PART II: Chapter 1
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03/16/01 Friday 2:30 A.M.
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Sandi, Tiffany, and Stacy were sitting on Quinn’s bed,
helping her with her new ponytail. It was the latest fashion, she had just seen
it in Waif and it looked really hot. Edgy, even. The top of her ponytail
had been divided into three smaller parts, and right now each member of the
Fashion Club was braiding a section.
Quinn was excited, and imagined how others would look on
her change with new envy. Then again, a small part of her worried about being
laughed at for being too edgy. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” she
asked again.
“Quinn,” said Sandi, “trust me. Would I lead you astray?
... Oops. Oh, I’m like soooo sorry, Quinn.”
Quinn’s eyes widened and she gasped in horror as she saw
the little braided hair in Sandi’s hand. It had come off her head into Sandi’s
hand!
“Oh, no!” shrieked Stacy, “it happened to me, too! Can you
ever forgive me, Quinn?” Stacy was also holding a little pony tail.
“Me, toooooo,” moaned Tiffany, also holding one.
“MY HAIR!” shrieked Quinn jumping up. “How could you rip
my hair off, you BITCHES!”
Sobbing in grief, she got up and ran over to her three
mirrors to see how bad the damage was.
In the reflection, she saw Matthew holding a gun right at
the back of her head.
All her mirrors shattered into shards as Quinn fell
screaming, the loud report echoing in her small room.
The Fashion Club was gone. Only Matthew was here with her
now.
Quinn was instantly running out of her room, but he shot
at her again before she got out.
While she moved at an impossible speed, she noticed that
the hallway outside was incredibly long, and she heard Matthew chasing her. She
had to hide, had to get help -- but everyone was gone. Matthew shot at her
again and again and then she was at Daria’s room, just as a bullet lodged in
the door in front of her.
Twisting the knob, she dove in and slammed the door shut.
The doorknob started twisting and Quinn grabbed it. The doorknob kept turning,
and she couldn’t keep him out. He was too strong and Quinn was already tiring.
“DARIA!” shrieked Quinn in utter terror, “DARIA, PLEASE!”
Daria couldn’t come because she was in jail. She
remembered that now. Everyone else had abandoned her. But Daria hadn’t
abandoned her and now she was in jail because of it. Saving Quinn had been a
crime. And now there was no one left to save her.
Then Quinn saw Daria’s gun on the bed. She knew she
couldn’t keep Matthew out much longer, so she jumped for it. She grabbed it and
turned, pointing it at Matthew who had just burst in. She pulled the trigger.
And nothing happened.
She tried to get the damn gun to work as Matthew quickly
closed the distance, but it was only an inert piece of metal. She’d do better
to just throw it at him!
Then she saw fire and smoke as Matthew’s gun went off only
inches from her face. She fell, twisting and the gun shots kept coming as she
tried in futility to get out of the way.
Quinn came to, twisting in her blankets, screaming.
Slowly, Quinn became aware that she was in her bed in her
dark room, her sheets and blanket wrapped around her. Her heart pounded as she
lay frozen, unable to breathe or move.
Matthew’s right outside! I have to hide, I have to hide!,
thought Quinn in her frozen panic. No, said a calmer part of her mind, he’s
dead. Unfortunately, the calmer part of her mind was having a hard time
convincing the panicking part.
She realized her stuffed dino had fallen to the floor and
she started to force herself to move to grab it when she wondered, What if
Matthew is under the bed?
Quinn screamed, “AAAAAAAAGGHHH!!!” as she sat upright
suddenly because the door to her bedroom opened and Quinn saw Matthew coming
into her room.
The light came on. It was her mom in her night clothes.
“Quinn, what’s wrong?” asked Helen. “Did you have another
nightmare?”
“Yes,” said Quinn in a tearful voice, before she started
crying in earnest.
“Oh, honey,” said her mom, coming to her bed. “Matthew
can’t hurt you anymore. He’s dead.”
Helen felt shame at the vicious satisfaction at knowing
that and even wishing it had been HER pulling the trigger of the gun that
killed him instead of Daria's. And the fantasy didn’t come only from the desire
to spare Daria prison by going in her place. But she didn’t give any clue to
this dark, protective feeling that had become the primary focus of her life
since all this madness started. She just comforted Quinn who was crying in her
arms.
“Would you like to sleep with me?” asked Helen. Quinn was
way too old, but Quinn needed her sleep. If it kept the nightmares away, she
was willing to indulge Quinn a night or two. Though she might make Jake sleep
on the couch.
“No,” breathed out Quinn. “I’m fine.” Quinn broke the
embrace. “I just wish these nightmares would stop, Mom. He’s always
there, him and his damn gun, every time I close my eyes!”
“Well, try to get some sleep, honey,” her mom told her
soothingly. “You know we’re right here. You’re safe.” Helen bit her lip as she said
that, knowing that, although Matthew was dead, Quinn was now being targeted by
people with no devotion to law or justice.
And she wondered how she could afford therapy for Quinn
when the legal fees were already promising to bankrupt her.
“Okay,” said Quinn, again sounding as if she were 12
instead of 16.
Helen kissed her on the forehead and left. Quinn got up
and went to the bathroom, washing all the tears from her eyes. Then, still
afraid, she went back to bed. She left the lamp on her dresser drawer on this
time.
Quinn lay there, her stuffed dino in her arms, thinking
about the dream. Why didn’t the gun ever work? She didn’t know because she
didn’t have any ideas of how guns really worked. She just saw on TV and at the
movies that you pointed them and fired. Just like she saw happen nearly three
days ago. That was it. But there must be something more, or the gun would work
in her dream. Right?
“Quinn,” said an alto voice.
Quinn tried sitting up to see who was in he room, but she
couldn’t move.
“Quinn,” said the soft, warm voice.
Quinn found she was very tired, but she could barely move
her mouth to speak. “What?” she croaked out lightly.
“Quinn,” said the comforting voice again, “you are not
alone.”
“Who?” She meant to say who are you, but her mouth failed
her. It didn’t matter, the voice understood.
“I’m...” the name was such that Quinn couldn’t retain it
in memory. “I’m your guardian angel.”
Quinn felt excitement rush through her. Of course! Her
guardian angel!
“You... saved me... the chandelier....” said Quinn in a
light voice. If her mom was listening outside with her ear pressed to the door,
she would assume Quinn was only grunting in her sleep.
“Yes, Quinn, I saved you when your dad let that chandelier
fall on your head.” The voice sounded oddly amused, but also very comforting.
“And kept you from getting sick from the bad salad dressing, too. Remember?”
“Why.... where were you....” Quinn meant about to ask
about
“The party, Quinn?” said the angel, sounding regretful.
“I’m sorry about that. I was saving myself for when you needed me the most.
That time is now. I’m with you, Quinn, and you don’t have to be scared of
Matthew anymore.”
“Safe,” said Quinn, almost smiling. She could feel that
Matthew had fled from her angel.
“Yes, Quinn, I’m here to watch over you.”
“What’s.... name?”
The angel repeated it, but Quinn still couldn’t understand
it. Then the angel said, “You can call me Buffy.”
Quinn would’ve giggled, but she was too tired to do so.
“I’m glad you like it,” said the angel sounding pleased.
“Matthew’s.... gone?”
“Yes, Quinn. He’s in Hell now. I won’t let him hurt you
anymore.”
“Thank..... you,” Quinn breathed out, before falling into
the first peaceful sleep she had known since Matthew tried to kill her almost
three days ago.
2.
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03/16/01 Friday 10:30 A.M.
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Helen, dressed in her power suit, was driving Daria home
from court. The bond had been $200,000. Marguerite was to thank for that, as
she let Judge Oliver in on some of the facts that would be coming out of the
trial and the possibility of future prosecutions and media infamy. The shady
real estate deals he was involved in provided added leverage.
But that meant Helen was instantly out of $20,000. She
could cover that, but it didn’t leave much. She hoped the defense fund kept
piling up or she’d quickly go bankrupt.
Right now, Helen wanted to get Daria home and talk to her
privately before any of the defense team got there this afternoon. She was torn
between hugging Daria and slapping her. She wanted to tearfully thank her for
saving Quinn and castigate her for bringing such pain and stress to her life.
But right now she just tried being positive.
She also didn’t like that Daria was wearing the same
clothes she had been arrested in. They smelled.
Daria finally spoke up. “Have the paparazzi been following
you around this entire time?”
Helen smiled nervously. “Not too much, Daria. And it could’ve
been worse.”
Daria turned to Helen, curious. “What do you mean?”
Helen snorted. “Most of them are getting their big O’s at
the cabin owned by Matthew’s father, where Quinn went skiing with that Fashion
Club of hers. The police are showing off a bunch of guns and right-wing hate
literature.”
Daria’s brows raised a bit at the cynical tone in Helen’s
words. Finally, she asked, “Is National Review getting slammed again?”
Helen almost laughed at that, more from her frazzled state
than anything else. “No, Daria. Matthew’s father seems to be involved with some
white supremacists and neo-nazi groups, or at least he’s on their mailing
list.”
“Hmph,” said Daria thinking about that. “Then maybe
they’ll forget about me and go after him.” She turned her head to face the
front again.
“Not likely, Daria,” said Helen in a voice that revealed
dread. When Helen noticed Daria’s concerned face in her rear view, she added,
“We think there’s a good chance the media will connect you and Quinn to Matthew
trying to start a race war.”
Daria was stunned. “Sorry,” she said staring at Helen
again, “did I miss something?”
This time Helen did laugh, but without humor. Then she
sighed, “We’ll talk about it later. All I’ll say right now is that Fillman and
a few police officers are hoping to use this to enhance their own reputations
and destroy yours.”
“Oh.” Daria sounded both confused and afraid. Daria had
seen Fillman early this morning, and knew he was dangerous to her. She was sure
he didn’t see her as a person; to him she was just an opportunity, a means to
an end. He’d gut her, metaphorically speaking, the same way he’d gut a fish,
and with as much thought and care.
“Don’t worry,” said Helen, trying to comfort her. “The
truth will come out in court.”
Daria’s voice only betrayed a hint of her fear as she
said, “An investigation showed that 13 out of 25 people on death row were
innocent. How can I trust them not to convict me when I’m not even facing
death?”
“Daria, the court lets the guilty off as much as it punishes
the innocent! I mean, it doesn't always go one way.”
“Thanks, Mom,” replied Daria, “I feel so much better now.”
“Daria!” shouted Helen, “I am doing the best I can. I know
the courts aren’t perfect, but many of the people involved are doing the best
they can!”
After a beat, Daria asked, “Don’t they like fine people
for prostitution in courts?”
“What?” Helen never know what Daria was going to say next,
but she hadn’t expected that one. “Oh, the courts you mean? Yes. What’s that
have to do with anything?”
“I don’t think I trust pimps.”
“Daria! The courts are NOT pimps. The women are simply
fined for the debt they owe to society.”
“Oh. Like pimps do, only they call it a charge for all
their services. Do the tax-funded courts also charge for their services?”
“Daria, please!” Helen was getting really nervous. If
Daria were to present her twisted views to the court, she would fry. No one
wanted to be called a pimp. “Pimps buy Rolls Royces and jewelry for themselves,
the money the prostitutes have to pay goes to society.”
“Like?”
“Parks, swimming pools...”
“Damn. I’ll never be able to hide in another park, knowing
how it’s funded now. I just thought they robbed people and gave to themselves,
calling themselves society. Now that I know parks are actually from pimping,
it’s even worse.”
“Daria!” Helen tried reminding herself that Daria had a
lot of reason to feel hostile to the legal system now, but she was also,
peripherally, slandering Helen’s own profession, too.
“Do you even know how this charge to society is exactly
used, or are you just told how it’s used?”
Helen did NOT want to go there. “Just trust them, okay
Daria?”
“Me? Trust a bunch of pimps? Well, if my own mother says
to.”
Helen was getting a little fed up, but they were home now.
A few reporters were there already. Helen hoped Daria didn’t repeat this
conversation to the press. If she did, they’d paint her to the public as an
anarchist, or even worse, a libertarian.
“Here, Daria,” said Helen handing Daria the keys. “I want
you to go inside while I deal with this.”
Daria was all too glad to comply. She went inside with
cameras following her every move to the door, while Helen made a statement.
Daria was stunned to see the front room was a mess. There
wasn’t a lot scattered on the floor, but everything was out of place, as if it
had been hurriedly set out of the way. The floor obviously needed to be
vacuumed, among other things.
“Daria!” That was from Quinn, who joyfully ran to her,
adding to her sense of unreality. “I’m so glad you’re home!” She sounded like
she meant it, as she threw her arms around Daria.
Quinn wanted to make sure Daria stuck around to watch over
her, even if she did have Buffy to look out for her now. Quinn knew Buffy
couldn’t be there ALL the time.
“Uh, hi,” said Daria, not sure yet how to take this. She
finally returned the hug, but she really wanted to spend a month alone in a
cabin to think about everything that had happened.
Helen came in, pointedly closing the door behind her. She
smiled as she saw Daria and Quinn, but hid it before either one saw it.
Daria broke the embrace to turn to Helen. “What happened
to the house?”
“The police happened!” shouted Quinn, getting mad, placing
her hands on her hips. “They took my lappie, too!”
When Daria blinked at that, Helen said, “They tore the
house up looking for bombs and ammo.” She didn’t add that they were probably
hoping for narcotics, too. “They tore your room up pretty bad, Daria. They took
your computer, too, or at least most of it. I haven’t touched anything. I was
hoping you could clean it up and tell me if anything else is missing. Okay?”
The sense of unreality was being replaced by a sense of
violation. Without a word, she turned and practically stomped up the stairs.
When Daria saw her room, she was hit with anger, sadness,
confusion, fear, and pain. The barbarians had violated her sanctuary. The
sheets and blanket of her bedding lay on the floor with nearly everything else
from her closet and under her bed. She slammed her door shut and began putting
things in (relative) order.
Several minutes later (and a room that still looked like a
mess, but the one Daria was familiar with), she went to take a long shower and
get into clean clothes. Then she went down to the kitchen, where she heard
Helen and Quinn talking quietly. They stopped and looked at her when she came
in. There was a box at Helen’s feet, and some papers and files on the table.
Helen was drinking some ice tea, and Quinn had a soda. Daria got herself a soda
and sat down, too.
“Anything besides your computer missing?” asked Helen.
“Yes,” said Daria simply. After a pause, she clarified,
“My journal, and my ammo belt.” Daria worked to hide her sense of violation and
anger as she added, “Oh, and my
“
“I don’t suppose you can get my money back, can you?”
Daria seemed to already know the answer as she asked it.
Helen shook her head sadly. “I’m sorry, Daria, but I don’t
think so. But I will see what I can do.” She looked at Daria harder, “but
please don’t use phrases like ‘
Daria rolled her eyes. Many people would think well of her
if she joined the BATF, but even a slight connection to a militia, or any group
that didn’t participate in the prevailing group think, was suspect. “Whatever,”
said Daria, “can you get my other stuff back?”
Helen definitely frowned as she heard what Daria told her.
She was glad that horrible faux ammo belt of hers had been taken, but she had
no idea what was in Daria’s journal. She was sure Daria must be upset, even if
she didn’t show any emotion at this time.
“I’m sure I can get your journal and computer back,” said
Helen. “I just hope there wasn’t anything they could use against you in it. You
didn’t write about this in your journal or computer at all, did you?” When
Daria shook her head, Helen continued, “Maybe there’s something in the files I
got from Marguerite last night.” Assuming they had even begun to look at the
journal, Helen thought contemptuously.
Helen kicked herself for not getting through it all yet
herself, but what could she do? She’d be glad when she finally assembled her
team and wasn’t just one person working alone anymore.
When Daria turned to Helen, Helen summed up last night’s
meeting with Marguerite. She knew Daria had a right to know and would want to
be let in on everything. She was smart and disciplined enough to handle it. She
hoped Quinn was, too; she sat silently listening to them talk. Helen knew she
was going to have to prepare Quinn for the police, so she let Quinn stay. It
would save time later.
Helen sorted through the box and didn’t find anything, but
she had a hard time seeing what everything was. She finally pulled several
files out at once to go through them on her lap. She was surprise when she
heard a thump. Looking down, her mouth dropped open as she saw a video tape
lying on the bottom of the box.
Forcing herself to stay calm, she took the tape out and
put it on the table where Daria and Quinn both stared at it in silence, knowing
what it was. Helen continued to look through the files until she found
something.
“Yes, Daria, there is stuff here.” She shared with them
photos the police had apparently taken of Daria’s room, focusing on her
skeletal theme items. Helen sighed, knowing she would have to block that
evidence from going to the jury. It wasn’t even circumstantial evidence, it was
only meant to assassinate Daria’s character, so she thought she had a good
chance at suppressing it.
Daria’s journal wasn’t there, but there were photocopies
of some pages. Most of it was just as superficial as the photos, but one entry
at the bottom of a page caught her eye:
“Anyway, the sun is setting, the moon is rising, and I can hear the lonesome sigh of the wind outside my window--no, wait, that’s Quinn’s blow dryer. The future is an enormous question mark, and I don’t know what lies ahead. I only know that if it moves, I’m shooting it. Daria.”
Helen
groaned. This wasn’t proof, but it was bad. She would make sure to block this
evidence from showing up. She let Daria see it when Daria looked a question at
her.
Daria just shrugged. What’s the big deal, she
wondered.
Then Helen asked about everything that happened in the
last three days and forced herself to listen calmly, despite her growing anger.
After Daria finished describing her experience among
Daria seemed shocked by that, but nodded her thanks to
Helen for sharing it with her. Helen was pleased to see Quinn was touched by
that, too, and had to resist the urge to reach out and stroke her hair again,
the way she had last night while talking to Andrew Landon on the phone.
Helen turned to Daria to see her staring thoughtfully at
the tape. “Yes, Daria,” said Helen, “I want to see what’s on this tape, too.”
She got up and took it into the living room, with Daria following right behind,
and Quinn slowly catching up.
The footage started off with the date showing 03-13-01
8:33 A.M. Jane walked up to the Crafts building and looked around. She went in,
and came out moments later with Daria. Then there was a cut, and then nearly
the same scene showed the next day at 8:29 A.M.
This time, footage followed Daria and Jane into the
hallways of Lawndale High. They hadn’t even gotten to their lockers when they
could see classmates running. DeMartino showed up yelling at students, but he
somehow looked scared himself, even if there wasn’t a clear image of his face.
He seemed to be herding students, and a few teachers, outside. Daria noticed
the nurse Jodie couldn’t find as one of the adults running out.
The footage then showed Jane starting to go with the crowd
coming near Mr. DeMartino, but Daria pulled her shirt up. She got something out
though it was not clear yet what it was. Jane came, with Mr. DeMartino
following, and she grabbed Daria’s arm. Daria shook off Jane’s hand and began
running. Jane stared, and then her own arm was grabbed by Mr. DeMartino. She
struggled as she was being dragged away, but her struggles seemed halfhearted.
The scene suddenly cut off.
The scene changed to Daria taking a stance, holding what
appeared to be a gun in a two-handed grip, and firing. There was no footage of
what she was firing at. A minute passed, and Daria unloaded her weapon and put
it down. Then she seemed to collapse on herself.
Quinn appeared and hugged her, and they huddled together
for the passing of about five minutes. Helen nearly broke down in tears,
watching her two daughters on the screen. Then Jane reappeared and reached
towards Daria but didn’t actually touch her. Another minute passed and Daria
turned to her. Then the two Morgendorffer sisters got up without losing
physical contact, and began to follow Jane off camera.
The scene changed, with the time going back a few minutes,
to a school hallway littered with books and papers. It was otherwise empty,
except for two people. Quinn was running, and Matthew quickly appeared behind
her.
Matthew stopped and pointed the gun in Quinn’s direction,
and a hint of fire seemed to be caught on film. Helen gasped involuntarily as
she saw Quinn suddenly fall, roll, and face Matthew who rapidly closed the
distance between them. She was on her hands and knees staring up into the gun
that Matthew now pointed down at her face, clearly visible, in a two-handed
grip, almost touching her, or so it looked on camera.
Then Matthew jerked three times in rapid succession. Fire
came from Matthew’s gun, but it had jerked up, missing Quinn by a wide margin.
Quinn pulled herself up a bit and seemed to be screaming.
Funny, Quinn thought, seeing this, I don’t
remember screaming.
Then Matthew pointed the gun at the ground, and fell to
his knees. Then he collapsed, seeming to be only inches from Quinn, who was
cringing away from him.
The tape went blank. All three Morgendorffers stared
silently at the blank screen for at least two minutes before Helen used the
remote to turn it off. She wondered when this footage would be released to the
news hounds, and how much of it would be shown on the air. She would look into
getting more footage of Matthew’s attack added into the evidence and news
footage both.
Especially, Helen thought, of how Matthew snuck
a gun into school. She was very curious about that, although she it would
be paranoid to think that the police had smuggled it in for him.
But she was now convinced that she would be able to clear
Daria of all charges, other than taking a gun to school and violating the Gun
Free Zones Act and Project Safe Neighborhoods. With all the other evidence
collected, the defense attorneys should be ecstatic for everything except the
federal trial.
The federal trial didn’t have a set date yet. Helen
desperately hoped that the BATF would choose not to press charges, but she knew
that was extremely unlikely. The BATF was as zealous as it was brutal, and
regularly played tricks so dirty that, she had heard, even other government
agencies were shocked.
Daria was clearly in violation of federal law. According
to that law she would spend several years in a federal prison cell. The
reputation of the BATF made no difference to that.
Helen was also wracked with guilt and confusion. Her view
of someone with a gun had been of people like Matthew, not Daria. Decent people
didn’t have guns. All a gun did was invite trouble, which was why Helen had
made Jake sell all his guns years ago. She sniffed; she still didn’t trust Jake
with a gun. She hadn’t changed her mind on gun control, she still believed it
was necessary; but she wished now it could be achieved in a better way, one
that didn’t hurt the innocent as much as, or even more than, the guilty.
Daria was locked in a psychic storm of distress and guilt
and anger that she wouldn’t show to the outside world at all. She had planned
for this since Matthew had shoved that gun of his in her face nearly two weeks
ago.
Every moment came back to her with crystal clarity. She
stared into that barrel, knowing that the extinction of all that she was could
happen at the jerk of a finger. And others had been threatened as well. The
only reason she hadn’t run when
But she had learned, with all her senses shocked into full
awareness, an important lesson that night as Matthew turned to stare at all the
guns aimed at him: The best way to fight fire is with fire.
She had gotten a gun the very next day, from a man whose
name she would never reveal. She owed him Quinn’s life, and possibly her own.
Who knew how many other lives? And to her utter amazement, he'd agreed to
extend credit to her, even though he would not be able to pursue the matter by
legal means if she chose to rip him off. She doubted he would resort to illegal
means of redress, either. He had trained her almost every day on how to use,
care for, and keep a gun. And he had helped her plan what she would do if she
needed to.
Then Matthew had shown up, yelling at Quinn. Daria had
called 911 while Jane went out to tell him what Daria was doing. He yelled out
loud at Jane and Daria both, though Daria couldn’t make out his words. Then
Quinn came on the phone and gasped that Matthew was after Jane.
Daria had hung up, gotten out her gun, and run to the
stairs, going down to the living room ready to empty her clip into Matthew.
There were no cameras here. Unless Quinn saw the entire shooting, then she
would say the gun had belonged to him.
But when she could clearly see the front room, Jane was
alone and the front door was open. Jane had yelled at her to hide the gun.
Daria had done so, slipping it into the pouch under her shirt, and was going to
the door when Quinn ran past her, crying. When she made it to the door, she had
seen Matthew’s car pulling away. So she had hidden her gun in her room again,
and gone downstairs to wait for the police.
After she learned of the restraining order, her dread
deepened, and she resolved never to be caught off guard by Matthew again. He
had done so twice, and she felt a superstitious dread at the phrase, “third
time’s a charm.” She would even take her gun to school until she felt that
Matthew was no longer a danger to them.
She and Jane had discussed how they would do it, but there
were so many things they hadn’t counted on, or had considered unimportant in their
inexperience. Not the least of which was this gnawing guilt that she had taken
a life with a squeeze of her finger. She was comforted by DeMartino’s message
that her mother had passed on to her, but only a little.
Such power, thought Daria, should not exist in
the hands of anyone. To take a life should not be so easy!
Meanwhile, Quinn felt growing anger and shame as she
thought about how Matthew had controlled her so much, and in the end, tried to
kill her, too. Maybe that was the ultimate domination? Someone else always had
to save her. Someone else was always in control. She thought she was the one in
control with silken gloves over an iron fist, but she now saw how everything
she did was in response to what someone else did. Quinn was not in control, she
was controlled.
On the footage, she looked like a baby cowering from
Matthew. She hoped that it never was played on the news. All she did was run,
cringe and cry. And that’s about all she had done since she came back. That
someone tried to kill her filled her with inexplicable shame.
Quinn resolved to grow up and learn to take care of
herself. She would get a gun just like Daria had as soon as she possibly could.
I wonder how much Daria will charge to help me get my
own gun?, Quinn mused. It’s going to have be a really chic gun, though,
one that can double as a fashion accessory, like on all those TV shows..
“Daria,” asked Helen suddenly, “where did you get your
gun?”
“I’m sorry,” said Daria, “but that information is
classified.”
“Daria!” Helen was in no mood for this. “If I’m to help
you, I need to know where you got the gun!”
Daria looked down for a minute, and then looked back up.
“I got it at a gun show in
Besides, she told herself, squirming, those gun
shows probably do sell to a lot of shady characters.
Helen crossed her arms and looked as if she wasn’t sure
she believed what Daria just told her.
Finally she said, “Fine, Daria, let’s at least get your
story straight.” And with that ambiguous statement, Daria made up details from
what she had learned of the show on the net.
She'd alone, borrowing the Lane car under false pretenses,
claiming a private medical exam in the same town as the gun show, hinting that
it had to do with an unexpected pregnancy. No, she didn't remember the dealer
well because she had paid more attention to the gun. No, she couldn't describe
him except that he was an “older, white guy conservatively dressed.” He had
given her tips on how to shoot it and she had practiced using it.
“And the Teflon?”
Daria swallowed. “I read about that on the net, Mom. I
bought some of that at the Handy Dandy.”
True enough. The stuff was also used in cleaning skillets.
She wouldn’t reveal that her source had put it on for her and showed her how to
do it for herself in the future.
And so it went, until there was a knock at the door. “Oh,
dear,” said Helen getting up, “that’s probably your defense team, Daria.” Helen
recognized that knock.
“Defense team?” Daria sounded surprised, and even a little
scared. “Um, Mom,” said Daria nervously, “I.... I don’t want to talk to anyone
right now!”
“Daria, this is important!” When Helen saw Daria showing
rare vulnerability in her eyes, she relented, trying not to grind her teeth.
“For now, Daria.” Then her face scrunched. “It’s past noon. Daria, will you
please fix you and Quinn something?” When Daria looked at her blankly, she
added, “Please?”
Daria sighed and went into the kitchen with Quinn
following.
“So when are you going back to school?” asked Daria.
Quinn didn’t reply for a minute and Daria didn’t press
her. Then Quinn said, “They’re just having counseling today. But I don’t think
I want to be weak anymore. Can you show me how to be strong like you, Daria?”
Daria almost laughed. Her, strong? She was barely strong
enough to keep herself from screaming and sobbing nonstop 24/7 these days.
Daria fished out two microwavable pizzas and started preparing them. “I don’t
know if I’m that strong, Quinn,” said Daria finally, and a little weakly.
Quinn didn’t believe it, but she could see Daria was
struggling with a lot. She let it go for now. She still had Buffy for the time
being. Still, Buffy left her once and might do so again, and she wanted to be
ready to take care of herself.
While the first pizza was being nuked, Daria turned to
Quinn and asked, “So is the Fashion Club going to declare Kevlar in season?”
“Ha, ha,” said Quinn weakly. “They haven’t called me at
all.” She sounded a little hurt.
Daria was getting two more sodas out when she asked, “Have
you called them?”
Quinn shook her head. “No.... I’m not sure why. I think
I’ll talk to them Monday.”
The microwave dinged, and Daria put it on the table.
“Enjoy.”
Quinn was momentarily flushed. She would’ve gotten it! But
then she almost never did. She ate it silently while existing in some newly
discovered and unexplored part of her inner world, a part of herself that no
one, not even Quinn, had ever seen before.
While Daria was zapping her own pizza, she called Jane.
Jane picked up after three rings. “Hello?”
“Hey,” said Daria.
“DARIA!” Jane sounded happy. “I’ve been waiting here today
hoping I’d hear from you!”
“So you didn’t go to school, either?”
Jane snorted. Then she said, “You’re out of jail aren’t
you?”
“Yeah,” said Daria. “Listen, they didn’t place you in a
cell with anyone, did they?”
“Yeah,” said Jane, “someone named Greta. She was either a
cop or someone trying to turn in information in exchange for something, so I
just kept telling her about my art work until she begged me to shut up.”
“Good,” said Daria relieved. “I had a Beth do the same. I
hope she doesn’t reveal to the police that I got my gun from S-Mart.”
Jane started laughing, “Oh, you didn’t tell her Ash got it
for you, did you?”
Daria and Jane had watched Army of Darkness on a
recent Bad Movie Night. Daria, the proud owner of a new .32 Mark II pistol,
liked the scene where Ash is being tormented by his evil counterpart. The evil
counterpart stops when he gets a shotgun shoved in his face and is blown away.
“Good, bad,” said Ash philosophically, “I’m the guy with the gun.”
“I did tell her that,” said Daria. “I can only hope she
doesn’t turn me in.” She smiled into the phone a little. “I so hope we’re not
being listened in on and recorded right now,” said Daria with fake concern,
“maybe we shouldn’t talk about that over the phone.”
“Probably a good policy,” said Jane getting more serious.
“The police tore our house up and took our computer. Not that you can tell.
“They tore up my house, too,” said Daria frowning. “But I
don’t think they found anything. They took my computer, but anything they’ll
find will be circumstantial at best. They got a lot of stuff, but nearly
everything they’re trying to use against me is almost laughable, and Mom seems
to think she can get me off on everything. At least on this trial.”
“And if they find all the bodies we hid, they’ll never
take us alive, freaking friend.”
“Don’t even joke about that. If they get that on tape,
they’ll use it as evidence against us.”
“What’s with this we, kemosabe?”
“They’re probably not listening it, but I’d rather be
overly paranoid now than regretful later.”
“Have you called Tom yet?” asked Jane, sounding more
serious. “I hear his family is suspected of being drug lords.”
Daria snorted, having heard about that from her mom. “As
stupid as the Lawndale PD is,” said Daria, “it’s no wonder they still can’t
catch that burglar that keeps stealing all the appliances in crash and dash
burglaries.”
Jane decided against saying she had the computers and
coffee pot from the old school Lawndale's cybercafé and later coffeehouse
safely stashed away. So instead, she told Daria, “I talked to Mrs. Sloane. They
already know about being suspects, and she told me not to call over there
again, nor are you to call. Just thought you should know.”
Daria frowned deeply at that, but shrugged it off. “It
might be for the best anyway,” she murmured.
“Hey,” said Jane, “I’m going to
“I want to,” said Daria, “but there’s a coven of lawyers
in the living room that wouldn’t let me.”
“When can we get together?”
“Maybe this afternoon? But I’m not sure really.”
Quinn washed her own plate and left, reminding Daria of
her pizza. She got it out, much cooled, and started nibbling on it while she
kept talking.
“You coming to school on Monday?” asked Jane.
“I don’t know,” said Daria. “I haven’t heard anything on
that. I’d be kinda surprised if they let me, though.”
“Yeah,” said Jane, “well if they won’t let you go, then I
don’t go. It’s called solidarity.”
“Sounds more like a useful excuse.”
“Whatever,” said Jane sounding uncomfortable all of a
sudden. “Hey, call me as soon as we can get together, okay? I want to go get my
art supplies.”
Daria felt disappointment, and wondered if she had said
something. “Okay, freaky friend.”
“Hey,” said Jane encouragingly, “hang in there. We’ll be
watching Sick, Sad World together in no time.”
They said their good byes then, and Daria hung up envying
Jane being able to go to
3.
-------------------------------------
03/16/01 FRIDAY 2:30 P.M.
-------------------------------------
Jane was almost through shopping when she stopped in Heresies,
One of the books on sale was The Teenage Liberation
Handbook by Grace Llewellyn. Flipping through it, Jane thought it was an
amazingly well-written manual on how to learn without school and enjoy doing
it. There were even comprehensive chapters on overcoming legal problems,
getting into top colleges, and just about anything Jane could think of wanting
to know.
She found another one and bought both of them. Daria
almost certainly wasn’t going to be allowed in school for awhile, and if that
were the case, then Jane wasn’t going to go, either. Maybe she’d give one book
to Daria as a gift and give herself a gift of dropping out of school!
