’s the next class like?”

“Oh, Current Events is pretty good. The teacher’s wacko, but he has great arguments with the football players. He gets everyone stirred up. Sometimes I even learn something, God knows why or how. Let’s try to get seats together again. I don’t have a phone to send text messages with.”

“Neither do I,” Daria confessed. “Didn’t think I’d need it.”

“Didn’t think you’d need it? Why? You didn’t think—oh, never mind. We’ll do it the old-fashioned way and pass notes. Crude, but effective.”

Daria could tell Jane had caught the unspoken message: I didn’t think I’d have any friends to talk to. She was grateful that Jane had not said it aloud.

Daria and Jane were in their seats before the bell rang, Jane sitting to Daria’s left. “Good morning!” barked the graying, hawk-faced teacher at the front of the room, whose left eye bulged out when he emphasized certain words. He had an Italian name, Daria remembered from her school intro packet. “We have a new student joining us today,” the teacher went on, “and that’s Daria Morgendorffer.” He gave a nod in her direction, then let his gaze wander over the rest of the room. “As the rest of you doubtless recall, we’ve been discussing the war in Iraq. I’m not taking partisan sides—that’s your job!—but we’ll examine the issues carefully so, in theory, you can make informed decisions, or at least half-baked ones!”

The teacher swung around to face Daria. “Miss Morgendorffer!” he fairly shouted, causing her to jump. “If you would, please, tell the class what moment in the current conflict stands out most in your memory! Any trivial event will do.”

Daria caught her breath and made herself think. “The bombing of Baghdad, televised live,” she finally said, her twang almost gone. I can’t afford to sound like a hick.

“Mmm,” said the teacher, starting to pace across the front of the classroom. He did not look at her. “Are you talking about the first Iraq War or the second?”

“The second, the ‘shock and awe’ attack.”

“Ah! Excellent!” The teacher turned to pace the other way. “Friday, March twenty-first, two thousand three. That was indeed something to remember—but we each remember it differently.” He stopped. “Who else remembers the ‘shock and awe’ bombardment?”

For a moment, no other hands went up. Then a broad-shouldered black student as tall as the teacher raised his hand. “I saw it on the news that night,” he said.

“I did, too, but not as it was happening,” said a black female student. “I was in school.” Two others raised their hands as well.

“Ah, my apologies,” said the teacher. “I had forgotten you would be in class that day. That would have been, um, fifth grade for you, I believe.” He turned to Daria with a quizzical look. “How did you get to see it?”

“One of the classrooms at . . . in elementary school had it on TV.” Daria’s voice fell after she stopped herself from naming her elementary school, Highland.

“It did?” The teacher looked surprised, but then moved on. “Some people have all the luck. Okay! What else do you remember about the current war in Iraq? Anyone?”

Daria felt something poke her left elbow. She looked down. A scrap of paper sat on her desk by her arm. She glanced at Jane, who sat with a politely bored expression, then looked up at the teacher—Mr. DeMartino, she remembered now—as she unfolded the scrap. The moment he turned his back on the class, she looked down and read:

THUMBS UP, YOU GOT ON MR. D’S GOOD SIDE

She folded up the scrap again. Around her, she was aware of other students staring at Mr. DeMartino with their hands hidden from view—pushing buttons on their cell phones to text each other. Two had wireless buds in one ear each, their heads turned to keep DeMartino from seeing that they were listening to low-volume music. Hardly anyone seemed to be interested in what the teacher was saying, even if they kept their gaze on him.

“Was the ‘shock and awe’ attack news?” Mr. DeMartino said in a loud voice, looking over the classroom, “or was it . . . entertainment? And how could we possibly tell the difference? What’s your opinion?” He noticed a hand up. “Kevin?”

“I didn’t see it,” said a dark-haired kid in a football jersey, “but that would’ve been cool!”

The teacher’s face twitched with annoyance. “Jodie!” he called, turning to the black girl with cornrows who had spoken earlier. “News or entertainment? Help us out!”

“Both,” said the girl. “I think a lot of people got off on the idea that we were bombing another city and you could watch it happen. I thought it was sick.”

“It was still news, though,” said the tall black student sitting near her. “That was the start of the war. It wasn’t like it was a WWE Smackdown. They didn’t stage it. It wasn’t fake or anything.”

“It was staged,” said Jodie. She sat up, her face tense. “That was the whole point of ‘shock and awe,’ to overwhelm everyone, including the spectators. It was like throwing people to the lions and watching them get eaten alive.”

