(41) Bricks and Cliques

“Well, Daria, I had no idea you would be up so bright and early this morning!”

I glance up instantly. My mom’s mom is standing in front of me, clutching the folds of her carnation pink terrycloth robe with a blue paisley silk handkerchief wrapped around the crown of her head. She smiles at me warmly. “Well then, Daria, you can help me choose my hair for the day! I’m having trouble deciding between a brunette blunt cut, a ravishing auburn bob, and a lovely blonde shag.”

I laugh happily. The only signs of my grandmother’s advancing cancer is a somewhat more lithe body in the folds of her white eyelet nightgown. Her spirits on the other hand seem to not have been affected at all by the disease. “The shag, Grandmother, definitely the shag.” I try to keep my face serious for a moment and then burst out laughing.

“Yes, I quite agree, the shag it is then.” She bends down to peer through her glasses at the large book cradled in my lap.

“Now what do you have there?”

I put the album down on the carpet next to me and wrap my arms around my knees. “I think it’s one of your old photo albums, Gran.” I pull the sleeves of my gray sweatshirt so that they cover my hands and cross my legs in my pajamas.

“Now, I haven’t looked at these pictures for years.” She sits comfortably down next to me on the fraying couch. Let’s see what this old book has in it, shall we?” She turns the pages carefully reverently touching each picture with a fingertip as if to feel back for bygone days. As I watch her quietly I can see a far-away look transforming her eyes as they wander across the black and white photographs. It is clear she is visiting each scene vividly in her mind almost unaware of my presence next to her. “This is the grocery store your Grandfather started after the war.” She murmurs.

I squint at the faces standing in front of a newly painted building. “Is that you?” I ask pointing with my fingernail at a youthful woman sitting on a bench with a checkered apron tied around her hips.

“Yes, as a matter of fact it is.” She smiles at me warmly, “And don’t I look happy now? It took a long time to take that picture of our grand opening because my uncle was such a perfectionist. All I was concerned about was the impatient customers lining up at the door and maybe not coming back.”

I glance across the page, examining the images of more unfamiliar faces. She turns some leaves backward slowly and immediately I notice a picture where a young girl with my grandmother’s unmistakable dimpled smile beams brightly. “In this one you look happy. Who’s the girl next to you?”

“Ah, now that one is of my very best friend and I. Even though it took a while to take the photo, we kept each other smiling the whole time. Her father took the picture the very first day he purchased his first camera.”

“What was her name?” I ask interested. I peer at two girls with light colored hair, their small arms wrapped around each other’s necks in a loving embrace atop a large stone stoop.

“Mary Anne Stout. She moved onto my street in third grade and after that day we were inseparable and insufferable.” My grandma smiles and flips forward a couple of pages, pointing as she goes. “Here we are much older. This is on the field of our high school when we graduated and this one,” she sticks her finger on the other page, “this is Mary Anne holding your mother the very first week I had her.”
My eyes widen with amazement. “You were friends for that long?”
My grandmother chuckles lightheartedly. “Oh yes, Mary Anne and I were friends for life. She was the maid of honor at my wedding, helped me when I was pregnant with all of your aunts and uncles, nursed me when I was ill, and I’m willing to bet that you would have never guessed that Mary Anne, her Laurence, me and your grandpa were the ones who bricked up the back patio of this very house.
“I was the last person besides her Laurence that was with her, holding her hand for a last time before she passed on. There was no one like my Mary Anne anywhere, she had a heart of gold, that one.
I trace the face of the two girls, trying to visualize a friendship that would last for a lifetime. My grandmother pushes herself up. “Well, I’m going to go make breakfast now. Your grandpa will be up soon enough.”
As my grandma slowly heads for the kitchen I continue to look at the woman holding the small baby in her arms. A friendship that lasts over fifty years? I can’t even conceive the idea. The photo reminds me of the pictures in my DHS yearbook at home, where seniors who were once friends as children put old pictures on a page and then try to reenact what’s occurring in the scene. It’s clear to all students though, that the majority of the teenagers that have to put their arms around each other because they did it in the past hardly talk to each other today. Why is that?

I go over the faces of each of my friends in my mind and try to decide if any of them ever would be a companion of mine through college, into my married life, and even grow old with me. It seems very unlikely. Some of them hardly are loyal friends now. Days from the summer float through my mind to a night that I was supposed to go out with Charlotte. I had called her and she had told me she couldn’t because she had made plans with a group of other people just because an attractive guy was supposed to attend. Heather, the girl I had thought I had succeeded in becoming quite close to after comforting her willingly when her sister had been in a car accident had completely ignored me when I ran into her along the shore of the beach. No wave, no smile, just a look of complete indifference. I was invisible.

We now live in an instant message society where at the touch of the button we can communicate with anyone in the world.
We chat behind the alias of a screen name. We can’t see or hear whom it is we’re typing to; interacting with. We have to type things like LOL, or emotions like : ), and my personal favorite, <3 to share our hearts with our friends of the ether. I say friends… in all actuality they’re simply cyber acquaintances who have graduated to buddy lists, which I’m told you can now buy at newsstands in Japan. What a world.

I stare outside the window, completely lost in thought, where the sun now warms the dew on the grass. What is happening to true concept of human intimacy? Where has lasting friendship like the one Grandma and Mary Ann have had gone? What has occurred that has changed the importance in society from quality of friendships to quantity of friendships? Independence is no longer admired; instead what is valued is how large a group you can get to accompany you to the girls’ room.

Glancing back at the photo album, full of self-loathing, I recall how I have chosen and placed valuations on relationships like it was my father looking at an investment. Having access to a hot brother of a girl on my lacrosse team warrants a sleep over. Laughing at all of a girl’s jokes and continually and putting up with her unpredictable mood swings earns a bed in her winter house in the Caymans. I glance into the kitchen and look at my grandmother. I glance at my own reflection in the French doors of the dining room and see that same dimpled smile now turned upside down as I consider my generation and our disposable values. As I sit down at the small table I vow to myself and to the memory of Mary Ann Stout to be a true friend, to seek real friends, and to have a really great breakfast just as soon as I have checked for email on my cell phone.

(40) Finding a Friend

“Here’s your change ma’am, have a nice evening!” I flash my last customer a bright smile as I hand her her bag and then glance at the miniature clock next to the cash register. Finally, it reads six o’three and I quickly rip off my tag and toss it into a nearby drawer before any more people snake around the counter and I have to stay a couple minutes later. Before I can escape though, the phone rings.

“Thanks for calling Cosette’s, this is Daria, how can I help you?” I say cheerfully. It’s been only a month since I first got this job at the request of my dearly beloved parents, and now every part of it has just become automatic, just another part of the routine. “Hi, Daria.” I instantly recognize this voice and it isn’t any customer’s.

“Mom, I was just leaving.” I twist the cord of the phone around my fingers.

“I’m glad I caught you then, dear. You need to pick up Heather on the way home, she’s spending the night at our house tonight.” My eyes bulge. I feel like I’ve been slapped in the face. A whole night with HEATHER?! I stare outside the glass doors as people pass by in the last few hours of sunlight.

“But Mom I…”

“Listen, Daria, I know you and Heather aren’t the best of friends, but her parents just asked me if she could stay with us on an account of a family emergency, so you’re going to have to try extra hard tonight to get along with her.”

I sigh, fully understanding that there’s no way that I am going to be victorious in this battle. “Fine, I’ll be home in like half an hour then.” I hang up the phone angrily and start slumping towards the back office where I punch out as an employee and walk towards my car. As I pull out of the parking lot, I dread the next twelve hours. Heather and I haven’t exactly hit it off as best buddies since she moved here from Florida. The way she twists my words, talks about me behind my back, and gets all the people I have been friends with since elementary school to suddenly turn on me doesn’t make me jump at the chance to be nice to her. The horrifying event that both of our mothers served on the PTA together this past year and have become close friends just makes everything worse. Visions of family barbeques still haunt my mind where I have had to endure a little more of Heather Stone than I can stand. I have had more than my share of witnessing her constant need for attention resulting in obnoxious outbursts, her selfish desires to have my best friends all to herself, and the several times she’s had all three of my guy friends gawking at her. I’ve given up on Jeff Waters completely now, because even though I boldly told him how I felt about him, he consequently doesn’t know I’m alive. With Heather always flouncing around me, who would?
Several minutes later I reach their house. The white one with the light blue shutters and perfect rows of geraniums leading up to the front door. I climb up the steps and lean my body on her doorbell. I hear shuffling near the hallway and stand impatiently as she opens the door slowly. Neither one of us smiles as I follow her into the kitchen. The last rays of the evening’s sunlight stream through the windows bathing the whole room in comforting light. I flounce myself onto a stool in front of the light marble counter and watch the girl in front of me with disgust. I realize though in contrast to her mother’s cheerful kitchen, she looks unmistakably gloomy. She slowly drops a pillow next to her light blue duffel bag.

“What’s with you?” I ask picking up a large metal spoon and eying my round reflection on its surface. There’s silence for a few seconds and as I glance up I see her shoving her hand around her eyes as she stares at the ridges in the wood floor. I squint my eyes at her carefully. It isn’t like Heather not to be so perky and cheerful. “Seriously, Heather, what’s wrong?” I
ask her more gently.

“It’s nothing,” she sniffs as she collapses on top of her bag. She tries to catch some tears beading up in front of her large brown eyes, but fails as they come crashing down her cheeks and make stains on her knees. She looks up at me forlornly and knows that I don’t believe her. She looks down at her hands and twists them together in the lap of her kaki shorts. “My sister has been in some sort of accident. She’s in a coma right now, I mean, she’s going to be okay, but my parents had to go with her and she was airlifted to…” She loses control and begins quietly sobbing. I stare at her, not believing that her sister Erica a perfect miniature of Heather is lying unconscious right now in a hospital bed. I watch more drops roll of Heather’s cheeks and make tiny pools on the floor. I watch her helplessly, not knowing exactly what to do. A best friend would hug her fiercely and tell her everything’s going to be all right, but Heather and I haven’t ever been like that, we’ve hated each other since day one

“Heather, I’m sorry.” I murmur, not sure what to say or do, but knowing the importance of putting any grudges aside for this night, for this moment. I sit down next to her on top of her sleeping bag and put my arm around her slowly.

“I’m fine, really.” She smiles weakly. “I’m really sorry I have to ruin your evening, Daria. My parents were the ones who…”

“Heather, it’s fine, really. Here, I’ll grab your stuff.” Slinging her bag over my shoulder and stuffing her pillow under my arm I walk with her to the driveway. The house is quiet, and almost eerie as we shut the door.