Finished with her shopping, she left and started walking
back to Dega Street when she overheard some of the local “artistes” talking,
and the name Daria came up more than once. She looked to see five artist-types,
mid-20’s, drinking cappuccinos and lattes at one of the outdoor tables of one
of the coffee bars. She casually went to sit at the nearest table and listened
in, setting her bags beside her as if she needed to rest her arms.
“Yeah,” said a red-haired woman, “they say she got her gun
from the same right-wing group Matthew was in. The real reason she shot Matthew
is because she had just found out he had been dating her sister on the side.”
“And Matthew and Daria were a couple?” This from a blonde.
“Yeah,” said the redhead, “I heard he lured her into the
group, but then started seeing her sister, too.”
“I heard,” said a lanky man with long, brown hair in a
ponytail, “That Daria and Matthew were to convert Quinn, but when she refused
and threatened to turn them all in, the group decided Quinn had to die! But Daria
couldn’t let Matthew kill her own sister while she watched. So at the last
minute, she took out Matthew instead.”
Jane should be furious. But this was funny. It was too
much like seeing an episode of Sick, Sad World being made up right in
front of her.
“What cause or group was this?” asked Jane, a smirk on her
face, “Some people dabbling in Nazi rituals, or what?”
“Not dabbling,” said a dark-skinned man with Indian
features excitedly, while pretending to be shocked, outraged, and disappointed.
“Neo-Nazi all the way. They were champions of the second amendment while
protesting the IRS!”
“Hmph,” said Jane, “Why would Nazis want the Second
Amendment, and oppose the IRS?”
“They want minorities to keep killing themselves,” said
the redhead in a tone suggesting she thought Jane wasn’t sophisticated enough
for them.
“And that’s why they want white people to have guns, too?
Besides, how can you have a Nazi police state without taxes?” Jane sensed a
shift as the others were shutting her out. No fair using logic, she
thought.
The dark skinned man spoke up. “Daria, a lifelong outcast,
is of German descent. Which you would know if you knew her last name was
MORGENDORFFER. It’s German for
The others murmured assent. Jane wondered if they were
literally insane, or if this was just another aspect of human stupidity she
hadn’t experienced until now.
“I guess you aren’t of German descent,” said Jane wryly,
“since you don’t stereotype or persecute others for their views or ancestors.
But what about Quinn? Do you think Quinn was a random mutation?”
“You don’t believe us, do you?” said the blonde, “You
think the media are involved in some huge conspiracy? So you get your news off
the internet or something?”
Jane blinked. This is on the news? she wondered in
shock. That District Attorney lady had talked about the police thinking Daria
and Jane were drug dealers with Matthew; she didn’t say anything about Nazis. Are
they saying I’m a Nazi, too?
She filed that away to think about later, but she felt her
mouth getting a little dry. “A conspiracy to sell papers and air time,” said
Jane, a little more subdued, “Sure. That’s why they try to upset and entertain
people so much. To make money, and to be more valuable to their advertisers by
drawing you in with chicanery and fear. That’s why I prefer Sick, Sad World.
It sorta spoofs all the other news programs.”
“You watch Sick, Sad World?” asked the redhead in a
tone that said Jane really needed to evolve.
“Hmmm,” said the pony-tailed man. “The corporations do own
the media and thus control what they put out, and by extension the rest of us.
They also own many of the politicians. I suppose that might count as
conspiratorial.”
“That’s different!” the redhead nearly shouted. “I’m
talking about FALSE conspiracies.”
“Ah,” said Jane, “when someone, like say the World Health
Organization, says fluoride is poisonous and corporations shouldn’t force
taxpayers to drink it at their own expense, that’s a no-good conspiracy. But if
someone, like say the media owned by the evil corporations, says that tobacco companies
put a chemical in cigarettes to make them more addictive, that’s a real
conspiracy?”
Every one of them glared at her. Jane was finding this
fun, but also scary. Just then she saw a squad car driving by slowly. She
resisted the urge to wave at them, or act like she was selling stuff she didn’t
want the cops to know about.
“The SPLC!” shouted the blonde suddenly, bringing Jane’s
attention back to the group. “It’s on the SPLC web site. They showed pictures
of Daria, Quinn, Matthew, Jim, the KKK, and several Nazi leaders together.”
“Really? This news off the internet instead of the media
mired in the corporate conspiracy?” said Jane rhetorically. “Aren’t the SPLC
and ADL both organizations infamous for mostly quoting each other, and simply
taking a few bad examples and painting everyone else with the same wide brush?
And then you must send them money so they can fight these evils -- evils that
they alone can tell you about?” Casual contempt dripped from her voice.
“That’s not true. I’ve read about these militias in at
least seven different journals.” The dark-skinned man sounded annoyed.
“Sure,” Jane nodded, “but did you check the footnotes?
Every reference I’ve seen, no matter where I read it, was quoting either SPLC
or ADL or both.”
Daria had complained about this not too long ago, which
was why Jane had the replies on the tip of her tongue, but a small part of her
mind suddenly wondered, What if she really was dabbling in something weird
with that secretive gun nut? And have the police finally caught him, too?
She felt a hint of sweat at that thought, for that gun nut
knew her name and
“Do you have a point?” asked the lanky one in a peevish
tone, bringing Jane back out of her thoughts.
That sounded familiar to Jane, but she couldn’t place it.
“Never mind. You say they were together? How did you recognize Daria and Quinn
with their white robes and hood on?”
“Um, no,” said the blonde hesitantly, “They weren’t
together exactly, but the SPLC wouldn’t have put the pictures side by side if
they didn’t belong together.”
Jane giggled. Then stopped and said, “Oops, that didn’t
even pass the giggle test.” She actually felt a little better, since whatever
had just come out on the news was, at best, vague. She remembered the
ridiculous reports that had come out right after the shooting at Lawndale High.
They were just as confused as what she was hearing now.
“What!?” asked the redhead, clearly annoyed with Jane.
“Never mind,” Jane repeated. “I was just wondering, what
if instead of fearing the so-called Nazi conspirators, you were fearing the
Jewish conspirators? Or, if instead of right-wing hate mongers raining terror
down on the land, you feared minority mobs raining terror down on the land?
Would you be any different from how you are now?”
The pony-tailed man definitely spoke to her as if she were
a slow child. “We know that their group was into guns and the shooting, ahem,
sports. That seems enough to be suspicious about right there. Many second
amendment fanatics are known racists, antigovernment reactionaries, and
disciples of Hitler.”
“Q.E.D.,” said Jane trying not to laugh, “I’ll try to
remember the difference so that my particular hates and prejudices remain
fashionable. And I’ll keep it in mind the next time I see some cops or soldiers
that seem to appreciate their guns too much. But you didn’t answer the
question.” The casual contempt was back in her voice, and she told herself to
cool it. But now she was starting to get mad, too.
They were all glaring at her, and she was starting to feel
what her mom called “hate vibes” radiating from these champions of the
oppressed, the compassionate spokes-entities of the weak. They didn't answer
the question and weren't going to, either. So there.
She wondered how they’d have handled all the discrepancies
that Daria could have pointed out to them. Probably just say it was Nazi
propaganda and not think about it. That’s the beauty of ad hominem attacks,
Jane mused to herself.
But if having a gun meant you were a Nazi, Jane
wondered with a sense of resentment, what would they think of art being
equated with Hitler? Pasting a serious expression on her face, she asked,
“But on a related note, what do you think about Hitler’s career as an artist?”
All five of them flinched as one, as though they had all
been slapped. Obviously they got the reference. They pointedly got up and moved
to the next table. They formed a much tighter circle to continue their gossip.
Jane shook her head in amazement. That conversation was
downright Dada-esque. This was suddenly not so funny-yet-infuriating, but
simply depressing. For the first time, she really could imagine people
hysterically burning witches at the stake. The world really was an asylum.
She wanted to get herself and her supplies home. But since
she had some more money left, she decided to get some cappuccino pillow packs
for
Jane went home and turned on the TV. While she let the TV
drone on, she set up her supplies and started to paint..
She saw that Jim Foster was apparently some kind of Nazi,
and Matthew was trying to start a race war with the shooting. The reporter
insinuated that Daria and Quinn were selling methamphetamines with Matthew to
raise the money for the guns and ammo to start the said race war, but no one
knew why Matthew tried to shoot Quinn and got shot himself by Daria in the end.
Some suggested that Matthew tried shooting Quinn because she was “too weak” to
shoot members of minorities, and Daria shot him at that point.
She noted that the talking head never said any of
this. It was all “reports indicate” or “reliable sources have informed the
authorities,” along with a lot of “maybes” and “possiblies” and “probabalies”
She watched, incredibly tense, waiting to see if her name
would come up. It didn’t, and she breathed a sigh of relief. She finally
switched to some cartoons and went to look out her window, grateful that there
hadn’t been any reporters waiting for her when she got home. She was pretty
sure that they’d want to interview her before long.
And
She thought she should talk to
A bit later, her canvass had a rough a scene of Daria tied
to a stake with a Hitler mustache being placed on her. All the people around
her wore Nazi armbands while carrying signs saying, “Say No to Hate!” and
“Hitler is Evil!”
But she didn’t finish it at this time. Instead, she set
her brushes to soak and went downstairs to make some cappuccino for herself and
Trent. It would be time to wake him up for his gig soon, and she wanted to wake
him up a little early so she could talk to the one person she could talk to
about her life.
Especially about a dark secret she now carried about the
day of the shooting that she knew she could never let Daria know.
4.
---------------------------------
03/16/01 FRIDAY 6 P.M.
----------------------------------
Daria lay on her bed, staring up at the ceiling. She’d come
upstairs after her dad came in the front door threatening to kill all the
reporters. Her mom had demanded that he calm down and not make death threats,
and he’d said they were asking about Daria and Quinn starting some race war.
So what her mom feared was happening. It didn’t make any
sense. She’d shot Matthew, how could she be with Matthew?
Helen had already fired one lawyer, and another left of
his own volition. Two down, two to go. After calming her dad down, her mom when
on trying to figure out which one would defend Daria in court.
It was all out of Daria’s hands. Control of her own life
belonged to other people. Feeling tired all of a sudden, she’d come up here,
hoping to sleep.
Her room still held a sense of violation, but it remained
the place she wanted to retreat to. She couldn’t sleep, so she fantasized about
hiding in some isolated cabin after she’d robbed a bank. Maybe she’d even fall
in with some cult or patriot group, as long as they provided good networking
and support against the authorities. In the rage that she kept hidden under her
intense sense of self-control, she definitely considered many of the
“extremists” to be the lesser evil at this point.
Her bittersweet fantasies (and first serious
considerations of a plan to live them out) were interrupted by Helen calling
her down. She frowned and looked at the clock. She hadn’t even been up here for
an hour! With a sigh and a moment to collect herself, she went to see what her
mom wanted.
Helen was downstairs with Ms. Karen Morrison, the lawyer
chosen to be Daria’s representation. The other lawyer had gone home, though he
was still on the team.
Helen didn’t give him much thought right now as she was
still steaming over a police report of an interview with Jake. He told her he hadn’t
said anything! But this report claimed he said he didn’t KNOW anything. He’d
confirmed that Daria was unaccounted for and not at home during the times that
Warner thought she was conducting her drug business at the Zen.
She would bring it up, but Jake probably wouldn’t even
remember it. He was upstairs popping valiums. She left him alone.
This didn’t prove Daria was into anything. It just meant
she wasn’t home. But it wouldn’t look good. Juries, Helen knew, tend to follow
the line that people don’t get arrested unless they do something wrong.
Circumstantial evidence was often enough to make someone fry.
She didn’t want to say anything to Daria right now. The
girl seemed to be showing real fear whenever she let her guard down for a
moment. Helen would do enough worrying for both of them.
Daria, now in the living room with Helen and the lawyer,
sat down, looking apprehensive for some reason. Daria looked at the lawyer and
saw a woman about Helen’s age, with short, stylish chestnut brown hair, prominent
nose with freckles, glasses, and wearing a power suit darker than Helen’s, but
otherwise about the same.
The lawyer smiled at Daria, trying to relax her. “I’m
Karen Morrison,” she told Daria. “I’m going to be in charge of managing your
defense under your mother’s supervision. I want you to know that I think we can
clear you of nearly all charges. We might even get you enough sympathy that we
can get the one charge--that of having a gun--to nothing more than probation.”
“Um,” said Daria unconvinced, “that’s good to know.” Daria
saw tension around her mom’s eyes and knew that she wasn’t as sure as Ms.
Morrison was. But she was trying to make Daria believe it.
“But,” said Ms. Morrison, “I need to ask you for some of
the details around the acquisition of the gun.”
“Okay,” said Daria steeling herself, and ransacking her
memory for what she had told her mom earlier.
And so it goes on, Daria thought. Everybody hitting her
with the questions over and over. It just never stopped. She may have taken a life,
but she saved many other lives as well. Why couldn’t they let up on her?
Ms. Morrison piped in, “The good news is that there is
just enough public opinion in favor of Daria, along with pressure exerted by
the NRA, that Mayor Grant is going to remain neutral in this specific issue and
promote crime control over gun control. The NRA want to keep him in place to
keep another, ahem, ‘gun grabber’ from getting in.”
“Will that affect my ability to sue Autuga Arms and
Taurus?” asked Helen.
“Huh?” Daria didn’t know where that had come from.
Helen looked to Daria and remembered she was there. “Oh,
Daria, I figured out how to cover the costs of your defense and therapy! I can
sue the manufacturers who made the guns that you and Matthew used. They should be
more careful about who buys their guns and how they’re used.”
Daria blinked a couple of times before asking, “Won’t that
alienate the NRA?”
"We don't want to depend on the NRA anyway," Ms
Morrison observed. "Your image won't be helped by that association."
“And besides, Daria,” Helen added, “Mrs. Alice Brand, the
one overseeing the legal aspects here in Lawndale for HCI, has agreed help in
your defense as long as you explain, on video, that you felt you had no other
choice.”
Daria gave her mom and her defense lawyer a suspicious
look but nodded her head.
“Good,” said Helen sounding pleased. “They’ll want you say
you hate guns, but that shouldn’t be too hard. After all you’ve been through,
I’m sure it’s true.”
Daria shook her head a bit. “I don’t know about that. I
don’t take sides, remember?”
“Not even your own side?” asked Ms Morrison pointedly;
there was a hint of steel under her voice.
“Mmmm,” grunted Daria. “Okay, but don’t alienate the NRA
until I’m sure I can go through with this.”
“Of course you can go through with this, Daria. You need
all the help you can get," Ms Morrison smiled.
"And maybe we can get guns away from people like
Matthew when this is all over with.” Helen sounded grimly hopeful.
“And away from people like me, too,” Daria pointed out.
“If people like Matthew don’t have guns, then you won’t
need guns.” Helen’s face was still pleasant, but her voice had real steel in it
too. “The NRA will keep fighting the laws used against you, while fighting
Fillman who’s prosecuting you. They don’t want HCI putting someone in the
mayor’s office and possibly going on to become a more powerful politician down
the road. So it still works out” Helen’s voice was darker here. She hated both
Mayor Grant and Roger Fillman and hoped they both fell off the face of the
Earth any day now.
“I don’t know,” said Daria doubtfully, “the NRA could
still pull their money. And I don’t see why HCI would want to defend me.”
“Daria,” said Helen, “if HCI paints you as someone who had
no choice and only did what you did because there were too many guns out among
the public, they’ll not only take up covering your defense, but they’ll remove
their support of Fillman. That means he loses a lot of his motivation and
resources for prosecuting you in the first place.”
Daria was still skeptical. “So HCI will stand aside and
let the NRA-loving mayor have
Helen smiled down at Daria. “Mrs. Alice Brand says she’s
running for mayor in the next election!”
Daria felt real uncomfortable becoming a spokesperson for
some group. But if it meant staying out of prison, maybe she should do it. She
was still debating this internally when Quinn came down.
All three looked at Quinn with bemusement as she went up
to her mom, put her hands on her hips, and said, “Mom, I want to get a gun.”
Bemusement turned to shock all around. Helen felt her
heart skip a beat. She forced out a laugh. “Quinn, you’ve been through a lot.
I’m sure you can see why you don’t want anything to do with a gun.”
“I do, Mom,” said Quinn, sounding very determined. “If I
had a gun, one that works, I could have shot Matthew instead of running! I
wouldn’t have to be scared!”
“Remember your nightmares, Quinn. A gun doesn’t work. Your
dreams are trying to tell you something.” Helen’s voice was steely again.
“My dreams are telling me I need my own gun,” said Quinn
stubbornly. “One that works. One that belongs to me.” She had just woken up
from a Matthew nightmare, and she was getting really tired of this. Obviously,
Buffy couldn’t watch over her 24/7. She wanted a gun in her dream that worked,
and the only way she could see to do that was to get her own gun.
“Quinn,” sighed Helen, glancing at Daria, “being afraid
might be the worst reason to get a gun.”
“Besides,” added Ms. Morrison, “it’s illegal.”
“It’s illegal for me to buy a gun, not have one,” said
Quinn somewhat haughtily.
“Quinn,” said Ms. Morrison, “we have the police so that we
don’t all have to defend our lives all the time.”
Daria rolled her eyes and wondered how much attention she
even paid to the actual events of the case. “Yeah, Quinn,” said Daria in all
too familiar voice that instantly annoyed Helen, “and we have dentists, which
is why I’m throwing my toothbrush away.”
Quinn smiled slightly, as Helen and Ms. Morrison both
looked pained.
“Guns don’t always work,” said Ms. Morrison,
“So?” asked Quinn crossing her arms.
“So you shouldn’t depend on them,” said Ms. Morrison.
“All too true,” said Daria in an all-too-familiar tone,
“that’s why I’m going to go throw the fire extinguisher away, too.”
“It’s not going to happen, Quinn,” said Helen firmly, “end
of discussion.” She made a motion that said she was tuning Quinn out.
Quinn was suddenly close to tears. “I want to be able to
do something other than cry and beg next time, Mom, please! The nightmares are
almost over, but they still happen sometimes!”
Helen’s face took on a guilty shade, and she got up and
hugged Quinn. “You don’t need a gun, sweetie, because Matthew is already dead.
Let it go.”
“There are other Matthews out there,” said Quinn, a bit of
steel in her own voice now.
Helen gritted her teeth. She was too tired to deal with
this, but she didn’t want Quinn to break down in hysterics or a crying fit.
“Tell you what, Quinn. There’s a self-defense course taught over at Middleton.
I’ll sign you up and then we’ll look into some other kind of self-defense
program that is more long term, like karate.”
“Karate wouldn’t have stopped Matthew,” said Quinn
stubbornly.
Helen sighed, “IF--If you show yourself responsible
enough, I will.... think..... about letting you learn to use a gun.”
Helen swore she could feel her blood pressure rising as she said that.
“So when does this class start?” asked Quinn, sounding
much more cheerful. Even if she never got her own gun, she would learn how to
shoot and then she could figure out why Daria’s gun never worked in her dream!
“I don’t know, Quinn. I’ll have to look into it,” said
Helen sounding tired.
“Is it that WSD Class over at Middleton?” asked Ms.
Morrison.
“Yes,” said Helen. “That’s the one.”
“The class for beginners is held on the first and third
Sundays of every month,” said Ms. Morrison. “The classes are a combination of
seminar, self-defense moves, and drills. I’ve taken it myself more than once, and
refer many of my clients there. Good introduction, designed for the women who
go to classes at Middleton, but open to anyone who pays for the course.” She
turned to Quinn and added pointedly, “And they teach you that you don’t need
guns.”
Quinn kept her own counsel on that. “Can I start this on
Sunday then?”
“Probably,” said Ms. Morrison thinking. “It’s $60, or so
it was the last time I checked, per class. Here, let me check.”
“See if Daria and I can take the class, too,” Helen added.
She wasn’t going to leave either of her daughters alone right now.
“Sure thing,” said Ms. Morrison.
“Hey, wait a minute,” said Daria, “I’m not going to some
class where you beat up on life-size dolls or something.”
“Daria,” said Helen firmly, “if you can learn to shoot a
gun and how to get rid of fingerprints on guns, then you can take at least one
class on how to use something OTHER than a gun to defend yourself!” When Daria
just stared relentlessly at Helen, she added with a nasty smile, “Do you really
want Quinn to be able to beat you up?”
Daria surrendered, maybe even sulked. Helen was glad they
could do something as a family, even if Jake wouldn’t be going. Helen felt a
lump in her throat when she contemplated the possibility that Daria wouldn’t be
taking part in anything with the family any more if she were sent to prison.
During all of this, Ms. Morrison made her call. Hanging up
after a quick talk, she said, “They have room. Class starts at 2 PM, lasts
until 8 PM.” Helen’s face showed she thought that wasn’t entirely to her
liking. “And,” Ms. Morrison added, “Mrs. Craft even said she’d let the
Morgendorffers take the beginning class for free.”
Helen smiled a bit at that. The lawyer in her wondered if
the group planned to use Quinn’s name in advertising somehow, but decided they
were probably just being good people. “Well, it should help work out some of
the adrenaline,” said Helen. “Okay, Sunday then.”
“Okay,” said Quinn, bouncing back upstairs.
Helen let out a breath. She hoped this helped Quinn feel
better, and she would drop this ridiculous notion of having a gun. Weren’t they
in enough trouble as it was?
Helen looked to Ms. Morrison, her eyes pleading for
understanding. “I’m sorry about that. It’s been very hard on Quinn.”
“I know,” said Ms. Morrison. “You see as many cases as I
have, and sometimes I think about getting a gun, too.”
And then it was back to Daria.
“Daria,” Helen said, “Mrs. Brand and her people will be
here on Monday. I want you on your best behavior.”
“I’ll try not to shoot anybody.”
Helen frowned but looked to Ms. Morrison. “So how are we
on the murder charge?”
“They’re calling it Second Degree Homicide,” said Ms.
Morrison, “saying it was premeditated. The video footage clearly shows that it
was justifiable as Homicide by Necessity. The only footage they can exploit is
Daria sneaking the gun in, but that’s a lesser law in of itself, and I’m
confident we can convince the jury that it was a precautionary measure under
extreme circumstances, and not premeditated homicide.”
Helen asked, “Can we do anything about how the police
‘questioned’ Daria and Jane?”
“No, unfortunately,” replied Ms. Morrison. “The Reid
technique is perfectly legal in
“What they did to Daria can’t be legal!” snapped Helen
with some heat.
“It is,” she said again. “Some people feel that criminals
have too many advantages, so the police learn to crack suspects in other ways.”
She shrugged. “Some would say the police don’t really care about stopping crime
but in making their departments look good and confiscating what they can. Some
allow meth dealers to operate for months in hopes of achieving bigger busts and
more property and money to seize for themselves, or at least their
departments.”
“Damnation,” muttered Helen. This case was really opening
her eyes, and she didn’t care for it. It reminded her of how she saw the world
when she was younger, and that just was uncomfortable.
Daria piped in with, “What did I tell you about trusting
pimps, Mom?”
“Daria!” cried Helen, “you’re not helping your case with
your insights!”
After a moment Ms. Morrison said, “I think we can all use
some rest.” Taking up her papers, she repeated they had enough dirt on the
Lawndale PD and there was a good chance of acquitting Daria. She crisply walked
to the door with Helen beside her, and her hard heels clicked on the entry. Her
briefcase in hand, she left into a light afternoon rain, not bothering with an
umbrella.
Daria still sat where she was, silently appraising her
mom. When Helen turned to Daria, her own eyes widened and her face reddened at
Daria’s scrutiny.
Daria cleared her throat. “Do you really think I have a
chance?”
“Yes, Daria, I do,” said Helen, walking back. She sounded
confident of that much at least. She sat beside Daria, hugging her. “I’ve got a
wonderful defense team, and you definitely had some extenuating circumstances.
When it comes to light that the police released Matthew with his gun, we might
even get all charges dropped.” Helen swallowed, as she didn’t really believe
that last part.
“So how many cases has Ms. Morrison won, anyway?”
Helen tensed, causing Daria to tense. “She’s defended many
women who were charged with killing or shooting an abusive husband or father.
She has had some success with that.”
Daria rolled her eyes. “And some failure, too, then?”
Helen grimaced. “Well.... she got into prosecuting people
over ritual abuse based on hypnotically retrieved memories, and that didn’t
turn out too well.” In fact, Ms. Morrison turned out so bad as a prosecutor
that she was almost disbarred. But she made a good defense lawyer and was
willing to work a lot cheaper than most other lawyers.
Helen also left out how Ms. Morrison would choose her
cases by measuring how likely it would gain her name recognition since she was
aspiring to be a writer for feminist legal causes, in spite of her inexplicable
support of Bill Clinton over the charges regarding Paula Jones and Juanita Broaddrick,
simply because she didn’t want to alienate the people at Ms. magazine.
She definitely left out Ms. Morrison’s most notable
failure. A 4’9” woman had shot a man who topped 6’ and turned out to be a
serial rapist looking for a new victim. She didn’t have a permit for the gun
because the city she lived in gave gun permits only to government workers and
those connected to them. Despite Ms. Morrison’s defense -- surely not because
of it -- the woman did more time for possession of her gun than the rapist she
wounded had done for his last rape. Helen just knew with the other lawyers
helping, Ms. Morrison would do better for Daria.
But Daria felt her hopes sink as she saw Helen forcing her
smile.
Helen saw Daria’s face fall slightly and hugged her again.
“Don’t worry, sweetie, everything will turn out fine.” She got up then and went
into the kitchen.
Daria ignored the phone message machine when it came on,
but picked it up when she heard Mr. DeMartino’s barely coherent growl.
“Hello,” said Daria.
“Daria,” growled Mr. DeMartino. “I’m glad you’re out.”
“Um, thanks,” Daria replied. “Will that be all?”
“No,” growled Mr. DeMartino. “I’m afraid the school board
has just made it official. You’re not to return to school, Daria. The law is on
their side. So I thought I should tell your mother what the stupid miscreants
just called to tell
“Okay,” said Daria. In truth, knowing she wasn’t going
back was something of a relief. Helen was there now and Daria just handed it to
her. She hoped her mom wasn’t getting psychic.
“Yes?” asked Helen a little brusquely
“Mrs. Morgendorffer,” started Anthony.
“Helen, please.”
“Helen,” growled Anthony, “It is my sad duty to tell you
the school board has kicked Daria out of school. She is not to show up at all.
Her locker was cleaned out. Anything that wasn’t school property has already
been taken as evidence. I’m sorry, Helen. I argued for her, but they hid behind
the laws.”
Helen was frowning, but she had expected this. She knew if
it had been anyone else’s kid, she’d support such a decision herself. She
sighed and said, “Thank you, Anthony. I expected that.”
“It’s still not right,” he grumbled.
“Thank you for standing up for her.”
“Not a problem. And I will continue to stand up for her.”
Helen said good bye and hung up.
She didn’t know what to say so she sat down beside Daria
and hugged her. “I’m sorry, honey. I don’t want you leaving the house right now
anyway.”
Daria sat there enduring her mom’s affection. Helen
withdrew when Daria finally picked up the remote and flipped on the TV and
started channel surfing. Helen was about to get up when her eyes widened.
“Daria, stop!” cried Helen, putting a hand on Daria’s arm
with the remote. “Go back to the last channel!”
Daria sighed and did so. It was some news program. Daria
couldn’t see what had upset her mom, though she had a bad feeling as she saw a
man who was listed as Mr. Morris Dees of the Southern Poverty Legal Center.
“The Lawndale PD,” he stated, “have evidence that Matthew
was a cell of one raised to believe in government conspiracies and racist
ideology, as his father, Jim Foster has done. We also believe he inducted Quinn
and Daria Morgendorffer into carrying guns and drugs to support the first
strike to start a race war.”
“Excuse me?” Her dad had yelled about something like this
and her mom had mentioned it, but it had seemed like such an impossibly stupid
idea then. Now, hearing it stated on TV as fact, she reeled as the reality of
it struck her.
Helen stared at the TV, leaning forward, even as she
answered. “He’s looking for a new cash cow. He’s fallen on some hard times and
he’s desperate to inject some life into the SPLC.”
Now the news was explaining so-called “Nazi ideologies”
that sounded like they were ripped out of Sick, Sad World or a market
tabloid.
Daria felt sick. “Why does he have to drag me and Quinn
into it?”
“Because Matthew’s family isn’t worth suing. Ours is.”
Helen shrugged, still staring at the TV. “Also, someone dead isn’t as scary as
people who are alive, like you and Quinn. Kids don’t have a good reputation,
you know. Every time you hear of a teenager on the news, it seems they’re doing
drugs or killing someone.”
“That’s funny,” said Daria, looking at Helen. “Every time
I hear of a teacher on the news, it’s about pedophilia. Are all teachers
pedophiles then?” When Helen looked back at her in surprise, she continued
with, “Every time I hear of a plane on the news, it crashed or blew up. Does
that happen to all planes, or even most of them?”
“Daria,” said Helen a little desperately, “I never said it
was right. It’s just how people are. The bad is flapped in front of them all
the time until the bad is all they think about.”
Daria rolled her eyes. This was certainly becoming
educational. Why had her mom always been telling her to be more positive? “So
why is he after me and Quinn? And why does he think he’ll get away with it?”
Helen leaned back a bit. “
Helen didn’t feel like mentioning the scandals with his
wife, stepdaughter, and other family members. Nor the sleazy fund raisings, the
settlements that went almost entirely to him, and the alliances with groups
that seem to actually promote racial intolerance--the same intolerance he
benefited from. In the end, Dees seemed to be as sleazy as
Daria was still trying to figure this guy out. “So he
practices a form of McCarthyism?”
“You could say that,” said Helen as she returned to
watching the show. My jury!, Helen was thinking as she watched this with
a growing sense of horror.
“And in the old days, if he were Catholic he would be
calling any anti-Catholic organization, like the Protestants -- or any group
too wealthy for its own good, like the Templars -- as a group of evil villains
in order to justify robbing them?”
Helen sighed. “Daria.... fine, yes, that’s pretty much
it.”
“And I’m supposed to trust the same courts he gets away
with this in?”
“Daria!” Helen, now truly angry, almost sent Daria to her
room before she calmed herself down. She reminded herself that Daria was only
18 and in a situation that was jading even her. Daria was normally cynical. Why
wouldn’t she be more cynical still about this?
“So what is this ‘cell of one’ that Matthew inducted me
and Quinn into, anyway?” asked Daria more calmly.
Helen blinked at her a couple of times trying to get her
mind back on track, before saying, “Basically, they’re leaderless cells,
typically a lone individual, acting out on the hate propaganda of some white
supremacist organization.”
“So Matthew, Quinn, and I are a part of a group without a
group?”
Helen’s mouth dropped open for a moment before she nodded.
“That’s another way to put it, yes.”
Daria snorted and crossed her own arms. “Perfect. So
monsters like me can drop on people from the trees and rooftops raining terror
down on the land with our bombs and guns. And it can’t be disproven, because
our invisibility is proof of the truth of his claim. That’s even better than
the satanic panics of the 80s. So people had better be afraid and support
Helen’s face got red. She forced herself not to yell at
her for being cynical and tearing down things she didn’t understand.
Regrettably, it seemed Daria understood it even better than she had.
Maybe the problem was she, as a successful adult, had
bought into the game and had to ignore the rotten smell to get along with
everybody else and sleep (somewhat) soundly at night. She swallowed and looked
to the TV again, more worried about how the court case would come out than she
had been earlier.
The pointless lesson on Nazi beliefs, which had nothing to
do with anyone (except possibly Jim Foster, though he probably found some of
the stuff ridiculous, too) was over. Now cheerful music played as people who
looked to be nearing orgasm chewed gum, which was followed by another
commercial of people celebrating their ability to wait and order at Taco Bell.
Then it came back to Bush being introduced as someone
about to speak on the
“The principal and another student were shot. Then one of
the shooters shot the other one in the back. This appears to be a case of
vigilante justice. But we will not... let any person... at any age... take the
law into their own hands. No one should have the gall to say...” Bush squinted
at the camera, or more likely at the words he was being fed right by the cam.
“To say that I think you should die and take that life.”
Helen gasped. The nerve! Just what was he famous for in
“I plan to send out a message,” said the Bush image,
gaining momentum, “that we will not tolerate this kind of brutal crime. We will
not live in fear. One of the shooters is already dead. It is my hope that the
state of
Helen was speechless. Once again, he practiced what he
would deny everyone else. Was leading by example too radical a concept? And why
did he refer to Daria as ‘he’?
Someone asked a question Helen couldn’t hear.
Bush leaned his ear to the audience slightly as he asked
“I’m sorry, what?”
The voice was clearer. “What about the details about the
second shooter saving her little sister from a drug dealing stalker? How does
that change things?”
Bush shook his head and then squinted his eyes again.
“That doesn’t change anything. She brought a gun to school which is supposed to
be a safe learning environment. She should have picked up a phone and called
911, not picked up a gun. More so.... I have helped sponsor such laws to make
all schools safer. And if you use a gun illegally, then you will do hard time.
At the very least.”