“They had lions?” asked the dark-haired kid named Kevin.

“No!” snapped Jodie. She rolled her eyes in disgust.

“The whole point of ‘shock and awe’ was to get the Iraqis to surrender,” said the tall black student. “It was to scare ‘em badly enough to cut the war short.”

“Yeah,” muttered Jodie, “and that worked really well, didn’t it?”

“I don’t get why we were fighting the Rockies to begin with,” squeaked a curvy blonde in a blue sweater. “Did they attack us first?”

“Let’s see what the class says, Brittany.” Mr. DeMartino surveyed the room. “What do you think?”

“Yes!” said several students, raising their hands. “No!” said a dozen others, including Jodie and the tall black kid.

“No!” said Daria in a louder than usual voice—and then clamped her mouth shut.

Too late. Mr. DeMartino swung in her direction with a sharklike grin. “Daria!” he cried, pouncing on his prey. “Your opinion! Did Iraq attack America first?”

She swallowed. Once upon a time, she had looked forward to a good rousing classroom debate. Now she cursed the impulse that made her the focus of attention. “No,” she said in a low voice. “The administration decided to attack first. They knew Iraq had nothing to do with Nine-Eleven, despite their claims, and they—” She hesitated a beat, knowing she had already said too much “—had already discussed finishing up old business from the first Iraq War. They didn’t think all the weapons of mass destruction had been removed from the country, again despite reports otherwise, so they decided on a preemptive first strike and went for regime change.”

“And four years later, we’re still there getting the shit knocked out of us,” said Jodie, glaring at her desktop.

Daria blinked. Swearing in class in front of a teacher was an “actionable offense” at Hope High School. Mr. DeMartino didn’t seem to mind, however. He was smiling. “Who thinks the war was the right thing to do, for whatever reason? Raise your hands!”

About a third of the class put up their hands—including the tall black student. Jodie glared at him and shook her head. The black kid lowered his hand and rubbed his short haircut nervously. Numerous students began to talk at once. Daria noticed only brief interruptions in the text messaging going on. She could pick out two kids playing pocket videogames on silent mode at the same time they talked to those around them about Iraq.

“Mike!” said Mr. DeMartino with glee to the tall black kid. “Why do you believe this war was the right thing to do?”

Daria felt another poke at her elbow. She took the next scrap and read:

DID YOU SAY YOU WERE FROM HIGHLAND TEXAS?

She instantly crumpled the note, biting her lower lip. I did tell her that. Why did I tell her? What was I thinking? I wasn’t going to tell anyone. After a glance to her left, noting in the corner of her eye that Jane was watching her, she nodded once, then looked back at the discussion going on between Mr. DeMartino and the student named Mike.

“. . . and we’d been fighting him off and on since the first war, under Clinton, so why not just wrap it up? We knew Saddam was bad, but we didn’t really know he didn’t have poison gas and A-bombs and all that. He’d tried to kill the first Bush, and he was sending support to suicide bombers, so he was just another terrorist as well as a dictator.”

“What about Afghanistan?” asked DeMartino with a narrow gaze. “Didn’t attacking Iraq weaken our commitment elsewhere?”

“Well—” Mike spread his hands “—we’re a superpower, right? We can fight a two-front war, can’t we? We did it before, in World War II. At least now our targets are almost in the same place. We—”

“This is bullshit!” snapped Jodie, turning on Mike as other students gasped. “The whole thing with Iraq was all about oil! Afghanistan attacked us, not Iraq! The Taliban was letting Al-Qaeda work in the open there! They were the enemy, not Iraq! Do you know how many civilians we’ve killed in Iraq for the sake of our idiot president? Saddam was not the enemy! Osama was the enemy, and we let him go!”

“We didn’t let him go!” Mike protested, but he had to shout over the chaos in the class. Half the students were cheering Jodie’s words, clapping and stamping their feet, while the rest used the time to catch up on their messaging, music, and videogames.

Daria felt something touch her left elbow again. She snatched the note from Jane’s fingers and crumpled it in her fist, face tight, watching Mr. DeMartino wave his arms to restore order. She already knew what the note said. It would ask if Daria knew anything about the shootings in Highland late in the year before, if she had known anyone who had been involved or hurt. Well, duh. Highland was as tiny as a town could be and still have its own hospital. Everyone knew everyone. How could she not know?