About two hours later, we’re sprawled on the couch in our cotton pajamas with a discarded pizza box open on the coffee table. My mother had thought to rent a movie, and had picked Meet the Parents, a movie Heather and I have both seen almost three times. We still lie in the living room on my green checkered couch laughing hysterically at scenes we’ve practically memorized. I glance at her face glowing with happiness from time to time, understanding that this is what she needs most tonight. She looks back at me, realizing I’m watching her. “Let’s get some ice cream.” I suggest hopping up. We skid in our socks toward the freezer and grab a carton of Neapolitan. I grab bowls from the cabinet as Heather finds the best toppings.

“Oooooh, whip cream!” I squeal and immediately grab the can and spray a large puff into my mouth. I look over at Heather slyly, “Here, want some.” I tip back the can and suddenly a huge pile of white foam forms on her whole face.” We both laugh hysterically as she licks her tongue around the edges of her lips. Then she grabs the can and fires some at me so that it hangs off my nose.

“Daria,” she giggles uncontrollably, “we’re going to miss the best part of the movie.”

“We can always rewind it, smart one.” I reply smearing off the last bit of whipped cream with the back of my hand and then start to scoop some vanilla and chocolate ice cream into each bowl. She grabs the chocolate sauce and starts oozing streams of it across my creation. “I wonder if we have nuts.” I wander around the kitchen searching for peanuts to top our masterpieces. Just then I spot something equally as delicious posed on the glass container next to the toaster. “Wow, my mom made a cake!”

“She did?” Heather glances over at me.

“I wonder why she did that.” I reply shutting the door to the pantry.

“Maybe it’s because it’s my birthday tomorrow. I guess I’ll have to bring it with me to the hospital.” Heather licks some chocolate sauce off her finger.

I stare at Heather with open respect. After all this, tomorrow is Heather’s sixteenth birthday! I can’t believe what I’ve just heard. “What a way to spend your birthday” I think to myself. “No party, no presents, just a sister lying near death in a hospital bed.”

“Is our ice cream ready then?” Heather asks me as she picks up her bowl.

“Yeah.” I grab mine and numbly walk next to her back to the living room. As we snuggle back into our sleeping bags with our sundaes placed in our laps I think of how wrong I have been and how easily it is to misjudge others I had always considered Heather to be one of the most selfish, fake, annoying girls I have ever known. Now though, I realize that Heather has strength and selflessness beyond anything I have ever known.

“Daria?” I glance up at her next to me.

“Thanks for being here for me tonight. I know we haven’t had the best past, but I really appreciate how kind you are being to me tonight.

“No, Heather,” I sigh. “I’m the one who should apologize. I didn’t really give you a chance when you first moved here. I guess I just wasn’t used to having someone new enter my circle of friends.” I look at her and we share a smile, one of understanding and peace.

“It’s hard moving and making new friends.” She murmurs. “I guess I just didn’t know exactly how to act and be myself.”
“I understand.” I reply and look back at the screen. “Maybe,” I think to myself, “the past hasn’t been all that good, but I know the future is going to be better.” Digging my spoon into my ice cream I take a large bite, enjoying the taste not only of this perfectly created sundae, but also the feeling of finding a friend in someone I never thought was possible.

(39) Having a Senior Moment

The warm air hits my face as I close the glass window door and perch myself on the edge of the porch swing. I breathe in a sigh of pleasure as I contemplate the fact that they’re aren’t any more papers, tests, or projects for at least two and half months. The joy is indescribable. Taking a quick sip of orange soda, I snatch the wireless phone next to me and quickly dial Cameron’s number.

“Hello?” From where I am sitting, it doesn’t exactly sound like my best bud is feeling all that happy.

“Five minutes right? I already set up Bond.” I down another portion of my bottle.

“Uhhh…I don’t know.” I nearly choke on my drink.

“You’re not coming? Cameron we’ve had our Saturday night James Bond championships every week since you’ve moved here!
You’re just going to ditch it now?”

“Well…I was going to ask my dad to drive me but he’s kinda miffed right now because I didn’t do his stupid lawn perfectly. I don’t get the big deal, the lines of the mower were a little crooked, even if it’s wasn’t like Randy’s grade A job, it still trimmed the jungle.

“So what’s the deal then? Just come? Randy can-oh my gosh.”

“Yep, exactly. I don’t know, don’t call me anti social but I don’t exactly feel like coming over tonight. I don’t know…it’s just weird with him gone, the house is so empty.

“Well that’s why you should come.” I say brightly.

“Daria, I can’t. I’ll talk to you later I guess.” I hear the sound of his phone clicking and with great disappointment I drop it next to me. A light goes out in a window across the street and I hug my bare knees to my chin and listen to the peaceful quiet of my backyard with an occasional croak and chirp in the background. With sudden realization I ponder upon the fact that Randy, Cameron’s older brother that has always been around is now gone, maybe forever.
Immediately the image of his face is brought to my mind. Randy always had had dark thick hair that hung in his eyes over the rims of his glasses. When Cameron’s family had moved here three years ago, he had seemed like the complete opposite of his brother. Where Cameron was confident, strong-willed, and bold, Randy had been usually quiet, reserved, and calm. Now though, after getting contacts, working out at the gym a little bit, and getting his Eagle scout award, he had finally found himself. Recently I had begun to realize what an amazingly intelligent, generous, and interesting person he really is. Now though as another window goes dark next door, I realize it’s too late, because he’s left for Princeton and it’s possible that I’ll never see him again.

As I run my finger over the numbers on the phone next to me, I come to the understanding that it’s not even just him. It’s the girl that had been my fourth grade buddy when I was a third grader, the guy that had sat behind me in my Chemistry class, and all of the sisters of my friends who gave me rides in the car when I needed them. All of these seniors are about to leave, to prepare to start the rest of their lives. They are about to find out what their real futures are going to be, and go to an environment that they have chosen for themselves to meet the needs required for them to be able to accomplish their dreams, and I am just stuck here. They have an opportunity to move on while I have to remain where I am, about to start my junior year with the same people I have known for the majority of my life. It’s just doesn’t seem fair.

“Hey loser, why are you sitting out here like a loner?” Olivia slams the door shut and slumps next to me on the porch. I feel her weight next to me but I can’t look up at her.

“Randy left this morning at 4:00.” I say glumly. My sister looks at me quizzically.

“You never cared about him before.” She replies with her perfectly plucked brows furrowed. I can smell her first-date perfume from where I am sitting.

“Where are you going?” I ask with little enthusiasm.

“I was going to go out for a bite with Stockton, but he had to take a rain check because he realized he had a lacrosse banquet tonight. Anyway, look, don’t worry about it, he’ll probably come back for Christmas and Thanksgiving, you know how his parents are.

“It’s not him, Livy, it’s everyone. I hate it how everyone can leave and take over their lives while I have to stay here. They can do anything, go anywhere, and I might never see them again. It’s going to be the same thing next year with you. I have two whole years until I can fly out of the nest.

We’re both quiet, lost in our own thoughts in the still darkness of a summer night. A car occasionally whishes by on the street, and I glance up at the mass of twinkling stars over head.

“That Ursa Major, over there, and there’s Ursa Minor.” I can hear how Randy would point out and describe these particular constellations from their backyard after a family barbeque had died out. Most likely Cameron would roll his eyes at me and I would try not to laugh from where I lie on the freshly cut grass in perfect little rows. Now I yearn to hear those words, to watch Randy shove his glasses up on the bridge of his nose absentmindedly.

“Look!” I hear my sister shout loudly. “It’s the first firefly of the summer that we’ve seen!” I squint into the black surroundings for a few seconds. Suddenly a light green glow appears and then fades out by the white picket fence.

I smile. “You’re right.”

“Listen, Dar, I might be leaving for college next summer but we have a whole year to spend together to prepare ourselves. It’s just part of life I guess to watch others leave before you do. I feel my sister put her arm around my shoulders. The warmth brings peace to my troubled mind.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” I swing my legs slowly on the porch swing, enjoying the light breeze, the sounds of distant crickets, and the mysterious appearances of flashing fireflies. The change of summer has arrived, and will continue just like I have to. Maybe some of my friendships have dissipated with the coming of college preparations, but my relationship with my sister has not. Next summer, I want to look back on the past year and not regret a lack of appreciation for the evolving men and women who are about to take hold of their lives. I guess the saying is true that you never know how much you’ve loved something until it’s gone. “Goodbye to the class of 2001,” I think to myself as I walk with my sister into the house to play Goldeneye, “I hope you shape your lives into all that they can be.”

(38) Jumbo Shrimp, Great Summer Reading, and other Oxymorons

The hammock swings gingerly in the breeze as the rays of sunshine pour through the woven ropes, casting a net of light onto the freshly, cut grass. I glance up at the sky, and the intense power of the sun causes my eyes to squint shut without my consent. I drag the bag of necessities next to me and lightly jump onto the towel I have carefully laid out, stretching my legs so that they are covered in light. I scowl at them distastefully, thinking about the wonder of how you can appear extremely tan in the shade and then when you allow your body to be fully exposed to the sun, you look as white as a beached killer whale. My almost transparent skin could possibly blind any unfortunate passerby who happens to walk down the street. To hide my horror I tap my sunglasses down onto my freckled nose, suddenly seeing delicious brown skin once again.

From the bag next to me, I drag out my choice in educational reading: “People”, “CosmoGirl”, “Seventeen”, and “National Geographic”?? Oh yeah, I remind myself with relief, ideas from tribal body piercing. I quickly run through the traditional list. Designer sunglasses-seven dollars at TJ Maxx….check. CD player with Legally Blonde soundtrack……check. Evian, towel, and chap stick check, check, check…. SPF 1 sacred tanning oil….check, and EZ blonde in a bottle, check. There’s not a cloud in the sky as I sigh with pleasure, a perfect day for tanning. I also remove my snack. I have appropriated nearly half a pound of fresh jumbo shrimp and lemon slices from an appetizer tray my mother has ordered for a tennis team-lunch about to take place at the house. As my little battery-operated fan blows a gentle breeze towards my face, I grab the stack of postcards next to me and pop a shrimp into my mouth savoring the tartness of the lemon. Flipping through the postcards I glance at their breathtaking scenes from last year’s trip to Nantucket; beaches, lighthouses, and more beaches. Ripping the cap off of a JellyRoll pen found at the bottom of my bag, I begin to write acquaintances from school, small notes of summer salutations. “Here as I lie amongst the warm rich sand and bobbing waves, I remember with fondness the fun we had in Algebra.” I continue to scribble furiously, and just as I am about to heart-dot the “i” in Kisses, Daria, I hear the thud of something adding weight to the hammock. I glance up to find my mother pointing to a stack of books and looking disdainfully at my baggy of stolen-shrimp. Pulling off my headphones I squint at her in puzzlement.