Bush took another question, listening with his hand to his
ear this time.
“How can schools be made safer?”
Bush looked down for a moment and then looked back up.
“I’m glad you...I’m glad you asked me that. I am. I will make every school
safer by giving the BATF more powers to go into schools, and if necessary,
handle security detail at the schools that are quickly becoming battle grounds
spinning out of control. By keeping armed and prepared agents and deputies in
our schools, we’ll finally get guns out of our schools.”
Helen thought Bush was supposed to be FOR guns, not
against them. She didn’t understand this. She really had to stop listening to
Bush when she was this tired. She never could make sense out of what he said.
She was pretty sure that there was no logic in whatever he had just said.
Then the scene switched to Ashcroft. Maybe he’d say
something else. Wasn’t he supposed to be a civil libertarian or something?
Libertarians, Helen knew, were into guns, right along with sex and drugs.
That’s why Libertarianism was known in some legal circles as a felony waiting
to happen.
Ashcroft did seem to see guns in the same light as sex and
drugs, but that view could hardly be called libertarian. He briefly mentioned
the Gun Free Zones Act and the Project Safe Neighborhoods that, with the help
of the BATF, automatically prosecuted anyone in order to get violent gun users
off the street. This included anyone who even possessed a gun at school except
under stringent circumstances. He seemed to think this program had reached out
to “both students” and the students had rejected its help. Now one was dead and
the other would pay the price.
This was not the reaction she would’ve expected from them.
If this was what she was getting from Bush and Ashcroft, could she really
expect help from the NRA? Helen bit her lip without knowing it.
As for the BATF, she remembered when those psychos tore up
Daria’s
Some even said the heavy handed tactics of the BATF were
the prime cause for the growth of militias in the 90s, who were reacting
against their perception of the growing illegal violence from the government.
If the BATF inspired that much alienation in the people they served, she didn’t
think they would be very good at preventing violence in schools, either.
Helen didn’t blame Daria when she sighed and went upstairs
without saying a word. She’d let Daria be alone awhile before she checked on
her. She wondered if she could afford to miss the rest of this news cast. She
finally decided yes, and switched it off.
5.
-------------------------------------
03/16/01 FRIDAY 8:00 P.M.
---------------------------------------
Mystik Spiral was in an emergency meeting in a dark corner
of the Zen.
“I don’t know,” said Max. “A lot of the regulars aren’t
here, and the new people... something’s not right about them.”
“They’re cops,” said Nicholas
Trent looked at him. “Some of them are,” he rasped.
“Others move differently. They’re with someone else.”
“Who?” asked Max.
The others made faces. They didn’t like turning down gigs,
but they all sensed a storm brewing. It seemed a lot of strange people were
eyeing them in ways that were disturbing, even hostile.
They looked up when two tattooed guys, one with very short
brown hair, the other shaved bald, came up to them. Only the one with hair wore
a shirt.
The one with the shirt spoke up first. “Hey, we just got
here from
All four members stared at them in shock. They had been
solicited before, but this was the fifth one today, all within the hour of
their getting here.
“No, man,” said Max, “we don’t do that shit. And the
building is crawling with cops, so you shouldn’t ask around here anyway.”
The two looked at each other, back at Mystik Spiral, and
then left without another word.
All three grumbled out noises that said they were ready to
leave, too.
As they were leaving, the newly hired bouncer lumbered up
to them. “Hey, I was told to tell you that if you walk out now, you won’t get
paid for anything you did tonight, and you may not be invited back.”
All four muttered something like, “whatever,” and kept
going.
The bouncer gave a slight shrug and went back.
While Mystik Spiral was loading up the Tank with their
instruments, six men approached them in a group. They were a little too
well-dressed for the regular clientele, but not so much that they would stick
out.
“Hey, we hear you got some good crystal.”
“You heard wrong,” said
“Everyone is fingering you, man. Look, we don’t mind new
talent moving in, but it’s impolite to set up shop without getting to know the
locals. Have you heard of Evil Ed?”
The name sounded vaguely familiar, but they couldn’t place
it. After looking at the others behind him, he turned back and shook his head.
“He’s someone who's curious where you’re getting all your
supplies and equipment. He’s willing to pay a lot of money for the information,
and he’ll likely set you up and expand your customer base.”
“If that’s the way you’re going to be, then what you just
said had better be the truth.”
“Then get your skinny ass out of here, motherfucker. If I
were you, I wouldn’t come around here for awhile.”
None of them said anything. This was just one of the
things they were worried about happening. They played it cool and left without
another word. The six men watched them until after they had driven out of
sight. Then they went back into the Zen.
Two men in a car in the Zen parking lot saw it all, even
if they couldn’t hear what was said. A meeting between Daria’s thugs and Evil
Eddie’s! Obviously, the bust of Daria Morgendorffer was sending shock waves
through the criminal underworld, causing restlessness and borderline panic.
Warner must be right about the Morgendorffer-Sloane connection for the
methamphetamines. And they had caught at least one profile of nearly everyone
with their camera. Detective Warner would be pleased with tonight’s work.
They went inside to talk to an informant to try to find
out what the meeting had been about.
As the two plainclothes policemen walked into the Zen,
another man recorded their movements on a camcorder. Beside him lay the bionic
ear with which he had listened in on the entire meeting between Mystik Spiral
and Evil Eddie’s men. He debated going after Mystik Spiral but decided against
it. He had a pretty good idea where he could find any of them, and they weren’t
important enough yet.
He drove his car over to the parking lot of Denny’s and
the closed shops. But instead of going into Denny’s as he frequently had these
last two days, he grabbed his miniature digicam and microcassette voice
recorder and wandered back over to the Zen to see what else he could learn.
6.
------------------------------------------
03/17/01 SATURDAY 7:30 P.M.
--------------------------------------------
Tom Sloane’s cell phone rang.
“Dammit, not again!” he exclaimed as he picked it out of
his pocket. This was the only way his mom would let him out of the house. He’d
tell her he didn’t feel like going anywhere with her calling all the time, but
that would just encourage her to keep calling.
“Hello,” said Tom, not bothering to hide his exasperation.
“Tom?” His mom’s voice came through the phone. “You’ve
been gone quite awhile. We’d like you to come home right now.”
Tom smiled as he heard Elsie’s voice in the background. He
couldn’t hear what she said, but by the sound of it, his mom should be frowning
right now. She hated being kept at home almost as much as he did.
“I just finished having a bit of pizza. I’ll be home in a
little bit. Okay?” He let her know by the tone of his voice he didn’t care if
it were okay or not.
There was a pause. Finally, “Just don’t go see Daria. I
don’t know how much is a big misunderstanding, but I don’t want you hanging
around anyone who carries a gun. If she were to think you were about to break
up with her to go with someone else, she might shoot you before she calmed
down.”
“Fine,” said Tom shortly, “good bye.” He hung up before
his mom could repeat something else she already said a thousand times.
That line about breaking up made him uncomfortable, too.
He sighed in relief a minute later when it didn’t ring again. He heard
Cruxshadows on the radio and turned it up, willing it to wash out his mom’s
constant nagging.
Sorrow sings
her kisses in silence
and adjusts the blinds to keep the light
from mocking everything I feel
She dances slowly
a silhouette upon the curtains
but her eyes seem to cry
only empty tears
I beg for comfort with inadequate verse
it meant so much to me.... and so little to her
and I am sinking into a mountain of self pity
why can't I simply disregard all the things I feel?
"where is my angel when I need him most?"
"tell me now where did he go?"
While Even Angels Fall was a short song, it
powerfully moved him. But he shook his head and noticed that he had driven
right by Daria’s house. His heart skipped a beat when he saw a light in Daria’s
window. He drove for a little bit considering.
A block away, he parked his car and pulled out his phone,
calling Daria. He wasn’t surprised when he heard Quinn’s voice on the phone
going, “Hello?”
“Quinn?” asked Tom, “can you please let me talk to Daria?
It will be hard for me to call her later.”
“Sure,” said Quinn, sounding a little depressed, and then
he heard her cry out to Daria. Then the clicks of Daria getting on and Quinn
hanging up.
“Hello?” asked Daria, as calmly as if she hadn’t been all
over the news lately, with even the President of the
“Daria?” asked Tom, both concerned and excited, “It’s me.”
There was a pause. Then, “Hi. I thought you weren’t
supposed to talk to
“I’m 18. My parents can’t dictate what I do.”
“So are you alone?”
“You could say that. I’m in my car. Can I come over?”
“Tom,” said Daria, “the police are watching me. They want
to know who I meet, if I have my own drug cartel, where I got the gun from...”
“I’d like to know that, too,” interrupted Tom, “but I’m
glad you had it.”
“And everyone around me is now a suspect to them,” said
Daria as if Tom hadn’t spoken. “Your parents are right. You should stay away
from
“Dammit, Daria, what good is nepotism if I can’t get away
with doing what other people shouldn’t?”
Daria sighed. “Ok, come on over. But I doubt Mom will let
me leave. And right now, I don’t feel like leaving. Or much for company.”
“Say no more,” said Tom. “I just have to talk to you for a
little bit anyway, make sure you’re okay....”
“I’m not.”
“What?”
“I’m not okay.”
“I’m right by Glen Oaks. See you at the door?” Tom frowned
as a car went passed him. He was sure he’d seen that car before.
“Sure,” said Daria.
Daria hung up and walked slowly, almost resolutely, down
the stairs. Helen and Jake quit talking when they saw her at the foot of the
stairs. They watched silently with a concerned expression as she went to the
door and opened it.
“Daria,” said Helen, instantly standing up, “where are you
going?”
Daria didn’t even turn to look at them. “To make a cash
withdrawal at the Circle K with my Nazi Express Card.”
“Daria,” said Helen in a tone full of foreboding, “I don’t
think you should leave right now.” She was speaking as both her lawyer and her
mother.
“It’s okay, Mom, I’m just waiting for my connection to the
drug cartel I work for to show up.” Both Helen and Jake’s mouth dropped open at
that, but before Jake could freak out, Daria finished with, “Ah, there he is.”
“Helen,” whispered Jake in a near panic, “our little girl
is a drug lord!”
Helen rolled her eyes as she got up. “Just relax, Jake,
I’ll take care of this.”
Helen walked to the door and stood behind Daria. She had
mixed feelings when she saw Tom getting out of his car. “I don’t know, Daria.
His family made it very clear to me that they don’t want him to see you.”
“It’s only for a few minutes, Mom,” Daria replied with
something of a pleading expression on her face. “Don’t you think I deserve at
least a little closure?”
Helen started to say something and then closed her mouth.
She kissed Daria on the top of the head instead and walked back to the couch.
“Hey, Daria!” said Tom brightly at the door.
“Hey,” said Daria, “Come on in, but watch out for the
pendulum trap and land mines I put in.”
Tom walked in, smiling wistfully. He exchanged polite
greetings with Daria’s mom and dad before following Daria up to her room. Daria
unplugged her phone and sat down on the bed. Tom sat down beside her.
“Why did you unplug the phone?” asked a curious Tom.
“A jacked in phone can be used to eavesdrop on a room by
people who know how. I don’t think it’s admissible without a warrant, but they
might have one. I just don’t want to give them any more ammunition to use
against me.”
Tom’s eyes were wide now. “You think they’re watching you
that closely?”
“No, but better safe than sorry,” replied Daria
nonchalantly. Then her voice broke. “Just in case, I didn’t want them to hear
us now.” She held onto Tom and cried on his shoulder.
“Actually,” said Tom with a voice revealing how disturbed
he felt while he held her, “we’ve had a couple of detectives come by. They
asked me a bunch of WEIRD questions about what we did. I told them it was none
of their damn business and they threatened to arrest me. Luckily, my folks are
the type to get away with kicking them out on their rears. But they were
spooked by that, too. That’s why they don’t want me around you. Not because of
all the stuff being said on TV.” Tom’s brows furrowed. “Though that doesn’t
help.”
“Right now, you would be wise to stay far away from me,”
said Daria, still tearful but pulling away. “They think your family is running
cocaine or something, and I’m your representative to the little people of Lawndale.”
“Yeah,” said Tom, “Mom and Dad said something like that.
They got it from some of the people they support with donations and all. This
is serious stuff, Daria. Even rich people get murdered by the police in this
country for their possessions.”
Daria gave Tom a look that said she wished she could help
but didn’t know how.
“Oh, listen to me!” said Tom. “You’re the one facing
prison for the next several years, and I’m the one whining about our
situation.”
“Being target practice is something big to worry about,
Tom. Maybe you should stay close with your family now and distance yourself
from me as much as possible.”
“Hey, Daria, I can stay with you, if you want. Even if my
family disowns me, I’ll do it.” His distress and confusion made his voice
tight.
After awhile, Daria pulled back. “No, Tom. Stay with them.
I don’t know what kind of future, if any, I have. I’m just glad you came this
one time.”
Tom seemed lost and confused, as if he wasn’t sure what he
wanted to say or ask. Finally, he asked, “Can I ask where you got the gun?”
Daria tensed, but sensed only curiosity in him. “You can
ask, but I won’t tell you.”
“Why not?” asked a disturbed Tom. “Don’t you trust me?”
“I trust you, Tom,” said Daria, “But a secret isn’t a
secret if three people know. This is serious. And if you were to know, you
would be guilty of conspiracy and obstructing the delusions of justice for not
telling what you know.”
“I’ll plead the Fifth.”
Daria laughed. “Tom, you know the Constitution doesn’t
mean anything, unless you’ve got the money to purchase your so-called rights
through an army of lawyers and politicians.”
“I’m rich,” said Tom, a little uncertainly.
“Your family is,” said Daria.
“We’ll pretend you didn’t tell
“Tom, they’re very good. The police almost made me tell. I
wouldn’t blame you if you broke under pressure. But I would blame myself for
telling you.” Tom looked more and more upset. So Daria sighed and said, “In
case it makes you feel better, I haven’t even told Jane.”
“Really?” Tom sounded incredulous.
“Really.” Jane might have known already, but Daria hadn’t
told her. And she was hoping to get Tom to feeling better.
“Okay, then,” said Tom. “I’m glad you’re out of jail, and
you’ve got my support. I’m even sending money orders to your defense fund when
I can get away with it.”
“Thanks, Tom,” said Daria, and meant it. She was wiping
away the last of her tears.
They stared at each other for awhile, and then Tom’s cell
phone rang. “Dammit!” He reached in and switched it off.
“The ’rents?”
“My bookies,” he quipped. Then he cleared his throat. “I
should be going, Daria.”
“I know.”
Tom sighed. “It’s going to be hard for me to see you at
all. But I will do my best.”
“Thanks.”
They hugged once more, and then Daria walked him down the
stairs and to the door. Shutting the door behind him, Daria hurried past her
mom and dad before she started crying again.
7.
------------------------------------
03/18/01 SUNDAY 12:30 P.M.
-------------------------------------
Quinn didn’t know what to think when her mom told her the
police would likely come for her. She made her practice saying, “There were no
drugs,” over and over again, and, “I want a lawyer, call my mom.” At first she
was scared that the police would come for her, but soon she was hoping the
police would come for her THEN, so she could get away from her mom for awhile.
But the ordeal was finally over. She had gotten away by
explaining she wanted to pick an appropriate outfit to wear to the WSD Class
today, and they had less than an hour before they had to leave.
But after going upstairs, she paused. What she had on was
nice enough, she wouldn't want to get anything nicer sweaty, and what she
really wanted to do just then was talk to her sister. She knocked on Daria's
closed door.
She rolled her eyes when she heard Daria say, “Trespassers
will be shot,” and entered anyway.
“We’re gonna have to go soon,” she told Daria.
“I know,” said Daria with resignation, staring up at the
ceiling. “As we speak, I’m plotting my killer moves to accidentally use on
Mom.”
They were silent for maybe a full minute. “Daria?” asked
Quinn.
“Yeah, Sis?”
Quinn either accepted the comment or ignored it “I
sometimes see your gun in my dream. Sometimes I’m in your room like I am now,
and the gun is where you are now. I try to use it, but it won’t work. What am I
doing wrong?”
Daria turned her head towards Quinn and said, “Um, it’s
your dream, not mine.”
“I think I should just point and pull the trigger, but it
doesn’t do anything.”
Pointing and squeezing the trigger was a big part of it,
but there was more. Still, this didn’t seem to apply to Quinn’s question.
“Maybe it means you don’t know how to take care of yourself, or you’re too
scared to try? Maybe too scared to even be your own person?”
Quinn shook her head. “I am scared in my nightmares, but I
see what guns can do. I see what you did. The gun should work for me, too. But
it doesn’t. I think it means I need my own gun. If I had my own gun, I wouldn’t
feel so helpless. And if I didn’t feel so helpless, I wouldn’t still have those
nightmares.”
Daria actually grimaced. “Quinn,” she said, “one thing I
learned even before I got that gun was that no one should have the power to be
able to say, ‘You should die,’ and make that person die.”
“Then why did you get a gun?” asked Quinn, curious.
“Because I was scared,” said Daria, looking back up at the
ceiling. “Because I don’t like not being in control, and I most definitely
wasn’t when Matthew pointed his gun at me. When everyone else pulled their own
guns.... well, I just learned that the way to fight fire is with fire.” She
shook her head. “Pandora’s box has been opened, and guns are a part of our
world now. Heck, before guns it was swords and bows, so maybe I should be glad.
But I saw the gun I got as an evil, if a necessary one.”
“Oh,” said Quinn, looking down at the floor.
Then Daria sat up, putting her feet on the floor. “Quinn?”
“Yeah, Sis?” Quinn sounded amused and smiled slightly,
which almost made Daria close up. Almost.
“Do you see me differently? You know, after I killed...
Matthew....um, right in front of you and all?”
Quinn’s jaw dropped. “Of course I see you differently,
Daria!” She laughed as Daria’s head drooped down some. When Daria looked back
up, Quinn said, “Daria, I don’t see you as some killer. You shot him to save
me, not to kill him. You’re a life saver, not a murderer.”
She sounds like she believes that, thought Daria in
astonishment. “Quinn, I killed him. Maybe I had a good reason, but Matthew will
never have a chance to turn his life around, or have a life, or marvel at
another sunset again. Me. I did that. I pointed a gun at him and made sure he
would never do any of these things again!” Daria’s voice was rising and
starting to break.
“Matthew will never hurt me or anyone else again,” said
Quinn calmly, sitting down on the bed beside Daria.
“He might have changed,” said Daria, a little stiffly.
“It’s.... it’s just not like in the movies. You know they shoot someone and
then go on to the next scene. It’s not like that at all. I keep seeing him
there, dead. I did that. I’ve seen his mom on TV. She hates me. I can
understand why. Sometimes I think everybody’s right to hate
“Would it be better if Mom hated Matthew?” asked Quinn.
“No,” said Daria, voice definitely cracking. “He started
it. It was all his decisions. I just wonder if in killing Matthew I didn’t
somehow become the monster he was.”
“You’re not a monster, Daria,” said Quinn, sounding a
little annoyed. Daria was supposed to be the strong one!
“It’s cool in the movies, but when people really do it...
when I really did it.... it’s just.... just different.” Daria was
looking at the floor again, her voice betraying self-doubt and guilt.
Quinn stared sadly at Daria for a few moments, watching
Daria fighting not to cry in front of her, before asking her “Am I evil,
Daria?”
Daria almost said something sarcastic, but just shook her
head no.
“Was Matthew evil when he shot people and tried to shoot
me?”
Daria sighed. “Yes,” she said, looking at her a moment.
“Then didn’t you do good by stopping him? He would have
killed more people. He would have killed me. I don’t know if a gun is evil or
not, I don’t know if a fire is evil or not, but I know you’re not evil!”
Quinn’s voice was rising now, in passionate defense of her sister.
Daria blinked in surprise at Quinn’s words, and struggled
to hold tears she felt coming close to the surface. “Um, thanks,” she finally
managed calmly.
“Remember that, Daria,” she said with conviction, “when
you see Britney Spears saying you’re bad. You’re not bad. You’re my
sister and I love you.”
Daria just was not ready to deal with any of this. So she
focused on the one thing she could deal with. “Britney Spears?”
“Oh,” said Quinn sounding peeved, “I know you don’t care
what fashionable people say, but she was saying guns and violence and hate and
drugs are bad, and she made it sound like you represented all these things!”
Quinn was obviously upset. “And me, too.”
“What,” began Daria, revealing her contempt of Britney
Spears, “should I care what some corporate product has to say about me or you?”
“It’s bad, Daria. This whole situation is bad.”
“You don’t say.” Daria’s sarcasm was back, but there was a
tiny smile on her lips.
“I’m serious, Daria,” said Quinn in a dire tone, warning
her to take this seriously. “I’m glad for what you did, but Britney is trying
to make you even more unpopular than you already are.”
“Quinn,” Daria said, “A corporation takes a few losers,
dresses them up, writes their music, then has them played everywhere until
people finally think they’re good. This not only sells CD’s, but everything
else, too. They’re not artists, they’re corporate investments to sell creams,
gels, and clothing and everything else to everyone. Then to top it off, they
have to read their ‘political opinions’ written out for them beforehand, so
that those opinions take, too. As if some boy band or blonde asset would have
any knowledge or experience about what they talk about.....”
“It’s doesn’t matter, Daria!” interrupted Quinn fiercely.
“Even if she’s a puppet, she’s still a puppet master!”
“Puppet master?” Daria almost said something sarcastic
again, but she was surprised by the feelings of warmth she suddenly felt for
Quinn... and the beginning of true respect for her.
“If she says it’s so, then it’s so. Next issue of Waif
will probably show what she said, or say words just like it.”
“It’s not just about fashionable clothes, then, but
fashionable thoughts,” replied Daria.
“What’s fashionable to say. And what’s wrong with that? It
lays the rules out clear so anyone who wants to play knows how to do so.”
“Why would I want to play?” Daria asked matter of factly.
“Because you want to win, Daria. You don’t want to be
alone.” There was real pain in her voice. “But then,” said Quinn lowering her
eyes, “maybe I am alone. Everyone ran. Only you stayed with me. Thanks, Daria.”
Daria was more and more uncomfortable. Part of her liked
Quinn’s good will toward her, but part of her felt scared of it, too. “You’re
welcome,” she said. A beat later, she added, “I’m glad you’re alive. It makes
me think it was all worth it.” She tried very hard not let her habitual sarcasm
taint her sincerity.
Quinn smiled a little sadly for a moment before she
frowned again. “What did my popularity get me anyway?” Quinn, arms crossed,
looked away from Daria, and Daria had to strain to hear her. “Nothing I thought
I had. And now I find I might be unpopular ’cause everyone says I’m some Nazi
freak on meth that was trying to start a race war. Britney spoke against me,
too, you know.” She sighed. “In the end, all I have is you and Buffy.”
“Huh?”
“You were there for me, Daria. Everyone else just ran.
Left me alone.”
“I was worried about myself, too, you know.” I’m still
worried, about us both, Daria added silently.
“Oh, please,” said Quinn, looking back up at her, “you
could’ve run and you wouldn’t be in the trouble you’re in. You saved me, Daria.
That’s something no one else was willing or able to do.”
Daria was getting acutely uncomfortable. Why had she saved
Quinn? Why wasn’t she mocking Quinn right now? Most of all, she
wondered, how can I care so much about Quinn and yet shoot a boy in the
back? And when I cried afterwards, was it because I felt bad about doing it?
That I almost lost a sister? Or that I knew I was just going deeper into Hell?
Did I do the right thing, or am I just as bad? All killers invent labyrinthine
justifications for what they do. And am I not a killer?
Daria wasn’t ready to wade through all that just yet. So
she focused on what she was ready for. “Who’s Buffy?”
“You remember my guardian angel?” asked Quinn casually.
“Yeah,” said Daria crossing her arms.
Quinn’s face went down again. “She came back. You were
right, Daria. She went away until I needed her. But I’m glad you were there,
too, because she hadn’t made it back yet. She can’t be around all the time. But
she can be around sometimes.” Quinn looked at her again. “I asked her to give
you what help she could, too.”
For some reason, Daria felt like crying, and she didn’t
even know why. Part of her wanted to throw her arms around Quinn and pour out
all this love she kept locked away within herself, and another part of her
wanted to call her stupid and get up to march away angrily.
Instead, she just asked, “Um, thanks. How did you learn,
uh, her name?”
“She told me the night before Mom got you out of jail.”
Quinn looked up to Daria and then crossed her own arms.
“Oh,” said Daria, uncrossing her arms. Leaning back a bit propping
herself up with her hands, she asked, “Can you tell me about that?”
Quinn studied her for a moment. Then she said, “I was
having nightmares again, but then she came and made the nightmares go away. She
told me Matthew was in Hell and couldn’t hurt me anymore and that I could sleep
safely again.” She crinkled her brow a bit. “I still have nightmares,
sometimes, but it’s not anywhere as bad. And now I can sleep for several hours
before they happen.” She looked back up. “But then I call Buffy and I can go
back to sleep.”
“The angel is really named Buffy?”
“No,” said Quinn, “but I couldn’t understand her real
name. So she told me to call her Buffy.”
“Oh,” said Daria blinking. “What does she look like?”
“She’s invisible,” said Quinn. “I can’t see her.” She
cocked her head, considering. “I don’t even think she’s really a she. That’s
just how the angel shows up for some reason.”
Daria looked away, worried. But she wasn’t going to try to
destroy her sister’s belief again if it kept the nightmares away.
“Don’t worry, Daria,” said Quinn with confidence, “there’s
hope for us now.”
“Hope,” mused Daria, “was another demon from Pandora’s
box. And maybe the cruelest one of all.”
“Ohhh!” said Quinn angry, “Daria, don’t try to ruin a good
thing! You saved me, and now I’m going to save you!”
Daria blinked again.
Helen entered the room then and responded to the tone in
Quinn’s voice, since she didn’t hear the words. “I can’t believe,” she said
testily, “that after all you’ve been through, you still find it amusing to tear
each other down.”
“Um, yeah,” said Daria, “I’m sorry, Quinn.”
“Me, too,” said Quinn, trying not to laugh. She threw her
arms around Daria and whispered in her ear, “Well... no I’m not actually.”
Daria returned the embrace, and forgot her fantasies of
hiding in a cabin and joining a militia.
Helen sighed. “Is there any length you two won’t go to in
order to be sarcastic to each other?” Shaking her head, she said, “Come on,
we’re going to be late.”
Sighing in unison, they got up. Daria put on her green
jacket and the two left with their mom.
8.
--------------------------------------
03/18/01 SUNDAY 2:30 P.M.
--------------------------------------
Women’s Self Defense Class, commonly known as WSD,
consisted entirely of women, most of them college age, a few older. Daria and
Quinn seemed to be the only high-schoolers there. Right now, people were
informally mixed, most sitting on the floor or on mats, and a low buzz of
casual conversation filled the large room.
Daria was flipping through the book that they all got as
part of the class called Self-Defense: The Womanly art of self-care,
intuition and choice by Debbie Leung. “This is one of the most ridiculous
books on defending yourself that I’ve ever seen,” said Daria critically.
“Just how many books on self defense have you seen,
Daria?” asked Helen
Daria looked up at her mom. “A few,” she said. “But even
if I hadn’t, I’d still say the same and hope it was true.”
“I don’t know,” said Quinn, “some of these pix show some
really good ideas on how to hurt someone. I just wonder why they dress in such
shabby clothes.”
“Maybe they don’t want to get blood on their good
clothes,” said Daria, a bit of her dark humor showing through.
“Ewwwww!” screeched Quinn.
“So what’s the problem, Daria?” asked a peeved Helen.
“That they can defend themselves without a gun?”
Quinn interrupted with, “But none of the guys have guns
like Matthew did. I don’t think any of these would’ve worked when he was
shooting.”
“What I mean,” said Daria, “is like Chapter 3 tells
the reader, ‘The key to preventing assaults is having accurate information
about who assailants are, why they assault women, and how assaults happen.’ And
it all sounds good until you get further into the chapter.”
“What’s wrong with the chapter?” asked Helen, actually
curious.
“Well,” said Daria, “you get to who are the assailants,
and the answer can be summed up as most, if not all, men. Like here, it says,
‘In the reports studied, the assailants were all men.’ Great, now I know the
assailants, so I can be safe. All I have to do is look out for men! And a high
percentage,” she continued, pointing down on a page, “89% to be exact, are men
the woman knows. So beware of all men I know, especially. And why do they
attack? Power, domination, control.”
“Yes, that is a little vague,” agreed Helen.
“A little?” went Daria. “The point is that if you see the
pattern, you’ll be safe, if you don’t, you’ll be raped or assaulted. So what’s
the pattern? All men. About 50% of the population of the world, including 9 out
of every 10 men I know! Who is the one male I can trust not to rape me? Mr. O’
Neill? Mr. DeMartino? Dad? Tom? So now I’m aware of the pattern, and it’s
totally useless!”
“Daria, please,” said Helen, looking through Chapter 3.
She had to admit, it looked as if Daria were right. But maybe it would become
more helpful after she read the rest of the book.
Then Helen found a factoid, with a reputable footnote,
that made her smile. “Quinn,” she said, “right here it says that in 93% of all
rapes, no guns were present; only 1% of all crimes involving handguns resulted
in fatalities; and women are less than half as likely as men to have a gun used
on them in a crime. Most guns used in those few crimes are never fired, and those
that do often miss, and rarely cause serious injury and death to the 2%
actually shot.”
“Those 2% can be killers, though,” added Daria.
“See, Quinn, you don’t need a gun. You can learn all you
need in this class. And I’ll sign you up for the martial arts class of your
choice. How’s that?”
“Mo-ooom,” went Quinn, “the only reason I wasn’t shot was
because Daria shot Matthew first. The only reason SHE wasn’t shot was because
all those people at the Zen pulled....”
“Quinn!” whispered Helen fiercely, “Don’t talk about that
now!”
“I think what Quinn means,” said Daria helpfully, “is it’s
better to have a gun and not need it than need a gun and not have it. And I
think those statistics are very encouraging myself. It says guns aren’t
anywhere as dangerous as you think they are.”
Helen blushed. “No, it means they aren’t needed. And if we
sue those gun companies and win, guns will become even less common, and thus
less dangerous overall. End of discussion.”
Quinn got mad, but reined herself in. She knew showing
anger wouldn’t help her case at all, but she was frustrated because she didn’t
know what would help her case. At least Daria seemed to be on her side, though
she was avoiding eye contact with her right now.
Daria and Quinn both looked up as a familiar form stood
over them.
“Hello, Daria, Quinn, Mrs. Morgendorffer,” said Ms. Barch
in her tone of voice that was least hostile.
“Uh, hi,” said Daria.
“Hello,” said Helen, “thank you for supporting my
daughter! I heard you spoke up for her.”
Ms. Barch crossed her arms. “Well, the school board is
made up of all males, except for two women, and they’re married to males. You
can’t trust any of them. And I think they have the law on their side in this.
The law that was written by men.”
“Um, yes,” said Helen, suddenly very uncomfortable.
“Excellent work handling that male scum, Daria,” Ms. Barch
said to Daria before turning to Quinn and asking, “Have you finally accepted
that the only thing men are good for are beating up on and using as target practice?”
She seemed to be asking someone if they accepted that drinking binges were a
bad idea.
“Um.... I just want to get a gun,” said Quinn, not
noticing Helen’s shocked face turning into a glare directed at her.
“Guns have their uses,” said Ms. Barch, “but they aren’t
anywhere as much fun.” She turned back to Daria. “Here, I thought you could
appreciate these.” She handed Daria a thin yellow booklet and a magazine of
some kind.
“The SCUM Manifesto?” asked Daria.
“Society for Cutting Up Men,” said Ms. Barch. “Real smart,
good writer, like you, Daria. Read her and find your destiny.”
“Um, okay,” said Daria. She looked at the magazine. “The
Matriarch’s Way: The Journal of Female Supremacy.” She looked back up to
Ms. Barch. “Thanks.” Daria’s voice was completely neutral and could be taken in
any way.
“Sure, Daria. Read those, and then think about them. I
know that in time you will come to see how rational the ideas presented in both
are.” She turned to go, saying, “The presentation is about to start, so I’ll be
seeing you two soon enough.”
As Ms. Barch left, a woman with Indian features that
looked young enough to be in college, but old enough to have been there awhile,
was giving an introductory speech, explaining the mental and verbal skills of
self defense, as well as some basic physical moves one could use in some
circumstances.
Someone asked out loud, “What if the guy attacking you
gets madder? Are you sure what you teach will work?”
The speaker cleared her throat. “Assault victims of all
kinds will carry their wounds for years, decades, and a lifetime, if she
survives at all. Don’t tell yourself that you will be hurt even worse if you
resist. But having said that, no, there are no guarantees when it comes to
self-protection. However, self-defense training can increase your
choices and options and your preparedness.”
Quinn raised her hand.
“You don’t need to raise your hand here. Did you want to
say or ask something?”
Quinn put her hand down and loudly asked, “Can’t a gun
increase your options and preparedness?” She hoped the lady would say yes, thus
convincing her mom to get her a gun.
