To: Nic@DownUnder
From: DariaM
Subject: Satellite Dish

Dear Nicole,
Yes, it's true. High school in America is every bit as exciting and glamorous as what you see on TV. Just yesterday Brittany (she's a cheerleader -- that's an American term for "brain-damaged") woke half the class when she got a piece of gum stuck in her part. I offered to dissolve it with some of the sulfuric acid I've been stockpiling, but her boyfriend, Kevin, who loves her very much, wouldn't allow it. He was afraid it might change her hair color.

The academic program here is rigorous. If you don't know how to throw a football, they make you take tests and write papers. Last week we had to write about current events. Mr. O'Neill like my essay "Do We Really Need an Ozone Layer?" so much, he's invited my mother to school to discuss it. All this excitement is killing me. Very, very slowly.

Don't worry about Americans judging you on your criminal ancestry. Most people here know very little about Australia except that it's Europe somewhere. In point of fact, Australia is so far away that you may never get any visitors from Lawndale.

Hey. Would it be very hard for me to get an Australian green card?

Daria

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To: Rhonda@Kinsingjail.com
From: DariaM

Dear Rhonda,

Not everyone can come from a close-knit family like mine, although I admit that they do try my nerves sometimes. Like during waking hours. And no, I've never actually killed any of them, especially not with a tomahawk, but then again, I'm still young.

Last Sunday was "Morgendorffer Night Out." Apparently Mom had been briefed about two kids who are suing their parents for neglect, so she decided to cram 365 days of quality time into one long joyous evening out to dinner. Dad and I wanted to go to The Spiffy Jiffy Cafeteria, but Quinn said she wouldn't be caught dead in a place where women wear hair nets. So we went to Chez Pierre, where women wear dead animals.

We caught up with one another's lives before our drink orders, and then Mom had to take a business call. I gave Dad some sections of my paper, and Quinn moved to another table with a guy she met in the coat-check line. All in all, a very successful evening. I can't wait for family bonding night again next year.

There's something I want to ask you. Why do they consider solitary confinement a punishment? To me, three meals a day and no one around to bother you would be a damn sight better than parole.

Good luck with your appeal.

Daria

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From: DariaM
To: Borisborscht@minskuniv.org

Dear Boris,

Thank you for the homemade vodka recipe. I've been trying to get the rust off the metal bars in my windows, and this might just do the trick. I almost made a batch for my sister, Quinn, but then it dawned on me that the medical examiner might be able to trace it. Which reminds me, is Olga out of the ICU yet?

In answer to your question, I don't find dating in this country stressful at all, probably because I don't do it. My mother thinks I'd have a better social life if my provocative style of dress didn't advertise the fact that I'm only after one thing: Isolation. I certainly don't get this new fad of people falling in love and getting engaged on the Web before they've ever met. It would make much more sense to me to marry someone and THEN interact with them only through e-mail.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that as generous as your offer was to put yourself up in my room for a month, I'm afraid I'll have to decline, as that would fall under the category of human contact. My sister, on the other hand, might be interested in meeting you when you come visit this fall. Just tell her your Russian accent is French (she thinks the French are really cool because they invented French dressing), and you'll be all set.

Daria

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To: CecilB@smokeland.com
From: DariaM

Dear Cecil,

Thank you for inviting me to spend a year abroad with you on your father's tobacco farm in Zimbabwe. As much as I appreciate the offer, I must decline, as leaving the house would fulfill my sister Quinn's fondest dream.

The thought of meeting a new group of high school students is another deterrent, especially since I'd be expected to speak to them. At least at Lawndale, my friend Jane and I know that we'll be every bit as unpopular next year as we are now and, as a result, will be left alone to pursue our own interests (should we develop any). Living here might be hell, but at least it's my hell.

Finally, I have to admit that I might actually get homesick. I'd miss the familiar click of the deadbolt as I lock the door to my room, the tomblike hush of my padded walls, and the soothing static of the television as it drowns out the insane prattle of household members down the hall. Besides, if I move, my family might think I'm trying to alienate them. . .

Did you say you had a room with a view?

Daria