“Well, you look like you’re all set for a nice afternoon in the sun! So I thought you’d like me to pick up your summer reading. You’ve got to start sooner or later.” I pick up the first novel equivalent to the size of a dictionary. My eyes bulge with terror, sweat pours down my back, the hairs on my arms stand on end, and suddenly the sun is zipped into a mass of clouds causing my whole world to consist of darkness. I tear off my shades, and jerk my wrist towards my naked eye. I nearly faint with shock, AUGUST FIFTH!! Where has the summer gone! School starts the TWENTY-FIFTH! As my mom cheerfully returns to the living room, I sit dumbfounded in front of what must be over five hundred pages of literature. How on EARTH am I going to pull this off!

I pick up the book with contempt as I begin the literary journey, similar to the Jihad. Seconds turn into minutes, minutes turn into hours and as I continue to read I even lose track of what tanning side I am on.

After two hours, I lean back with my eyes closed, thinking about the combination of useless knowledge and shellfish I just ingested and find myself even more disgusted. Pages of foul language, crude encounters with prostitutes, and detailed descriptions of disemboweled bodies fill my mind. As I glance down at the text, I am instantly brought back to past years of similar assigned reading. When I was in junior high school, we were required to read a book describing “the black experience” through one man’s eyes. Typical or a-typical, I still don’t know, we never discussed it, which would have been pointless anyway in a white community with a white teacher. Instead of being brought to an understanding of African American history and issues, we were exposed to a stereotypical portrayal of the dregs of society, living with drugs, gangs, death, and blatant and gratuitous sexuality.

In the name of science we were forced to read, for the sake of a quiz, a slim paperback dealing with adultery, under age drinking, and oh yeah, about two pages worth of rescuing an endangered amphibian. I can understand the importance of maintaining a scholastic focus when all there is to think about during the summer months is beach parties, boys, and bronzing, but do the books that are chosen for our benefit really have to be this coarse? And if these books are supposed to be truly instructive, why isn’t more time spent discussing the issues in the classroom?
I take a sip of my Evian, a little distraught. I can’t possibly believe that there aren’t more books out there sitting on shelves that can achieve the desired learning with an author’s use of more eloquent vocabulary and a gentler handling of sensitive issues. What is the point of reading these books anyway? For the majority of the teen population of the local schools, the answer would be to be able to do well on the fall quizzes.

Unfortunately, reading these books don’t always guarantee that. Unless teens procrastinate their reading until the late August weeks, notes are required to keep the ideas in these books fresh in their minds before they are tested on them. Furthermore, the questions contained in these quizzes often only ask names of characters and facts about the setting and plot instead of questioning what we actually learned from reading the novels, the principles taught, or the author’s intent. It seems that too often quizzes and the books that we read become policing tools instead of teaching tools. The board of education is able to remain grasping a firm hand on the direction of teen minds for the summer, but the small amounts of factual information and experiences found in these books are forgotten too easily within the first few months.

Who are the people who make the final judgments that these books are so edifying? And when these people are picked to decide which books we need to read during our summer vacation, shouldn’t we as teens at least know who they are and why they were chosen? Running into the house to clean up, I prepare myself with newfound determination to begin writing a letter to the board of education.

(37) Of Mallards and Men

Strings of chords and renditions of familiar melodies float through the air as I sit entranced by my father’s hands that glide and tap across the ivory keys. His silver watch gleams from the sunlight streaming through the fluffy white curtains next to us as he taps his foot rhythmically on top of the gold pedal. The expression imprinted on his face is peaceful and subdued as he creates divine beauty through the use of sounds. “Aaaal those loonely niights.” He begins to sing, his deep voice resonating into my very soul so that all is forgotten. I can’t tell completely whether or not he even knows I am there next to him, but I watch him with amazement and immediate love.

I instantly recognize this particular melody, it is one of many that I have grown up listening to. Twenty years ago, my father was a musician and his talent and love for music has influenced me and my sister ever since then. Hundreds of compositions have collected dust over the years though, and as the importance of business and the stock market have taken priority in our family’s life, these familiar tunes have been forgotten and the moments of my dad sitting at his piano lost in his own creations have been scarce. Glancing up at my father’s one record label that hangs on the wall above us, I want nothing more than to remain here all night in my favorite room of the house, listening to my father play. Homework, dishes, sleep means nothing to me as I perch on that bench, entranced by the agility and nimbleness of my dad’s fingers.

Almost has magically as it started, it stops and my dad peers up at me quizzically. “What’s up, Daria?”

I look down at the yellow gingham dish towel laying in my lap, completely filled with shame that I was the reason that this magic was put to an end. “I, I was wondering what to do with the moldy bread in the cabinet.” Minutes before I had put my hand to my mouth in horror at the sight of it, while standing in the midst of threatening plates, glasses, and pots. Now, the bag of overdue slices seems insignificant.

“I’m not sure what to do with it.” He sighs.

“Should I just throw it out then?” I reply, twisting the cloth in my hands.

I father looks up at me in thought. “Why don’t we just go give it to the ducks.”

I gaze up at my dad in astonishment. Clearly he is joking. We haven’t fed the ducks since I was five years old! I realize that he is completely serious though, and so I begin to protest. “Dad, no offense or anything, but don’t you think I’m a little old to be going to the park and feeding ducks?”

“How old are you?” My father turns his body to face me now on the piano bench.

“Sixteen.” I reply automatically, this isn’t the first time my own father has no idea how many years his daughter has been living on the earth.

“Is sixteen too old to show kindness and generosity?” I look at him in shock. Personally I don’t see how anyone can find any connection between tossing some stale pieces of bread to a bunch of lazy ducks and showing kindness, but I know better than to protest. “I’ll grab the keys then, and you snatch the bread, Daria.” My father slides off the bench and walks out of the music room, leaving me to stare after him in complete puzzlement.

It isn’t long before we cruise through the entrance to the park. We take my father’s car even though he lets me drive and soon we are walking side by side down the grassy hill towards the nearby pond. The sun is starting to slowly descend behind the waving trees, robbing us of warm sunlight and whipping cold breezes across our faces and arms. I slip on my father’s fleece with his company logo, and wriggle my arms inside of it so that only the sleeves are hanging at my sides.

“Why are boys so complicated?” I ask as I rip off another chunk of country white and hurl it to an anxious mallard. I am sitting on the edge of the dock, letting my legs dangle so that my feet rest just above the rippling water. I watch the foul skim the surface of the pond, until it reaches the prized piece of food and then it gobbles it up with quick motions of its sharp beak.

“Well why are girls so complicated?” My dad hands me another slice, with a chuckle where he is stretched out next to me.

The gazebo stands behind him and out of the corner of my eye I can see a man and his dog approaching it.

I breathe in, preparing to support my statement. “Boys have no guts around here. All they care about is looking manly and giving the impression that no one can influence them in any way” I laugh. They have no understanding, no sensitivity, no loyalty. You can pour out your whole heart to them and they can just completely ignore you.” I thrust another piece of bread closer to where I am perched, wondering how close I can get these ducks to come to me. “Maybe it’s just stupidity.” I finish with a smile.

“Maybe,” My father grins, “or it could just be intimidation. Sometimes it’s difficult for guys, especially when girls are so talented and charming.”

“You forgot stunningly beautiful, dad.” I reply giggling as he tousles my hair. We sit, lost in the peace and serenity of the environment. As a male mallard silently follows the trail of bread I have left for him, he is so close to me that I can almost touch him. His head is of deepest green that shimmers like satin and a perfect ring of white encircles his protruding neck. Suddenly I feel my father’s eyes upon me.

“You know, Daria. I guess it’s just like feeding ducks.”

“What?” I look at him completely lost.

“Well, you can’t expect him to instantly trust you. You start by throwing the bread a ways off, then a little closer, then closer still. Eventually you’ll have him eating out of your hand because, he said smiling a coy little grin, that’s just how us guys are. I am always amazed at how my father knows just what to say and say it in such a way that ordinary moments become life-long lessons. I throw the bread to farthest end of the little pond and the duck follows the ripples, pecks enthusiastically at the water and then swims under the dock, out of eyesight, out of reach. “I seem to have that effect on guys.” We both laugh as Dad scoops me up in his arms like he was done for as long as I can remember. “Not all guys Daria. You’ll tame one sooner or later.” And with that we begin our walk back to the car.

(36) Experience Preferred

It is just another typical Saturday morning as I enter the kitchen slowly, eyeing with astonishment each table setting, the light blue table cloth, and the remains of bacon, eggs, and toast crumbs on my father’s nearly empty plate. My mother is busily frying more eggs while my father is examining, of all things, the classified section of the newspaper. Knowing how much my mother detests cooking in the morning, as well as the known fact that my father only reads the newspaper on his way to fifty-seventh and Park and never reads the classifieds, I am beginning to grow a tiny bit suspicious. The sight of the hash browns steaming encompasses my thoughts though, and I dismiss the random scene from the Brady Bunch as just another petty strategy for my parents to “communicate” and “care-n-share” with their teenagers as instructed by one of their many “How to Raise A Difficult Child” books.

“Daria! How nice of you to join us! I knew the smell of food would bring you down here.” My mother laughs innocently as she flips a piece of bacon so that it sizzles and crackles. I sit down cautiously, afraid to touch the fork in front of me. My father doesn’t look up from his paper as he picks up his mug of coffee. For several minutes we remain in silence until he suddenly folds the paper, tosses it onto the table, and looks up at me, ready for light conversation.

I smile weakly as I place my napkin on my lap and my father immediately starts asking me various questions. “Daria, how did you sleep?”

“Fine.” I mumble.

“How’s school?”

“Peachy.” I sigh with frustration. I have just woken up and I don’t understand how my father can just start rapid-firing inane questions. I can tell my dad senses my lack of enthusiasm as he takes a sip from his mug thoughtfully and then carefully brings it back down to the surface of the table. My mother piles food on my plate and I start to make a dent in it ravenously.

“Look, Daria, I’m not going to beat around the bush about this.”

I glance up at him with surprise. “Okay…” I reply slowly with my fork mid air.

“Well, let me just ask you this; do you ever feel like something is missing from your life? Don’t you ever tire of sleeping in until three o’clock and sun bathing all day?” He’s losing me but he doesn’t let me cut in. “Daria, I’ve thought a lot about it and I think at this time in your life it would be extremely beneficial if you, well say you got a job.” He places his crumpled napkin on his plate with satisfaction

I nearly shoot out my mouthful of eggs and buttered toast. I can’t believe what I have just heard! Me getting a job! How long has this idea been floating around in my father’s merciless mind?