Helen’s jaw dropped. It never occurred to her, in her
worst nightmares, that QUINN would say something like that! She struggled to
maintain her composure and hoped she wouldn’t have to leave, dragging both of
her daughters with her. There’d be hell to pay!
The speaker seemed unperturbed, neither amused nor
disturbed. “Guns are just one option among many others, such as pepper spray,
persuaders, and stun guns. But all of these devices cannot be counted on to
work against all attackers at all times, especially if you don’t have it on
hand when you need it. You should also be aware that 70% or more of sexual
assaults and battery will come from people you are close to, not from a
stranger. Think hard if you can use any of these devices on someone you know.”
An older woman about Helen’s age was up by the younger
speaker now. “Guns are also easily taken away by your attacker, and so are a
liability.”
The younger speaker countered, “Not if one knows how to
prevent that. AWARE--Arming Women Against Rape and Endangerment--teaches
handgun retention, taught by the same people who train police officers.
AWSDA--American Women Self Defense Association--also sponsors some good firearm
training courses. But there are limitations to everything, and you should learn
what they are when deciding when and where and IF to use a tool, be it a gun or
something else.”
The older woman shook her head. “Mace is better.”
The younger laughed, a little harshly. “Attackers have
overcome mace simply by closing their eyes. The companies that market them say
it’s a natural physiological reaction, but many from AWSDA will tell you not to
trust the chemical sprays. And anything has the potential to be taken away and
used on the victim.”
“I can’t believe you’re championing guns over mace.”
“I’m not. I’m simply giving facts to allow others make up
their own minds, and decide what works for them. Any tool is a tool you need to
learn how to use well. Getting sprays or persuaders or a gun and not learning
how to use it is like wearing a swimsuit to the beach without learning how to
swim. You look good, but you’ll likely drown if you don’t know what you’re
doing. So go out and learn how to use these tools and then decide what works
for you.”
“I must tell all Middleton students that Middleton has a
strong policy against any handguns....”
“Despite growing violence against women,” said the younger
speaker.
“..AND,” the older speaker said pointedly, staring hard at
the younger, “we know that guns escalate violence rather than stop
violence.....”
“Oh, yeah,” said the younger in a fully sarcastic tone by
this point, “using a gun on a guy with a knife trying to rape you will make him
more violent, but not mace.”
“... and Middleton has barred guns from campus for that
reason!” The older woman was now glaring at the younger meaningfully.
The younger speaker crossed her arms, saying, “If I recall
rightly, that policy went in effect after the QB missed the championship game
because he was wounded by the woman he tried raping to celebrate another game.
A pastime he had a reputation for. Middleton has to keep its priorities
straight, and I hear the gambling circuit also raised hell over that.”
The older woman had gone pale, and looked afraid for some
reason. “Thank you, Angeline,” she said in a tight voice, “for trashing our
school to the new students.”
“Hey, you want them aware of how dangerous men are. I
think I just helped tremendously.”
"This is just more of your trying to start an
undergraduate chapter of the Second Amendment Sisters. Give it up, already,
it's NOT going to happen!"
"Why do you want to disempower women?"
"Why do you embrace the phallic cult of death?"
Another older woman quickly came up and stepped between
the two instructors, who looked as if they were going to put on a free
demonstration of martial arts technique on each other right then and there.
Clearing her throat and smiling, she said, “Thank you,
Angeline and Jacklyn, for introducing the class to some dark realities. You
both made wonderful points. Both of these women are among our instructors here
with us today.” She swallowed and resisted looking at the instructors on either
side of her.
Daria and Quinn were both smiling in mild amusement. This
wasn’t as boring as they’d both feared it would be. Then they saw two women
come up, one being Ms. Barch, the other one a young Asian woman.
“The other instructors, besides myself,” said the woman
speaking now, “are Risa and Janet. And I’m Kim. As you can tell, we encourage a
variety of philosophies and styles here at WSD, though I must point out that
Jacklyn is right in that no guns are allowed on Middleton grounds, and being
caught with them, even in self defense, will result in immediate arrest and
expulsion.”
“Still better than being raped,” said Angeline.
Kim cleared her throat again. “I personally represent
FIST--Feminist In Self-Defense Training--which is explained in the books you
all got as part of our class. It is a more intuitive and verbal form of self
defense. The greatest weapon any of us can use is our mind.”
She came closer to people, walking by the women who were
sitting on the floor or on the mats. “The first thing you must accept is that
you CAN defend yourself. This is the first step. You have to tell yourself this
over and over until you believe it. Once you believe it, you can do it.”
Daria rolled her eyes without thinking, but kept
listening.
“You need to get to the point that should you ever be
woken up from a sound sleep because someone has broken in and attacks you, the
first thing you think is, ‘I can defend myself!’
Yeah, thought Daria, Right, I’m waked up in the
middle of the night by a guy ready for the attack, and almost certainly bigger
and stronger, and he’s gonna have every advantage, even if I do defend myself.
I’m glad this class is free.
“Come on, everyone,” Kim continued, “I want to hear all of
you say you have the right to defend yourself!”
Quinn’s voice was the only strong one. She seemed to be
into it. Everyone else’s voices were mere mumbles, or halfhearted at best.
“Say it again,” said Kim.
Daria moaned and she got her arm slapped by her mom. Daria
frowned and prepared to say, “Kill me quickly, please,” when Kim told them to
say it all again.
But Kim didn’t say it again right then. She said, “Okay, I
sense many of you are having a hard time believing that YOU can defend
yourself, even though every single one of you can. Even if you’re on crutches,
there are ways for you to defend yourself. But right now, let’s deal with some
simple, everyday situations you might easily find yourselves in.....”
They all ended up taking turns pretending to be
overbearing males such as men who couldn’t accept no, and others who harassed,
pestered, or tried insisting women do some things, like dancing with them.
(Daria repeated many of the lines she had used already on others, which often
flew over the head of the woman pretending to be a man, just as it had on the
original recipients.)
That was followed by practicing shouts and yells for when
the situation got more intense. Daria was surprised and a little disturbed by
how good she felt yelling. Did she have so much anger within her that she
welcomed this release? If so, why didn’t she consciously feel it?
Quinn was really getting into the yelling. Daria was
getting worried at how eagerly Quinn would shriek and how primal she sounded.
Ms. Barch kept egging her on. “What do you do when you see another man that you
can tell is just like Matthew?”
“AAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!!!” Luckily, she just stood
there, as all the rest of them did. Her shriek truly bordered on blood curling.
Others were shouting, including Helen and Daria, but
neither were as intense as Quinn, nor did either think they COULD be if they
wanted to be.
Then they were all taught different ways to hit, strike,
kick, and more, working with big pillows that only roughly resembled the human
body in any sense. They learned a variety of techniques to break out of holds.
The students took turns holding padded shields to practice blows using elbows,
fists, the bony side of the forearm, and feet.
Yet through the entire class, not one situation was
covered remotely like the situation of Matthew in Lawndale High on the morning
of the shooting.
But the class finally came to a standstill when Quinn was
practicing shouts and blows on a shield. Everyone else turned to stare in
shock, and a little fear. Angeline was holding the shield and was backing up
rapidly while Quinn, seemingly possessed in a berserk rage, was trying to get
past the shield at her, though she did not actually try to jump around it.
The class got very quiet, except for Angeline’s grunts and
Quinn’s screams that bespoke pain, grief, fear, and rage. Her thrusts were
clumsy but still threatening and coming faster and harder. Angeline brought the
shield up to block a horizontal fist. Quinn spun and kicked at her knee.
Angeline dodged, but didn’t fully get out of Quinn’s way,
and she fell with a short yell herself. Quinn leaped at her with a murderous
shout, but both Angeline’s shield and feet came up. The shield prevented Quinn
from grabbing hold of her, and her feet pushed Quinn over her completely.
Angeline was instantly on her feet while Quinn was twisting to get back on
hers.
Quinn was grabbed from behind by Ms. Barch. Quinn
instantly shot both of her fists up in the air to break the hold on her, but
Ms. Barch was ready for that move. “Easy, Quinn,” said Ms. Barch sounding
impressed, “there are no men here.”
Quinn struggled a few more moments and then stopped,
fighting tears.
Helen, looking worried, wondered if it had simply been the
adrenaline that triggered such an episode in Quinn. She wanted to get her in
therapy, but the lawyer in her didn’t want Quinn talking to anyone about the
case before it was resolved in a court of law. Instead, she saw Daria not too
far away and went up to her.
Helen lightly placed a hand on Daria’s shoulder. “The
night before you came home,” Helen began, “Quinn screamed when I came in the
room to check on her after she had another nightmare. She told me later that
she thought I was Matthew, whom she was sure was in the house. I’m not
surprised, as that’s typical of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. But what do you
think would’ve happened if Quinn had a gun in easy reach that night?”
Daria acknowledged the point with a slight shiver, and
Helen withdrew to let it sink in before Daria could come up with some rejoinder
she thought clever.
Class wound down early not long after that.
9.
--------------------------------------
03/19/01 MONDAY 8:30 A.M.
---------------------------------------
“Hey, Quinn.”
Quinn jumped, almost dropping her books. Just standing in
front of her locker she was already breathing faster than usual. She couldn’t
stop trembling. Her first day of school since the shooting was being really
rough.
She turned to face Scott, a guy she had seen Matthew talk
to more than once. “Hey,” she said, afraid, part of her actually expecting Matthew
to suddenly appear, gun blazing.
Scott looked sad. “I’m.... I’m sorry about what happened
and all. I never thought he would do anything like that. I mean.... I’m sorry
he’s dead, but I’m glad you’re not. I just.... just wish he hadn’t done what he
did. I never would have guessed.....” Here his voice broke.
Quinn felt his sympathy and was grateful for it. “It’s not
your fault, Scott,” she said, still trembling slightly.
“I should have known. But I didn’t have a clue.” He shook
his head, looking at the floor.
“None of us did,” said Quinn, now opening her locker.
“I can’t believe you’re back so soon,” said Scott, finally
looking up at her.
“Oh,” said Quinn, “I’m stronger than you’d think.” Quinn
wondered why she wasn’t pulling his strings. She knew the techniques for
twisting men around her finger, she just didn’t feel like using them.
“I guess,” he said. “Anyway, see you later, Quinn.” He
turned and left as if too upset to talk anymore.
“Yeah,” said Quinn, “later.”
She went to class, and Stacy grabbed Quinn and hugged her
the moment she entered the classroom. “Quinn, I’m so glad to see you! I
would’ve called but my mom wouldn’t let me!”
Quinn gently disentangled herself. “Yeah, my mom’s being
pretty strict right now, too.”
Stacy kept looking at Quinn as she followed Quinn to her
seat. Sandi was watching them neutrally, while Tiffany was leafing through an
issue of Waif. The three J’s were there, all of them smiling, but they
waited for her to sit before they said anything.
“Hey, Quinn,” said Jeffy, “My dad got me a gun, so I can
protect you instead of your cousin!”
“Hey, I’ll get a bigger gun!”
“I’ll get a gun that shoots more bullets!”
Quinn listened to them in openmouthed shock, and behind
her Sandi and Stacy listened in wide-eyed amazement at such a dialogue.
Then someone began shooting out in the hallways. This
time, it sounded like an assault weapon.
Terror froze Quinn’s body and she grabbed her desk so hard
she could actually feel the blood trying to squeeze through her fingers. The
three J’s forgot her and kissed the ground, as did half of the other students
in her class. Mr. O’ Neill was hiding under his desk. Then the shooting
stopped.
Quinn, trying desperately not to hyperventilate, was
crying and shaking and finally let out a sob.
She looked around. The Fashion Club were all mirroring her
terror. Stacy was quietly sobbing and Quinn had never seen THAT expression on
Tiffany before.
Are they wondering the same thing I am? Quinn
wondered. Is the gunman going from classroom to classroom, killing everybody
in his path? Should we all run now? Or would that single us out? Maybe he’d run
out of ammo before he made it here?
She looked to Mr. O’ Neill for some sign to reassure
herself, but Mr. O’ Neill was loudly crying himself, still hiding under his
desk. She was on her own. Where was the authority that was supposed to
“protect” her? Where were her admirers? All she had was herself. And maybe
Daria. She was glad Daria wasn’t here because she realized she cared for Daria
as the only person who stood behind her when things got rough.
Buffy? Buffy, where are you?, asked Quinn silently.
But she felt nothing but gut wrenching fear, and the tears that slid down her
face.
During the shooting, she had forgotten the entire WSD
Class yesterday. Not that it taught how to defend yourself from a mad gunman,
Quinn noted bitterly. She wanted a gun of her own. That was the only thing that
would help her. Until then, she would have to depend on Daria’s gun, and that
was no longer an option. That’s what the dreams have been telling her, Quinn
realized.
The intercom came on, and Mr. DeMartino’s voice filled the
school. “There is NO shooter, I REPEAT, there is NO shooter!” The com seemed to
click off, but Quinn thought that just maybe she could barely hear Mr.
DeMartino cussing up a storm. Surely that was her imagination?
The ’com came back on. “The police have been called. But
it SEEMS that some COMEDIAN in need of some SERIOUS help thought it would be
FUNNY to throw some fireworks into the hall. I promise you that if I FIND this
person, he won’t be LAUGHING at ALL!”
The ’com clicked off again for a moment before continuing
with, “After the police have arrived and have been made AWARE of the incident,
I will release everyone from class EARLY. It’s not as if you learn much anyway
even under the BEST of circumstances.” Quinn thought she knew when his eye
bulged in that rant.
No one cheered. All around her, Quinn saw faces that
looked to be in shock. “Is this what they call shell shock?” Quinn wondered out
loud before she realized she had spoken. No one showed any sign of having heard
her. She took no offense. She knew exactly how everyone around her felt. She
probably felt it more than they did.
Quinn suddenly felt comforted, as she felt Buffy near her.
The next few minutes felt like hours, but they were all
released to the cafeteria where they could leave, call someone to pick them up,
or wait for one of the buses that were theoretically on the way.
Quinn saw Scott. He was walking toward her aggressively.
She flinched, but he calmed as he came closer.
“I’m really pissed over that sick joke,” he said, as if
trying to hold back a rage with tremendous self control. “I can’t imagine how
it must have affected you! Are you okay?”
Quinn nodded and said, “Yeah, I’m okay.” It was a lie, but
one that would have to do for now.
She saw all three members of the Fashion Club staring at
her, somewhat disapprovingly. “I’ll see you later, Scott,” she said as she went
over to them.
“Yeah, later,” Quinn heard Scott say.
“Quinn,” said Sandi when Quinn joined them, “I hope you’re
not going to date him. He may be popular, but he was friends with that Matthew
guy. And you’re already under enough suspicion of all kinds of things as it
is.”
“Um, yeah, Sandi,” said Quinn, still distressed over what
had happened. Why is she being such a bitch?, Quinn wondered.
She’s just being herself, Buffy replied silently in
Quinn’s head, and Quinn let out a little laugh.
“Gee, Quinn,” said Sandi disapprovingly, “I’m glad you
find this so amusing, but the Fashion Club has been particularly hurt by your
association with Matthew.”
Quinn’s eyes widened. “Sandi, you were happy to come to
the cabin with us. So was everyone else!”
“That was before I knew Matthew was some geeky Nazi speed
freak, Quinn.” Contempt dripped from Sandi’s voice.
“Well I didn’t know about any of that, either,” said
Quinn. “I think a lot of people are lying about that, anyway. And if Matthew
hurt anyone especially it was me. Are you going to try to kick me out of the
Fashion Club just like you ran and left me alone with him?”
Stacy and Tiffany turned away, but Sandi focused on her,
her jaw dropping open.
“Like excuse me, Quinn,” said Sandi, “but when someone
pulls out a gun and starts shooting people, I run. I thought everyone knew to
do that. Why did you just stand there, anyway?”
Quinn began to fight tears, but she kept her voice steady.
She heard Buffy say to her, Never mind her, Quinn. She’s just jealous of
you. She’s especially hated how you outdated her, and now she has a chance to
punish you for dating so much. And the reason you didn’t run was because you
knew he would raise the gun to shoot you the moment you ran.
“Oh, yeah,” remarked Quinn quietly.
“What?” asked Sandi.
“I mean,” said Quinn, “Matthew would’ve shot me in the
back if I ran, or made any move to escape. I had to wait until he was
distracted from me before I could run.”
Sandi glared harshly at Quinn a moment longer, then
softened her expression. “I’m sorry, Quinn. This has been hard on all of us. I
remember how scared I was when I ran. I didn’t think about it. I just did it.
And then I.... I realized Stacy and Tiffany were there, but you weren’t. I
was... I was mad, and scared, when I saw you were still there by Matthew. I
kept thinking, why didn’t she run, now she’s going to be killed.” Sandi’s voice
actually cracked a little, and Quinn felt guilt for mentally calling her a
bitch.
“It’s okay Sandi. He’s dead now anyway.”
“Do you forgive us, Quinn?”
“Of course, Sandi. I never was bothered by your running. I
was glad you got away.” Quinn felt her innards twist at the lie she just told,
and still felt the anger at having been abandoned, and then not called at home
afterwards. “But why didn’t you call?”
“Oh,” said Sandi, “my mom was being a bitch. All the stuff
on the news just got worse and worse. And... I didn’t know what to say anyway.”
“Me neiitherrr,” moaned out Tiffany.
Stacy smiled guiltily at Quinn. “Please forgive us for not
standing by you, Quinn. Or calling you.”
Quinn smiled at them. “I’m just glad we all got out of
that okay.”
“Exactly,” said Sandi. “And I think we should all have a
makeover. A change in appearance to encourage others to change their
appearance. And decorations. We can make this school look not so.... so like
when Matthew started shooting it up.”
“That’s a great idea!” said Quinn excited. She frowned a
little. “But I don’t want any ponytails.”
“Awesome idea, Sandi!” shouted Stacy, “and I don’t want
any ponytails, either!”
“Me, neitherrrr,” said Tiffany again, also excited.
“You guys are the best,” said Quinn, suddenly meaning it.
Her life was starting to feel a little bit normal again, and she felt control
over her own destiny coming more and more into her hands.
“Can you all make it to my place, tonight?” asked Sandi.
“My mom won’t be there, so there shouldn’t be a problem with Quinn coming
over.”
Quinn frowned at that but just said, “I’m sure I can talk
my mom into it.” Especially if I promise not to ask her to get me a gun for
a week.
The others agreed enthusiastically, and Sandi finalized it
with, “Then it’s a date.”
CHAPTER 10
---------------------------------------------
03/19/01 MONDAY 9:00 A.M.
---------------------------------------------
The cameras were being set up in the front room by the
crew for Handgun Control Inc. while Helen nervously talked with Mrs. Brand who,
Helen hoped, would be
“Daria and Quinn both have suffered a lot from the attacks
of this boy,” Helen was saying at this point, “I just recently found out he had
stuck a gun right in Daria’s face! I can’t imagine what it must have been like
for her.” Helen was giving enough for sympathy, but careful not to give away
too much.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Brand in a critical tone of voice, “it’s
too bad she didn’t feel able to come to you or call the police.”
“Yes,” said Helen, instantly cooling off towards Mrs.
Brand. May you burn in hell, bitch!
A young woman in a wheelchair came up and told Mrs. Brand,
“We’re pretty much ready when you are.”
“It’s about time,” says Mrs. Brand critically. “We’ve got
so much to do and so little time to do it in.” She turned to a bemused Helen.
“Bring down that girl of yours and we’ll begin.” Having issued her commands,
she turned away from Helen to find others to micromanage.
Helen checked her glare at Mrs. Brand’s back when she
heard the young woman laugh quietly. Her face reddened and she smiled
apologetically at her. “Sorry,” said Helen quietly, “it’s just that things have
been rough for me, too.”
Helen examined the young woman more closely. Medium build,
brown hair, and freckles on a wide face. She wore simple button shirt and jeans
which Quinn would judge harshly, along with simple tennies. She had a bright,
happy face which was a contrast to the wheel chair she was in and the people
she was around.
“I can imagine,” the young woman replied to Helen. “My
name is Kathy Farlow, but everyone calls me Kat.” She extended a hand towards
Helen.
Helen gracefully shook her hand. “Is Mrs. Brand always
so.... driven?”
Kat laughed again, but still quietly. “No, she’s usually
worse. I think she’s nervous what Daria will do to her if she’s her usual
self.”
Helen smiled, in spite of the implied slander about her
daughter. “So why do you work with her?”
“Oh,” said Kat somewhat dismissively, “she’s what we have
around here. Her fire is a needed thing, I’m afraid. I don’t think I could do
anywhere as much as Mrs. Brand does for getting dangerous firearms out of reach
of the angry, suicidal, and disturbed.” She shrugged. “She doesn’t seem to
appreciate what I do, and doesn’t care that I need time for my classes at
Middleton. That’s rough on me, but I still believe in the cause, even if I also
think Mrs. Brand is a bit caustic.”
Helen smiled a little more. “It’s nice to see someone
young and passionate who still believes in something.” She sighed. “My own
daughters, unfortunately, don’t. My youngest is obsessed with clothes and
dating, and Daria, well.... I’m afraid she’s just a bit too cynical to take
part in anything.”
“Hm, yes,” replied Kat. “I feel cynical a lot, too. But
you know what, Mrs. Morgendorffer?”
“Call me Helen, please,” said Helen, enjoying Kat’s
confidant approach and youthful ideals.
“Helen,” said Kat, “the doctors told me I would never walk
again after my spine was struck by a stray bullet.....”
“How awful!” said Helen, and meaning it. She blushed when
she saw Mrs. Brand turn to glare at her, knowing she hadn’t gotten Daria yet.
“Yes,” said Kat. “But I worked at it. And when I graduated
from Cedar Creek High, I walked up to get my diploma. Maybe I used
crutches, and walked from my wheelchair, but I still did more than my doctor
ever said I would!”
“That’s amazing,” said Helen sincerely, “maybe that means
you will walk one day completely again.”
Kat nodded, and her voice choked slightly. “I worked for
that, and I got it. That’s when I knew I could do anything. And I know I can
save others from sharing the same fate I’ve been dealt. We may not stop all
violence, but because of us, there will be fewer in wheelchairs or coffins.
That’s worth working for, and that’s why I do all that I do. Even with you-know-who.”
“That’s great,” said Helen, meaning it. She looked up.
Mrs. Brand was back.
“Kathy,” said Mrs. Brand, “can you please see what else
Mr. Jensen has for you to do?”
“Of course,” said Kat crisply, and with a flick of a
switch began wheeling off toward an older man with a clipboard, though the
older man was still young in Helen’s sight. Helen would guess from Mrs. Brand’s
tone and glare that she did not care for Kat at all.
“Oh, let me get Daria,” said Helen blushing again under
Mrs. Brand’s displeasure. She blushed harder as Mrs. Brand turned her back on
her without a word and went to find someone else to glare at.
Helen went up and knocked on Daria’s door before opening
it. Daria was sitting on the bed with her arms crossed. She looked up at Helen
very nervously.
“Daria, they’re ready for you,” said Helen, smiling
encouragingly. “Don’t worry about a thing. Just try to be pleasant, and I’m
sure it will go great. They know that people will listen to what you have to
say, and so they’re going to try to make you a friend of their cause if they
can.”
“Or crucify me,” said Daria. “Well, I might as well go
down and ask the viewers if we can all get along.” She got up, showing
resignation.
“Daria,” said Helen with some concern, “Try to show a
better attitude. These people will help you, and hinder Fillman’s ability to
hurt you.” When Daria gave her a deadpan stare, she added, “Come on, Daria, big
smile!”
Daria gave a big smile.
“Okay, subtle smile,” corrected Helen. She wasn’t sure if
Daria was being sarcastic or not, but big smiles just didn’t look right on her.
She sighed as she saw Daria’s face resume its cold, deadpan expression. “Let’s
go,” said Helen, sounding just as resigned as Daria looked.
Daria came down behind Helen, looking almost like a
condemned criminal approaching the gallows. She saw the older woman that she
knew was Mrs. Brand standing by an older man whom she didn’t recognize. He
seemed to be floating about the older woman and she wondered if there was a
relationship between them. Another man with blonde hair, glasses, and a
clipboard, was just starting to sit down on a chair that wasn’t Morgendorffer
property. A woman in a wheelchair was situated by the couch. She looked only a
few years older than Daria herself, and smiled nervously at her. Helen led
Daria to the couch where they both sat down. Two men held cameras, while
another had a screwdriver out, working on an apparently nonfunctioning camera.
“Hey,” said the woman in the wheelchair, barely a foot
from Daria. “I’m Kat.” She extended her hand, and Daria nervously shook it.
The older man that had been by Mrs. Brand came up to
Daria. “Hello, young lady,” he said. “I’m Mr. Preston, and I’m here to guide
the others in filming this interview.” He was a bit overweight, humpty dumpty
style, with thinning hair that looked as though it had been gelled. He stared
at her warily for some reason before nodding his head.
“I hope my story helps you,” said Daria neutrally, wishing
he would stop looking her over with critical eyes.
Mr. Preston chuckled. “I’m a retired journalist. By the
time I’m done with the footage, you’ll help us whether you want to or not.” He
turned his head, saw Mrs. Brand sitting down and walked over beside her to
speak with her.
Daria blinked, unsure if that was meant as a joke or a
threat.
“Yes, yes,” said Mrs. Brand loudly from her own chair
(also imported) in response to whatever Mr. Preston had said, “let’s get on
with this. We have a very tight schedule to keep.” She pointed at a few people,
introducing them. “This,” she said pointing to the older man standing next to
her, “is Mr. Preston. This is Mr. Jensen,” she added, pointing to the blonde
guy in glasses, who was now biting his nails. “And the woman in a wheelchair
next to you is Ms. Kathy Farlow, commonly called Kat.” It was obvious she
didn’t like that diminutive. “She was in a school shooting, too, and she didn’t
come out as well as you,” she added crisply, and in a tone that implied Daria
should be ashamed of the fact.
And so they began, with Daria narrating the events she had
listed for her defense. But after the basic story, they obviously wanted more.
“Let’s go back to this gun show, Daria,” said Mr. Jenson.
“Tell us exactly what you remember.”
Daria was filled with annoyance and struggled to hide it.
Everyone wanted to know where she got the gun! “I wasn’t paying too much
attention,” said Daria evasively, “with Quinn’s boyfriend on my mind, I didn’t
have eyes for anything other than a small gun I could carry around without others
knowing.”
“We’ll get back to that later,” said Mrs. Brand, “right
now tell us about the gun show. You say it was held in
Daria nodded.
“And?” asked Mrs. Brand pointedly.
Daria’s own annoyance began to show. “And what? I told you
I don’t remember much. Why is this even important anyway?”
Mrs. Brand took a long, deep breath. Then, speaking slowly
as if to a mentally challenged child, said, “These gun shows are the most
common source for felons and children like yourself to get guns. They’re then
used in acts of violence. We’re dedicated to stopping that violence. We would
also like to make Project Sentry, where those who supply any child under the
age of 21 with guns and the training to use them, a federal crime.” Mrs.
Brand was disgusted that this law wasn’t applicable in
Daria seemed to lose her annoyance, though Helen’s heart
sank when she heard a voice that boded ill. “I’ve researched this at the public
library. If you add in pawn shops to gun shows, you have roughly 10% of where
felons get their guns. 80% get them from family, friends, and the black
market.”
“Their friends get them from gun shows,” replied Mrs.
Brand dismissively.
Daria rolled her eyes. “Uh, huh, and you followed them to
find this out?”
Mrs. Brand leaned forward as the blood rushed to her face.
“Gun shows, especially in
“She knows what she’s talking about,” added Mr. Preston
meaningfully
Daria shook her head. “Anyone who does so is open to prosecution
by the BATF, who sometimes send in undercover agents just to see if they can
buy such guns without any kind of background check. It typically doesn’t go
well for those who do, even if they aren’t a federally licensed dealer.”
Mr. Jensen's lips thinned with exasperation as he
listened. “Where did Matthew get his gun but from his grandfather. HE got it
from a gun show! The police weren’t even able to track it with NLET. That gun
could have been used in all kinds of crimes. It was in the hands of a drug
dealer! Just like your gun, Daria, it was gotten at a gun show. Now will you
tell us what went on at the gun show you went to? Something we can use?
Please?”
“Well,” said Daria, sounding accommodating, “I saw many
guns at the gun show, many of them machine guns of some kind. But I did have to
duck several mass murderers, since these guns cause violence.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Mr. Preston, seeming shocked by
Daria’s adventure there, while the others stared at her suspiciously.
“There were three mass slayings there,” continued Daria,
“but a bunch of NRA guys in black cowboy suits covered it up. I think one of
them was Charlton Heston as the others kept calling him Moses, and I heard him
mention something about visiting the planet of the apes.”
Mrs. Brand’s eyes narrowed and filled with menace.
“And I know it wasn’t just the gun show, because when I
was at the police station, one of the cops shot a bunch of people right in
front of me.” Daria looked at them. “You know, why do cops at a desk need a
gun? And why do they need guns to fight crime? Aren’t guns a liability to them?
Something a criminal can take away?”
Helen laughed nervously to fill the silence. Why is
Daria so mad? wondered Helen, or is this just a clever attempt not to
answer questions about the gun show? I better drill her on this before Fillman
gets her on the stand. “Daria,” she said, “let’s stay on topic.”
Daria turned to look at her mom beside her. “I thought you
were just going to sue the companies that made them. So why are you going after
the gun shows? Just how many people’s fault is it that Matthew started shooting
and tried to kill Quinn? Why can’t it be Matthew’s fault?”
“If Taurus hadn’t made the gun Matthew used, he never
would’ve shot those people or tried to kill Quinn with it.” Not to mention
the stunt the
“Absolutely,” said Mr. Jensen. “Gun companies should show
responsibility for that!”
"You can't, or shouldn't, be able to sue them when
they have no authority over who buys their products. If you feel so strongly
that they should be held accountable, then try to arrange a system where the
individual gun makers have to issue permission to buy their products."
"But Daria," Kat said, "why would they
reduce their profits by refusing to sell?"
"If they have to pay a wergild for the violence and
gross irresponsibility of someone they gave permission to buy, then they'd be
more careful. And if guns are as bad an influence as you say, then this system
would see the prices for guns become astronomical to cover the wergilds.
Eventually, no one could afford to maintain a gun company, they'd be out of
business."
Everyone blinked at this, uncertain. Mrs. Brand tried to
speak more than once before she finally coughed out, "Daria, it's the
fault of the gun makers that these tragedies occur! To put them in charge of
deciding who can buy a gun is like putting the fox in charge of the
henhouse!" Her tone suggested that she wasn't sure about Daria's sanity.
“Why can’t we blame Matthew, or his family, or maybe the
drug laws that made his career so profitable, or a thousand other things? Or
why not sue car manufacturers for the next case of road rage, especially when
they have no say over who can and can't buy their product?”
“Should we blame you for bringing a gun into Lawndale
High?” asked Mrs. Brand pointedly.
“Mrs. Brand,” said Helen quickly, “Daria did the only
thing she could think to do at the time. It’s sad that guns are in the world,
but since they are, Daria did all that she could under the circumstances. It’s
those who put the guns in the world who should pay the piper.”
“You should thank me for saving lives,” said Daria.
Mrs. Brand’s eyes widened, and her jaw dropped open at
such a proclamation. Then she shook her head. “You added to the violence,
Daria, you didn’t stop it. Don’t ever fool yourself otherwise. You may have
saved your sister’s life, but a world where you’re forced to defend yourself
with a gun isn’t the kind of world anyone should live in.”
“If it wasn’t for me, she wouldn’t be alive at all,” said
Daria.
Mr. Jensen laughed bitterly. “I hate that NRA attitude.
Daria, you’ve been around these gun nuts for a short while, and they’ve already
left their mark on your impressionable psyche. A gun simply invites violence.
There’s nothing ‘cool’ about having one for emergencies. That macho, defend
yourself attitude is the last thing this country needs.”
“Or,” said Kat, “that women have to live in fear unless
they get a gun. I’ve seen the ads, Daria. It’s all about fear. Through fear,
they pull you into their lies of the need of a gun for self-defense.”
“Doesn’t your group also use fear to pull people into the
lies of needing more gun control?” asked Daria. She was expressionless as
several faces turned hard or hostile towards her.
“Get that NRA garbage out of your head, Daria!” shouted
Mr. Jensen. “Jeez, this stupidity of so many gullible people who’ll believe
anything a bunch of gun nuts tell them is so.... it’s so.....”
“Why do you want people on their mailing list to be on
yours instead?” asked Daria deadpan.
Mrs. Brand interrupted with, “Cut it out, Daria!” She
glared at Helen as she said it. Then she relaxed a bit and complained, “We have
the facts, we have the figures, and yet the NRA is the one that stops us with
lies and fear. I understand Mr. Jensen’s frustration. You’re young, Daria.
Please remember that we’ve lived longer than you have and know more than you
do.”