Mr. DeMartino was getting a big-boned Goth girl to explain her views about the war. Few people were really listening, only glancing up now and then while their fingers worked under their desks, tapping out messages. Someone else had her head down on her desk, taking a whispered cell-phone call with a wireless earpiece. Daria could hear what the teacher and the Goth girl were saying, but none of it registered. She was leaving them behind and couldn’t help it.

How could she, of everyone in town that day, not know?

The present crumpled into a ball as the past unfolded and came to life.

* * *

She wore black that day except for her white blouse and red skirt, carrying a candy ordering list as she walked door to door on Highland’s west side, near the drive-in theater. She had walked there after school by herself rather than catch a ride with one of the teachers, thus risking a ride with her younger sister. She had no desire to share her bad mood with anyone during one of the school’s exercises in forced-labor fundraising. This late fall afternoon, however, Daria had one positive thing going for her, which was that she had a note in her jacket pocket from Mr. Van Driessen, her English teacher, asking her parents to come in for a conference. The note said nothing about why the parent-teacher conference was sought, but Daria knew, and she could not wait to see her parents’ faces when they found out.

She had done it again. She had said the unutterable, read it aloud in the latest in her series of class essays designed to shock, upset, annoy, harass, disturb, vex, and punish those around her—punishment being key. Having her parents insist she get involved in extracurriculars was a load of horse manure. Walking door-to-door selling candy for her school was for the birds. But knowing her sister Quinn would sell five times what Daria could merely by smiling and looking cute was too great a cross to bear. That she had to suffer through each school day in the company of fools was less a burden than being outdone by her sister once more. Payback was due again for denying Daria a lazy evening at home in her room in her bed with an open book, and that payback would be a real mother (mother, ha ha, payback for my own mother making me do all this garbage, let her choke on it).

Today, that payback had been a daring essay about a person Daria had claimed to admire more than anyone else: a female Soviet sniper with over three hundred kills. She had filled the essay with rich detail, much of it imagined, and read it aloud with relish. The downside was knowing that though her essays always upset people, no one ever heard what she was trying to say: Look at me. Pay attention to me. Value me. Keep me from thinking my intelligence is wasted and there is no hope for the future. No one heard.

To be honest, Daria admitted to herself that she really did admire Lyudmila Pavlichenko, though she would never say so aloud. A woman so bold that she could fight in a war, shoot down men with impunity, and win the heart of the world for it—well, who wouldn’t want to be like that? Daria remembered a passage in Jerzy Kosinski’s The Painted Bird (which she had checked out of the local library with her adult card) in which the lost boy of the tale was befriended by a Red Army sniper named Mitka. Who would not have wanted such a strong, intelligent, sensitive, lethal man as a companion? As Daria walked from house to house, getting names and orders (but no money, that would be collected when the candy was delivered), she daydreamed that she was like Lyudmila Pavlichenko, perhaps a secret agent or professional assassin. She would call herself Melody, maybe Melody Cool or Melody Hammer or—no, the Austin Powers movies had ruined that other option. She would be a loner assassin like she imagined the girl in The Professional later grew up to be: Melody McCool, who learned her trade from an older and wiser killer, and one day on a secret mission she would meet a man like Mitka, the man of her dreams, and together they would—

The sound of distant firecrackers distracted her. She shook her head and pushed it out of her mind (the idiots around here!) and kept walking and ringing doorbells and daydreaming when she wasn’t fuming about the unfairness of life. About a half-dozen houses later, she heard police sirens to the east, mingling with the continued sound of firecrackers. She turned in annoyance to hear the noise better, and—

The ground trembled under her boots. She felt the atmosphere thump like a piston as a pressure wave accompanied by a noise like thunder rolled over her. A dome of orange flame rose over the trees to the east, crowned by black smoke that swallowed the fireball and rolled up into the cloudless West Texas afternoon sky. She felt the fireball’s radiant heat on her face from a quarter-mile away.

She stopped dead and stared. What the fuck was that?

Her candy-selling list dangling from her right hand, fifteen-year-old Daria Morgendorffer stood on a corner sidewalk in a rundown subdivision. A cool breeze blew around her. As she watched the black cloud rise, she heard more sirens and a sound like distant screams. She frowned and started walking slowly toward the pillar of smoke and the screaming sounds. Something was definitely wrong. Should she investigate? Should she stay out of it?

She thought of Quinn.