“I second the motion.” My mother replies without hesitation. I wager that there has been no lack in preparation for this conspiracy. “You might be wondering why we would consider this for you, Daria.” My mother continues quickly. “Your father and I have always been blessed to be able to provide most everything for you, your needs have always been met, but what are you going to do when you go to college, Daria? And don’t think that you’re going to meet some mysterious, successful man who is going to inherit his father’s multi-million dollar company and is going to whisk you away to his mansion and pamper you with servants and cream puffs! Chances are when you hit the campus you’re going to start eating pizza for every meal, gain twenty-five pounds, and guys will begin to not even look at you.”

“Thanks Mom.” I reply.

“I’m just keeping you humble, dear.” My mother smiles cheerfully.

“The fact that I don’t have a boyfriend keeps me humble enough for now Mom, but thanks.” I glare at her over my plate.

“Now, Daria, your mother is right. It’s time you face reality and take life into your own hands. It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there, Daria. That’s why we’ve discussed it and have come to the conclusion that you need to learn responsibility, discipline, financial skills, and the virtue of good old hard work before you leave the nest. So, considering how much time you have on your hands, I’m willing to bet that you can find yourself a decent job, in say about two weeks.”

“And what if I don’t? What if I wait until the end of the summer to get a stupid job?” Resentment enters into my voice as I feel completely trapped and helpless.

“Well it would be an awful shame if you couldn’t drive until June, Daria. Gas just doesn’t come cheap anymore.” My mother smiles at my father. I look up at my parents with complete and utter hatred. So, they’re just going to announce that they’re no longer going to financially support their children. How like them! Now I know that I have no choice, I have come to the realization that they have left me no other way. Unless I win the lottery in the next few weeks to pay for my entire future, I have been defeated. I stand up abruptly, smash my fork down onto my plate, and stomp upstairs with nothing left to do but sulk.

It’s only about an hour until all of my friends are sitting in my room consoling me, with the exception of Britney who went to get her nails done. With newspapers opened on each of their laps, they search the job listings with me with stoic determination. “Here’s one,” I suddenly hear Charissa cry with forced cheerfulness, “Canine Coiffure” needs a bath and blow-dry assistant, seven-fifty an hour.” My look of total consternation is all she needs as an answer, as if I am going to spend my free time scrubbing down coddled cockapoos. I begin to moan underneath the shelter of my pillow as images float through my mind that make me recoil in horror. I’m standing in Hal’s Hotdog Heaven sporting a weenie beanie as my life passes before my eyes. Love-of-my-life-Jeff Waters has just walked in with three of his friends; Welcome to heaven, Jeff, welcome to your very own private HELL, Daria.

“Hey here’s one!” I snap out of the nightmare at the sound of Charlotte’s outburst. “Listen to this, this is like your dream job!” I grab at the newspaper desperately, anything to escape Hal’s Hotdogs. “Look who’s looking for a sales associate! Oh wait it’s in New Canaan, but well at least you can still retain some element of pride while you say, “let me help you on with that…hey that really looks good on you, and why YES we have a great sweater that matches that.”

My friends start giggling uncontrollably at Charlotte’s imitations but I don’t even care as I begin to dial the number hastily. I quiet them down with a twinge of annoyance as my heart hammers and I realize that for once in all of my sixteen years of living, I am doing something important for my life with out holding my parents’ hands or dipping into their checkbook. As a hoarse voice answers the phone I nearly jump out of my skin. “Yes, hello,” I squeak, “ I am calling in regard to your advertisement for a sales associate. Tuesday afternoon? Well yes, I can come in for an interview, oh yes of course I’ll hold.” I glance at my friends who are gaping at me and flash them a happy smile. I can hear sounds of the snipping of my mother’s apron strings already.

(35) Bringing up Maddy

The sky is a canvas of the deepest blue as the rays of the majestic sun from its zenith dances across the hood of the car and splashes across my arms. As I coast further down the quiet street it hides from me, finding refuge in the tree tops and only allowing patches of light to poke through the green leaves to tease me. When I finally pull into the long and windy entrance, the sun is no longer concealed in the foliage but bears down on my face with power so that relief washes over me as I am finally bathed in warmth. Such a day has been missed all winter, and now as I both peer up at the brightness through my sunglasses I begin to hope for the blissful days of summer.

As colorful slides, swings, and endless places to play and pretend come into view, I slow the car down and carefully turn into a small parking spot. As I take my key out of the ignition and slip it into my pocket a tiny wave of thrill fills my body. It has been a few weeks since that dream of a day where I passed my dreaded test and received the ticket to freedom but I am still thrilled every time I am able to return to the wheel of my glistening chariot.

I grab my laptop off the passenger seat and step out into the sunshine. Moments before I had been crunched over my computer prodding my mind for some thought or image to start writing about for this week. Like many times, absolutely nothing came to my fingers that were patiently balanced on the keys. This sudden writer’s block came with no warning and no mercy. I had no idea why my mind was so blank, but the fact that there was bright warm, light coming from outside that sent stripes across my desk and the car was simply screaming from its position in the driveway might have had something to do with it. I decided that it was too beautiful of a day to waste inside and what better place for inspiration and relaxation than the town’s park?

As I open the gate, a child races in front of me towards the small playhouse. I saunter over to an empty wooden bench to the side of the junior play area and sit down directly under the sun. Tapping on my sunglasses so that they fall onto my nose, I stretch and prepare to get somewhat of a tan while at work even though it’s April and I’m in Connecticut instead of California or Florida where all my friends are. My mouth nearly dropped months ago when my mother informed me that our family would not be going anywhere this spring so that she could attend a tennis camp. I have enjoyed a whole week of doing absolutely nothing though, and it hasn’t been entirely bad except for the fact that in a few days girls will come back to school with brightly colored beads woven into their hair and skin the color of caramel, and I will still be boring, plain old Daria.

I force myself to clear my mind of any reminiscing about vacations in tropical places and with the machine balanced on my knees, prepare to type something, anything that comes to mind. Instantly a flicker flashes in my mind of a conversation I had with friends at lunch about gun control. I start clicking away, the first paragraph of the article already developing in my mind. Finally, success! As I lean back and read the sentence I have just crafted, another one appears mentally and I begin to bring it to life.

“Hello!” I glance up at a small face now peering at my computer. “What are you doing?” She asks cheerfully reaching her finger towards the “h” key as I stop her just in time.

“I’m typing.” I mumble with little enthusiasm, for the burst of an idea has just vanished as quickly as it has just appeared.

“Look, I found this lady bug in the house! Her name is Lilah!” I study her with a twinge of annoyance as she starts jabbering about how she’s going to keep this small insect, that most likely is going to fly away any second now, as a pet. Her hair is the brightest blond which has been more or less plaited into two pig tails. She’s wearing a cotton gingham dress that bounces up and down as she trots in her dusty black patten leather shoes with golden buckles to the other side of the bench so she can sit next to me.

“What’s your name?” She asks with a somber expression.

“Daria.” I reply and then soften. “What’s yours?”

“Madison Alicia Albright.” She replies with little hesitation. “Will you play with me, Daria?” Her large blue eyes plead with me for love as a bee buzzes somewhere in the distance.

I look at her and sigh. I have no idea why this little person, even though she’s adorable, thinks she has the right to just interrupt my work and expect me to give all my attention to her. As I glance back the almost blank screen in front of me though, I realize that I’m not coming up with much anyway, and fifteen minutes of playtime won’t hurt anything. “All right, let’s go then.”

She grabs my hand instantly and after I place my computer carefully on the bench, she leads me happily to slides and bouncing bridges where we pretend we’re princesses and run away from imaginary monsters. After I am quiet out of breath from running with her across the sand numerous times, I sit for a quick break.

“Daria! Daria!” I hear my name being screamed across the park. “Push me on the swings!” I race towards that small bundle of joy and grab her in my arms so that she giggles uncontrollably and the smallest dimple on the top of her cheek comes into view. Setting her down on the thick strap of the swing, I bring her back towards me and then send her flying up to sky so that her pigtails dance and she swings quickly down back to my open arms. I continue to send her forward with bursts of strength as my attention is drawn towards the rest of the park. Except for few fathers who have taken the day off for Good Friday and a couple of mothers, the majority of the adults in the park are paid caretakers for the children, some with thick foreign accents and others with skin like rich chocolate.

“Maddy! It’s time to go home now. Mommy will be home soon.” A woman stands in front of us holding a deflated box of apple juice. I pick up Madison Alicia Allbright and the swing in my arms and bring her back down to the ground. It’s only minutes until she has waved goodbye and solemnly walks across the parking lot with her pigtails drooping just a bit more. My heart aches already from her absence and I immediately appreciate the time I have just spent with a this precious little one. It has only been nearly a half an hour and already I feel like Maddy could have been my own daughter. I have had only a glimpse of the joy and pleasure this little girl has for life, but yet I am enchanted by her.

As I return to my laptop, I think of the wondrous days when I will have my own tiny children. A bee buzzes somewhere behind me and I watch a small boy intently as his nanny silently walks him towards a slide. I wonder where his real parents are, perhaps both swamped with papers at a desk in an office, or maybe off playing tennis like my own mother is. The child toddles along grasping the woman’s hand. I think of how pure children are, how loving and understanding they some times can be. What makes a person who used to be so small and guiltless suddenly form into a character of insecurity and selfishness? Instantly my thoughts sadly go back to the images of teenagers weeping in each others’ arms after a high school shooting. What causes someone to be able to have the capacity to kill their own peers even at such a young age? There are hideous tales of elementary school children carrying weapons into their learning environments. Do these children and youth not feel loved and appreciated? Do they base their value on themselves solely on their lack material possessions or judgments placed on them by others?

I look around at the miniature people racing each other past the swings, completely naive to the evil of the world encompassing them. Would these children grow into lonely but vicious threats to the safety of their schools? Would any of these precious ones feel attacked and misunderstood by their peers so much that they would not value their lives and their own life as well? Pain fills my heart. I wonder where or who they are going to turn to if they feel so angry and alone to such a capacity. Who are they going to go to as a source of love if their parents and family don’t know their own fears, weaknesses, and emotions. Surely, even if that nanny is the most gentlest human being on earth or is as wise as a sage, a person paid to care for a child for most of the day can’t offer them that protection, that parental affection, that continual and undying attention as much as their own mother and father can. Family is the most important part of a person’s life, for those members of the home know each other like no other, they dwell together in an environment with opportunities for growth, love, and security. If a child or teenager can’t turn to their own home for that protection where are they possibly going to find such needed relief.