“And Charlton Heston is my age?” asked Daria.
Mrs. Brand shook her head, saying, “Heston is a paranoid
windbag who thinks we’re going to take all his precious guns. No, we just want
sensible gun control, and we’ll even leave a few for legitimate purposes like
hunting or recreation.”
“And self-defense?” asked Daria.
Mrs. Brand sighed. “Too many people can’t tell the
difference between self-defense and preemptive strikes or revenge. So, no,
that’s not legitimate. And the NRA has just gotten too much power by making
people afraid of crime or afraid that we’re trying to take their guns away.”
“So there isn’t crime to be worried about? That’s why
you’re NOT trying to ban guns?”
Mrs. Brand shook her head. “Not the way the NRA means it.”
“Do you think when I get to be Charlton Heston’s age, I’ll
finally understand? What about you, are you his age yet?”
“Daria,” said Mrs. Brand in a dire tone, “you need to calm
yourself down. You need us as your friends, not your enemies.”
After a minute of silence, Mr. Jensen continued, “Every
time we get enough people to pass a bill, the NRA spoils it. But we have
popular support! Then the NRA tells a bunch of scary stories about needing to
defend yourself and threatens the politicians and our bills fail! I hate that!”
Daria rolled her eyes over that. Why did so many people
think popularity meant something? “When the scary stories they should believe
are the ones you tell.” Daria raised an eyebrow and asked, “If you have popular
support, then what does the NRA have to do with it anyway? Can’t all those
people who support you vote? Especially since so many gun owners are violent
sociopaths and unable to vote due to past felonies, or dead from suicides and
accidents?”
“The NRA know how to mobilize their people better,” said
Mr. Preston with some desperation.
“And they also have 7 million members compared to our
50,000,” added Mr. Jenson with disgust. “It hurts how little money and support
we can get, compared to some monolithic entity like the NRA.”
“So you don’t have popular support?” asked Daria
mercilessly.
“What we don’t have is the financial reserves that the NRA
does,” replied Mr. Jensen.
“Financial support given by their popularity. But you
might have more money if Sarah Brady shared her wealth more. And she might find
more listeners if she didn’t charge up to $5,000 for people to listen to her.”
Silence fell on the room, and Helen felt her heart go
faster as she saw Daria alienating her allies. She wasn’t sure what to say, but
she placed her hand on Daria’s shoulder and willed her to be quiet.
“I don’t get people like you, Daria,” said Mr. Jensen.
“Why is it so many people are willing to sympathize with the NRA types rather
than with those of us trying to make a safer world? A world in which you
wouldn’t have to carry a gun to feel safe. Don’t you want that, Daria?”
“Of course I do,” said Daria. “But what you’re making is a
world where I can’t carry a gun. Only the bad guys can.” She crossed her arms
and added, “And maybe if you didn’t equate all those school board members,
housewives, office holders, grannies living alone and other normal, gun-owning
people with violent sociopaths, you wouldn’t alienate so many people.”
“I don’t care what people do,” said Mrs. Brand, “There’s
no excuse for carrying a gun. It’s just a bunch of paranoid fascists that are
so concerned over their so-called right to bear arms. They’re always going on
about the second amendment like it means something. All that amendment is about
is the national guard anyway.”
“Right,” said Daria, “established in 1903. When was the 2nd
amendment drafted?” She had gotten a long lecture on this from the guy who got
her the gun. He went on forever about how Congress could pass laws regarding
what kinds of guns the militia could have, but could not pass laws on the kinds
of guns people could have in their home. Not to mention they were expected to
provide their own guns most of the time, too. But Daria just didn’t care about
such esoteric points.
Mr. Preston piped in with, “Even many companies understand
the wisdom of gun control, and bar their employees from having guns. They don’t
want to see their work places turn into war zones as another disgruntled
employee takes the entire office out.”
“Actually,” said Daria, “they’re more scared of being sued
by the robber’s family should the robber get shot by the delivery girl or
cashier.”
“In which case,” said Mrs. Brand, “they should hand over
the money and let the police handle it.”
“What if the robber is also a killer? Or a rapist?” asked
Daria
“It doesn’t matter, Daria,” said Mrs. Brand, “more guns
equal more violence.”
“Then why is America much more violent after nearly a
century of gun control? Why were the victims of most mob violence first
disarmed by law? Why did Scotland Yard report the
Mr. Preston shook his head. “The reasons we’ve had more
gun control is because of more gun violence. Gun violence causes the gun
control, not the other way around.”
“Please,” said Daria, a bit contemptuously. “The rates
jumped higher where gun control went into effect, than where it hadn’t. And how
do you explain 1901, when there were approximately 230 reported murders in the
entire United States, even though gun ownership was a fact of life?”
“Statistic back then ignored a lot,” said Mr. Jensen, “and
investigation standards were not what they are today. The murder rate was
surely higher than that, and many killings of people of color weren’t counted.
Not to mention the suicides, and all the children killed with guns.”
“A child is killed every day by a gun.” added Mrs. Brand.
“From accidental misuse as well as from suicide and murder. That’s a strong
reason for more gun control, too.”
Daria uncrossed her arms, but her voice wasn’t
cooperative. “If you count people up into their mid-20’s, including gang
bangers smoking crack and fighting over territory, as well as soldiers in
combat situations, then yes, I can see how you came up with a figure like that.
But according to the CDC and US Bureau of Justice, most of the dead who were
legally children -- that is, 17 and younger -- died as suicides or in drug
related disputes. Over half of the gun deaths you count are people who are
legally adults.”
“Like it or not, Daria, Virginia is getting more gun
control, thanks in part to the horrendous events that took place at your school
for which you have been expelled.”
“Good,” said Daria. “The moment we have the same gun
control as
Mrs. Brand responded, “The reason they still have violence
is because of your state’s lenient laws, which is why the laws of your state
must be made stricter.”
The others nodded in agreement, and Helen smiled slightly,
though she still looked confused.
“Right,” said Daria as she crossed her arms. “If the
availability of guns is the cause of the problems in D.C., then why doesn’t any
place in
“There are other factors at work in
“From gun shows!” interrupted Mrs. Brand.
“From gun shows,” continued Mr. Jensen, “to take back to
“Fine,” said Daria, “why can’t you support Project Exile
then? That focuses on drug dealers and other such criminals with guns. Heck, it
even registers non-criminal gun owners when even convicted murderers off parole
are spared such invasions of privacy.”
“Project Exile is a good idea that doesn’t go far enough,”
said Mrs. Brand, blinking in surprise at Daria’s knowledge of the subject.
“Since criminals have no respect for the law, they will still carry guns. The
only thing we can do is get guns out of the hands of criminals. That means out
of the hands of everyone else because their guns will only be stolen by the
criminals.”
“Guns are too dangerous to own, anyway,” added Mr. Jensen.
“Then take a safety class,” replied Daria, “and recommend
them for your friends.”
“Not good enough,” said Mr. Jensen. “And guns are a danger
and a threat even when not being used. All guns should be avoided.”
Daria smirked. “Then stay away from military bases and any
cops you see.”
"You think guns aren't dangerous?" asked Mrs.
Brand incredulously.
"Of course they're dangerous," said Daria.
"So are bath tubs and pools and trampolines and cleansing agents. So are
stoves and alcohol and cars. Last I heard, a family with a backyard pool was 20
times more likely to cause a child's death than a family with a gun, but I
don't see people making Freddy Fish programs to teach pool safety. At least
guns have a purpose, to fight crime and protect yourself from attack, unlike
those dangerous swimming pools."
Kat touched Daria’s forearm lightly. “Daria, the only
purpose of a gun is to kill.”
“Exactly,” said Mr. Preston
“The purpose of my gun,” said Daria, “was to protect me
and my sister.”
“Your gun,” said Mrs. Brand, “equipped you to be a killer
like Matthew. In time, your gun would have been used to kill someone innocent.”
“Like it’s only a matter of time before I become a
prostitute?” asked Daria.
Mrs. Brand blushed furiously.
"If there hadn't been such easy access to guns,
Daria, we wouldn't have so many school shootings....."
"Yeah," replied Daria, "just ask
Mr. Preston cleared his throat and added, “Guns cause
crime, Daria....”
Daria interrupted the rest of what he was going to say
with, “And matches cause arson. Besides,” she added, “a gun has as many uses as
a pair of shoes. Some are made for work, play, and sports. Some are just for
styling. There are activities made for every kind of firearm out there. It’s a
sport that builds mental discipline and hand-eye coordination. They also
dissuade people like Matthew from attacking you.”
“Which is all well and good, Daria,” said Mr. Jensen,
“until the gun owner thinks his or her spouse is cheating on them, or their
child is rejected by a crush, or wants to take that gun to school to shoot his
girlfriend, or it’s stolen by a criminal to be used in the horrific crimes we
hear about every day!”
“Why would anyone own a gun, when the potential for
personal tragedy, and the social consequences are so high?” added Mr. Preston
in sad bemusement.
“Maybe for the same reason we give police guns, despite
those same risks?” responded Daria. “And before you mention the training they
receive, which many civilians can also receive, are you aware of the high rate
the police have for all kinds of violence, domestic abuse, suicide? And given
all they face on a daily basis, it’s understandable. Just as it’s
understandable that the police can’t be everywhere, which is just one reason
why people carry guns themselves, and are allowed to use them under extreme
duress, to be reviewed by the police, just as the police themselves are
reviewed for the use of their own guns. I mean, if a physically fit police
officer who carries all kinds of useful items and has help at the touch of a
button needs access to guns, then doesn't the 50-year-old arthritic woman home
alone when an intruder breaks in?”
Mr. Jensen shook his head and clasped his hands together
over his knee. “Any gun owner could become violent. A bad day and he kills
himself, or his family, or everyone at the local McDonald’s....”
“... but anyone who wants a gun to defend themselves from
such a lunatic is paranoid?”
“Damn it!” Mr. Jensen was obviously getting fed up with
Daria.
“How about that Luby’s in
“Don’t be ridiculous, Daria!” shouted Mrs. Brand in
surprise at such a notion, “it’s massacres like that which inspire us to do
what we do!”
Daria raised both of her eyebrows as she asked, “So
unlawful gun use proves we shouldn't have lawful gun ownership?”
Mr. Jensen sighed, and slowly said, “The only way to ban
gun violence is to ban guns.”
Daria sighed, and slowly asked, “Like the only way to ban
malpractice is to ban doctors?”
Mr. Jensen spoke more normally as he continued. “Look at
all the insults, disrespect, cutting people off on highways. You really think
such a society needs guns?”
“Hmmm,” said Daria, “if people had guns, I would think
people would show more respect. And maybe we could use a little of that.”
“That’s fear,” said Kat, “not respect.”
“Yeah. People are afraid to do anything about all the
jerks out there, because someone--someone with a gun and a badge-- will step in
and avenge the criminals, crooks, and jerks.”
Mrs. Brand shook her head, “Bad people are the ones who
carry guns, Daria.”
“Don’t tell me,” said Daria, “tell the police.”
“Daria!” Helen had just known Daria was going to do this.
Why couldn’t Daria just let it go. Didn’t she understand she was helping
Fillman by alienating Mrs. Brand?
Daria sighed, then looked at her mom. “I saved Quinn’s
life, and maybe the lives of other people. Matthew wanted to end that life. Am
I to understand that I am as bad as Matthew?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Mrs. Brand, drawing Daria’s gaze
back toward her. “You stooped to his level by using a gun.”
“There’s a difference,” said Daria. “Matthew initiated
violence. I stopped that violence. Some would say that if I ignored the
situation as ‘not my problem,’ then I would be as bad, or even worse, than Matthew.”
Mrs. Brand sneered, “So you don’t care what you do,
shooting people whenever they, ahem, threaten you?”
“Lady, that doesn’t even begin to follow,” said Daria with
a bit more heat. “If Matthew had done what he wanted, Quinn, and others, would
be dead. I was in a life or death situation, and reacted in a way that left me
and the other would-be victims alive. Good? Bad? I was the one with a gun. I
guess it’s up to philosophers to determine if Matthew was good or bad, and the
same with me.”
“No, Daria,” said Mrs. Brand, with something of a smile,
“it’s up to society to decide. I’m going to give the people who are tired of
living in fear of the gun culture a voice in deciding that no, they don’t want
to put up with the violence guns bring to our society every single day.”
“If you want to stop violence,” said Daria, “work on birth
control or something Studies have shown that when rats get too crowded
together, they turn on each other, and even act with sadism towards one
another. That might be what’s happening with our species right now.” Daria knew
there were reasons to think this wasn’t necessarily true, but she was curious
how they’d handle an alternate explanation. Were they really trying to stop
violence? Or were they actually after guns without even caring about the
violence? She really did not know.
“That’s for other people to do,” said Kat, who actually
sounded sympathetic, causing Daria to blink at her in confusion.
She thought these people hated her, condemned her for what
she had done, even if she had saved lives. It wasn’t as if she didn’t often
blame herself at times, to be hearing them trash her too for saving a life. Why
couldn’t they at least acknowledge that she had done some good? Maybe then they
wouldn’t annoy her so bad. Does Kat understand? wondered Daria.
Mr. Jensen added, “We’re here to get rid of the ways that
kill people and are used in violence, not population control.”
Daria replied, “So how come banning all those dangerous
household cleansers aren’t on your list? They kill a lot of people, too, as do
cars. Why not push to have only licensed people to clean the home to prevent
more needless deaths and injuries, especially of the actual children that get
into them? Or mandatory car pools that might reduce death of children in car
accidents? You could push for government agents to drive people around, too.”
She saw a bunch of blank looks in return.
“Banning cars and chemicals are stupid,” said Mrs. Brand.
“You need to keep a house clean for it to be a healthy place to live, and
children are very messy. You need cars to take them to a doctor.”
“And you might need guns to protect your child from an
attacker, a stalker, or a violent criminal invading your home at the dead of
night,” replied Daria.
Mrs. Brand shook her head again. “We have the police for
that.”
“LA Police Chief Bernard Parks and his department couldn’t
even save his own granddaughter from being murdered outside a
Mrs. Brand shook her head. “You have some interesting
ideas, Daria, but we are focused on stopping gun violence. That takes up all
our time as it is.”
“I stopped gun violence at my school,” said Daria.
“With another gun,” said Mrs. Brand with some
exasperation. “Daria, in a civilized society, we call 9-1-1.”
Daria bit back a retort at that. Instead she said, “In
case of emergency, call 9-1-1.”
“Exactly.”
“If help is delayed in arriving,” continued Daria, “then
kiss your defenseless butt good bye.”
“A gun,” said Mrs. Brand, “is even more useless for
defense.”
“Criminals will kill you in the time it takes for you to
draw a gun out,” said Daria, “but they’ll let you call 9-1-1 and wait for the
police to arrive?”
Mrs. Brand sighed and looked down for a moment before she
looked at Daria again, saying, “I’m sorry that you felt you had to defend
yourself. I’m trying to make it so that no one ever has to defend themselves
again. Why can’t you see that I’m really on your side? All you have to do is
trust me.”
“You get onto me for not respecting the life and rights of
stalkers and murderers, but here you and your cohorts are exploiting every
tragedy you can, using twisted facts and fears -- just like the NRA -- so that
you can scare the people into supporting you with their money and their votes.
You’re just another politician disguised as a crusader, Ms. Mayor. Too bad more
students couldn’t have gotten killed to help your campaign.”
“That’s enough, missy,” said Mr. Preston. “It’s true she
has plans to run for mayor of
“But do you even care that legitimate governments killed
over 200 million people in the twentieth century? Plenty of them even died
under UN supervision, or as a consequence of their actions?” asked Daria in
response. “This does not count war and it does not count crime caused by bad
laws. There is no deadlier force on this planet, natural or manmade, nothing at
all that is deadly than government. Governments kill a lot of children, too.
How are you ‘any better’ than whatever bad governments you care to name if you
stoop to their level and use a government yourself? Doesn't that make you as
bad as the person who uses a gun to stop a killer?”
Every single mouth had dropped open, and several forgot to
breath. Even Mrs. Brand was speechless.
“We-we-we’re trying to, uh, stop those deaths,” said a
rattled Mr. Preston.
“You’re trying to stop the ownership of guns,” said Daria.
“There’s a difference.”
“We’re trying to stop those deaths by preventing ownership
of guns,” said Mr. Jenson firmly, as he made a slight adjustment to his
glasses.. “Government is a risk, but not as much as risk as individuals....”
Daria interrupted him with, “What are governments made up
of, if not individuals whom you don’t trust?”
“And anyone can go off, Daria,” added Mr. Jensen somewhat
harshly. “Anyone. If a cop goes off, every other cop knows it, and usually see
signs of it before it happens. If an individual goes off, there is usually very
little warning. My own father was a good man who found out Mom had an affair.
He shot the guy, shot her and then shot himself. He might have shot me if I had
been home then. The police were already there when I showed up. No one ever
guessed he would do something like that. So it’s not the same thing, Daria,
it’s just not. Ordinary people can’t have guns, because no matter how good they
think they are, and how good they might actually be at any given time, there
are incidents which can trigger a murderous episode, and a gun in easy reach is
the last thing people in that situation should have. Even you, Daria.”
“Are you saying,” asked Daria, “that people are too stupid
or too crazy and too evil to have guns, but they should know this and give them
up?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Brand bluntly. “People should enjoy
living in a society afflicted with less violence. As Mr. Jensen was saying,
guns make that violence all too easy, and all too efficient.”
“And yes, we use government,” said Mr. Jensen, “would you
prefer a privatized service?” His tone dripped contempt at the very thought of
privatized security.
“A privatized service, unlike government, actually has to
produce something of value to get the money.” Daria shrugged. “Unless they just
buy a contract from a senator or congressman.”
“Be that as it may,” said Mr. Jensen, “privatized firms
are prone to corruption and abuse. Governments are not.”
This time, it was Daria whose jaw dropped open. “Excuse
me,” she finally said, “why are governments immune to the weaknesses that
affect firms? I would think the privatized firm would be less affected than
government because they have to provide value for the dollar they get.”
Mr. Jensen sighed and said, “Governments are answerable to
the people. Businesses are not.”
“Oh, come on,” she replied. “If people don’t like the
service one firm offers, they’ll take their money to another firm that does
give them what they want. That’s very answerable. You can’t say this about
government. Especially when most people feel trapped by a political party, too
scared to 'vote for the other guy,' because he fears the other party is even
worse.”
“Daria, elections make government answerable to all the
people, not just the ones with money.”
“Then why,” replied Daria, “in an age of widespread
contempt for Congress, do incumbents have around 98% reelection rates? How many
people really wanted either Bush or Gore as President? Is the common
maxim that a Presidential election is a choice of ‘the lesser of two evils’ not
an admission that the choice of a good is no longer considered much of a
possibility?" She took a deep breath while they gawked. "Besides, if
the shareholder votes that determine who runs corporations cannot provide a
‘democratic’ check on the power of the CEOs because of power-politics, how is a
Federal election--with far more power at stake, hence more motive for
corruption--to be automatically assumed to be an accurate reflection of ‘the
will of the People,’ assuming we grant that ‘the People’ is a real entity that
can override individual wills? And aren’t ‘the People’ vile and corrupt, which
is why we need a government, at least in your theory, anyway?”
Mrs. Brand’s face was livid. “Your continual lack of
respect ...”
“Hey!” interrupted Daria, “you’re the one who thinks
everyone is too stupid to have a gun, and that the more intelligent people
should recognize that. Worry about your own lack of respect before you worry
about mine.”
Mrs. Brand’s narrowed her eyes, gritted her teeth, and
squeezed her hands into fists.
Mr. Jensen turned to Helen. “Has she had this chip on her
shoulders for long?”
“No wonder she got a gun,” said Mr. Preston before Helen
could speak, shaking his head. “The lack of trust in authority by young people
today is very disturbing.” He looked at Daria meaningfully and pointed to Helen
saying, “In my day, we had respect for our elders and the authorities. Ask your
mother if this isn’t so.”
Daria glanced at Helen. Helen blushed.
“It’s obvious that she is an ignorant and spiteful child,”
interrupted Mrs. Brand, tired of the nonsense. “There may be problems with
government, but there are even bigger problems without government. It is
certainly better to allow the government to install the BATF in our public
schools than it is to have young hoodlums getting into gun fights when they’re
supposed to be getting a safe education.”
“The BATF?” Daria’s eyes widened.
“We like the idea of getting the BATF directly involved in
schools,” said Mrs. Brand, “even if Bush was the one to suggest it.”
Helen shifted nervously. “The BATF raided
“Mrs. Morgendorffer,” said Mrs. Brand scandalized, “I
begin to see where your daughter gets her unedifying lack of respect for
authority from! It’s people who don’t respect authority who are the most likely
to get a gun and take the law into their own hands, thus making themselves
criminal, and a danger to the rest of us.”
“The reason they beat my teacher up,” said Daria, “is
because he reminded them of due process. Is that something you think people
should get beat up for?”
“The BATF,” said Mrs. Brand, “obviously thought he had a
gun.”
“They were looking for two boys who hadn’t even shown up
that week,” replied Daria, “except to break a TV set and run.”
“Be that as it may,” said Mrs. Brand, “the BATF is more
than just maintaining order with necessary force. They also do fingerprinting,
investigation, and carry out preemptive measures. Right now, there’s
insufficient fingerprinting, forms, and waiting periods which is why we have so
many school shootings today.”
“Yeah,” said Daria rolling her eyes, “compared to the
heavy school shootings in the 50’s back when guns were everywhere, and could
even be gotten by mail order.” Daria leaned forward a bit. “Besides, you missed
the point that if it’s wrong to use a gun because bad people have used guns for
bad things, so good people shouldn’t use them, then good people also shouldn’t
use governments. I repeat, government is the most deadly force on the
planet.....”
“Daria,” said Mrs. Brand, “it is a pipe dream to think we
would ever live on a world without a government, so we might as well get what
good we can get out of it.”
“It’s also a pipe dream to think that we will ever live in
a world without guns, so why don’t you adopt the same cavalier attitude towards
guns as you do governments? After all, an armed populace can stop the deadly
effects of governments, or so many governments wouldn’t try disarming their
citizens before carrying out final solutions and collectivist farms.”
“As if your having a gun would stop the government from
doing anything.” Mrs. Brand’s voice dripped with contempt.
“Oh, yes,” said Daria, returning the contempt, “who could
ever think that 160 million armed citizens could possibly defeat an army of 2
million cops and soldiers following orders to take them off to a collectivist
farm?”
Several blinked, and the entire group from HCI even looked
vaguely afraid of Daria for some reason.
Kat was the first to speak. “Daria, I don’t think we can
get rid of guns, or governments. But I do think we can limit the detrimental
effects on society by both. A gun put me in this chair and that’s what I focus
on. I’ll leave the governments to the Gandhis of the world. I just want a world
where there are fewer deaths and less crippling by stupidity and by enraged gun
men.”
“Then why not teach gun safety and responsible carrying
and use to the law-abiding and focus on those who break the laws? The real laws
that deal with hurting other people and their property, not with what they have
or do to themselves.”
Mrs. Brand shook her head. “Gun safety courses only teach
violence.”
Daria crossed her arms. “And fire safety courses turn kids
into arsonists.”
“The gun culture itself,” said Mr. Jensen, narrowing his
eyes at Daria, “is well known to do more than teach oxymorons like ‘gun
safety’. They are known for spreading anti-Semitism, racism, and homophobia,
which also serve to increase violence in society. So a gun safety course is
very different from a fire safety course.”
When all else fails, thought Daria, turn to
accusations of racism, anti-Semitism, and homophobia. Which is completely
different from accusing people of Communism or hating
“Tell me,” said Mrs. Brand, “how much truth are there in
the reports that you and your sister were helping Matthew start a race war?”
“Mrs. Brand!” cried Helen, “that is sheer sensationalism!
There are aspects of the case I am not a liberty to discuss yet, but I assure
you when the truth comes out, everyone will know how ridiculous such slanders
are!”
“I’m waiting for the truth to come out about your
daughters,” said Mrs. Brand, “sneaking a gun into school, involved with a dope
dealer, hanging around shady characters, and why the police let the Lane girl
go while keeping your daughter. And didn’t you even let your youngest child go
to that cabin used by the Foster in custody now?”
“None of us knew then,” said Helen, her gut clenching in
guilt and fear for her daughters, “even the District Attorney didn’t expect to
find anything when they searched the cabin. They were just hoping to find where
he got the gun!”
“It makes too much sense,” said Mr. Preston, shaking his
head, “that your daughter with a gun would truck with known Nazis and hate
mongers.”
“Excuse me?” asked Daria. “Are you saying you have to be a
Nazi to have a gun? Have you heard of ad hoc attacks and straw man arguments
and why they’re not respectable?”
Mr. Preston smiled at Daria with an expression that struck
her as somehow cynical. “It is well known,” he said, “that nearly all gun
enthusiasts are white males, and their girlfriends, who believe in white power,
Hitler and the like. There’s no point in denying it.”
“Have you heard of the JPFO?” asked Daria. “The Jews for
the Preservation of Firearms Ownership? It’s a lively organization dedicated to
stopping another Third Reich, preserving
“Black Man With A Gun?” interrupted Mr. Preston squinting.
“That sounds like some racist organization. Are you sure there’s such an
organization?”
“Black Man With A Gun was chosen by Kenn Blanchard to show
how the words ‘gun’ and ‘black man’ have been conditioned in most people to
create fear, that is, racism. Like the JPFO, Mr. Blanchard shows how gun
control is racist, and detrimental to racial equality.”
“Is this man you speak of black?” asked Mrs. Brand
doubtfully.
“If it matters,” said Daria, “then yes. You can see his
pic at his website, blackmanwithagun.com. Look them up if you have anymore questions
about them. Assuming you don’t have a problem with his race or his religion.”
Every single member of HCI was staring in Daria in shock
or anger, while Helen smiled very nervously. Helen was both awed and
intimidated by her oldest daughter’s intellect. She also worried that Daria
knew all this stuff. It wasn’t from just some day spent on the library
computer. Helen wondered again about where Daria got her gun, since she was
pretty sure the gun show was a lie. Meanwhile, Daria just gave everyone an
emotionless deadpan stare, her feelings locked safely away from these people.
Then they all turned as the living room door open.
“Quinn?” asked Helen, seeing her youngest come in. “What are you doing home?”
She got up worried and went over to her. “Was your first day back to school too
hard for you? Did you have an episode? Why didn’t you call?”
“I did call, Mom,” said Quinn, “the phone just rang and
rang.”
Helen blushed, remembering she had let the battery get too
low and the phone was recharging. The answer machine itself was turned all the
way down for the interview cum hostile debate. “I’m sorry, Quinn,” she said,
“so what are you doing home?”
Quinn told her about the fireworks prank while they all
listened, and all reacted in shock and disgust at such a prank. “Anyway,
Sandi’s dad gave us all a ride home,” said Quinn.
“That is like so sick!” said Kat heatedly.
“I know,” said Quinn, “Jimmy had just said he got a gun
and would protect me, but he just cowered on the floor when the fireworks went
off. Mr. O’Neill just cried under his desk.”
“Do you see, Daria?” asked Mrs. Brand triumphantly. “This
is the fear we’re trying to stop! Don’t you want your sister to not live in
terror everyday of someone with a gun?”
“Huh?” asked Quinn, “Daria saved me. I’m glad she had a
gun. Heck, if Matthew had a knife or a sword, I’d still want Daria to have a
gun. I doubt she could’ve stopped Matthew with her scrawny muscles.”
For a split second, an expression broke on Daria’s face,
but it vanished before anyone could identify it.
“Not if Daria learned martial arts,” replied Mr. Jensen.
Quinn shook her head, a haunted look on her face. “Daria
and I took a self-defense course just yesterday. It didn’t offer anything of
value for dealing with a gun. Or a sword. And when I thought....” Quinn stopped
a minute and swallowed. “When I thought someone else was shooting up my school
again, I realized that everything I learned was useless. All I wanted right
then was a gun of my own.” Quinn looked Mr. Jensen over. He sort of looked like
David, only with blonde hair and more meat to him, Quinn realized, and
instinctively warmed to him.
“But guns aren’t a solution!” shouted Mrs. Brand with some
despair. “Don’t you see that!?”
“And martial arts is?” Daria asked.
“This is what I mean,” said Mrs. Brand, “we must combat
the romance of guns and the myth of arming for self-protection.”
“You’re right,” said Daria smirking, “guns aren’t needed
for defense, which is why the army only has 3 million of them.”
“Guns just beg people to go out and commit violence,” said
Mr. Jensen, making Daria think of a broken LP.
Daria raised an eyebrow. “Like a short skirt or naked face
causes men to rape?”
“Hey, yeah,” said Quinn, “there was a lot said about men
causing violence in that class.” She scrunched her face. “Oh, and Mom read
something out of a book that said most rapist didn’t use guns.”
“Quinn,” said Kat, “I was in a school shooting, too. The
reason I’m in this wheelchair, and will be for the rest of my life, is because
one of his bullets pierced my spine.”
“I’m sorry someone didn’t shoot him first,” said Quinn,
sounding sad for Kat.
“Even if someone had tried, Quinn, I could still be stuck
in this damn wheel chair. See, he wasn’t even aiming at me. I was just at the
wrong place at the wrong time. I was hit by a stray bullet. He never even know
he had shot me, since he shot himself before the cops arrested him.”
“Ewww!” cried Quinn at the thought of such an incident...
and very glad Daria had shot Matthew before he could shoot her.
“I think it’s sad you feel you need a gun for protection,”
said Mr. Preston, shaking his head very sadly. “I know you women want to be
liberated,” he added. “You should be, too! But a gun is not the way to do it.”
“So if there really had been a shooter at school today,”
said Daria, “you’d rather Quinn use martial arts instead of her own gun? That’s
very compassionate of you.”
“No one should have a gun,” said Mr. Jensen, “and children
are especially a danger to themselves and everyone around them when they have
access to guns. Especially children like you and Quinn. You may not believe you
are still children, but you both are. The brain doesn’t stop developing until
you’re 25.”
Quinn’s instinctive warmth for Mr. Jensen turned to ice. Learn
how to dress before you criticize me, geek! she thought bitterly at him.
“The brain doesn’t ever stop developing until death,” said
Daria. “It’s constantly changing through life, affected by physical and
environmental factors, and the lifestyle of the person.” She shook her head.
“And that factoid of the brain being immature until 25 is just more
narcissistic baby boomer drivel to explain why they should stop their own
children from doing what they themselves once did--questioning authority, thinking
for themselves, and developing independence. And having fun.”
Mrs. Brand cleared her throat and said, “My son killed
himself with his father’s gun. If there hadn’t been a gun, he would still be
alive today. I don’t know if Darren would have used a gun the way Mr. Jensen’s
father did, but my son, faced with a temporary problem, found a permanent
solution before he could think about it.”
“I’m sorry,” said Daria, “but the rest of us should not be
forced to pay for his mistakes.”
Mrs. Brand pulled some files from a satchel near her, and
a couple fell out of her grip.
“Let me help you with that, please,” said Mr. Preston
“I can deal with it very well, thank you,” said a curt
Mrs. Brand.
Mr. Preston backed off while Mrs. Brand got them back in
order. She then handed one of them to Daria, who took it very cautiously.
“Inside, Daria, you will find pictures of people who were
all killed with a gun in 1999,” said a grim Mrs. Brand. “Many of them are kids.
My son is among them.”
Daria looked through a few. She felt horrible, but she
wasn’t going to let Mrs. Brand win with a tactic like this. “So does the other
file have photographs of all the people saved by a gun in ’99?”
“What did you say?” asked Mrs. Brand, her eyebrows
raising.
“You know,” said Daria, “someone who saved herself or her
children from a home invader? A man that stopped a robbery, even without firing
a shot? A police officer that was saved in the line of duty from a violent
assault?”
Mrs. Brand’s face grew very red. “You are truly without
compassion.”
Daria’s face hardened. “Excuse me, but a file for this
year could have include many faces from my school in it, such as Quinn’s. But
because of the gun I had, they are NOT another statistic for you to use. Why
are their lives meaningless to you, but these lives lost are meaningful? Do you
only care about lives if you can use them in your crusade?”
Mrs. Brand began to tremble, and it was obvious she was
keeping herself under control only with great effort. “We use cases of murder,
such as the case that almost killed your sister, to make sure that they will
not happen again. Your way leads only to more violence. Our way will see that
these tragedies don’t happen in the first place.”
“Her name is Quinn, and she’s alive because of a gun you
think I shouldn’t have had. In short, you helped put Quinn’s life in danger
with your passionate stupidity, just as the passionate stupidity others shared
with you were partly responsible for the massacre at Luby’s! Had I obeyed the
laws and statutes, and followed your advice to call 911, then Quinn would be
dead. Not just by a gun, but by gun control laws.”
“That’s quite enough,” said Mrs. Brand crossly, “Our laws
will keep guns out of the hands of hoodlums like Matthew as much as vigilantes
like yourself.”