Her pace picked up. After a block, she estimated that the pillar of smoke was in the vicinity of the hospital, perhaps north of it. The sirens had drowned out the screams. There were gas stations there east of the Mini-Mall, particularly one that the kids from Highland frequented for stale, half-price doughnuts and pastries after school. Did the firecrackers have something to do with this? She heard more firecrackers go off, but they weren’t firecrackers now, they were gunshots, she knew it for a fact.

Gunshots? A failed robbery? A nut case with a gun?

Sometimes Quinn hung out at that gas station, because that was where the boys often were. Sometimes Quinn—

Daria dropped the candy list and started running for the pillar of smoke. She threw herself into it, but she was physically small to begin with, never exercised if she could avoid it, and ate junk food whenever possible. Her burst of speed lasted barely a minute. Five minutes after that, she was staggering along the street-side dirt path behind the Starlite Drive-in’s big screen, still several blocks from the school and the pillar of smoke beyond. Huge pit stains showed through her blouse, and wet strands of hair hung over her steamed-up glasses. She could barely breathe, her lungs full of razors.

It was then that she spotted a silver Honda Accord coming through an intersection a block ahead. The car squealed to a stop, backed up, then sped down the street toward her on shrieking tires. The driver slammed on the brakes when he reached Daria, skidding over the centerline to block the empty oncoming lane. Her father jumped out of the car white faced, ran over, grabbed Daria around the waist and lifted her off the ground (Hey! Dad! What are you doing? she cried), then ran with her to the car, shoved her into the rear seat before slamming the door on her, jumped in the car himself, and peeled out of there to head west again, away from the pillar of smoke.

Thank God, he cried as he drove. He did not stop until he reached a motel five miles outside of town. Thank God, thank God, thank God.

Her sister had been safe at home watching TV, having filled her candy-ordering sheet a half-hour before. All she’d had to do was smile. She was unscathed.

Daria never saw the actual shootings. She never saw the exploded propane rack, the gas fires, the burned-out hulks of the minivan and two cars at the filling station, the rag-doll bodies and the blackened stick people, the police cars and ambulances and fire trucks and madness and chaos, actual screams issuing from the mouths of insane parents and horrified neighbors, dirty streams of red running over the pavement to the gutter.

She saw it later on videotape and in countless photos. The police and the prosecutors made sure she saw everything. They made sure she knew.

Mr. Van Driessen, who had driven a minivan for a group of candy-selling children, survived. The four students in the minivan, parked by the propane tanks, did not. Mr. Van Driessen walked with a cane when he came to the juvenile hearing and testified against Daria. He had her report on the sniper, complete with his note: Call parents ASAP.

Seven of the dead were from her English class. She had known them all. She had hung out with the two shooters on occasion and everyone knew it, even her parents. She found them amusing but nothing more. They were outcasts, like her, but intellectually and behaviorally challenged, to put it mildly. Acquaintances, nothing more.

No one had believed that. Not even her parents.

Daria could not be convicted of anything, as no one could prove her essay was the signal to start the rampage. No one could prove she had meant for the shootings to happen. However, she could be expelled from Highland High School, and she was. The worst they could do, the authorities thought, was to send her to Hope High School and be rid of her as the parade of funerals began. That parade went on for a week.

The worst they actually did, however, was to tell her everything. She never forgot a single photograph, a single scream on the collected videotapes. She saw and heard them in her sleep and while she was awake, twenty-four seven three hundred sixty-five. There was no escape from it.

She stopped writing except for the briefest possible answers. She picked up smoking and swearing from the other girls at Hope. She rarely read. She rarely spoke. She made no friends. Even the hard-case students at Hope were wary of her, fearing she might yet have a gun or knife concealed on her, or she might know one more shooter. She was completely alone at last, as she had so often wanted to be.

In time, she began to daydream of death.

* * *

She blinked and reached up to rub her eyes. Mr. DeMartino was writing something on the board. The girl named Jodie was giving the boy named Mike a look of smoldering rage, which he did his best to ignore. The Goth girl was chewing gum. The bubbly zaftig blonde was texting someone and trying not to giggle aloud. Kevin, the dark-haired boy in the football jersey, had nodded off.

Jane was watching her.

The bell rang. Students got to their feet and filed out of the room, laughing and talking and poking each other with pencils.

“Are you coming?” asked Jane, standing by her desk.

Daria got up, mechanically picking up her books and notebooks. She had not opened a one of them.

“I didn’t mean to bug you,” said Jane. “I was saying that the only way I can get out of LYRE is if someone invites me over someplace with a parent around, then drives me back before eight p.m. I don’t mean to be pushy, but it’s the only way I can see anyone after school. Otherwise I have to catch the bus or go back with a social worker.”