I make a vow to myself that I am going to be everything I can possibly be to my own offspring for they are the next generation and if my children can’t feel safe in their own schools where are they going to find comfort? It’s like the quote that hangs in my father’s office by David O Mckay, “No success can compensate for failure in the home. That seems kind of amusing considering that my father doesn’t come off the train until nine o clock, family meals seem impossible, and he has been on continuous long business trips from here to Timbuktu, but granted, I know he’s trying.

(34) A Major Turning Point

My heart beats like it’s never beaten before as the car pulls into a stream formed on the street, sending a miniature wave of rainwater splashing onto the curb as a light tapping pounds into my ears from the precipitation falling from overhead. As I turn my attention away from one single drop and peer out the window, the scenes outside of busy downtown New Canaan are nothing but blurred images.

“Daria, in case you didn’t realize, we’re here now.” My mother eyes me expectantly and pulls the automatic shift into park, as if she knows we are going to be here for a while. Then she pats my knee, “You’re going to do fine, just remember everything you’ve learned.”

I try to move my feet, but they don’t seem to want to budge. I listen to the quiet pattering for a moment and then let out a sigh. “I’ve never even driven in the rain,” I murmur, but I know I can’t sit here forever, and I will never know if I can pass this test if I don’t at least try. “I’m just going to tell myself that I don’t even care, it doesn’t even matter.” I mumble quietly.

“I guess I’ll just call you when I’m done then.” I slam the door and then walk to the entrance I’ve gotten to know so well, and then slowly stagger up the steep steps. Glancing above me I see a small line of other teenagers and I realize that these are going to be my companions for this dreaded hour and a half.

We receive our papers, are handed clipboards, and then have nothing to do but sit on the cold, metal chairs and wait. I glance around me at the room I have all ready spent thirty hours in; the large red stop sign on the wall, the white board with the other test dates scrawled in blue marker, and the messages and autographs of past participants of the school on all of the backs of the chairs in front of me. No one dares to speak. The only sound is the loud tick of the clock on the wall. I glance down at my clipboard and find the words, “DO NOT FAIL” in large bold letters that someone obviously scribbled on it to keep me feeling optimistic. I put it on the chair next to me and try not to look at it. I think about saying something to cheer everyone up, something funny and witty, but all I can do is breathe. I notice the guy in front of me hasn’t moved an inch since he sat down, and his hands are shaking.

“You guys are scaring me!” The lady that is supposed to watch us until the inspectors arrive glances around at our sullen expressions and laughs. “Here, take the channel changer and find some Jerry Springer to get all of this off your mind.” I watch her smile and hand the boy sitting on the front row the clicker, and with little enthusiasm he turns the television in the front on, and flips around to nothing in particular. This lady just doesn’t understand. How can she pretend that we shouldn’t be feeling any pressure, like this moment just shouldn’t matter. I guess teenagers are the only ones who can relate, who know that failing a driving test cuts into your self esteem when all of your friends who are younger than you are also counting on you and the days until you have your license. Finally after receiving no input from any of us, the kid settles for Queen Latifa.

As the Queen tries to determine if an ex-convict is the father . . . or grandfather of newborn triplets, I feel like a prisoner with an eternity to wait for my death sentence. The minutes spin by and finally we are all brought back to reality from our worlds of doom. Three people walk in laughing. I envy their cheerfulness and find it almost inconsiderate how they can be so joyful when they hold our future in their hands. They try to get a smile from us, but none of us relent. I can’t help but not trust these complete strangers. For the one that is going to be alone with me for fifteen minutes, one bad chili dog can be all it takes to dampen his spirits and result in my utter failure.

We are handed a test, and I circle each of my answers carefully. In only minutes I am finished, the eye-test taker in the front corrects it, tests my vision, and I am halfway there. She tells me I have gotten two wrong, and I panic, wondering if I failed or passed - not knowing how many we are allowed to get wrong. She shows me which ones I had mistakes on and I can’t even force myself to look at them carefully because I just want it to be all over. When she tells me to wait at my seat, a sigh of relief issues from my lungs.

“Daria Knight?” My head shoots up. I walk quickly to the front of the room and face the man that obviously is fated to be my tester. His hair is a pepper gray, his skin is darkly tanned, and he has the appearance and voice of kind of a tough man, one who knows mechanics and Harleys. “Daria, just take these keys and go to the tan car parked in the parking lot and make yourself comfortable.” He smiles some what warmly but as I reach for the keys I am not ready to make a friend. I vow to only smile back at him at the end if he tells me I have passed.

I trudge across the street and towards the only tan car in the parking lot. Unlocking the door I sit down and adjust all of my mirrors, seat, and steering wheel like I’ve been taught. I wait for what seems like another hour, adjusting my seat maybe twenty times and the mirrors maybe more and finally he opens the passenger door and sits down slowly. Since I am the lucky first person to finish the whole written test procedure, I have the pleasure of backing out of the parking space, definitely not one my strengths. I twist the key into the ignition, and feel the gentle purr of the engine. After the inspector turns on the windshield wipers for me, he says kindly, “Now just take your time backing out, there’s no rush.” I nod nervously and pull the automatic shift towards me to reverse and slowly pull out and then turn to the right.

As I pull out of the parking lot, I can feel my foot shaking gently on the pedal. Saying I am nervous is definitely an understatement. We embark on the famous driving test, stopping slowly at stop signs exactly in front of the line, keeping my hands gripped on the wheel in front of traffic lights, and going well under the suggested speed limit even though my weakness is speeding. After one successful back-in-parking job, we head back to the beginning of the test, the brick wall in the first parking lot. “Just pull to the side and park in front of the parking sign, please.” I follow his directions timidly and then put the car in park and have nothing to do but wait for the dreaded or joyous words.

After he continues jotting notes on his silver clipboard, I glance up and weakly smile. “Can you put the right signal on for me, please?” I pull the turn signal stick down. “Now, Daria, I heard that you have had some trouble distinguishing which is the right and left blinkers.”

I realize he is looking at me for a response. Flustered I try and explain what he’s heard. “Well, I had a little trouble in the beginning but I think I got past that now.” I can feel his eyes on me again and I smile weakly.

“Put the right blinker on for me please.” I realize my terrible mistake and shoot out my hand to pull the turn signal up. I look at the man next to me, filled with fear. My embarrassment must be evident on my face as I come to face the fact that I have failed my driving test all because I forgot which signal makes left and which causes right. I can’t help but be forward, I have to know. “Uhhh….I can’t believe I did that. Does this mean that I failed?” I look at him hopefully. I am not prepared for what is going to happen next.

The man looks at me seriously and then bursts out laughing. I look at him with amazement and I am deeply puzzled. Between chuckles he tells me happily, “I just couldn’t resist. Relax, you passed, I was just teasing you!” I can’t believe my ears! It’s over! It’s finally over! “I passed? Oh my gosh, thank you!” I want to leap out of the car I am so excited. He hands me some papers. “Remember though that driving is a huge responsibility, always be safe and smart.”

My face is beaming. I thank him again and dance out of the car, not able to stop smiling. As I head across the parking lot a tall woman with blonde hair in a trench coat and a green umbrella walks towards me. I guess my success is evident on my face because she stops me. “You passed your drive test no?” She has a heavy foreign accent and I smile back at her warmly.

“Yes,” I giggle, “I did!” With the paper clasped in my hand and my heart soaring nothing can bring me down from my cloud. As the rain continues to sprinkle on my head and face I think of all the possibilities, all of the experiences and moments that are now mine to have. I have just passed one of the only tests in my life that truly matter, and my life will never be the same!

(33) Considering the Lilies

The air is filled with the quiet screeching of metal hangers scraping across racks and ladies chattering to each other across counters as I stand hopelessly in front of the mirror. “What about this one, Allyssa?” A mother calls from not too far away. I can tell from her lack of enthusiasm that she is getting exasperated with a daughter that doesn’t seem to want to make up her mind.

“Mom, what are you thinking! Purple is my worst color! Besides, I’m almost positive he’s getting me a red corsage this year. The two would just not work.” Obviously, Allyssa is obsessing over her prom ensemble; something I am not, well, at least not now. I on the other hand have come for an emergency shopping trip since I conveniently forgot about this week’s sophomore “semi” formal and remembered fortunately, the exact afternoon before it. The lucky partner for this nearly impossible mission, is not my father, my friends, or even my sister. The person stretched out on the chair next to the full-length mirror outside my claustrophobic dressing room, is my mother.

I refuse to invite my father to partake in the fun and excitement of these specific tasks, simply because of two reasons. The first being I feel slightly uncomfortable having him spend almost an hour examining every inch of each dress, making sure everything is “covered” and two, because the poor man will have a heart attack if he inspects the price tag and discovers it to be more than forty dollars. I prefer not to shop with my friends because either I will feel rushed with their impatience, or they might end up buying my favorite choice themselves. The rest should just be a given.

“Well I told you this store wasn’t going to work. Why don’t you ever listen to me?” I stand staring at my reflection in my bright white ankle socks and the not so “perfect” little black dress and begin to work at getting a tiny piece of chicken from my lunch out of my teeth as I listen to the rest of this mother-daughter dialogue. I think to myself that if I was the mother, I would probably be getting to the point of insanity, but from what I can hear, the mother seems to be staying relatively calm.
I glance at my face and find myself looking sallow and pale. I instantly decide that this definitely would be categorized as an ugly mirror, but then rethink the decision and question whether or not mirrors are the ugly ones or it is actually the people they are shining back. It’s definitely the mirrors, I decide and then glance at my watch. It’s almost six o clock already and I still have a whole paper to write, not to mention the fact that I still don’t have a dress. “Mother, is Roberta back yet?” I call towards her direction and then sit down to wait. It seems like the little old lady in the violet skirt, brown polka dotted blouse, and dark green knee-highs has been in search of dresses for almost an eternity. So far, the one choice she did in fact return with didn’t work at all. “Daria, some of us just aren’t as well endowed as other women.” My mother gently had told me. Roberta had promised us that she would find dresses that have no “sag” and so far we haven’t seen her since.

“Daria, it’s getting late, I’ll go find a dress.” She drops her purse over the top of the door and I continue to sulk, experiencing one of the few moments of my life when I actually wish I am a guy. How can guys have it so easy? Girls have to be wearing the perfect dress, their hair has to be just the right style, and usually manicures won’t hurt. They also have to be wearing not too much makeup, but not too little, just enough perfume to create the essence of an aroma, and fresh breath is almost required. I won’t scare the men who might be reading this with the other atrocities women go through just to feel attractive. Guys? They can wear the exact same pair of khakis and blue blazer every single dance of their life, and no one would give their clothes at least, a second glance, unless they forgot to spot-check that obligatory red tie for traces of salsa. Who created this standard for women of having to have a brand new dress for every dance?