“Yes, by making it harder for even cops to have guns on
school grounds, you can make it also make it harder for a crazed gunman to
shoot helpless students.” replied Daria, her voice thick with sarcasm. “And I’m
so sure the government can control guns the same way it controls drugs.”
“Gun control works, and it works a lot better than
everybody shooting it out like it were the Old West!” said Mrs. Brand hotly,
her hands clenching into fists.
Daria crossed her arms. “You mean like how gun control
prevents gun ownership in
Quinn crossed her own arms. “Exactly,” said Quinn a little
crossly. “Sorry if I’m not a statistic you can use.”
“Mrs. Morgendorffer,” shouted Mrs. Brand, “please correct
your daughters at once!”
“For what? I may not agree with them... fully.... but
they’ve done nothing wrong.” Helen was both heartened by the bonding Daria and
Quinn had obviously done, but also frightened for what they were supporting
each other in.
“Your younger daughter dated a known drug dealer carrying
a gun for the ‘gifts’ he bought her, and your other daughter shot him! They’ve
both done things I’d NEVER allow my own children to get away with, and they are
now spouting NRA lies in a most disrespectful tone to justify their criminal
and sociopathic behavior!”
“I know I’ve made mistakes, Mrs. Brandon,” said Helen, a
little coldly, “which is something I’m sure you’ve never done before and so
can’t understand. But saving Quinn’s life is never wrong.”
Quinn looked down, biting her lip, in a mixture of shame
and gratitude for her mom’s words.
“Mrs. Morgendorffer,” said Mrs. Brand in a more formal
tone. “Are you, a member of this organization, siding with your vigilante
daughter who opened fire in a school hallway?”
“I....” Helen paused, before sighing, “I may not like what
she did, but I am very grateful for what she accomplished.” When Helen saw the
HCI crew staring at her waiting for more, she sighed again and added, “I’ll
have to think about it and get back to you.”
“Uh, oh,” taunted Daria, “your organization will be in
even bigger trouble if too many of your members start doing that..”
“And as for you!” shouted Mrs. Brand at Daria, “You’re
going in the Time Out Room on the Million Mom March site!”
“Hey,” said Daria, “why don’t you see if you can get those
million moms to join your organization? Then you’d have a lot more of the
financial support you were saying you wanted.”
Mrs. Brand got up. “Pack it up, we’re leaving!” Everyone
got to work at once.
“Nazi,” said Mr. Jenson casually to Daria as he passed
her. Daria couldn’t tell if he really believed that or not.
Kat looked disturbed, but she patted Daria’s arm before
wheeling off to help the crew get packed up. Daria got up and headed back
upstairs to the sanctuary of her room. Quinn got up and left a minute later.
“I’ll have you know, Mrs. Morgendorffer,” said Mrs. Brand
to Helen who now stood alone, “that what went on here will be shared with the
organization you used to be a member of. But we’re going to have to cut
much of what your daughters said out of our film. Because of this, we feel we
have no obligation to live up to our side of the bargain. Not when your
daughters spouted NRA propaganda and claiming they could solve their problems
with bullets. You, as a mother, leave much to be desired.”
“But Daria saved my other daughter’s life!” Helen
understood why they were upset, but couldn’t they see why she had such mixed
feelings over the entire incident?
Mrs. Brand crossed her arms. “She had a gun in a way that
violated the law. That makes her a criminal with a gun. Yes, she saved your
other daughter from another criminal with a gun, but she would just as likely
have shot someone who made fun of her glasses.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said Helen, fully confident in this.
“I can’t see Daria shooting anybody except under the direst circumstances. She
gets into enough conflict at school the way it is already!”
“Mothers,” muttered Mrs. Brand. “Always defending their
children, no matter how heinous.”
“You know,” said Helen, her voice rising, “if you’re
really so scared of someone shooting you over your having irritated them
somehow, maybe you should work on not pissing people off!”
Nothing more was said after that. Shortly after (but not
soon enough for Helen), the last of them left. Helen shut the door behind them
with more force than necessary.
Then she sighed and struggled against tears. She should be
furious with Daria, but the last few moments made her realize just how
judgmental they were to Daria. As tormented as Daria already was, no wonder she
was so irrationally defensive. If only her defense wasn’t such a good
offense! moaned Helen silently. The tears that threatened to burst forth
were partly of frustration and disappointment, but mostly because she suddenly
realized just how deeply in hell Daria was at this moment. And poor Quinn!
She’d love to kick in the balls whoever set off those fireworks.
Should I go talk to Daria and Quinn? wondered
Helen, and if I do, which one do I talk to first? Probably Quinn, since her
first day back at school must have been awful! But Daria obviously has a lot of
anger, and guilt too, I think. And I know she’s hiding something big!
She knows too many details and had them on the tip of her tongue! Who the hell
is this guy who taught her to shoot, and what did he indoctrinate her with!?
She wanted to hate this unknown person, but he had also helped to save Quinn’s
life, and she couldn't hate that.
She sighed then, and decided it would be better to call
Mr. DeMartino first and see if she could get the NRA people again. Then she
could decide how best to deal with both her daughters.
-----------------------------------------------
CHAPTER 11 MONDAY 10:30 A.M.
-------------------------------------------------
Quinn knocked on Daria’s door and entered. Her sister was
already lying in bed, trying to shut out the world. “Daria?” she asked. “Are
you okay?”
“No,” said Daria. “But I’ll feel better after I have a
drawbridge I can raise. What do you want?”
For a minute, Quinn bit her lip wondering the same thing,
as she heard Daria’s depressing music.
You think you're smart
You're not, it's plain to see
That you want me to fall off
It's killing me let's see
You've got the gall
Come take it all
The jury is coming
Coming to tear me apart
All this bitching and moaning
Come on it's on
I'm trapped in this world
Lonely and fading
Heartbroke and waiting
For you to come
We are stuck in this world
That's not meant for me
For me
“What is that?” asked Quinn disturbed.
“Static-X, Not Meant For
“It’s so depressing, why are you even listening to it?”
“It matches my mood,” said Daria. “Look, Quinn, I’ve already
been bitched at today. Do you think you could go to your room and leave me
alone in mine?”
“I wanted see how you’re doing, Daria,” said Quinn,
feeling a little hurt. “I thought we liked each other now.”
“Hm, yes,” said Daria. “Yeah, we do. But I’m going to
prison, Quinn. You shouldn’t get too attached to me. And I should get used to
living in a cell like this.”
“You’re not going to prison, Daria,” said Quinn sounding
as sure as she could. “Mom won’t let that happen, and Buffy is helping, too.”
It was maybe a full minute before Daria said, “Quinn, I
appreciate your support, but I’m very unpopular. You don’t want to be around
me. My lack of popularity is contagious.”
Quinn laughed a little. “Oh, Daria, I don’t care what
those people downstairs think. They don’t have any style. All they have is fear
and outrage. They’re nothing.”
Daria smiled a little. “Thanks, Sis.”
Quinn snorted a little. “I’m glad you had a gun, Daria. I
would like you to get another gun. And I want a gun, too.”
Daria turned her head disbelieving towards Quinn. “Still
having nightmares?”
“Not as often,” said Quinn. “But they’re there still. But
it’s not just about the nightmares, it’s about standing up for myself.” She
looked Daria in the eye. “And standing up for you, too.”
Daria’s eyes widened a bit, and a little emotion actually
seeped through her defenses. Then she said, “If you stand up for me, Quinn,
you’ll be an outlaw or a terrorist, and all the sheep who once adored you will
turn against you.”
“If the world still celebrates Bonnie and Clyde, maybe in
50 years, the world can celebrate the outlaws Quinn and Daria,” replied Quinn
lightly. “And you’ll finally be popular!” She didn’t laugh, but there was a
hint of laughter in her voice.
Daria turned over and in a sleepy voice said, “Quinn, I
didn’t get much sleep. Can we talk later? I do want to talk, just not right
now.” In truth, Daria was suddenly fighting tears.
Quinn sighed. “Okay, Daria. But you can come to me now.”
After Daria didn’t respond, she quietly left Daria to herself, shutting her in
her room. She went to her own room, got on her own bed, and started flipping
through her newest issue of Waif. She also felt the need to be alone for
awhile.
QUESTION AUTHORITY: ‘Do you take plastic?’
Oooh! thought Quinn annoyed, another corporate
blonde rock star shares her make-up secrets. This was getting depressing.
Thanks to Daria she was beginning to see the gears and levers pulling behind
all the glamour, and she didn’t like it. She was annoyed with Daria and Waif
both at this moment.
Now she turned another page in Waif. “Your Next
Crush” it read. How pretentious! Quinn turned the page, without
realizing she had just used one of the vocabulary words David had taught her
last summer, annoyed with Waif in general.
“Ever Dream of a Celebrity Wedding?”
This caption was above a bunch of cutesy “teen"
handwriting, done by someone like Val for sure, and advertised a website. One
that would advertise more products, Quinn thought glumly. More people I
have to please, because I need them to take care of me. But who really cares
about me?
Next article was how to be happy. It included keeping in
shape, being seen, pretending your life is wonderful and.... big surprise...
wearing their products. Plenty of the products had corporate logos on them.
Sheesh. Not only were the boy bands and the like groomed into billboards, but
now they wanted everyone who read their magazines to become a walking billboard
to sell their product.
Another page (after several blatant ads, as opposed to ads
disguised as articles and quizzes) and there was an “informative article”
hawking more products, while pretending to be objective. Did everyone do what
they were paid to do? Maybe Quinn should demand a piece of the action before
she went any further on the popularity train!
Or maybe she’d just crop her hair off. Quinn actually
cracked a smile at the thought.
Quinn stopped a moment. Why would she crop off her own
hair? She LOVED her hair. It made her beautiful. Then she blinked. And I
realized that my beauty couldn't get me what I wanted. That's why I had that
nightmare about my hair! Matthew destroyed that illusion. Quinn wondered
why she would crop it off herself though. Maybe, I don't WANT to depend on
others anymore!, she thought.
Then Quinn realized she didn't have a clue about how to be
independent in any real sense. She would still have to use her cuteness and
popularity to get others to take care of her until she was ready to take care
of herself. She frowned looking down, realizing she was in the power of the
people who owned this magazine. They used fear of being unwanted and unloved
to peddle their products. Like Matthew used fear, and those geeks downstairs
used fear, and Daria said the NRA used fear. Did everybody use fear to get what
they wanted? Quinn wondered, It was nasty, why use fear at all?
She didn’t blame them, really. Her Fashion Club pretty
much tried controlling others, too. If they had the money and the resources
that these magazine and band owners (the politically correct word, Quinn
remembered, was “sponsors”), would they be any different? Then Quinn frowned
deeply as she realized that it wasn’t only the boy bands and blondes and
magazines that were owned, but also the politicians..... and the schools like Lawndale
High. Quinn sensed disturbing implications of that realization, but couldn’t
figure them out right then so she filed it away to think about later.
Oh, that was ridiculous Quinn told herself. Everyone
knows better than that. Didn’t they? Quinn suddenly wondered who “they” and
“everyone” were in that maxim she had told herself over and over but had never
thought about before. Why would anyone know better if the same sponsors also
sponsored the public schools and the government itself?
Quinn sighed. No doubt about it. She was getting
depressed, and she would wind up like Daria or Andrea or Jane if she kept up
these musings. But it was sobering and depressing to realize that in the
attempt to gain the illusion of control, she was being controlled and
manipulated into taking care of others, and doing the bidding of people she had
never even met!
The phone rang. Just as the first ring died off, Quinn
picked it up. “Hello?” She hoped it wouldn’t be more reporters.
“Hey, Quinn,” said Sandi’s voice. “I was thinking we could
work on creating some kick ass curls with the new solar rollers I got. If you
could sleep over, then we could all get up early and help each other get hair
like we never had before.”
Quinn forgot all her depressing thoughts. “That’s a great
idea, Sandi!” replied Quinn sitting up.
“So do you think your mom will let you sleep over?” asked
Sandi.
“Um... I think so,” said Quinn. “I’m not sure.” And Mom
is rather busy.
“Will she let you come over tonight?”
“I don’t know yet,” said Quinn.
“What, didn’t you ask yet?” Sandi’s tone of voice reminded
Quinn vaguely of Mrs. Brand.
“Um, no,” said Quinn. “Mom and Daria and stuff were
talking to reporters when I came in. They asked me a bunch of questions, too.”
“Will you be on the news then, along with your cousin or
whatever?” Sandi didn’t sound pleased.
I hope not! Quinn thought, before saying, “I don’t
think so. Daria rubbed them the wrong way and Mom sorta chased them out. They
were geeks, and I left them as soon as I could. They’re leaving now, but I
don’t know if they’re all gone yet.”
“Well, call me back as soon as you find out,” ordered
Sandi.
“Sure,” said Quinn. They said their byes and hung up, and
Quinn worried that her mom would deny her request to sleep over. And what if
Quinn had more nightmares over at Sandi’s house? And if they were all just
being puppets on the strings of Waif, then should she even bother to
keep up the facade? Especially when they all left her alone to die?
“Buffy,” Quinn said quietly, “what should I do? Should I
keep this up when it doesn’t get me anything I was after in the first place?”
It’s a game, Quinn replied Buffy faintly in her
mind. You shouldn’t throw any advantage away. You just need to learn to play
better.
“Daria doesn’t play, and she seems happy,” said Quinn. She
pursed her lips and clarified, “Happier than me, anyway.”
Daria just plays with a different strategy replied
Buffy. Learn from her, but don’t copy her. You must find your own way,
Quinn. Yes, many people will try to control you, even complete strangers. You,
in turn, will try to control them. It’s the natural human instinct to shape the
world around you and make it pleasing to yourself. It doesn’t have to be a bad
thing as long as you remember that not all of the things you need can be bought
or sold with casual currency.
“Like what?” asked Quinn.
Like love
“Yeah,” said Quinn sadly. That was it, she realized. No
one loved her. They loved the damn clothes and the style, not her. She thought
about all the boys she dated for what they had, and realized they dated her for
what she had. It was a very uncomfortable feeling. She knew then that some
things would need to change if she were to ever become happy again, but she
still wasn’t sure what.
Something else bothered her. “Buffy?” asked Quinn.
Yes, Quinn?
“I’m having a hard time hearing you now. Why is that?”
I’m having to recharge myself, Quinn. Don’t worry. When
you need me, I will come back. It takes energy for me to talk to you and help
you, and I have to rest after doing it.
“Can you help convince Mom to let me spend the night over
at Sandi’s?” asked Quinn.
I can try, Quinn, but I won’t put all I have into it so
that I can be sure to have enough to keep the nightmares away, later tonight.
Quinn nodded to her invisible angel, then took a deep
breath and went down to bargain with her mom. In the end, she had to agree not
to talk about the case, not go anywhere other than Sandi’s house, and not ask
for a gun for an entire week. This, in addition to pleading the necessity of
needing to keep her place in the Fashion Club, barely convinced Helen. And
Buffy, thought Quinn. “Thanks Buffy,” she said quietly, once she was back
in her room.
You’re welcome, said Buffy’s quiet voice.
“Are you okay?” asked Quinn in concern. “I can barely hear
you!” She glanced at her door worriedly, for if anyone passed her door, they
would’ve heard her.
I need to rest, said Buffy, especially if I’m
going to keep the nightmares away tonight.
“Oh,” said Quinn. She frowned. “Maybe you shouldn’t talk
to me for awhile until you're more rested.”
Good idea, Quinn! Buffy responded. I’m off for
now, but if you’re ever in danger, I’ll be back! Otherwise, I’ll see you just
before you go to sleep. Bye!
“Bye,” said Quinn a little sadly. She called Sandi and
told her she would be dropped off by her mom as soon as her dad got home a few
hours later. Then she lay on the bed, feeling tired herself. She wondered about
Buffy’s weakness, and why it took her awhile to show up when she thought there
was a shooting.
But there wasn’t a shooting, it was only firecrackers.
Yes, that was it, Quinn decided.
Quinn fell asleep a little later, dreaming of being a butt
kicking martial artist that was fighting a vampiric infestation of
CHAPTER 12
----------------------------------------
03/19/01 MONDAY 6:30 P.M.
-----------------------------------------
And so it was, with all their necessary accessories, that
Quinn, Sandi, Stacy, and Tiffany gathered for their Fashion Club meeting, or
what Sandi like to call their “date.” But Sandi was annoyed that Stacy and
Tiffany were spending so much time asking Quinn how she was, and if she had any
idea about Matthew being a racist drug dealer. As President, she had to keep
the meeting on topic, and tonight it was a struggle to do so.
Sandi couldn’t get a handle on her feelings about Quinn.
Part of her was glad to still have her alive, and part of her wished she was no
longer competition. She felt insecure next to her, but also guilty that she had
run and left her behind. Part of her wanted to hold Quinn and beg her
forgiveness, and part of her wanted to take the opportunity to get rid of Quinn
and make her an outcast. But in the end, she realized she was glad Quinn was
okay, and she preferred Quinn’s company to those geeks and dweebs that thought
there was some truth to Quinn being a racist. I went to that cabin myself
Sandi thought, and I didn’t have a clue! If I didn’t know, how could Quinn
have known?
“Look!” said Stacy excitedly, turning the Waif to
face the other members of the Fashion Club, “CHANEL has a lot of new stuff we
can get to enhance our lifestyle and look good doing it!”
The others closed in for a closer look, even if they had
all already at least skimmed it earlier in the day when they were preparing how
they would answer tonight at the meeting.
“Have you tried the new Infusium 23 leave-in treatments
and gels?” asked Sandi with a warmth in her voice, as she showed them an ad.
“Really good. Once, after my dad made me ride in the back of my grandfather’s
truck, I got some split-ends, and the Infusium 23 gel fixed them right up.”
Quinn, Stacy, and Tiffany looked at Sandi in horror. To
ride in the back of a truck, with the wind ripping through your sensitive hair!
And truck beds aren’t exactly the cleanest places to sit. Quinn thought there
were laws against such threats to fashion. A collective “brrrr” went through
the Fashion Club, but the thought of the miracle that was Infusium 23 caused
the release of endorphins right after.
“I think,” said Sandi, “that we have all had a very
stressful week.” Nobody dared to mention it was Monday. “Therefore, I decree
that we shall now go on a shopping spree and get the things that will make us
look even better, and by extension, make those who gaze upon us forget all the
recent troubles.”
“What a GREAT idea, Sandi!” said Stacy excitedly.
“It’s suuch aaaa gooood ideaaa,” moaned Tiffany.
“And so altruistic!” said Quinn. She lost a bit of her
smile as her friends all turned to stare at her.
“It is altruistic, Quinn,” said Sandi glaring a bit. “But
no need to sound like a brain.”
Quinn blinked. “Sorry,” she said. “I think it’s a great
idea, Sandi. But what about the reporters out there. My mom will kill me if I
talk to any. I’m not even supposed to leave your house until school tomorrow.”
“Not a problem,” said Sandi, who also couldn’t afford to
be caught with Quinn out in public by her own mom. “We shall go incognito.”
Quinn barely refrained from chastising Sandi for using a
4-syllable word.
Unfortunately, incognito meant wearing all black, complete
with shades and a black beret that would go so well with the night. With
luck, thought Quinn, We’ll get mistaken for Goths.
Happily, the reporters were easy to bypass. True enough,
they infested the mall. But most of them were just eating or asking random
teens about the shooting. A few of those asked seemed to love to talk and the
reporters focused on them. Sandi was so cold and caustic to any that came near
that the reporters gave them a wide berth. Apparently, none of them recognized
Quinn, as her picture hadn’t been released to the public yet.
But it can’t be that hard to figure out who I am and
what I look like, thought Quinn. There were those people that sat in the
car outside sometimes, they have to know what I look like. And some of the guys
here have to know who I am. Quinn couldn’t help but feel nervous. Her mom
would kill her if she found out Quinn had come out here. Stacy got so nervous
herself once that she suggested they duck in some lame Christian bookstore.
Luckily, Sandi was just as concerned about her own mom finding out and was more
than up to the challenge of dissuading the reporters before they got too
interested.
So their mission to acquire some new lip liners, blush,
and powders at House of Beauty was a success. Stacy, having light brown brows,
got the BefeFit compact. Quinn got the Hard Candy compact. Tiffany got the
Lancome compact. Sandi got the Chanel compact. Each geared according to their
brows, as advised by Waif.
Stacy was still looking at some lip gloss. Sandi, of
course, was looking closely at the megasized colour crayons, her index finger
on her left hand on her lips, and the fingers on her right hand brushing
lightly over the touching pencils as if she were communing with them.
Sometimes, it was fun enough to just consider whether or not to get something.
This was something that Quinn had forgotten how to do recently and now tried to
get back into.
“I waaant too get the puush button braid thiiiiing,” said
Tiffany. “Wheeeere iiis iiit?”
“Tiffany,” said Sandi, “You even had trouble with the Quick
Braid Hair Braider. Let’s wait to see what others think of it first.”
You mean on what Waif says, corrected Quinn
silently. It hardly mattered if Waif was paid to say that by their
sponsors, it simply became true once Waif printed it and it got read by
the masses who were too insecure to find their own style, or to challenge the
crowd.
Quinn shook her head again. There she went thinking about
things again. Her friends were dealing with the situation by NOT thinking, and
seemed to be happier for it than she was thinking about everything. If she
didn’t stop, she was going to wind up as depressed and unfashionable as Daria.
“Oooo, an Eliza Essential Eyebrow Kit!” moaned Tiffany.
“And on sale for only $85!”
The others gathered around, including Quinn. She wasn’t
surprised to see it was by CHANEL, nor did she bother to mention that nearly
everything they bought this time, as usual, was from CHANEL, from the eyeliner
to the lipstick. She sensed that if she voiced her suspicions that their
fashion advice was actually advertisement plugs disguised as helpful articles,
they would impeach her and kick her out of the Fashion Club.
They were finally back at Sandi’s house, and they pretty
much just got ready for bed after they got home. They finished with putting the
solar rollers in their hair, having decided to leave them in overnight.
According to Waif, this helped the curls last longer and avoided the
damage that could be caused by a blow dryer. In any case, they were going to
have to get up early anyway, and Quinn did feel very tired. She hoped Buffy
would keep the nightmares away. Sandi would probably never let her sleep over
again if she woke up screaming.
And Quinn did relax into a nice floating sleep. She even
saw Buffy, a woman in flowing white robes and flowing blonde hair with just a
touch of cosmetic decoration to enhance her image without distracting from her
radiant beauty. At times, Quinn herself was Buffy. She’d be able to handle
anyone. She didn’t even need a gun! Then Quinn realized she was asleep and
someone was grabbing her.
She came to with a gasp, and looked about in fear as she
tried remembering where she was. Sandi was in her night clothes looking at her
with bemusement and for some crazy reason, Quinn thought she was at school.
Then she remembered. “Oh,” she said, still a little to close to sleep.
“Good morning to you, too,” said Sandi, still bemused.
“Everybody else is already awake, Quinn. As Vice President, you should be,
too.”
“Of course, Sandi,” said Quinn, regaining her senses.
“I don’t even know how you slept so hard anyway,” remarked
Sandi as they went to join up with the rest of the Fashion Club. “The rollers
are supposed to be soft, but I found it hard to sleep all night. Next time, I’m
sticking with hot sticks. Or maybe I’ll try some steam rollers.”
So it’s okay if Sandi wants to improvise, thought
Quinn sourly.
A little later, they were unwinding the rollers from their
hair. It looked as if they might be a little late, but they refused to rush
this delicate operation for which they had stoically gotten up an hour early.
“Maybe next week we should use some bigger solar rollers,”
mused Sandi. “Waif said that the bigger the rollers, the bigger the
hair.”
Quinn spoke without thinking. “Actually, Sandi, the
smaller the roller, the longer the curl. I mean you can pull it really tight,
of course, but curls from big rollers fall out a lot easier than from those
made by small rollers or pin curls.”
Sandi looked as if she’d been slapped in the face. “Gee,
Quinn,” said Sandi in a peeved tone, “Waif said quite clearly to do it
the way we’re doing and the way we’d agreed. I’m not throwing away all the
things I bought to do it this way just because you prefer pin curls.”
Quinn looked over at Sandi annoyed to see Sandi glaring at
her. “I was just thinking that as much as we do this, we can improvise for
ourselves a little bit.”
Sandi’s eyes widened at such an outrage. “And the people
at Waif magazine and the models they interview know less than you do?”
Quinn wheezed out a disarming laugh. “I’m just saying our
hair would last longer with smaller curls, and that since we’re not in New York
we may know something about the peculiarities of our area that they don’t, and
I don’t see why we shouldn’t save ourselves a little extra money for
Cashman’s!”
She wasn’t about to bring up that her family was getting
more and more strapped for cash because of Daria’s legal fees. The Fashion Club
had somehow agreed to never mention anything to do with the shooting without
actually saying anything.
And she wasn’t about to mention that all those experts at Waif
and their models just might be whoring out their endorsements, or that they
knew nothing about life in
Perhaps a bit of the attitude Quinn suppressed was
evident, because Sandi’s glare sharpened and she crossed her arms. “So you do
think you’re smarter than me, and all the experts at Waif magazine. Are
you thinking I’m a lousy President of the Fashion Club?” Sandi’s voice dropped
into bitter sarcasm. “You, Quinn Morgendorffer, know better than Waif
magazine and the rest of us.”
“No, no, of course not!” Quinn laughed disarmingly. “I was
just thinking out loud, not saying you didn’t know anything, really!”
“We’ll see,” said Sandi still miffed, but slightly
placated.
On what Waif says, Quinn thought silently
and peevishly.
“Ohmigod,” said Stacy in awe, as all the rollers were
finally out. They all understood. They were beautiful. Their hair had become
their glory, cascading down to their shoulders and below in a profusion of
stylish curls. All the important people said so, and now even they had to agree
there was some truth to it. But would the beauty stay? They’d fight to see that
it did. This was one way to show they had control in their lives.
“Do you think my hair is frizzy?” asked a suddenly anxious
Stacy. “What if we get bubble hair?”
Quinn hid her annoyance. There were many products to
soothe Stacy’s fears, but was it EVER enough? They had already used the right
volumizer, rollers, and everything else. They were specifically made to prevent
frizz. What else did Stacy want?
“Stacy,” replied an irate Tiffany, “don’t spoil the
moood.”
The annoyance passed. Quinn and Tiffany had curls, but not
anywhere as thick and curly as Sandi and Stacy. Still, Quinn mused smiling,
my hair is so beautiful! She felt a tinge of horror that she had thought
about cropping it off yesterday. I like Daria, thought Quinn, but she
is definitely having a bad effect on me.
Or was this one way corporations controlled their lives,
Quinn darkly mused. Even with all the products, Stacy still felt vulnerable and
ugly. They needed the validation. Part of the beauty of being in the Fashion
Club was that they could provide each other with the validation they needed to
be fulfilled.
Quinn wanted to be in control of her own life, not be in
someone else’s control. But she didn’t know how to ask, and she knew these were
disturbing questions to share. Gods, how she knew. It wouldn’t be appreciated
on top of all the other trauma they had all experienced. And while Quinn needed
a sense of control, she also needed her friends.
And so for a few moments, Quinn completely forgot Matthew,
Buffy, and the entire shooting at Lawndale High.
“I hope David likes it,” said Sandi, disrupting Quinn’s
contentment, if maintaining Quinn’s sense of normalcy. “He’s taking me to Chez
Pierre tonight.”
“Billy is taking me there, too,” said Tiffany, with only a
slight drag on her words. “On Monday.”
“Ted’s going to show me his telescope Saturday night,”
began Stacy, but silenced herself when she saw Sandi glaring at her.
“Stacy,” went Sandi in her usual stiff tones, “do you mean
you, a member of the Fashion Club, have accepted a date with a geek, and
the two of you are going to do geeky things together?”
“No, of course not,” Stacy replied blushing. “This is
another Ted,” she said unconvincingly, “he was going to find some shooting
stars for us to wish on after Chez Pierre is all.”
Sandi continued to glare at Stacy. “I don’t want any of
our members to be seen with a geek in public. It could bring down all our
images.”
“Stacy,” added Tiffany, “use your brain.”
Stacy swallowed and looked down, moaning slightly.
“Not too much of a brain,” continued Sandi. “You don’t
want to turn into Quinn’s cousin or whatever.” Sandi saw Quinn pause, and
focused on her. “So what dates have you got planned?”
Quinn smiled a bit shyly. “I think I can use a bit of a
break. I’m kinda burned out on guys right now.”
Sandi glared at her. “Quinn, what’s the point of looking
good if you can’t get others to want you, and to do anything they can to win
your regard? Besides,” she pronounced in a professional tone, “there will be
rumors by vengeful males and jealous females that you have turned into a
lesbian. We can’t let you drag down our image any more than you already have,
either.” Sandi turned away and didn’t see Quinn seethe as she added, “As
President of the Fashion Club, I will have to keep a close eye on both of you
to see that you don’t sully the fine name of our club.”
Quinn was obviously irate, but she said nothing, merely
tried to calm herself down. She needed this normalcy too much right now to
throw it away by letting Sandi know what a stupid bitch she was being. Or to
let her know the she, President of the Fashion Club, was as much a puppet as
she was a puppet master.
But Quinn would be more than that. The cosmetic companies
would cater to her--not the other way around. She would learn to play the game
Sandi was a slave to, but she would play it as a master chess player instead of
a pawn for the producers of magazines like Waif and Val. This,
Quinn vowed.
CHAPTER 13
--------------------------------------
03/20/01 TUESDAY 8:30 A.M.
--------------------------------------
Quinn was at her locker with Stacy when she heard a wolf
whistle and turned to see Scott admiring her. She smiled and blinked up at him,
especially as he admired her specifically.
“Looking good,” said Scott sounding pleased, walking up.
Quinn laughed a little nervously, but loving the
compliment. “Thanks, Scott,” said Quinn. Waif had said that was better
than saying, “Of course.”
“So you’re ready to date again, then?” asked Scott,
flirtatiously. “So soon?”
Quinn blinked at that a bit more uncertainly. “I’m not
sure yet,” she honestly said. Well, she knew she didn’t want to, but she also
knew she couldn’t let Sandi catch up and pass her in the dating game they
played against each other. Not to mention what Sandi had said earlier.
“I’ll be glad to take you out and treat you right,” he
said. “You like Chez
Quinn smiled more naturally then, as the old habits
started to fall back in place.
“Excuse me,” said Sandi’s spiteful voice from behind
Scott. “But we have Fashion Club business to discuss.”
Scott scowled as he looked at Sandi passing him. Then he
turned to Quinn. “Anyway, I’ll talk to you later, okay Quinn?”
“Yeah, later,” said Quinn a little encouraging and a
little nervous. Then she glared at Sandi.
Sandi glared back at her. “I hope you’re not going to go
with Scott. He was acceptable before, but no longer, with his friendship to
Matthew.”
They started going to class together as Quinn said,
“That’s former friendship, Sandi. No one is Matthew’s friend anymore.”
“I hope,” said Sandi testily, “that you don’t mean to date
him.”
“Of course not, Sandi,” said Quinn, deciding she wasn’t
ready for a fight over this. She still felt nervous and exposed to danger in
the halls of Lawndale High, and wanted to keep her friends around her.
“That’s good to know, Quinn,” said Sandi sounding pleased.
“So who are you going to go out with next?”
“I’m not sure yet, Sandi,” said Quinn, hoping she wouldn’t
get another speech from Sandi about that.
“Take your time, Quinn,” said Sandi unexpectedly. “I’m
going out with David Bintliff myself, tonight. He’s taking me to Chez Pierre,
you know.”
You bitch!, thought Quinn. She would definitely
have to have a date by the end of the week now. “That’s great!” she said,
hiding her sudden resentment.
Then they met Tiffany in class and were talking about
dates and future prospects, and flirting with some of the guys. As predicted,
the Fashion Club was met with all kinds of admiration and envy. Unfortunately,
Quinn and Sandi fell into their usual competitiveness in trying to prove which
one of them was THE most admired and envied. That set the theme for the day.
As the bell rang for lunch, Mr. O'Neill picked up a piece
of paper and read from it, "Quinn Morgendorffer, please wait." She
was annoyed. People should remember who she was, especially Mr. O'Neill, since
she was in two of his classes, now that Mr. DeMartino was principal and Mr.
O'Neill was covering his history classes. She was certainly popular enough. But
she was also nervous about what he wanted. Lately, she was always nervous at
school.
“Yes?” asked Quinn, after Mr. O'Neill shut the classroom
door. She hated feeling nervous all the time at school.
“Quinn,” asked Mr. O’ Neill with concern, “I wanted to ask
you how you felt. I tried asking for you on Friday, but I found out you hadn’t
shown up.”
Thank God, thought Quinn, glad to have skipped the
all-school, all-day counseling session, I would’ve been mortified, having
everyone stare at me, the girl some guy tried to kill, or even blaming me for
having it happen in the first place!
Mr. O'Neill continued, "I was going to speak to you
yesterday, but then there was the horrible incident with the
firecrackers."