“Oh,” said Daria. She realized the tiny wad of Jane’s last note was still in her right hand. She dropped it on the floor. “Okay. I’ll ask my—” She grimaced. “I forgot my mom won’t get home till late. I can’t drive yet, either.” This is never going to work.

“Well, fuck, I tried.”

“Maybe we can work something out.” Why am I saying this? It won’t.

“That would be great if you could. You mind some company after school? Do homework together? Hang out? Watch TV?”

“Sure.” No. Yes. I don’t know.

They left for their next class.

The hardest part of living was facing herself in unprotected moments when a new and ugly truth would pop out. And the hardest part of that was remembering when her father told her what had happened back in town, and she realized that she might have had a part in making it happen because the shooters might have been her classmates and they might have been inspired by what she had said in class and how she said it.

As she walked with Jane, she recalled the moment she realized that someone had listened to her at last. She had made a difference in the world. Her voice had been heard. For the instant that had followed, but no longer, she had been wildly happy.

She remembered, and for the ten thousandth time she wished she was dead.

Above her, behind a ventilation grill in the ceiling, a miniature camera watched the two girls go.

Detention was held in the gymnasium at two-thirty sharp under the direction of a hard-faced, pigtailed P.E. teacher in blue sweats, assisted by four athletic-looking seniors, male and female. “All right!” the teacher shouted into a wireless microphone as she looked up at the bleachers and the twenty-odd students before her. “We don’t have any hour-long detentions today, so we’ve got thirty wonderful minutes together! We’re going to make that zero minutes tomorrow, is that clear? I said, is that clear? Good! If you have homework, start working on it now! If you don’t have homework, get your buns down here and run fifty laps for me! Everybody got work to do? Great! Now, get working!”

Daria, Jane, and most of the other students sat high on the bleachers near the rear wall. The P.E. teacher did not seem to mind. Jane propped herself up with an open sketchpad across her thighs. Daria carefully organized her algebra homework on her lap and pulled out a mechanical pencil. “She really knows how to grab the hearts and minds,” she whispered, glancing up at the teacher.

“Morris the Macho,” Jane whispered back. She began to rough out a picture of a cheerleader jumping into the air, pom-poms raised and feet kicked back. “She gets what she wants, for sure.”

“How long’ve you known her?”

“Just since last year. She and ‘Hulk’ Gibson are the main coaches. Morris takes care of track, soccer, and field hockey. Gibson handles football, softball, and basketball. We’ve got other coaches for archery and all that, but Morris and Gibson are the kings.”

“You mean queen and king?” said Daria, looking at her homework.

“Kings in every way,” said Jane with a smile.

“Oh.”

“Doesn’t matter to me. Her partner Dina has a PDA shop in town and runs time-management workshops. The school buys PDAs from her in bulk. All the seniors have them. I think next year everyone’s supposed to get one, but they’ll have school programming so you can’t mess around with them.”

Daria nodded over her homework. “Goodthink,” she muttered.

Jane paused in her sketching to look over at Daria. “As in Nineteen Eighty-four, you mean?”

Daria looked up and met her friend’s gaze, mildly impressed. “Yeah. You’re sayin’ the PDAs’re fixed so you can’t do bad things with ‘em.”

Jane grinned. “That’s what I thought you meant. I read that book ages ago. Nasty little thing.”

Daria felt a smile creep over her face. It was impossible not to think she’d finally found a soul mate. She glanced at Jane’s sketch, then did a classic double take. The cheerleader had Daria’s face. “Hey!”

Jane smirked and kept drawing.

“Any parents complain about Morris?”

Jane snorted. “Morris and her partner are locals. They even went to school here. No one cares. Plus, the school’s got something like a seventy percent win rate at almost everything in sports, which is outrageous, so they won’t replace her. For every parent who pulls their kid out to go somewhere else, five are fighting to get their kids in—and a lot of kids want to be here.”

“Long as they don’t mind Big Brother lookin’ over their shoulders.” Daria shrugged. “No accountin’ for tastes, said the man as he kissed his horse.”

“People love security, Daria. Freedom, they don’t need. It causes trouble.” Jane glanced around the gym. “Did you get your mom when you called from the office?”