Just then a loud knock sounds on the door, and as I open it my mother thrusts the most beautiful dress I have ever seen into my face. “Try this on, quickly now, Daria.” I can tell by the way she says this that her teeth are gritted, but it doesn’t matter because right at this very moment I am in ecstasy. The smooth and shiny fabric easily slides over my head and around my body, and as I pull it down firmly I am in love with the girl smiling back at me. Instantly a vision of Jeff Waters twirling me around across the gym floor with the folds of this dress twisting and turning with the beat makes my own heart’s pace start to quicken. As another mother and daughter walk past my door and enter the door next to mine I turn my body from every angle of the mirror, taking pleasure in the way it shimmers and swishes. “If I walk into that gym looking like this, there is no way Jeff won’t notice me.” I think to myself with delight.

Suddenly though, as I pull my hair up so that I can see a representation of how my tresses should look with the whole outfit, I hear the situation in the next stall.

“Mother, is this the only one?” A girl asks weakly.

“Honey, I know it’s not your idea of the perfect prom dress, but unless your father finds another job and I don’t have to work all day to make ends meet, we can’t exactly afford any of the other ones. I know it needs a few adjustments, but we’re lucky this one was at least is on sale. The lady said the only problem it has is that there is a tiny hole in the armpit. We’ll just have to patch that up and pull in the waistline a little bit and maybe if I find time I can sew something on it.”
“But Mother what if I pay half for a dress that I really like?”

“I’m sorry, but with our situation right now, it isn’t logical to risk not being able to buy groceries and other necessities just so you can have a new gown that you’re only going to wear once. Even half of that other dress is just too much than I can spare right now. Oscar will take you to prom no matter what you wear.” The mother’s voice is calm and gentle. The girl doesn’t understand the obvious pain that her mother is also going through of not being able to buy her daughter the dress of her dreams.

“Fine! You know what then, Mother? I won’t even go to prom!” The door slams loudly, echoing through out the store and muffled sniffling fills the hall. I peek out slowly and see the aggrieved expression of the girl’s mother as she sadly stumbles past my stall. I look back at my reflection and can no longer bear to walk out of the room to model for my own mother.
I sit dazed on the floor, trying to sort out my emotions and feelings at this very minute. I have an extremely strong desire to purchase this brand new dress but at the same time what is the point? I know for a fact that this particular garment probably costs twice as much as the girl in the next fitting room would dream of being able to spend herself with even the financial help of her mother, and this is isn’t even for my prom. At the same time, it isn’t really my fault that that girl’s father doesn’t have a job, you win some you lose some. But yet, I can’t possibly walk out of this store with this brand new apparel and be able to dance the night away feeling good about myself when I have four or five other dresses from past dances that are perfectly wearable. Is it really that important that I look that new and perfect if I really want Jeff or any other guy to like me for who I am anyway?

I quickly slide out of the blue dress and into my jeans and sweater. Fingering the almost glowing threads one last time, I slip my dream back onto its hanger and place it on the hook next to the mirror and stare at my reflection. I think to myself that there are much more important things in life right now than a certain dress for a certain dance. And perhaps it was the flowery print on the last dress I waved my hand through on the way out of the fitting room but I was reminded of a favorite saying of Grandmother’s.

”Consider the lilies” she will say when the things of a temporary nature start creeping in. She is referring to a cross-stitch that hangs in her front hallway….it says…”Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin. Even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed as one of these.”

(32) The Cold Facts of Life

As I walk down the long road, trees glisten all round me and a steady sound of "drip drip drip!" is scattered across the neighborhood as layers of snowflakes melt from every surface. The mounds stacked on either side of the streets are no longer pure and pleasing to the eye, but are mixed with pollution and dirt so that the whole block looks soiled and uninviting.

I think to myself as I hop across a large puddle, that snow is only beautiful when it first falls, covering the world in a shield of brilliant white, dancing through the sky and then falling gently on rooftops. There is truly only one moment, when one can look out at it all and see everything clean and full of light, before the flakes mix with the grimy earth and the groaning plows begin to scrape it all away.

I stuff my hands deeper into my khaki pants pockets and continue to stumble through the slush on the street. It is bad enough that my day just didn't seem to want to end and I had left my whole Spanish paper in the printer after I had told myself over and over I was not going to forget it. Now I was forced to take the school bus home because my sister had gone to her friend's house, just to find that my mother had forgotten to leave the back door open and I am now completely locked out of the house!

I silently curse the game of tennis as I reach the next street. My dad has told me to understand that my mother's favorite sport is the source of comfort to her now that she is stressing about Grandma's cancer. My mother, on the other hand, has denied all of this rather openly and has informed all of us she is completely fine about Grandma's condition. What she doesn't know is that I have seen her crumpled on her bed three times already in one month. The sniffling across her bedroom had socked me so hard I could barely breathe, because before this month, I have only seen my mother cry twice; once when we had rented "Love Story" and the other time when she saw one of my sister's particularly horrible report cards. Yes, it is definitely past due for a time to visit Ms. Georgette and it is none too soon because at this moment I reach her door.

I have known Miss Georgette for only a year-and-a-half. Last year her name had been given to me for a project I was doing and when I had met her we instantly became friends. I've kind of grown closer to her, feeling like she helps me cope with the whole situation with my grandma. I suppose I have kind of made a small bargain with God, promising him that I would take care of this gentle soul down the street, if he made sure someone else took care of my grandma in Massachusetts. I'm not sure if he was listening or not, but I know that regardless, Miss Georgette's presence has become a strength in my own life.
I raise the polished, brass knocker slightly and then let it bang gently but loudly onto the surface of the white, wood door. Instantly the door swings open and I am standing in front of one of the most amazing women in the town of Darien.

"Daria! What a pleasant surprise!" She hugs me fiercely and instantly I smell the scent of hand lotion and lilac. Her silver hair is patted into place and she is wearing a red sweater set and a plaid skirt. I am always impressed with how lovely Miss Georgette looks.

"My mother forgot to leave me the key to the house," I reply, smiling weakly.

"Oh, your poor mother must have so much on her mind right now. I'm sure she'll be just devastated to know that she left you out in the cold again! Here, come sit down and I'll go make you a warm cup of hot chocolate."

"Thanks, Miss Georgette." I let myself rest comfortably on the plump cushion of her couch and look around the room at the familiar furniture and small figurines I have grown to love. This quiet, cozy little home has been Miss Georgette's for almost all of her life and even though she has never married, she lives quite comfortably in it. I have often laid in my bed late at night though, wondering if the deadened silence except for the gentle tic of her mantle clock could ever get to her. She assures me it doesn't and most of the time I can believe her, but I make sure I visit her every once in a while just in case.
It isn't long before we both have steaming mugs grasped in our hands and I sip mine slowly. A few moments of silence pass and then Ms. G looks up at me. "I can tell something is bothering you, Daria. Do you want to talk about it?" I glance up with surprise and then smile with embarrassment down into the rich depths of my hot chocolate.

“..It's nothing, really," I reply, forcing a smile. When I look back up though, I can tell she is seeing through my attempt at covering up my emotions. I turn my spoon around in the cup so that it chinks quietly.

“It's just that sometimes I feel lost among my family. My sister is never home and always finds excuses why she can't drive me anywhere and my mother is always out playing tennis or going to meetings. This is the fifth time this month that I have had to take the bus home! Ms. Georgette, you just don't understand the agony of being a sophomore who is almost old enough to drive, and having to ride home with the freshmen!" I explain to to her.

My words seem to fallout of my mouth and fall on top of each other. “If that isn't bad enough though, my mother never remembers to leave the kitchen door open or to get me a copy of the house key so I have to freeze until she comes home!" I sigh. I just wish my family could be more considerate." I expect Miss Georgette to laugh or roll her eyes at such ridiculous problems, but Instead her forehead wrinkles and she sips her cocoa thoughtfully.

"Well," she starts and then the wisdom comes. Several minutes pass by as I listen intently to the advice of a woman who has basically watched Darien rise from the ground. At one point she pats my knee gently.

"I have to admit 1 have never myself had the opportunity to have my own children, but I do remember my own relationship with my mother, and I can tell you now how hard it was for me to say goodbye when it was her turn to pass over to the other side. It must be equally hard for your own mother and also the rest of your family. It is never easy to say a lifelong goodbye. That's not to say that it isn't hard for you as well, but perhaps now a little more patience and understanding is needed. Don't ever take your family for granted though, Daria. They are the people who have known you and loved you the most! Just know that happiness in the home is not an inheritance you just can have. It's something you work tor every day." Miss Georgette smiles at me warmly and I instantly feel better.

"Thank you so much for understanding, Miss Georgette. I don't know what I would d’o with out you and your hot chocolate." I grin and take one last sip.

I'm glad to help and I am always here, dear." Miss Georgette places her empty mug on the glass table next to her and then crosses her legs gracefully. Just then, a stifled beeping murmurs from my backpack.

"That must be my mother," I say, rolling my eyes, as I walk quickly over to my things and pull out my cell phone. "Hello?"

"Daria! I am so extremely sorry that I forgot to unlock the door! Have you been waiting long? I am on my way now." I have an urge to start expressing my frustration and anger at how careless my mother can be, but I look over at Miss Georgette who is watching with understanding eyes. I immediately remember her words of love and I take a deep breath.

"No, that's all right, Mom, I know how easy it is to forget something like that when you're in a rush to get somewhere. I've just been here visiting with Miss Georgette."

"Oh, I am so glad. I could have sworn that today was the day Olivia was going to drive you to your dentist appointment. I guess that's next week then, right? Well, I'll come pick you up. I'll be there in a second.”

"It's all right, Mom, I can just walk home, it's not far."

“Nonsense, it’s freezing outside. Just wait at the door. We’re going to have to rush to the store to pick up some things for dinner.”

I click off from talking to my mother and pull on my jacket.

“Thanks so much for chatting with me, Miss G,” I tell my friend.

“Any time, Daria. You know you can always stop by.”

I hug her one last time and then rush out to the suburban that is slowly crunching on the pebbles of her driveway. I hop in next to my mother, waving enthusiastically to the delicate figure standing at her door. I savor the time I have just spent with that sweet, gentle woman whose wisdom warmed me on this cold winter afternoon.