"I'll never forget your sobbing," said Quinn,
sounding sympathetic, instead of the bitterness she suddenly felt towards him,
the three J's, and even the Fashion Club.
Mr. O’ Neill swallowed and continued with, “Quinn, you
need to get your feelings out. I see you walking around all tense and I know
what you must be going through.”
Quinn looked up at him directly then. “Has someone tried
to kill you before?”
“Um, what?” asked Mr. O’ Neill. Then what she said sunk
in. “No, of course not!”
“Oh,” said Quinn. “Then how do you know how I feel?”
Mr. O’ Neill suddenly felt very nervous. “Well, uh, I was
a psych major at first....”
“What happened?”
“Huh?”
“You said you were a psych major at first? Why did you
stop? What did you change your major to?” Quinn was actually curious. Lately,
she’d been wondering about other people a lot more than she used to, wondering
what made them tick and what made them do the things they did. Such answers
could help her figure out how people were manipulating her, and maybe even how
she could manipulate other people.
“Well, it was such a long time ago....” said Mr. O’ Neill
evasively. Then he saw Quinn frowning at him and he tried bringing the
conversation back on track. “The point is,” here he looked down at his paper
again, “Quinn,” and looked back up to continue, “that you endured a very
traumatic experience here at Lawndale High. You really need to talk to someone,
but your mom, uh, well...”
“My mom,” said Quinn pointedly, “doesn’t want me talking
about the case until it’s settled in court.”
“Yes, and that’s most unfair,” said Mr. O’ Neill. “You
need to talk about what happened with a trusted adult, like Ms. Manson or
myself. Unofficially, of course, and no one to repeat the things you say!” He
laughed a little nervously as he saw her give him a look more fitting for
Dorian, or Daria, or whatever her older sister’s name was. The one with the
gun.
“Speaking of which,” he added, “people who carry guns
often do so because of a mental disorder. You should talk about Dorie, too, to
see if she also needs help.”
"That's DARIA!" shouted Quinn.
"Eep!" went Mr. O'Neill. "Yes, of course!"
“The kind of help I could’ve used,” said a peeved Quinn,
“is the kind of help that kept Matthew out of school. I’m glad Daria had a gun,
or Matthew would’ve killed
“Karen....” began Mr. O’ Neill.
“That’s Quinn!” stated Quinn sharply.
“Eep!” Mr. O’ Neill straightened and said, “Uh, Quinn, uh,
your sister may have saved your life, but she destroyed a life, too. One that
needed help, but he didn’t get that help because he didn’t talk.” To Quinn’s
stony face, he added, “I don’t want to see you or, um, the girl with the gun
become a new Matthew, going down the path of becoming a hardened criminal, dead
before anyone knows anything is wrong.”
“Can I ask you something?” replied Quinn sweetly.
“Sure, uh, Quinn.” He had to look at the paper again before
he said her name.
“If you went back in time to just moments before Matthew
started shooting, and you find yourself right besides Daria, and she’s just
about to pull her gun out, and you can stop her, what would you do?”
Mr. O’ Neill’s face went very pale and he bit his lip.
“Um, I’m not sure....”
“I’m going to die, what do you do?” Quinn had an intensity
Mr. O’ Neill had never seen before.
“Quinn, you’re upset, and you have every reason to be. But
imitating monsters isn’t the way to defeat them. No, Matthew needed earlier
intervention, so I'd go further back in time. As I'm trying with you, and your
sister, before it's too late for either of you.”
“Matthew is coming after me. Daria doesn’t have a gun, but
I do. I pull it out to defend myself, and the other people around us. What do
you do?”
“Quinn!” cried Mr. O’ Neill, shocked, confused, and upset.
“I’m not wishing he shot you! I’m just trying to stop you and your sister from
slipping down the same slippery slope as Matthew is all!”
“Matthew was a junkie who tried to kill me, and all
your....” Suddenly, the door burst open. Quinn spun around, gasping, her eyes
wide in fear.
Ms. Barch came in, blinking at Quinn. “Hello, Quinn, how
are you doing today?”
“Leave me alone!” shouted Quinn, hurrying out, pushing
past Ms. Barch who was surprised by the vehement reaction.
“All right,” said Ms. Barch, crossing her arms and staring
at Mr. O’ Neill, “what did you do to that poor girl? Isn’t she traumatized
enough as it is?” Mr. O’ Neill gulped under that glare and tried to explain.
Outside, Quinn got control of herself and tried to get her
mind back on track. She had actually been scared when Ms. Barch came in, and
had thought that Matthew had come for her again! Her lip trembled slightly as
she feared for her sanity. Maybe she should take a sabbatical. It was obvious
that many students weren’t showing up now.
She took a deep breath and reminded herself that she
needed to go to the cafeteria to meet the rest of the Fashion Club, and that
brought her back to the idea of finding a date to show Sandi who the REAL
winner for beauty and popularity is. I’ve already gone out with the J’s
before, thought Quinn. And I need to find someone I haven’t dated yet,
to stay ahead of Sandi. That didn’t leave many guys, at least not within
the “acceptable stock.”
Just then, she heard Upchuck, a guy she hadn’t dated
before (and wouldn’t date ever), say from behind her, “Quinn, my dear winsome
princess with the beautiful locks, would you care to change your image further
by having a dashing gentleman, such as myself, to escort you, my dear?”
Quinn was NOT in the mood for this. “Leave me alone,
Upchuck!” shouted Quinn, taking up a slightly defensive posture.
Had she left right then, Upchuck would have merely growled,
"Rowwrr, feisty," and gone after different game. But as Quinn simply
stood there, he was sure that she was just playing hard to get. “But I can
treat you so right, my dear, and I will if you but allow me to escort you to
Chez Pierre, tonight.” As he saw Quinn’s glare, he added with less confidence,
“Or the night after?”
“Puh-lease,” said Quinn, turning to go away.
“But I have such a suave suit that would go well with a
woman of such beauty as yourself and your sexy new tresses.” Upchuck took a step
closer and ran his hand lightly over her hair.
“YAH!” shouted Quinn, as she spun towards Upchuck and
struck out with the heel of her hand towards Upchuck’s nose. Luckily, he turned
away, and only got it on the chin. But it was still enough to knock his head
back into a locker. Then, seeing what she had done, she took off running as
everyone stared in shock.
Smooth move, thought Quinn in dismay, who’s
going to ask me out now when they’re scared I’ll beat them up? Then she
realized someone had already asked her out. She would go find him now and
accept.
Upchuck, watching Quinn hurry away and ignoring all the
stares of the few other students still in the hall, fondly rubbed his chin
where Quinn had struck him. There was some pain there and where his head hit
the locker, but not much. And it was worth it to know that Quinn was so
overwhelmed by her mad desire for him that she couldn’t help but be afraid in
his presence. Not to mention, “Feisty!” He went off, dreaming of when Quinn
could accept her feelings for him.
CHAPTER 14
---------------------------------------
03/20/01 TUESDAY 2:30 P.M.
----------------------------------------
“This time,” Helen was saying, “I don’t want you pulling
what you did last time. If you feel tempted to add something that is not a
direct answer to a question, stop yourself before you begin. You can’t afford
to alienate these people, Daria.”
“Don’t worry,” said Daria, “If they act like those gun
control people, I’ll just challenge them to pistols this time and be done with
it.”
“Daria!” cried Helen, “Don’t say things like that, either!
You’re in enough trouble as it is!”
“I hope they’re closer to sane than Mrs. Brand’s cult
was,” replied Daria offhandedly.
Helen sighed. “Mr. DeMartino did tell me that a couple of
them could be a little strange to those not used to them. Be that as it may,
they’re still valuable allies since you went and alienated HCI!” She didn’t
mention that DeMartino called a couple of them “clowns” in that tense voice of
his. “And these people are very nice, Daria,” she reminded Daria. “I don’t know
how Mr. DeMartino talked them into coming over so quickly.” It wasn’t TOO
amazing, but it was unexpected.
The doorbell rang. “Oh my god, they’re here!” gasped
Helen. She calmed her breathing. This had to go better than with Mrs.
Brand.
Opening the door with a welcoming smile, her eyes widened
and her smile faltered when she opened the door to see Mayor Marvin Grant and a
dignified woman her own age smiling at her. Behind them, she saw some older men
taking cameras and equipment out of a van. She just blinked in surprise at the
reviled mayor standing before her. She preferred even Mrs. Brand to him. But
the lawyer in Helen finally got her to move her face to smile, even if she
remained at a loss for words.
“Mrs. Morgendorffer,” said Mayor Grant cheerfully, “I’m
glad to finally meet you!” He extended his hand, and Helen weakly shook it.
“Hello, Mrs. Morgendorffer,” said the woman, “I’m Ms.
Jenny Kane. We’re here to interview Daria. Mayor Grant was gracious enough to
take some time out of his busy schedule to interview with us at the same time.”
Helen handled her hand a bit better.
She was dressed in a no-nonsense but tasteful power suit,
with her chestnut brown hair in simple cut, held in the back with clips. She
had earrings and a necklace with a cross on it. The mayor, of course, was his
usual polished, overweight self. His bald pate covered with an obvious toupee
finished the look that was designed to look very conservative. He was, after
all, to bring back morality to
Helen laughed politely, and very, very nervously. “Won’t
you come in?” she said, her voice slightly forced. The things I put up with
to keep Daria out of prison! thought Helen morosely, and I bet she
doesn’t even appreciate it!
The crew was soon set up in the Morgendorffer front room,
rearranging it to look a lot Handgun Control Inc. had. Daria and Helen were
back on the couch in exactly the same place as before, giving them both an
ominous sense of deja vu.
“Okay,” said a man dressed more like a corporate executive
than a politician, lawyer, or journalist. “Let’s get this set up. Roll it,
Ned.” Ned looked to be the youngest, but even he was probably in his late 20’s,
with light carrot top and dark shirt and jeans. He simply put the camera up on
a stand to take them all in and sat beside it.
“Okay,” said Ms. Kane, “let’s all introduce ourselves. I’m
Ms. Jenny ‘Raising’ Kane, former mayor of Cedar Creek. And I am the NRA.”
“I’m Mr. Win Alexander,” said the man dressed as an exec,
“and by the grace of God,
“I’m Mayor Marvin Grant of
“I’m Ned Steele,” said the one by the camera, “proud son
of the Confederacy, and I am the NRA.” The others pursed their lips over that,
but quickly recovered.
“I’m Cori Powers, retired Marine, and I am the NRA,” said
the man that seemed the oldest among them, dressed more like a blue collar
worker, though his clothes were very neat. His muscular frame suggested he was
in very good health despite his gray crew cut hair, “extra weight” and
occasional hacking cough.
After a few moments, Helen spoke up as she realized they
were all staring at her. “I’m Helen Morgendorffer, mother of Daria and Quinn
Morgendorffer.”
Daria rolled her eyes. “I’m Daria Morgendorffer, the most
unpopular brain
“Mayor Grant,” said Mr. Alexander, “where do you stand on
deterrence in schools? Should teachers and students, if caught in one of these
media-hyped killing sprees, be able to shoot back if they are able? ”
Daria blinked at that. Deterrence? What does he mean by
that?
“I’m glad you asked,” said Mayor Grant, “I’m thinking all
teachers should at least have the option of being armed in order to protect our
kids from the growing number of Goths, ravers and other malcontents that
afflict our schools and neighborhoods. We cannot allow cabals of thugs, such as
the Trenchcoat Mafia, to run free in our schools. Someone has to protect our
children.”
Mr. Alexander then asked, “Should they face charges if
they use a gun that is not approved by law or if the original attacker dies in
the process?”
Mayor Grant shook his head slightly. “I am a big believer
in law and order. However, I feel some of the laws are wrong and should be
changed. I would hope all teachers would use approved guns, but I also hope to
add many guns to the approved list. If a sociopath, already blazing away in a
school hallway, is put down, then that teacher should get a medal, not the
contempt of society by being charged with a crime.”
Mr. Alexander then gave a brief description of the
shooting at Lawndale High, and allowed the mayor a response.
“Well young Daria here was obviously under some very hard
circumstances. Since teachers weren’t allowed guns, perhaps she did the only
thing she could. I plan to change things so that Daria, and other teenagers,
don’t have to live in terror of a mad gunman by allowing deterrence in our
schools.”
“A question, if I may,” said Helen unexpectedly. Mr.
Alexander frowned momentarily, but nodded his head. “If this deterrence had
been in operation at Daria’s old high school when the BATF came in and
destroyed Daria’s classroom right in front of her, not to mention brutalizing
her teacher who presented no threat, how would the situation have resolved
itself? Would they have felt so ‘fearful of their safety’ that they just wiped
everyone out?” Helen had to content herself with that. She wanted to scream at
her guests for being out of their fucking minds.
The NRA folk looked back and forth between each other.
Then Mr. Alexander replied, “I do not have the facts of the case which you are
speaking of, but I imagine that teachers can be seen as deputized by the government
they already work for. The BATF could simply have told the said teacher to
carry out the appropriate actions, as they would any deputized civilian, and
had the teacher deal with it. Only if a single teacher could not handle the
request would the BATF show up. And then to back the teacher, not assault or
shoot him.”
Will there be razorwire around the school and numbered
uniforms on the students, too, you fascist bastards!? shrieked Helen
silently. She swallowed that statement, licked her lips nervously, and said, “I
thought the NRA did not like the BATF.”
Mr. Alexander shifted nervously. “It’s true,” he stated,
“that they were often too quick to shoot and got away with many atrocious acts
that shocked anyone in the civilized world that learned of them, and too often
escaped justice for their misdeeds and oversights under Clinton. However, we
think under new leadership, the BATF might be fixable. Though I would prefer
the BATF dissolved, with jurisdiction over firearms given to a different
federal agency that has other concerns, so that it doesn't need to exaggerate
problems with guns in order to justify their funding.”
Helen could only nod. She feared she would scream at them
if she opened her mouth again. When she filed the law suit against the BATF,
she had learned they were incredibly abusive, prone to breaking in doors at 4
A.M. in ninja garb and gunning people in beds and showers and getting away with
it. Other atrocious acts included stomping pets to death while the bound
prisoners watched helpless.
One particular instance stuck in her mind. In 1992, the
BATF filed false charges against a part-time police officer, and the judge
threw the case out of court for that reason. Perhaps the BATF did not get its
way in court, but they did get away with slamming the officer’s wife, Kimberly
Katona who was seven months pregnant, against the wall to “subdue her” until
she miscarried, while her husband was handcuffed and forced to watch this. Not
even Matthew had been that depraved, and not even the Gestapo of Nazi Germany
had raided homes wearing ski masks at four in the morning without identifying
themselves. And the BATF got away with these vile acts over and over again.
To Helen’s horrified amazement, such brutality was
defended by fellow liberals for pretty much the same reason police
brutality was defended by the factions backing McCarthy when it was believed
the cops were fighting Reds. The BATF were fighting “right wing extremists,”
and so were given a free pass to commit any atrocity to suppress the enemy.
Her own law suit, filed on behalf of the many parents who
also had children that watched the BATF brutalize their teacher, was thrown out
of court, and she was told in no uncertain terms to forget the case unless she
wanted to place her family in grave danger. She had left for
Shut up, Helen, don’t say anything, she told
herself silently, you won’t help Daria by venting your rage on that. But how
can they justify bringing those sociopaths into our schools!? I thought they’d
be against the BATF!? Now that Bush is president, they’re okay!? Helen
smiled tightly and tried to swallow her rage and calm her breathing.
While Helen tried to regain control over her emotions, she
listened to Daria, who was now telling the story she had already repeated many
times already. She wished she had something to drink, but she didn’t want to
leave Daria alone with these people--or these people alone with Daria.
“Well, Daria,” said Mr. Alexander, “it certainly sounds
like self-defense.”
“It most certainly does,” said Ms. Kane. “I’m glad you had
that gun.” She didn’t catch Mayor Grant frowning at her momentarily after she
said that.
“That Matthew boy was a rabid dog that needed to be put
out his misery,” added Mr. Powers. “You did the right thing.”
After a moment, Mr. Steele asked, “What’s with the reports
of you and a race war?”
“Pure sensationalism,” said Helen on her daughter’s
behalf. “There isn’t even any evidence linking Matthew to his father’s beliefs,
and the only evidence of Mr. Foster’s beliefs is that he was on the mailing
list for Nazi and white supremacist publications.”
“What she said,” added Daria. “And it boosts the ratings.”
“That’s horrible!” cried Ms. Kane. “I hope you sue them!”
she added to Helen.
Helen smiled a wicked smile. As soon as the trial was
over, she had a frigging list of everyone she was going to sue, from the
Lawndale PD to certain news stations, not to mention the gun manufacturers. But
all she told Ms. Kane was, “I will. But many reporters are smart enough to not
make definitive statements. They only insinuate with ambiguous statements.
That’s hard for me to claim liability against.” But I will make an example
of the few who crossed the line into libel and slander! added Helen
silently.
“Damn the media anyway,” muttered Mr. Powers, “with their
liberal, unpatriotic, ungrateful voices trying to tear down this great nation.
I hate them and how they pervert the First Amendment to include their trash and
their lies.”
“At least
Mr. Steele spat out, “Used to be an actor or actress
couldn’t curse or swear on a movie screen, and now look at what’s tolerated,
all kinds of foul language and disgusting acts pollute and corrupt the psyche
of
“Yeah,” said Daria deadpan, “I think we’d all be better
off watching movies of desperate outlaws and jaded lawmen while listening to
songs of divorces, drinking, getting your mom out of prison, and getting into
fiddling contests with the devil.”
The visitors shifted a bit, and one of them coughed.
Finally, Mayor Grant asked, "I take it you don't like country?"
Daria shrugged. "I don't have anything against
it," she said honestly. "It's just that so many people seem to think
that some quick and easy solution will solve the ills of the world. Some want
to ban guns. Others want to ban profanity. Some people say that to teach gun
safety is to turn kids into killers, while others say that to teach safe sex is
to turn kids into rapists and nymphomaniacs." Daria shook her head.
"I just get tired of all the instant gratification schemes that keep being
inflicted on all of us, despite the fact that they don't work."
Mayor Grant got up, a bit too quickly Helen thought. “It’s
been real nice chatting with you gents, but I got a job to do.”
The NRA folk all exchanged good byes as Helen walked him
to the door and
“He’s a fine mayor,” said Mr. Alexander after the door
shut behind Mayor Grant. “You should be glad you got him after your town made
the mistake of voting in that reprobate first.”
“With all due respect,” said Helen, returning to her place
on the couch, “I wasn’t aware that he did much of anything except speak to the
press every once in awhile, usually to steal credit for the hard work of
someone else.”
Mr. Alexander shook his head a bit. “He’s a lifelong
member of the NRA, a good Christian family man, and he’s been pushing to get
DARE more active at Lawndale High. Something the former principal of Lawndale
High has requested.”
“Hmph,” said Daria, annoyed that what she had just said
had apparently been ignored or forgotten. “I've always wondered why DARE was
taught by cops who had one week of training, and often the contempt of other
cops, instead of by pharmacologists and physicians. Maybe if it were, it might
be effective.”
Mr. Alexander frowned. “Many kids join DARE, so I think
it’s effective.”
“Many kids wear the DARE shirts,” said Daria, “so they
aren’t harassed as much. Many of them aren’t even members, and those who are
members are not the type to do drugs anyway. The DARE officers expect certain
answers, and we learn to give the right answers to avoid a counseling session
or a bad grade. And DARE never mentions that when students do tell the officers
that their parents do some pot, that their parents will likely go to prison,
their possessions will be seized and sold, and the student who meant well is
going to go to the hell of foster care.”
Mr. Alexander shook his head. “The parents shouldn’t be
doing the drugs anyway without understanding the possible consequences.”
“And what of the consequences of hysterical drug laws to
society? Why release violent offenders early so there will be room to make someone
busted for pot serve his or her full sentence? Why create such a large class of
offenders who are harmed by the prisons much more than they are by the drugs,
and everyone else is harmed with them? Why destroy so many families? Let’s be
clear, here. The drug laws do more to destroy families than the drugs
themselves.”
“I’ll have you know,” said Mr. Alexander, “that I happen
to participate in DARE, and it’s a fine program.”
“I heard Ted Nugent is into DARE, too.”
“He is,” said Mr. Alexander, “and he’s on the NRA board of
directors.”
“Strange then that DARE is opposed to violence as well as
drugs, and has defined violence as owning a gun,” said Daria. “I would think
the NRA would consider DARE a brownshirt program that turns kids into snitches
that become a danger to any parent who exercises his or her second amendment
rights.”
“DARE may have its drawbacks,” admitted Mr. Alexander,
“and SOME DARE officers get a little too zealous toward guns after having faced
off against too many armed gang members and drug dealers, but there’s no reason
to throw the baby out with the bath water.”
“Who says one has to? There are plenty of reputable
organizations that encourage sobriety, using real facts. That’s important,
because once we find out DARE and the Partnership for a Drug Free America lied
about something--and both tell so many lies that we all find out, even when we
don’t touch anything ourselves--they lose all credibility, and even inspire
reaction formations in a few to go out and do the drugs that they had been told
are evil.”
“DARE has its own strengths,” insisted Mr. Alexander.
“Yeah,” said Daria, “turning students into snitches.
That’s the only thing it does better than all the other legitimate
organizations out there that DARE likes to pretend don’t exist. So why does the
NRA give its support to DARE?”
“Because,” said an increasingly agitated Mr. Alexander,
“DARE keeps dangerous drugs out of our schools.”
Deadpan, Daria asked, “Like the laws that I’m being
charged with violating, and the liberal preaching of the evils of gun
ownership, keep dangerous guns out of those same schools?”
Helen was secretly enjoying this, and she knew that the
war on drugs had a lot to do with why the shooting happened at
After a moment, everyone calmed down. Mr. Alexander nodded
his thanks and replied, “Great program, goes after CRIMINALS with guns. Instead
of pursuing more victim disarmament, it uses the gun laws already on the
books.”
“Started in ‘99, right?” asked Daria
“Yes,” replied Mr. Alexander, with a warning in his voice
not to push him again.
“So the gun laws it helps to enforce would include those
used to justify
Mr. Alexander silently swore. She was too smart to be
asking this innocently. She was probably with those damned PMSing Armed Females
of America, a lesbian with the Pink Pistols, or with those damned GOA
extremists (ignoring that the Nuge was with the
“The Exile laws are badly written,” said Ms. Kane,
eliciting neutral expressions from everyone else. “As soon as the NRA has time,
we’re going to give that law a much needed polishing.”
Then the front door opened and all turned to see who had
come in.
“Hi, everyone,” said Quinn, “don’t shoot, it’s just me
back from school.” There was type of bantering to her voice, rather than the
cynical sarcasm of the brainy one, that caused everyone to take an instant
liking to her. She was cute, too.
“We don’t mind, little lady,” said Mr. Steele kindly.
“Always a pleasure to see such a pleasant belle as yourself.”
Quinn blinked at him and smiled. She wasn’t exactly sure
what he just said, but she knew it was a compliment. “I’m taking a self-defense
course ,” said Quinn, a hint of flirting in her voice. “I’m hoping to learn to
use a gun soon, too.” She hoped that impressed them and maybe they would help
convince her mom into buying her a gun. And this isn’t asking mom to buy me
a gun, which I won’t do since she let me spend the night over at Sandi’s
thought Quinn with some satisfaction.
“That’s great,” smiled Ms. Kane. “I’d be happy to take you
to the shooting range to teach you, Quinn. I’m a firearms instructor myself,
and I can also teach you some other ways to defend yourself.”
“It’s great,” added Mr. Alexander, “that you are responsible
enough to learn to take care of yourself. If you want, I’ll show you my....”
“Quinn,” said an alarmed Helen, “we had agreed. You take
the course I signed us up for and THEN we’ll talk about finding someone to
teach you to shoot.” Helen made a mental note to sign Quinn up for more classes
to delay this ridiculous request of hers. Hopefully, she could get this mess
cleared up and get Quinn some professional help.
"Oh, come on, Mom," said Daria. "Quinn
might someday need to liven up a Monday."
Quinn, Helen, and the visiting NRA folk, frowned. Some
frowns were puzzled, others seem to recognize the reference to Brenda Spencer,
the teen that shot up a nearby elementary school in 1979 because she thought it
might liven up a dreary Monday.
“Jim’s Paintballing Jungle is having a Morgendorffer
special,” said Mr. Powers, seemingly to tune Daria out for the moment,
inspiring expressions of shock on all three Morgendorffers. “We could all go
out and get familiar with paintballing anyway.”
Quinn laughed weakly. “Um, okay Mom. I think I’ll go
upstairs for awhile and get started on my homework.”
“You do that,” said Helen sweetly, but with a little
anxiety in her voice. When Quinn was upstairs, she turned to the frowning NRA
reps. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but she’s just experienced a shock and has shown
signs of extreme stress. I’m afraid for her to hear the sounds of gunfire so
soon after the shooting....” Helen shook her head.
“We understand,” said Ms. Kane, looking at the others
meaningfully. “It’s great you’re so protective of your daughters.”
The others grumbled, but seemed willing to let it drop.
“Such a fine young lady,” said Mr. Steele wistfully. “I
can’t believe there are still girls that come home and go do their homework first.”
Daria smirked. “Listen to your instincts, for they do not
deceive you.”
“You know, Daria,” said Mr. Alexander, “you should follow
your sister’s example of responsibility and hard work. Those two traits will
help her go far in life.”
“And here I thought,” said Daria, “her best attribute was
her looks.”
“You are to be commended,” said Ms. Kane to Helen, “on
having such a daughter that believes in responsibility, self-sufficiency, and
hard work. It’s not something that schools teach anymore, so whenever a child
displays it, I look to the parents of that child to thank them for raising a
member of society that contributes to it, rather than leeches off of it.” She
smiled warmly at Helen’s look of amazement at her compliment.
“Absolutely,” said Mr. Alexander. “The liberals have even
gotten the schools to pipe the trash, filth, and homosexual agenda to our
impressionable children there, while getting rid of prayer and the Ten
Commandments.” He shook his head regretfully.
Daria blinked. “Are you talking about sex ed?”
Mr. Alexander looked at her warily. “Yes and no, Daria.
They refuse to teach responsibility or the importance of marriage and family
values, and instead teach acceptance of perversity and homosexuality, and give
out free condoms. They even help students get free abortions behind their
parents back.” He shuddered in disgust.
“Actually,” said Daria, “sex ed was horribly dull and
boring for me. I never knew anyone to get a free condom or abortion, and the
teachers were either too embarrassed or too scared to teach much, or were
filled with hate and spite or moral condemnation. They made us say the most
mortifying lines to one another that no one will use in real life, and bogged
the lessons down in such terms and vague illustrations as to be mostly useless.
And they made us carry around these creepy lifelike dolls that we had to take
care of, too. I still have nightmares about that doll following me around and
calling me mom.” She shuddered.
Mr. Alexander shook his head. “Daria, I’m familiar with
what the schools do. They teach depravity, promiscuity, and having premarital
sex and abortions.”
“Well, what do I know anyway?” asked Daria. “I just go to
high school. Or did. And you may be right. After all, many schools stopped
teaching gun safety or closed their shooting clubs because it turned students
into killers that took out their entire school.”
“Learning to care for guns teaches responsibility,” said
Mr. Alexander, “but teens are not emotionally mature enough to handle sex, and
are all too easily seduced by the pleasures of it without realizing the pain
that comes after it.”
“And they promote that homosexuality and feminizing our
boys,” added Mr. Powers in disgust. “They’re just an instrument for the
homosexual agenda.”
“Homosexual agenda?” asked Daria. “Dare I ask what that
is? Or would that entail educating me about sex?”
Mr. Alexander blushed. “The homosexual agenda is part of
the larger liberal agenda. The homosexuals also want to encourage sex between
members of the same sex, and they do it by putting their insidious message into
textbooks, sensitivity training, and sex ed.”
“Are the Pink Pistols part of this agenda?” asked Daria.
Mr. Powers broke out into a coughing fit.
“The Pink Pistols?” asked Mr. Steele.
“A gay and lesbian alliance,” Daria replied, “mostly
libertarian in politics, that encourage an end to hate crimes against the GLBT
community by arming themselves and learning to use their guns. They also stand
up for the second amendment.”
Mr. Steele shuddered and looked very disturbed.
“Yes,” said Mr. Alexander in a tight voice, “and they have
caused dissension among us, especially among the more gospel-believing
Christians. I think they are the gay agenda’s Trojan horse to destroy us from
within.”
“Real men love Jesus,” added Mr. Powers, now recovered
from his coughing fit.
“Daria,” said Mr. Steele, “do you want the schools to
teach your children that it’s okay for boys to have sex with boys, and girls to
have sex with girls? Can you imagine what the locker rooms would be like? Are
actually becoming?”
Daria blinked. “I don’t have any children. And thanks to
those creepy dolls, I doubt I ever will.”
“Oh, come on now,” said Mr. Steele gently. “You’re 18.
It’s about time to be thinking about marriage and children, who will be going
to school themselves before you know it.”
Daria blinked at such familiarity. “Are we acquainted?”
she asked.
“The point is,” said Mr. Powers, “we need to make the
dimwitted Demo-commucrats realize our nation’s need to restore acknowledgment of
God as the primary reason this country even exists, as the Founding Fathers
intended.”
Daria nodded. “Since many liberals were educated in
liberal schools and encouraged to be stupid crack whores too lazy to work, this
shouldn’t be a problem for you.”
“You wouldn’t think so!” cried Mr. Powers, “but their
hatred for Christianity and decent values is intense, Daria!”
“Maybe,” said Daria, “they’re so obsessed with destroying
America because they’re in thrall to Satan?”
“I knew you were smart enough to see that!” said Mr.
Steele excitedly, but had to repress a shudder as he watched Daria regard him
with that creepy deadpan expression of hers.
“Most of all,” continued Mr. Alexander, “we should stand
up for the second amendment rights of every American to defend themselves and
work to overturn Roe vs. Wade, thereby ending the slaughter of hundreds of
thousands of innocent lives yearly, just as we should remove the ability of the
liberal, activist judges on the Supreme Court to legislate from the bench, and
should restore the Ten Commandments to the forefront of American life.”
“This country was founded by armed Christians as a
Christian nation that is tolerant of ALL religious beliefs,” said Mr. Powers.
“The founding fathers envisioned a nation with its roots in godly, Christian
principle, with the Ten Commandments at its center. The term ‘separation of
Church and State’ is found NO WHERE in the Constitution, but rather was
intended as the freedom of religion, not the freedom from
religion.”
“Immigrants can come here and practice whatever barbarian,
pidgin religion they want,” added Mr. Steele, “but don’t expect us to change
our beliefs or way of life to fit in with them. Or be forced to pay for their
indoctrination in godless schools, or the medical bills of illegal aliens, or
to send money to feed them so they can grow up to hate us.” He shook his head
vehemently. “And I don’t mind if Mexicans and other people want to come up here
to work, but to preserve our cultural identity, we must require ANY immigrant
to have a Work Visa or Resident Alien documentation or be DEPORTED. The illegal
aliens count for a lot of the gun violence anyway.”
Mr. Powers continued with, “I was reading somewhere that
Christians make up 87% of the population of the
“I’ve lived my entire life in the South,” said Mr. Steele
with obvious pride. “I was born in
“I don’t know,” replied Daria uncertainly. “
Mr. Steele added, “Think hard, Daria, you are either with
us or against us.” He snorted. “And think what the liberals are about to do to
you. Don’t you see that our way is saner, whether we clean house in this great
nation, or whether we secede to form our own nation, as we are legally able to
do?”
Daria cocked her head quizzically at Mr. Steele. “The
Civil War didn’t end in defeat for you, did it? To you, it’s just a cease fire
that lacked a concise victory.”
“Exactly,” said Mr. Steele. “As C.S.A. President Jefferson
Davis put it, ‘The contest is not over, the strife is not ended. It has only
entered upon a new and enlarged arena.’ You should read Southern Patriot
if you haven’t already. It will explain it all.”
“Hmmm,” said Daria. “I have heard of that book. Supposed
to be have good documentation but it’s also said to be poorly written. Still,
the latter is a value judgment. I might get it out of curiosity one day, but it
had better be fully documented. Even then, there’s always the question of
truth, and who it belongs to.”
The guy who sold her the gun loved to talk about things
like this with her. But he seemed to have his feet on the ground a lot better
and wondered if he could possibly help her with these lunatics that were
supposed to defend her. These people would do her PR and give expert testimony
to defend what she did in court? Fillman would eat them alive.
“Relativism,” said Mr. Alexander pointedly, breaking Daria
out of her reverie, “is damned un-American if you ask me. And the truth is
there are two forces at work in
“These liberal, unpatriotic, ungrateful people are out to
destroy
Daria blinked at that. “Destroy
“Mr. Powers is right,” said Mr. Steele. “By promoting
homosexuality, relativism, and multiculturalism, and by taking God out of our
schools and culture, they are destroying the very fabric that holds this
country together as the greatest nation on God’s green Earth. And they don’t
seem to be lazy about doing that at all!”