Daria sighed and wiggled her pencil back and forth over her homework paper. “No. Left a message with her sec’tary, Marianne something. I’ll just walk home. Funny. Used to be a lot of lawyers where she works, then half of ‘em up and left for New York City. Must be better lawsuits there. Mom got on as a junior partner at the firm. Think it’s called Vitale, Schrecter, Schrecter & Morgendorffer, now.”

“Is she making big money?”

“I guess. Haven’t seen her enough to know.”

“Sounds a little like my absentee parents. So, when you go home, no one’s there?”

“Mom said I don’t need to be on a leash. I just . . . have to keep my nose clean, whatever.”

“Stay out of trouble.”

“Yeah.” Daria stared at her blank homework paper and sighed.

“She can call my social worker anytime for me to come over.”

“You must want out of that LYRE place pretty bad.”

“You have no idea how badly. Tell your mom I’ll be a good influence on you. I won’t smoke or drink or take drugs in the house. Boys, though . . . hmmm”

Daria peered at Jane over the top of her glasses, then rolled her eyes and looked down at her not-yet-started algebra homework again. “You’re not helpin’. Mom’s mad enough ‘bout me smokin’ as is. She sees you do it, she’ll—”

“She won’t. I needed a good excuse to quit.” Jane hesitated, then said, “So, you’re really from Highland? Where those shootings were last November?”

The world came to a halt. Daria stopped wiggling her pencil. I knew it wouldn’t work. Damn it.

“Bad topic?” asked Jane in a lower tone.

“I was there,” said Daria. Hearing Jane’s gasp, she added, “Not right where it happened. A few blocks away. I heard it. Saw part of it.” The propane fireball. That counts.

“Oh, shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t think. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Daria put down the pencil, all interest in homework lost. “Doesn’t matter.”

“I won’t talk about it again, I promise.”

Daria raised her gaze to look out over the gymnasium. Depression settled in and pulled her shoulders down. “Doesn’t matter,” she whispered. “They’ll all figger it out soon enough.”

“Figure what out?”

“That I was there.”

Jane looked confused. She put down her sketching pencil. “Is that why you moved here?” she said.

Daria nodded, still looking across the gym at nothing.

“I’m sorry. Can I do anything?” asked Jane.

“No,” Daria whispered. After a moment, she closed her algebra book and tucked it in her open backpack. “I gotta go to the restroom.”

“Want me to go with you?”

“No.” Daria shouldered her backpack and got up, then stepped down to the next foot plank and left. She did not look back. When she reached the bottom of the bleachers, she walked over to the teacher in the blue sweats. “May I go to the restroom, ma’am?”

Ms. Morris pointed toward a hall door with the pencil she had held over her clipboard. “Make it fast.”

“Yes, ma’am.” A minute later, the restroom door thumped shut behind her as she walked over to the sinks. The stalls were empty; she was alone. The floor was clean enough, so she put her backpack down and took off her glasses, folding them up and setting them on the shelf below the mirror. She then washed her hands and face, then stood with her head bowed and both hands covering her eyes.

I knew this would never work. I knew it wouldn’t, I knew it. Her face burned. She knew she was crying and someone would walk in at any moment and see her like that, but she couldn’t help it. She sniffed, ran water over her hands, and rubbed her face again.

The door squeaked open behind her, then thumped shut. She opened her eyes enough to look in the mirror and see, despite her blurry vision, that it was Jane. She covered her eyes again and rubbed them.

“God, Daria, I swear I am so sorry. Me and my big fucking mouth.”

“It’s okay.” She sniffed again and wiped her eyes with the palms of her hands. “Don’t worry ‘bout it. I’ll be all right.”

“Can I get you anything?”

Daria pulled a paper towel and blew her nose in it. “Nah. Comes and goes. Don’t pay no ‘tention to it.”

“That is just the most amazing drawl you have.”

A short laugh burst from Daria’s lips, ending in a cough. She pulled more paper towels and wiped off her face. “You are so full of shit,” she said as she reached for her glasses, but she smiled when she said it.

“You sound just like my social worker,” Jane said with a nervous smile. She looked around at the stalls. “Uh, as long as I’m in here . . .”

“Yeah, well, when in Rome . . .”

“Christ,” said Morris when they returned to the gym, “did the two of you have your nails done while you were out? Keep it to three minutes next time, or I’ll add a half hour to your detention!”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Daria with a solemn look.

“Ditto, ma’am,” said Jane with a smirk.

“I still want to talk to you later,” Morris said, looking at Jane.

“Later, okay.”