“Happiness, Daria,” She had murmured to me quietly, “is not an inheritance you just can have, it’s something you work for every day.” I glance at the outline of my mother’s face next to me and then stare out the window. Without even thinking, I begin to trace my grandmother’s name in the frost of the car window and feel my face warmed by the drop of a tear.

(31) A Burning Issue

I tap my index finger impatiently on the smooth surface of my desk, the tiny glint of the pink polish on my thumb reflecting the light off the computer screen in front of me. Glancing at the middle window, I find to my dismay that a whole three minutes and forty-five seconds is left until this particular mix is completed. Sighing I grab another handful of peanut m and ms and glance back at my friends. Charlotte and Charissa are stretched out across the floor, poking through my pile of old Teen and Seventeen magazines trying to find pictures of Britney Spears so that they can accessorize her with goatees and mustaches while Patsy is trying desperately to find a good radio station in the corner. Britney of course is sprawled out on my bed, shouting phrazes into the phone reciever on her ear, while also attempting to give herself a pedicure. The bottle of cranberry mist is balanced on one knee while she tries to coat each toe nail between cotton balls meticulously, making several near misses so that it almosts drips on my bed spread. It’s a regular lady’s night out.

“So do u think he found his name yet in your article?” Charissa mumbles, not looking up from the pig she’s creating that used to resemble Justin Timberlake’s girl friend.

“Doubt it.” I reply stacking some books neatly on my bookshelf. “He probably hasn’t even read it yet.” I shove Gone With the Wind next to a collection of Robert Frost poems and then toss a few more magazines onto the carpet. I look back over at Britney just as a glob of polish falls onto one of my white pillows. “BRITNEY! Watch what you’re doing!” I shout over her conversation with my phone. She doesn’t even look at me as she continues to talk.

“All right…oh me too….okay I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” She tosses the phone back onto the hook. “OH my gosh. You wouldn’t BELIEVE what I just heard!” Britney shouts as she twists the cap of the nail polish tightly, still keeping her toes apart from each other.

“What?” We all automatically ask.

“Andrew Fulton is banned from Sam Goody and is forced to do five hours of community service because he was caught trying to shop lift six CDs from their store last Saturday. Can you believe that? And that’s not even the first time he’s done that!”

“Why didn’t he take off the alarm stickers?” Charlotte utters.

“Where did he hide them?” Charissa adds.

“What CDs were they?” I ask with little enthusiasm.

“He wasn’t smart enough, in his backpack, and a collection of The Insane Clown Posse, Ja Rule, OutKast, Dream, and I think some German techno.”

“Weird.” I reply.

“Anyway….how stupid can a guy be? Who in their right mind spends their free time stealing music from the artists they are supposedly supportive of just so that they don’t have to dish out thirteen ninety-nine at some CD store in the mall?”

The room is silent for a few moments. “Daria?” Charissa looks at me and then the whole room is filled with laughter. Britney is heaving so much that her once-perfect toe nails are now smeared from the carpet. I on the other hand don’t find the whole thing so amusing.

“Stop it you guys. That so isn’t true.” Just then my computer dings loudly and a freshly burnt CD slides out of the compartment. My friends start to laugh even harder as I compare myself to Andrew Fulton in my head. It is true that ever since the court ruling against Napster I have been devoting all my time in finding and downloading all the music I’ve ever heard and liked in anticipation of when Napster will be shutting down, but am I stealing it?

“You know, it really doesn’t matter about this whole Napster thing.” Patsy manages to explain after catching her breath. “If Sean Fanning’s new creation dies, there are so many other new sites opening up like Gnutella and iMESH that will replace it. Record companies along with Metallica and Dr. Dre are just going to get over it.”

“But Napster is denying certain artists’ money that they deserve from the records they’re making. Certain users like Daria are only downloading music and creating whole CDs instead of buying them normally. Even if well known artists don’t necessarily need that money, there are thousands of independent artists trying to get noticed that could be number one on Napster but make no money in sales of their CDs.” Charissa explains.

“Well, stinks for them.” Britney laughs. “Millions of people are doing that everyday. Besides, Daria, you’re still making me a mix, right?”

I pull the new CD out of the computer, holding it in front of me so that a long rainbow crosses over my reflection. I look at my face carefully. Am I really as bad as a criminal? Andrew probably will have to pick up trash off the streets and sit outside while his buddies check out new music, should that be me also? Can I just continually disregard the law because it’s convenient and I won’t ever get caught or is a real person of integrity someone who chooses to follow basic principles such as not stealing even when they don’t have to? Is using Napster stealing in the first place? Is there any difference between taping songs off the radio, making bootleg copies of movies in the theaters, and just making mixes of songs for friends? All of these questions spin around in my mind as my friends begin to start talking on a different topic. I on the other hand cannot deny my conscience any longer, my friends have a point.

As I quit all applications and choose the shut down command from the start menu, I cannot make the decision myself of how I perceive downloading MP3s and making mixes. I will probably need to take some time to think about all of the components of the world wide argument. Maybe I do not know where I stand personally, but I do know that I am not entirely comfortable with handing out free mixes to all my friends from now on. As for Andrew Fulton, I guess I’ll ask him if he needs some help picking up garbage off the exit 10 on ramp.

(30) Be Mine

“Dar, what do you want for dinner?

I pause at the top of the stairs and sigh. “A Reuben!” I call out of breath.

“But we don’t have any more white bread!” my mother bellows from the kitchen.

“Then rye bread will work! Or call Olivia before she heads to Audrey’s house and tell her to pick up some more!” I start up the last step.

“I thought Livy had to bake something for French class this afternoon!” Echoes my mom.

Exasperated I reply, “She does, she is just going to pick up some green tea from Starbucks and bring it to Audrey because she stayed home sick.” My mother mumbles something about Olivia never letting her know of her schedule, but I am down the hall and make no effort to listen. Only a few more days until vacation I remind myself wearily.

At last I reach the safety and comfort of my own room, I flip on the radio and let myself fall back into the depths of my covers. As Shaggy loudly chants for probably the tenth time today about showing the nation his appreciation I’m too lazy to switch it to another station. All I have enough energy to do is stare idly up at the ceiling and glance around my clothes invested room. I look over the bookshelf that contains the three postcards I bought in Martha’s Vineyard this summer, the blown up photo of Charissa and I on her dad’s boat hanging on my wall, and then it stares at me. The small desk calendar my Aunt gave me for Christmas that still has January third facing me and I can feel it begging me to rip it to its rightful page.
Stumbling over to it, I begin to hastily tear numerous pages with quotes and pictures until finally I reach the thirteenth of February. Since the day has almost come to a close anyway, I split off one more page and then instantly regret it.

I have always liked this Mary Engelbreit desk calendar with its cheery gingham patterned border and happy pictures, but not this night. I hold it on my lap and a dumb clown with a tea pot that has hearts spilling out of it laughs at me with the words “You suit me to a tea valentine,” written under it. I toss the calendar onto the floor, but though the words were tiny, they were unmistakable, I hadn’t been able to let myself forget that tomorrow was that day of days after all.

In just seven hours it will be that one date out of the entire year when it’s okay to down a whole box of assorted chocolates in one sitting. Soon it will be time when it’s not abnormal to walk around high school with a gigantic heart balloon bobbing behind you, and some random guy can get up enough nerve to hand you a red rose as you hurry to your next class. For me though, one of the few hundred overly stressed and busy girls in the world who just hasn’t gotten around to having a boyfriend yet, it is going to be just one more boring, uneventful day when the guy I’ve liked for what seems like forever will still have no clue I exist. Maybe I’ll wear all black tomorrow I think to myself bitterly.

I pick up a strand of my hair and twirl it around my fingers in thought. My dad of course will show up from work tomorrow night with a large bouquet of flowers and a small heart shaped Whitman’s sampler tucked in the crook of his arm and I will act all surprised and happy like always, but secretly this year I will hate it.

How many more years will my dad have to fork over twenty dollars because I have no real romantic relationship? I bet he’s probably asking himself the very same thing right now. I can see him at his laptop on his desk, thinking to himself, “When is my Daria ever going to get a boyfriend?” Then another image floats through my mind that simply terrifies me. I’m sprawled out on my parents’ couch, pushing sixty five and watching soap opera re runs with a bag of Cheetohs clutched in the hand that isn’t holding the controller. I have two extra chins, my hair is gray and straggly, and I can barely fit into my size 20 and a half jeans. Then a hunched over figure makes his way into the living room, stumbling along the faded carpet from the support of his cane. “Happy Valentines Day, Daria.” He says in a hacking cough and pushes a Whitman’s sampler across the coffee table on top of all my other Cheetoh bags and old issues of Cosmopolitan. “Thanks, Dad! Sweet more chocolate!” I say with my teeth covered in orange gunk. The thought makes me shudder.

But what can a girl do? If a guy desires a relationship, he just has to find the right moment and the right girl and then make it happen. Girls? No, all we can do is try to look pretty and wait until our face turns blue for a certain guy to ask us out. And if that guy we pine for has no guts, then it is just a hopeless situation.
Him! The name tears at my soul. I had walked past him this morning as usual, he on his way to Chemistry, me all ready late for Spanish. My heart had started to thump loudly as it always seems to do when I see him. I had taken in every inch of him from his perfect hair to the dusty feet of his Nike sneakers. I had glanced at his tanned face, daring him to look up at me so I could attempt to say a weak “hi” or smile at him, but he had just stared out in front of him and I ended up passing him, terribly disappointed and unsatisfied.

Maybe if I just taped a sign on my forehead saying in large, bold letters, “Ask me out!” he would get the picture. Even if he did though, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself, barely knowing anything about the boy other than his entire schedule, that he has exactly seven freckles across his nose, three on the left side, four on the right, he has a house in Stratton, Vermont, sleeps with three pillows and his faded basketball, and has never gone out with anyone except for Bridget Thomas which was in fourth grade at his old school in California and doesn’t really count. I run my fingers along the edge of the calendar.

Then it comes to me. I’ll print his name in this week’s article, hidden somewhere in one of the paragraphs. He’d die probably of embarrassment and fear of me madly stalking him and publishing his name mysteriously for the whole town to see. Maybe not though, maybe he would realize I’ve had my eyes on him ever since we’d met and perhaps some day, somehow, in some way he will finally be mine!

(29) Wasted Relationships

“Hey go back, that’s a good show!”Britney whines as she sits her can of Coke on my coffee table. I glance over at Charlotte, sprawled on the couch, who continues to click through a dozen channels, ignoring every one’s requests for their choices of entertainment. I close my eyes with a sigh and enjoy the taste of crust, hot tomato sauce, and
tender globs of cheese in my mouth. It’s definitely one of those random Saturday nights where you’ve ended up hanging with your best friends, but you all are too lazy to go out and actually plan something, so you resort to watching pointless sitcoms and stuffing your face with as much pizza as you can manage all night.

“There’s obviously nothing on, you guys. Why don’t we play a game or something?” Charissa grabs this month’s Town and Country and starts flipping through its pages. Charlotte clicks off the television at her response.

“Charissa, it’s not like we’re in second grade. Yeah,let’s all go play a happy game of Candy Land and Mall Madness!”I instantly remember after Charlotte’s remark the known fact that when my friends and I get bored, we start to pick on each other.

“I was merely making a suggestion.”Charissa sighs and tosses the magazine back onto the table.

“Why don’t we just rent a movie?”Patsy adds from where she is sitting cross legged and making tiny braids in her long, blonde tresses.

“There’s no one to drive us.”I reply, coveting more than ever my driver’s license.

“True.”

We sit looking at each other in silence, brooding over the fact that none of us have any brilliant ideas of what to do and not being able to drive even if we did. Charlotte clicks back on the TV again. We all go back to staring at the screen.

“How was the party?”I ask, not looking away from Nick Lackey pelting a football at an arrangement of targets with TRL video titles.

“Fine.”Britney replies with little enthusiasm.

“Come on, Brit, you thought it was more than fine.”Patsy laughs. “We saw you and Jason together in the basement! That sucks that you had to baby-sit, Daria, you should have seen how Brit was all over
Jason Lewis! It was hysterical!”

We all turn around at once with renewed interest and Charlotte quickly turns off the TV, not turning her gaze from Britney’s crimson face.

“You guys, it was nothing.”Britney laughs uneasily, running her hand across the white carpet. I was totally wasted. I don’t even really remember that whole thing anyways. Besides, Jason definitely knows that if I hadn’t downed four beers, I would have never even looked at him.”My friends laugh, but I listen sadly. “Anyways, do u really want to hear a tragic story?”As soon as Britney realizes she has everyone’s attention, she continues. “It turns out that
Heather finally got together with Jeremy that same night!”

“The Jeremy? Jeremy Woods, the senior she’s been obsessed with since October?” Charissa lays down on the carpet, her chin resting in her hands.

“Yep.”Britney waits for a response, then keeps going. ”The problem is, she doesn’t remember anything about it. I was talking on the phone this afternoon to a girl in my Chemistry class and it turns out she heard a couple of girls telling some things to Heather at the
Sugarbowl this morning that I don’t think she was very comfortable with.”

“Oh my gosh,”Charissa says quietly. “I saw them together, but then they disappeared for like forty-five minutes.”

“Well, anyways, it turns out Heather is trying to play it cool and is telling everyone that she and Jeremy are together now. But the problem is when I talked to Jeremy’s friend Andrew a couple of hours ago, he told me a different story. Supposedly he was telling a group of guys about some sophomore he had gotten with at the party who was so plastered that she basically fell on top of him! And when Andrew asked him if he was now going out with Heather, he just laughed and informed him that he all ready had a girlfriend from New Canaan! She totally bagged her chance of that relationship!” Britney starts laughing, but I am getting annoyed by Britney’s rising authority in the latest gossip of our grade.

“I feel bad for Heather. She’s going to lose so much respect because of this.”Charissa looks down at the floor

“Oh, whatever. She totally had it coming anyways. Maybe she’ll be more careful now.”

“You shouldn’t talk Britney.”Patsy murmured. You should be praying that Jason doesn’t tell anyone of your little night together or your reputation will be gone as well.

“No. Jason doesn’t have the guts to do that. Anyways, this thing happens all the time, it will happen to you too, Patsy if it
didn’t all ready. I thought it was interesting that you sat next to Alex all night on the couch. Do you even remember how many beers you drank?” My friends started laughing and Patsy giggled as well.

“I saw this other guy and girl too! You’ll never guess who they were, you would never put them together!” Charlotte starts. I
have had enough though.

“I’m going outside for some air you guys,” I said. Even though it is below freezing outside I saunter out through the game rooms sliders onto the pool deck and sit on the edge of the dark empty hole as I stare into the void. I’m no priss, but I believe that there is more to the physical side of relationships than meaningless hookups. I think to
myself, of my parents relationship--neither one had really had any practical experience, if you know I mean, until they met in college and despite ups and downs in the market and their marriage there was a solidity, a trust. I want that. I hug myself tightly for warmth and continue to think about what my friends had just discussed. I want that more than I want the momentary thrill of some senior’s lusty attention. How do I stand by and watch my friends risk their virtue on a bottle of lite and a selfish moment of biological materialism? Where do I draw the lines? How do I avoid these wasted relationships?

(28) More Food for Thought

“This is disgusting.” Charlotte cries, her silver heart bracelet banging off of the table as she uses her brown paper bag to hit old food items off of the table and onto the floor. I watch pretzel pieces, saran wrappings, and plastic condiments fly in all directions. The room is filled with students laughing loudly and talking with an occasional slam of a cash register every now and then. It’s first shift, and the cafeteria has had its maximum seating arrangements completely filled up. We all resort to sharing seats with one another.

“Why doesn’t someone clean this all up?” Patsy complains from her side of the table as she spreads mustard on her turkey sandwich.

“If you ask me, the custodians should come do this!” Britney takes a large bite out of her chocolate chip cookie with frustration. I sit there quietly though, opening my large, lunch bag and pulling out its contents. My mother had been in such a good mood this morning that she let me stop at Vavalas to pick up my lunch for the day. Hungrily I pull out my chicken parm on a hard roll and cape cod potato chips, not caring for the moment about the seating situation even though I am so close to Patsy who is next to me that I can smell what kind of shampoo she uses.

“Daria, I just love that new turtleneck!” Patsy says between bites. The table nods and smiles at me in agreement

“Oh thanks, it’s actually my sister’s-” I take a large sip of soda and then slam the can back on the table with Satisfaction. “I stole it.” I say as I catch my breath, “Anyways, so did anyone watch the inauguration of the new President? I scoot my chair in as a guy from my Geometry class tries to pass our table.

“I did!” Alexandria cries and starts to talk, using her usual hand gestures to explain her views on the new décor of the white house. Her hand hits my coke can as I watch it fall and pour quickly down the table. I immediately feel something wet on my leg, and as I glance down I discover a splash of coke is soaking into my favorite, black pants. I glimpse back at the table, and put my can of Coke back upright as I grab some napkins and start dabbing at the darkening spot.

“Oh my gosh! I am so sorry!” Alexandria flusters around me trying to help me soak up the river of Coke heading off the table and onto my lap.

“It’s all right, really.” I reply through gritted teeth. I have an urge to start yelling about how clumsy she is, because after all, these are my favorite pants, but I come to the understanding as I am wiping it all up, that if we weren’t practically on top of each other while eating in this high school cafeteria, she wouldn’t have been as likely to have attacked me with my own Coke.

“So, you were saying?” Charlotte takes a bite out her balsamic vinaigrette salad impatiently.

“Oh, right, so I think the new off-white rug in the oval office with touches of melon and sage just isn’t as traditional as the regular dark blue carpet from the other Presidents, don’t you think?”

I and the rest of the table nod in unison, not really caring about the new furnishings of the White House, but trying to seem politely interested.

“I thought,” I mumble through bites of chicken, “that the whole tradition of the new President signing his papers with a new blue and gold fountain pen for each document just isn’t necessary. I mean one pen will do the job.” I start to unwrap my package of yodels.

“Maybe they sell those pens that he touched only once to a charity or something.” Charissa starts to peel her banana slowly.

“Doubt it.” I reply detaching the first chocolate layer off of my desert. They probably give them to museums or something.” I bring my elbow back down onto the table.

“Daria, careful I think I saw a trail of-” I pull up my elbow slowly out of a small puddle of dark, red, ketchup. The most-likely-to-be-eternal stain is seeping through the threads of my sister’s brand new crème turtleneck. “Thanks.” I mumble with a great absence of enthusiasm at Charissa’s some what late warning.

“I think we should rebel, Daria. We could start petitions, or something to get the custodians to start taking care of all of this. You should go to the principal and show him what happened to you. It’s just because of the stupid garbage on our tables. Isn’t there some health law or something connected with this?”

I listen to Britney as I sadly examine the sleeve of my shirt. I glance up at her as she continues her list of possible threats to the school while picking up the last crumbs of he coffee cake. “I don’t know, it’s not that big of a deal. I should have watched where I put my elbow.” I reply. Then I see it. Britney smiles at me as she as she unmistakably adds her own plastic wrapper onto the overflowing pile.

“Britney, you’re not just going to-?”

“Oh Charissa, get over it, it’s not like there isn’t trash on our table already.

Then it hits me; the sudden memory of my same friends and I eating at a lunch table in middle school. The usual murmur of crowds of students had surrounded us, and all of our lunches were spread out in front of us. We had all touched our noses to eliminate ourselves from washing the table, and glancing around to see who had been the unlucky forgetful person that would have to wipe down the table with the large, smelly, and wet sponge. Charissa had looked at us with both hands on the table. It seemed like Charissa always had washed our table because she just never put her finger on her nose quick enough.
My heart sinks. Here we are now, sophomores in high school, complaining about just having to throw away our own trash! We are older, more mature, and more capable of picking up after ourselves! Custodians or anyone else shouldn’t have to clean up for us; we should be able to do it on our own! Over-crowded seating arrangements maybe we can’t control, but the garbage on the tables is a basic thing. The trashcan is right next to us, we should be able to reach our hand over to it and drop in our waste.

I stand up, the chair scraping against the tiled floor. I pull up my sleeves with determination and immediately start grabbing all of the trash and stuffing it into the trash can behind me. My friends watch me in shock, their mouths dropping as they stare at what I am doing. My leg is sticky, my arm is covered in ketchup, but I am going to put a stop to the garbage issue once and for all.

“Come on you guys, Daria’s right. “Let’s be part of the solution and not the problem. Charissa pulls up her sleeves as well and soon to my amazement and satisfaction all of my friends and I are dumping old sand wich crusts, dripping yogurt containers, and moldy apples into the container even when we know they’re not ours.

“I bet next shift there will just be an even bigger pile left for us tomorrow.” Charlotte gripes as we walk past the other tables.

“Yeah, but at least we’ll have the satisfaction of knowing we are at least capable of doing what others won’t. Britney replies as we exit the cafeteria. The loud laughter and talking is left behind us as the doors close and together we march down the hall towards the bathroom to start cleaning ourselves up.