The two girls made small talk at the back of the bleachers until detention ended. Daria walked with Jane to the bus loading dock, where a battered blue Pinto hatchback awaited with an older woman at the wheel. She beeped the horn when she saw Jane.

“Mrs. Sullivan, my social worker,” said Jane, waving back. “For God’s sake, don’t ask her about her colon.”

“‘Preciate the warnin’,” Daria muttered.

“See you tomorrow?”

Daria sighed, but a faint smile appeared on her face. “If I must.”

Jane grinned and waved goodbye, then got into the hatchback and shut the door. Daria waved as they drove away, then went home. The walk was only six blocks but crossed two busy thoroughfares. Rush hour must start early around here, she mused. She wondered why she was not as depressed as before. She wondered where Jane had lived before the Lanes lost their house. She wondered if Jane was serious about sending a recording of her voice to her brother in Iraq. He looked like such a cool guy.

“Get over it, girl,” she grumbled, rolling her eyes again. “Nothin’ll happen. Nothin’ ever does.”

She reached home mildly depressed, having started to think about her father back in Highland, and was fumbling in her pocket for her house keys when the front door opened. Red-haired Quinn stood in the doorway with a cell phone to her ear. She was eighteen months younger and two inches taller than her sister.

“Nev’ mind, Marianne,” said Quinn to the phone. “She’s here. Don’t say nothin’ ‘bout this to Mom. Thank’ee.” She shut the cell phone and put her fists on her hips. “Where you been?” she snapped, her twang as bad as Daria’s.

“Out,” said Daria, pushing past her. “M’ back now.”

Quinn shut the door and followed her sister to the kitchen. “I was worried sick ‘bout you! Anything happen?”

“No.” Daria dropped her backpack on the floor by the counter, then went to the refrigerator and opened it, looking inside for a snack.

“We’re havin’ beef lasagna tonight, so watch what you eat. Why didn’ you come right home when school was out?”

“I had detention.” Daria pulled out a Tupperware container filled with barbecued chicken wings.

“You what?” yelled Quinn. “Daria!”

“Oh, fuck, would you let it go?” Daria set the container of wings on the kitchen counter and popped it open.

“Watch your mouth! What’d you get detention for?”

“I was late to class. Jane and—” She grimaced and cursed herself.

“Jane and you? Who’s Jane?”

“Nobody. Let it alone.”

Quinn walked around the counter to face her sister. “She your friend?”

“Mebbe,” Daria mumbled, chewing on a wing.

“Is she good people?”

Daria swallowed her bite, not making eye contact. “If she’s hangin’ ‘round me, prob’ly not.”

Quinn stared into her sister’s face, then nodded. “She’s prob’ly all right, least for you. I was worried ‘bout you.”

“Don’t be.”

“I love you.”

Daria looked down at the chicken wings and picked up another one in silence.

“I don’t want—” Quinn stopped and tried again. “I just want things to go okay here. I want you to be all right.”

With a sigh, Daria dropped the uneaten wing back into the container, recapped it, and put it back in the fridge. “That’s nice,” she said on her way out, leaving her backpack behind. “I’ll be in my room.”

“God loves you, too, Daria.”

Daria stopped dead in the doorway leading out of the kitchen to the family room. She turned and looked with narrow eyes at her sister, taking in the tiny gold cross at her neck. “Don’t say that,” she growled. “I told you not to ever tell me that.”

“It’s true, though,” said her sister, looking defensive.

“God loves me like that thief that was crucified with Jesus, right?”

Quinn straightened. “That’s right,” she said softly. “He does.”

The words came out of Daria’s mouth in a rush, faster than she could think about them or stop them. “That thief still died, right? They came and broke both his legs while he was nailed up there and he died there, didn’t he? He died in pain, didn’t he? What fuckin’ good did that do ‘im? Tell me! And all he did was steal somethin’! He died in pain on a fuckin’ cross, and what fuckin’ good did God do for ‘im? You tell me! God didn’t do ‘im any fuckin’ good at all!”

She turned on her heel and stamped upstairs and slammed her bedroom door and locked it with the knob lock as well as the deadbolt and chain she had added right after she had moved into her room a week earlier. She started toward her bed, but then spun and kicked the side of her desk as hard as she could. The computer keyboard bounced and two books fell off the shelves. Ignoring the pain, she kicked her desk again, then again and again with her hard-toed boots until she had knocked most of the books and CDs down and the keyboard was on the floor. She was aware she had been cursing aloud but she did not remember what she had said. A red haze covered the world. As she walked across the room, she stamped on a CD case, smashing both it and its contents, then snatched up a book from the floor and threw it against a padded wall. She then snatched off her glasses, threw them as hard as she could, then fell to her knees and slammed both fists into the mattress of her bed, swinging her arms over her head and hammering down over and over until the bed jumped with each blow. God damn it! she screamed as she hit the mattress. God damn it, God damn it, God damn it, God damn it!

A long time later, she opened her eyes. Her head was cradled in her arms. She lay full-length on the bed. She did not remember getting on it. Her boots were still on. She wasn’t sure where her glasses were. She hoped they were intact. She’d broken two pairs this year already.

No sound could be heard except for cars passing outside. She knew without checking that her sister was praying for her. She hated thinking about that, but she knew it was true. Ever since that day, Quinn had been praying for her, and Daria could hardly stand it.

Damn her anyway, she thought, hiding her face in the covers. Damn her anyway for doing that shit. I wish she’d fucking stop. But she did not get up to go make Quinn stop. She bunched the covers around her head and thought about how life would go if she were dead, how good that would feel to have no more pain, and eventually she went back to sleep.

* * *

Someone was knocking on her door. She awoke in darkness, her thinking muddled, and felt around for her glasses for several seconds before she realized they were gone.

“Daria?” It was her mother. “Daria, take off your earphones! Daria?” Louder knocking followed. “Dinner’s ready! Come on downstairs!”

“Comin’,” she grumbled, getting up. The lights were off, and it was almost dark outside. She felt her way to the wall switch, turned the lights on, and began hunting for her glasses.

They were under her bureau. The left earpiece had broken off.

“Shit.” She looked in the drawer where she kept spare parts for her glasses, but she had no extra earpieces and no spare glasses.

“What’s that?” asked her mother over dinner. She had not mentioned Daria’s crack about Eric Schrecter from that morning.

“What’s what?”

“On your glasses.” Helen leaned close to squint at Daria’s face. “Is that tape?”

“Oh. Dropped ‘em.”

“Again? Daria, that’s the third time this—”

“Did I tell you what Angie wants the Little Angels to do for Homecomin’?” Quinn interrupted, looking from sister to mother and back. “She wants us to have a prayer circle before the game with Oakwood. We’re gonna do it in the parkin’ lot an’ try to get the cheerleaders from both teams an’ maybe the football players to join in. Kelly’s gonna talk to her cheerleader cousin at Oakwood ‘bout it. One of the cheerleaders here is Jewish, but we’ll work it out somehow.”

“That’s . . . uh, wonderful, dear.” Helen peered again at Daria, then shook her head and lifted a forkful of lasagna. At that moment, an electronic disco version of Total Eclipse of the Heart rang through the air. Helen dropped her fork and was out of her chair in a second. “Be right back!” she said as she ran for the cell phone by the sink.

Quinn looked across the table at her sister. Daria glanced at her, then kept her eyes on her plate and toyed with her lasagna. In the background, they could hear their mother talking gaily to someone named Eric. Helen laughed, glanced at the girls, then walked out of the kitchen with the phone to her ear.

“Dad called,” Quinn whispered when their mother was out of earshot.

Daria looked up, then made herself look down again. “What’d he say?”

“He’s doin’ all right, mostly. He said he misses us.”

Daria swallowed but kept her composure. “That’s nice.”

“I said we missed him, too. I told him we’d started school today an’ were doin’ okay.”

“Don’t lie on my account.” Her appetite gone, Daria put down her fork and pushed her plate away. She eyed her milk and decided she could choke it down. She reached for it, turned the glass around once, then let it go. It was no use. She was done.

“Well, thank you!” said their mother in the family room. She laughed again. “That’s very sweet of you, Eric!”

Quinn put a hand to her forehead and winced, eyes closed, then lowered her hand, pushed back her chair, and stood. Her dinner was only half finished. “I’ll clean up,” she said.

“My turn,” said Daria, also getting up. Ninety percent of her food was still there.

They put everything away except for their mother’s dinner, then left and went upstairs. Daria went in her room and knelt to pick up the remains of the CD she had crushed. She heard Quinn come to the doorway, stand for a minute looking around at the destruction, then walk off to her own room.

Probably to pray. I wish she wouldn’t do that.

When the shattered CD and its case were disposed of, Daria took a moment to look at her room in a broad sweep. She was feeling jumpy. Fitting, she thought, that a crazy woman lived h