Daria shrugged. “Times change. People change. Today, most
people don’t feel threatened by gays and lesbians, or other cultures, or new
religions. That doesn’t mean they’re out to destroy anything. Just that they
change, along with the times. It can be called growth, even adaptation.” Daria
resisted using the word evolution; they seemed to accept the concept of
“survival of the fittest” but she doubted that they accepted the rest of the
theory of evolution.
Mr. Steele shook his head. “It’s a proven fact that the
United Nations is trying to become a world government, and already acts as if
it has jurisdiction within our borders. The U.N. promotes many of these
anti-American forces. They even let people speak there on behalf of Gaia, an
Earth goddess!”
“Whatever,” said Daria shrugging. “What’s that have to do
with us right now?”
“Gun control is another major focus of the U.N. It repeats
the lies of Sarah Brady.”
“Maybe they see the same things that Sarah Brady does,
without consulting her first.”
Mr. Steele smiled at her as if he found Daria’s naiveté
amusing. “Those people who were here before us were with a shady organization
called Handgun Control Inc. They’re a front for the CIA.”
Ms. Kane put a hand to her face muttering, "There he
goes again," while Mr. Alexander sighed.
“Oh, come on,” said Daria rolling her eyes. “You’ll get no
argument from me when you say they’re stupid, but they weren’t incompetent
enough to be CIA.”
“HCI was originally funded by Edwin Wales,” said Mr.
Steele, “a company man that spent his life working for the CIA.”
Daria shrugged. “So?”
“So HCI is a front for the CIA!” Mr. Steele was starting
to get fed up with her. Even for a girl, she could be dense.
“Aaron Zelman wouldn’t say that,” replied Daria.
Mr. Alexander blinked and broke into the conversation.
“You know Mr. Zelman?”
Daria nodded slightly. “I know of him.”
“What do you think of him?” asked Mr. Alexander
cautiously.
Daria shrugged. “Right of me, but he seems to have a sense
of honor that’s rare among political organizers.” She blinked a bit. “I do
wonder about some of his books. He makes some excellent points, but other
points fall flat. More than that, they can get downright annoying.”
Mr. Alexander frowned. “Annoying?” he asked annoyed.
“How’s that?”
“Like he seems to love smoking. Unless someone he doesn’t
like does it. In one book, a woman who was supposed to be Hillary Clinton
evilly forces other to breathe in her secondhand smoke, but then when a good
guy lights up, he fills the room with the fresh fragrance, thumbing his nose at
the freedom haters that want him to be polite enough not to smoke around them.
That kind of stuff.”
“That’s kind of nitpicking, isn’t it?” asked Mr. Alexander
reproachfully.
She shrugged. “Maybe. But he should apply the same
standards to both sides, not use a different measuring stick for each. And the
JPFO itself has some really good articles, too, but I saw one article in there
that accused
“I bet you liked the article by Dr. Sarah Thompson on
arming students in schools,” replied Mr. Alexander. He frowned as he remembered
that same woman writing a damning letter to the NRA for not being perfect.
“That was interesting, yes,” said Daria. “But there are
many differences between our schools and theirs.
“So you’re against Zelman and the JPFO then?”
“No,” said Daria, “I don’t care one way or another really.
There are things I admire about it and things that don’t inspire confidence in
me at all. But that’s how I feel about everyone else, too, including myself.
And that’s not relativism, that’s cynicism.”
“I don’t think it’s a CIA outfit either,” said Mr. Powers
getting back to the subject, “but HCI needs to be stopped. They’re traitors of
the worst kind, selling out our traditions and sovereignty in exchange for a
higher rank in the new world order. They hide behind freedom in order to
destroy it. Any resemblance to their trash and the real world is purely in the
minds of the idiots who believe the lies. They have nothing good to say about
Bush, they just want to destroy what is right and proper.”
“Bush thinks Daria is a boy who should be put to death for
murder,” replied Helen with a forced casualness.
“Did he really say that?” asked Mr. Alexander doubtfully.
“Honestly, I saw it on the evening news,” said Helen, “But
I’m not sure what he says, ever. I often feel that he’s speaking word salad,
yet it almost makes sense. But he was very clear that Daria should be
prosecuted to the full extent of the law.”
“Keep paying attention, ma’am,” Mr. Alexander said,
“you’ll finally figure out what he really said.”
May you go on a blind date with Mrs. Brand thought
Helen in a silent curse to Mr. Alexander and Mrs. Brand both.
“Bush may be a problem,” said Mr. Steele to the frown of
others, “but he’s a lot better than Gore. There’s a conspiracy to disarm
“And here I thought it was all just plain stupidity,” said
Daria.
The others laughed, seeming to be genuinely amused. Daria,
of course, showed no reaction. Helen bit her lip wondering if any of them
caught the ambiguity in her statement.
“You’re smart, Daria,” said Mr. Alexander, “You know, I’m
sure, how guns have ensured America’s freedom and liberty not only from foreign
powers, but from domestic tyranny as well.”
“Oh, yeah, guns have really kept America free of tyranny,
witch hunts, military suppressions, attacks on citizens, police brutality,
invasive government agencies and obnoxious bureaucrats.”
“Daria,” said Ms. Kane, “it would be much worse if people
were not prepared and equipped to resist tyranny. There's a reason the Dred
Scott decision was made, keeping firearms out of the hands of slaves.”
“But too many people don’t want to exercise their right to
bear arms,” said Mr. Steele, “or live up to their responsibility to resist
tyranny.”
Mr. Powers grumbled, sounding oddly like Jake. “People
have turned into pussies in this country. The Commies have long tried to weaken
us from within, and they finally managed to inject their poison in us in the
60's that's still killing this country to this day. We could’ve won
“Wasn’t it Democrat presidents that got us into
Mr. Powers shuddered. Then he shook his head saying,
“Daria, if anyone lost, it was
“Let’s see, the Vietnamese rebelled against the western
colonists, used guerrilla and militia tactics like America’s founding fathers,
kicked out all the western powers that were exploiting them, and then did the
same to China when China invaded right after. You know,” said Daria deadpan,
“you might be right about armed militias resisting tyranny. Now they live free
in a blissful Communist utopia as a direct result of their patriot militias.”
Mr. Powers stiffened. “I have a daughter with a mouth as
smart as yours,” he spat. He didn’t like this girl. She made him think things
that were uncomfortable, and made him fear that others might think of the same
thing. He loosened his collar just a bit. He’d never known a teenage girl could
be as frighteningly intelligent as this one.
“Her name wouldn’t be Melody, would it?” asked Daria. For
some reason, the idea that this Mr. Powers would like her Melody Powers stories
disturbed her.
“No,” he said coldly. “My bitch of a wife kept me from
teaching her any respect, but I bet your own mother would love it if someone
tamed that mouth of yours.”
Mr. Alexander spoke up. “Now, Cori, Daria is just young
and ignorant of all the factors involved. Just calm down and don’t pay so much
attention to the girl child.”
“Daria has a way of saying things that make people
uncomfortable, but she’s hardly a smart aleck,” said Helen, a little crossly,
“and I don’t appreciate your profanity or your threatening my daughter!”
“I quite agree,” said Ms. Kane tightly to Mr. Powers. “It
is not your place to teach Daria anything. Daria is an intelligent, young woman
who is by law an adult. While you are in her home, you should show her the
proper respect as is seemly for a gentlemen with manners.
“You,” she continued, pointing at Mr. Steele who suddenly
looked nervous, “I’m proud of my southern heritage, too, but I don’t babble
about crusades to strangers. I understand your comments about lethal force were
simply to express the passion you feel that underscores your message, but it
makes you seem like a dangerous firebrand. Leave it alone and save it for those
who know how to handle what you’re talking about.”
“Excuse me, ma’am,” replied Mr. Steele, “I’m just so fed
up with the direction the country keeps going!”
“We’re all frustrated with the direction this country is
going in,” said Ms. Kane, “but tearing down everyone that disagrees with us
Jerry Springer style, let alone the threats of violence, isn’t the way to
foster the cooperation we need if we’re going to take this country back. I’m
sure when you learned to act as a proper southern gentlemen, you learned proper
manners and courtesy expected of a house guest, and having reminded you of your
upbringing, I hope you have the pride to live up to it.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said a chastened Mr. Steele.
Daria was shocked at how she turned them around. No wonder
she was able to get elected. I wonder why she’s not in office now?, she
wondered. She tamed them without even using a chair and a whip.
“Obviously,” continued Ms. Kane, “Daria has learned to use
a gun with lethal efficiency and gone on to do so when lives were at stake. She
is NOT some ‘liberal Commucrat,’ or whatever other insults you’ve used today.
And just because she’s not a Christian doesn’t mean she’s a liberal doing the
devil’s work or actively pursuing a homosexual agenda. And I believe her about
her experiences with sex ed. All schools aren’t the same, you know. We are in
the more godly states, after all, and both Ms. Li and Mr. DeMartino are
conservatives who support the NRA, as well as being the past and present
principal of Lawndale High.”
Mr. Alexander looked around. The others were waiting for
his lead. He sighed and said, “Thank you, Miss Kane, for pointing out the
obvious. Daria, I’m sorry if we seemed to have lost our temper. We have had to
put up with so many liberal jerks, and we’re so heartbroken with the way our
values are spit upon and done away with that sometimes I think everyone not
with me is the enemy..... passions get in the way.” He sighed and shook his
head.
“Thanks,” said Daria in a cautious tone. “I don’t believe
in God, but I don’t have anything against Christians. I don’t have anything
against gays or lesbians, either, and I don’t think people should go to prison
or lose everything they’ve worked for just because they smoked a joint. And I
don’t think calling people names is the way to show you disagree with them.”
Mr. Alexander lifted a hand toward Mr. Powers before he
could actually say whatever it was he was about to say. “I can deal with that,
Daria. A lot of libertarians are the same way....”
“The libertarians,” said Mr. Powers in a strained voice,
“want to legalize drugs and prostitution, and many of them are homosexuals and
atheists that believe a woman should be allowed to get an abortion!”
Mr. Alexander kept his hand up toward Mr. Powers and kept
talking as if Mr. Powers hadn’t interrupted him. “And we have long worked with
the libertarians on this one issue that we can agree upon; the issue that we
all have the God-given right to defend ourselves from those who would harm us,
and have stood beside each other to support each other’s second amendment
rights. I trust that we can do the same.”
“You sure you can trust me?” asked Daria deadpan. “I not
only missed church my entire life, but I’ve had my mind and morals ruined in
liberal schools.”
Mr. Alexander started to sigh but caught himself. “It’s
obvious you’re not a liberal, nor are you out to destroy this country. We
briefly talked with Mr. DeMartino and he had only good things to say about you.
We forgot what a fine young lady he said you were because we have had to put up
with our country being attacked everyday by the liberal establishment, along
with attacks on our values and our religion and we’ve gotten a little too
sensitive about it. After it happens so many times, we tend to pull together in
the face of apparent opposition and defend our values and our beliefs with a
good offense.”
Daria sighed and said, “Well, if you’ve spent years
putting up with what I have these last few days, then I can understand why you
overreacted. I’d probably do worse myself. So I apologize for taking some of
what you said personally.”
“You happen to be one of the most intelligent young ladies
I ever met,” continued Mr. Alexander, “and of course you ask questions about
what you see. That’s what intelligent people do. Anyway, I’m sorry that we
mistook you for just another mindless product of the liberal schools. I
apologize, too.”
“I’m red-faced myself, ma’am,” added Mr. Steele.
Mr. Powers glared for a moment, then lowered his eyes.
“Me, too,” he grunted.
Daria took in a breath. “Apology accepted,” she finally
said. “Group hug.” She smiled as she saw uncertainty break out on the faces
around her. “Kidding. But I know what you mean about dealing with personal
attacks all the time. I’ve never been popular, and these last few days,
everyone has been at my throat, and I figured you were the latest would-be
lynch mob.”
“Daria, you’re among friends here,” continued Ms. Kane.
“We understand that guns are important for defense, and we understand the
liberals that want to make an example of you for having the audacity to defend
yourself and the lives of those you love.” She shook her head sadly. “Those who
can take care of themselves don’t need the liberals, and those who don’t need
the liberals, terrify them. Whether you read NewsMax for the passion it incites
in you, or are with a libertarian that is passionate about the Bill of Rights,
or are an intelligent young woman who dares to look at the liberal engineering
and honestly say it sucks, we’re here to help you, and I hope that we can help
each other now.”
Daria nodded her head. “I can use some friends. It’s just
everyone has been after me. And the things they say about me on the news....”
Daria bit her lip as she shook her head slightly and turned away for a moment.
Ms. Kane, hoping to get things back on a civil track by
showing everyone the common ground they shared, asked Daria, “You don’t blame
guns for the problems of the world, do you, Daria?”
Daria shook her head, regaining her composure. “No, I
don’t blame guns for the trouble of the world. The trouble is caused by
stupidity. But I don’t see guns as salvation, either.” She relaxed slightly as
Mr. Alexander sat back too, speaking with Mr. Powers too quietly for her to
hear.
“Would you rather have faced Matthew with a knife or sword
or with bodily contact, than with a gun?” asked Ms. Kane.
Daria shook her head. “No. But if all we had were blades,
I would’ve shanked him instead of shot him, while his back was turned.”
Ms. Kane laughed nervously. “Daria, he had a definite
advantage in any kind of physical confrontation. When guns became involved, he
lost that advantage. Because he never bothered to learn to use his gun, you
were actually at an advantage. Can’t you see how the rule of brute strength was
overcome the day guns came into being and truly made us all equal?”
“As long as everyone’s an armed psycho, things will
balance out,” said Daria calmly.
“Exactly,” said Mr. Powers, his earlier anger seeming to
have dissipated. “You know for someone who wears a skirt, you actually have
more balls than most of the sissies of
Daria stared at him with a deadpan expression, while Ms.
Kane glared at him. The sad part, Daria realized, is that he’s really
trying to pay me a compliment.
Mr. Alexander cleared his throat. “No,” said Mr.
Alexander, his annoyance showing again, “When psychos are locked away and only
decent people have guns, then things will even out. Seriously, Daria, what if
everybody, or at least the teachers at
“Yes, I do,” said Daria. “He was desperate and crazed on
methamphetamines. If he had more time to prepare, he might have tried a suicide
bomber approach. And frankly, I know the teachers at Lawndale High. Mr. O’
Neill would forget the safety or misplace it, Ms. Li would be a target by
students and faculty alike, and Ms. Barch and Mr. DeMartino would’ve already
shot it out.”
“Daria,” said Mr. Alexander trying to sound reasonable,
“this lack of respect in authority does not do you credit.”
“Wait. You are getting onto me for a lack of
respect for authority? When you’re the one trashing the schools, the United
Nations, and even the federal government?”
“Yes, Daria, I am,” he responded in a heated voice. “I am
running for Congress, and I believe in lawful authority, as opposed to
liberal treason. I help Mr. Nugent with his DARE program, even if you don’t
like that. I believe those who do violence should be locked up, and yes, that
includes people who smoke pot as they are violence and destruction waiting to
happen.”
Daria replied with, “How about people who drink?”
Mr. Alexander’s eyes narrowed at Daria. The comments about
respecting authority and this drinking question were obviously meant to call
him a hypocrite! “Do you think we’re so idiotic or hypocritical," he
started with grave dignity, "that you, a sheltered teenager, know more
about how to run the world than we do?”
“Mr. Alexander,” warned Ms. Kane. “It’s just a question.”
Daria looked at him deadpan. “Is that a trick question?”
Mr. Alexander got up. He had tried, but she was
impossible. “Okay, that’s it. Apparently, Daria thinks she’s the only one smart
enough and responsible enough to have a gun.” As the others got up, obviously
about to leave, he turned to Helen. “Mrs. Morgendorffer, perhaps we can work
together on this case, and perhaps not. But if we do, I strongly urge you to
muzzle your daughter.”
“I told you,” grumbled an irate Powers, “she would’ve
served our cause better if she and that sister of hers had been dead!”
“Excuse me?” cried Helen loudly, standing up with obvious
anger.
Mr. Alexander frowned at Mr. Powers. “Never mind him.
There was some stupid talk earlier that if she had died and it was shown how a
gun could’ve saved Daria and Quinn, we could work up a lot more sympathy for
the victims to be able to have guns in so-called ‘gun free zones’ and so
prevent another such tragedy. He is speaking in anger and has taken leave of
his senses.”
Helen was speechless.
Daria didn’t seem disturbed at all as she asked, “But if
that happened, wouldn’t HCI just have used it to show why guns had to be banned
once and for all, even beyond gun free zones?”
“I suppose a bunch of liberals would have, yeah,” said Mr.
Powers with a little heat, even as Mr. Alexander calmly said his name. “But
since you’ll do anything to tear down this country, at least you would be
stopped.”
“He’s the one you should muzzle,” said Ms. Kane angrily,
glaring at Mr. Powers, as she passed Mr. Alexander.
“Powers,” Alexander said it louder that time to be clearly
heard by all.
“I’m so glad you have the right to have a gun,” said
Daria. “And for your encouragement to be sure I always have one.”
“But that would be acting responsibly, and you wouldn’t
want to do that,” grumbled Powers.
“That’s enough,” said Ms. Kane loudly.
“Hell it is!” shouted Mr. Powers, “I had to deal with her
kind of pacifist crap from Commie protesters after I came home fighting for
their freedom to be Commie protesters! There’s a war coming, Daria, and when it
comes I plan to be ready for it because I believe in my country!”
“Impossible,” said Daria. “By the time the war starts,
you’ll either be committed or dead from that untreated case of syphilis you
picked up in
Ms. Kane reminded him, “She’s not a pacifist or a Communist.”
“The hell she isn’t!” shouted Powers. Turning to Daria he
added angrily, “Go to your HCI friends for help, ’cause I wouldn’t spit on you
if you were on fire!”
“Why don’t you go to them for help,” replied Daria curtly.
“They wish Quinn and I had died, too, and are just as moronic as you, serving
an organization that is dedicated to more funds and support rather than to
solving any problems because that would only serve to cut back on their funding
and political clout.”
“What?” Mr. Alexander said that calmly, but was the very
picture of offended dignity.
“You heard me,” said Daria crossly. “Personally, I think
Sarah Brady and Ted Nugent play S&M roles with each other at luxury resorts
with all the money they rack in for the crusades they pretend to represent to
bilk the gullible. Their extravagant lifestyle shows they have more in mind
than making a better world, though. It would be so perfect of how both of your
organizations serve themselves and empower each other rather than the gullible people
it can find and convert into your Jerry Falwellian con games.”
Mr. Alexander looked to Helen again. “I again urge you to
put a governor on your oldest daughter’s mouth!” Then he followed the rest of
the NRA folk now in the process of leaving.
“Can you blame her for thinking the way she does?” asked
Ms. Kane bitterly. She turned to Helen and Daria. “I apologize for my
compatriots’ lack of good judgment and good sense. I hope we can iron out our
differences later.” With that, she turned and walked out the door.
The lawyer in Helen stopped a curt reply to the men still
inside her home. But she said nothing as the NRA reps walked out the door. She
had to admit that despite her desperation for their help, she was glad they
were gone.
When she turned, she saw Daria was already going up the
stairs. She sighed, but let her go. She wanted a little time to rest and think
about what the repercussions of this would be.
Upstairs, Daria slammed her door close behind her. The
world is full of idiots, and they demand respect!? fumed Daria. She almost
kicked the wall but stopped herself. No need to damage my Docs, thought
Daria glumly. They’re not worth it. I’m just upset because of this guilt
that haunts me. Even Lady Macbeth felt guilty, why shouldn’t I?
She found an old Metallica CD that
Feel no pain, but my life ain’t easy
I know I’m my best friend
No one cares, but I’m so much stronger
I’ll fight until the end
To escape the true false world
Undamaged destiny
Can’t get caught in the endless circle
Ring of stupidity
Out for my own, out to be free
One with my mind, they just can’t see
No need to hear the things they say
Life is for my own to live my own way
Rape my mind and destroy my feelings
Don’t tell me what to do
I don’t care now, cause I’m on my side
And I can see through you
Feed my brain with your so called standards
Who says that I ain’t right
Break away from your common fashion
See through your blurry sight
After a couple of minutes, Daria suddenly realized she
hadn’t seen Jane face to face for nearly an entire week. A sense of guilt,
disappointment, loss, and fear took hold of her. She had only talked to Jane
for short periods so far on the phone.
Daria flipped the Metallica off and put in the Quiet
CD by Bella Morte. Then she lay back down, pursing her lips, as she began
forming a plan on how to sneak out of the house to see Jane for awhile
CHAPTER 15
---------------------------------------------------
03/20-21/01 TUESDAY-WEDNESDAY, different times
---------------------------------------------------
(We open in
MOORE (VO): Kids killing kids. Shoot-outs at the OK
Corral.... right in our school hallways ....rumors of race wars and
conspiracies and drug-crazed shooters ...... something just wasn’t right. Had
things changed that much.... from when I was a kid? I knew I had to find out.
My name is Michael Moore, and this is my search for what is really going on in
(Scene changes to Michael Moore eating pizza in Pizza
King)
MOORE (VO):
Matthew Foster, a student at Lawndale High, ate at this
Pizza King, as do many other kids his age, including his girlfriend, Quinn
Morgendorffer. <Picture of Quinn, taken from yearbook of the previous year,
overlaps scene> Yes, Matthew had it all, a good American boy growing up in a
good American town with a beautiful girl at his side.
But what few knew was that Matthew had many problems that
shamed him. A mother on disability took care of him, and the checks were being
cut down to combat welfare fraud. The disabled need to work like everyone else.
His mom, believing her gun-obsessed ex-husband was going
to kill her, as he had threatened to do on numerous occasions, had a gun
herself: a Model 608 .357 Magnum revolver. Yes, now she was safe in case her
husband took pot shots at her from a roof somewhere.
The father frequently ‘forgot’ to send alimony and child
support. Perhaps he was too busy with his group which didn’t like minorities
and welfare. And he didn’t seem interested in bringing his son with him to
shooting events anymore. But he did have an extensive gun collection that he
had taught Matthew to use.
Father and son, I remembered my days as a boy shooting
with my dad. My dad would share with me all the things that interested him and
tried to turn me into the man he wanted me to be. <b/w footage of small boy
with crew cut shooting toy gun> It was fun as I imagined gunning down all
those fearsome Reds.
Like his old man, Matthew blamed the black man for his own
troubles, and other minorities. Civil rights were a plague in the land, and the
only thing to save
And then, as frequently happens in turbulent teen
romances, the girl broke up with the boy, and Matthew pined away with
heartache.
<Cut to Lawndale High>
But Matthew had learned from his mom and dad what to do
when something went wrong. That’s why Matthew brought his mom’s home- and
self-defense gun to school, like so many other boys under the stress of Bush’s
new
<Scene of Mack and Ms. Li being treated by EMS.>
If he was after his girlfriend, why did he stop to shoot a
black man and his Asian principal?
<Cut to home scene of Mack. Mack and Jodie are sitting
on the couch facing Michael Moore.>
MACK: Maybe because I was charging at him?
MACK: I know that.... now. But he just shot Ms. Li, and it
was obvious he was going to shoot Quinn. And then anybody else in the way. I
didn’t think. I acted....
JODIE: ....Stupidly
MACK: ....Thanks. Yeah, I acted stupidly, but I couldn’t
just lie there letting him kill innocent people. It <Mack’s voice chokes a
little> was not right.
MACK: Honestly, I don’t think that had anything to do with
it.
JODIE:
MACK: <subtle humor in his voice> I think Daria
would have simplified that statement by saying
JODIE: <slight smile> I think Daria would use a word
more like 'narcissistic' for many of the people, and ‘oblivious’ for the rest.
MACK: Daria? Not at all.
JODIE: She’s not biased. She’s an equal opportunity cynic,
regardless of race, age, religion, gender, or ethnicity.
JODIE: Um, no. Daria is something of a loner, but she’s
been friendlier towards us than many other people outside our extracurricular
activities. Matthew was someone completely different. He didn’t like us, but I
think that’s because he thought we were better than he was, or that we thought
we were, because of all our extracurriculars.
MACK: <Noticeably slower in his speech, and Jodie
covers a brief giggle with a cough>: I think he shot me because I was trying
to stop him from shooting Quinn or anybody else.
JODIE: No. A few of them sometimes annoy people, but only
by accident.
MACK: <talking to Jodie> Yeah, and they annoy other
people on the team the most.
MOORE: <puts hand on Mack’s shoulder but takes it off
after Jodie and Mack both look at his hand, him, and frown, but continues in an
almost tearful voice> How are your injuries healing up? Are you going to be
able to play football ever again?
MACK: <smiles big> Yeah. I was lucky. The bullet
“slid around” my chest. That happens sometimes....
JODIE: Sometimes, as in people sometimes win the lottery
and never have to work again.
MACK: They thought I might be out for months, but after
five days, they sent me home. I go back to get the stitches out later next week
sometime.
JODIE: Mack is something of a hero. Everyone is
congratulating him on trying to stop <chokes a little> Matthew. That may
have been very stupid, but it was also very brave. And he bounced back so well.
He’s still officially Captain of the Lawndale Lions.
<Cut to hospital room where Ms. Li is sitting up in bed
talking silently while Moore’s voice overlaps the scene>
MOORE (OS): Mack and Jodie seemed a little too preoccupied
with their extracurriculars to know much. So I decided to talk to Ms. Li. She
was the other nonwhite to be shot by Matthew as he was literally gunning for
his girlfriend.
MS. LI: ....And he voluntarily gave me permission to check
his bag for weapons, hmph, but he had a gun under the shirt. You know, Zero
Tolerance aside, that was even worse than the nail file I confiscated earlier!
Hmmm..... <Ms. Li pulls out hand tape recorder from under the bed and speaks
into it:> Find out why Quinn smuggled a nail file to school under the cover
of “fashion accessory.” <Puts tape recorder back under sheets.
MS. LI: Good heavens, no! Lawndale High is a fine school,
and we never had this problem before!
MS. LI: To make sure no one would. I never would’ve done
it if I realized I could be shot while conducting a voluntary weapons search!
Maybe now those tightwa... er, I mean, maybe now the wise members of the school
board and mayor can finally see fit to get those new cameras, update the
security systems, Kevlar vests for the faculty, bullet proof skylights and
guards. After all, a secure student is a happy student. It’s all for the
students.
MS. LI: The kids are getting rebellious. It’s from all the
years of liberal parenting, and despite my best efforts to encourage
responsibility, the kids are on a downward spiral. Still, I had hoped to
discourage such flagrant violence by installing such deterring measures. I know
it’s true that it leads some students to try to ‘break the security,’ but I’m
sure none could. Only Daria had the requisite intelligence and misanthropy to
smuggle a gun past them, and she’s too antisocial to do it for anyone else. And
since the Board of Education said it was paramount to secure a safe learning
environment, I took all precautions before the liberals can grant even more
protections to violent thugs and sociopaths.
MS. LI: No, unfortunately, they have not released that
part of the footage yet. But I am confident the truth will come out.
MS. LI: I don’t know why he had to carry out such
hostilities against me. I do so much for that school for so little pay and
appreciation, and this is the thanks I get.
MS. LI: Well <takes a deep, shuddering breath> I’ve
been here recovering wondering why anyone would want to shoot ME, and
<chokes a little>.... I think Mr. O’Neill is right, we must get those
sensitivity classes funded! <Ms. Li makes a quick statement into her
microrecorder>
MS. LI: I don’t know. I thought Quinn was closer but just
before he shot me, Quinn was obviously distressed to see him. I think Daria
might have meant for him to kill her. If you saw the video footage just
released, you see Quinn fall before he himself is shot. Daria thought Quinn was
shot and then shot him!
MS. LI: Oh, Daria is a crafty girl, extremely
untrustworthy. I have reason to believe she’s intimately involved with several
paramilitary organizations, especially the publishers of Brutal Mercenary
magazine! I’m not sure I believe what is said about Quinn, but I am sure that
Daria holds some very dark secrets underneath her cold, callous exterior. She
and
<Ms. Li talks into tape recorder again while Moore
talks off screen, and an outside shot of Lawndale High comes into focus.>
MOORE (OS): Decades after the Civil Rights movement, and
yet racism seemed to be Lawndale’s dirty little secret. It was a truth too
horrible to bear, and it would explode in a hail of gunfire.
<Cut to view of bumper stickers in parking lot--we don’t
see what parking lot, what town, etc-- saying, “Crime Control Not Gun Control,”
“Work Harder, Millions of Welfare Depend on You!” “Don’t Let Clinton Gore Your
Gun Rights,” “The South Will Rise Again,” “Gun Control is Hitting Your Target,”
and “First Gun Control, Then Total Control.” As camera pans back, we see guns
in gun racks in pick up trucks. It looks to the viewer as if it’s the parking
lot of Lawndale High, though Lawndalians would never recognize it as any
parking lot anywhere in the vicinity of
Matthew may have been taking out his hostility against the
black man and yellow menace, but he was only warming up for his girlfriend
Quinn.
<Cut to close-up view of a bumper sticker with the
words, “If you love something, let it go. If it returns, it’s yours. If it
doesn’t, HUNT IT DOWN AND KILL IT!” Superimposed is a picture of Quinn and
Lawndale High.>
What Matthew didn’t count on is that he wasn’t the only
American to learn to deal with his problems with a gun. Quinn’s older sister,
Daria Morgendorffer <show picture of a suspicious, frowning Daria with a
background of “gun fighting in the Old West music”> also decided to solve
her problems with a gun. And her problem was with Matthew. What her problem with
Matthew was is still a mystery. A mystery I hoped that maybe I could solve by
asking the right questions.
<Jake getting out of car at the Morgendorffer
residence; we see
JAKE: AAAAAAAAHHHH! NO, you can’t have my money! I need it
all, damn parasite!
JAKE: I have a bottle of wine I’ll probably never finish.
I hated it. It’s too sour for me, but I bet you’ll drink anything. <Jake
looks over
JAKE <still yelling at camera over
JAKE: Daria? She doesn’t have any drugs so you should go
away right now.
HELEN: Jake! What are you screaming about out here?
<Glares at Moore and crew>
JAKE: He’s some wino panhandling
HELEN: I’m sorry, but we are facing stiff legal fees. I
must ask you to panhandle somewhere else.
JAKE <barely heard>: Helen, I think he wants to buy
drugs from Daria.
HELEN: JAKE! You sir are not welcome here. I give my
statements at....
HELEN: That what are you?
HELEN: About?
HELEN <thinking a moment>: You can call Ms. Morrison
and leave a message on her machine. She’ll be the one to decide whether or not
you can interview Daria and then she’ll make a recommendation to me.
HELEN <crossing arms, voice full of suspicion>: Ask
me a question, and I’ll answer for her.
HELEN: I will protect my daughter by any means necessary.
I can’t help but feel I should protect her from you.
HELEN: Such facts will come out in the trial. No one will
talk about that before. Goodbye
HELEN: What!?
HELEN: That went into effect in 1994. Trust me, I helped
to pass it. But violence had been going down since 1991, and seemed to have
more to do with the last of the boomer children -- who were into fighting over
drug turf -- growing up and vanishing from the scene.
HELEN: The facts of that will come out in court
HELEN: It’s far rougher on her than it is on me. What’s
hard on me is that so many people give such a damn about Matthew’s humanity,
but Quinn and Daria were just fodder for statisticians! And seeing how Handgun
Control Inc. and similar organizations have expressed disappointment that there
weren’t more deaths to help their cause has only disillusioned me with them. Such
people are more than willing to trade human lives for success, and hate it
where life prevails when it inconveniences them. It has really opened my eyes.
HELEN: Yes, I remember the 60’s. I remember how cops and
national guardsmen acted above the law, sometimes with lethal violence. I remember
how motorcycle gangs and about everyone else took advantage of our enlightened
ethics to hurt us over and over again. I especially remember how we said that
people old enough to die for their country should have the right to vote. Now
it seems to be that someone with the right to vote shouldn’t even have a gun.
And for what? So mass murderers will be safe in school?
HELEN: You, sir, need to leave this instant.
MOORE: I’ll leave as soon as Daria tells me to <sees
Helen pull out cell phone, hits 3 numbers and then starts talking into
phone>
(OS) Wow, they were really nervous. What did they feel they
had to hide? I decided to try to find answers somewhere safer. If I were a
shady lawyer from
<Scene changes to gazebo outside
JANE: No big deal at first. But then I found out she shot
him twice in deadly spots on either side of his spine, and then for an encore
got in a head shot. To shoot that steady in such a situation took nerves of
steel and lots and lots of practice. I think she’s even a natural! I’m DAMN
proud of my amiga.
<Resignation crosses face> On the downside, Matthew
didn’t suffer anywhere as much as he should have. It’s said he died like almost
instantly. He did stuff, but he was already dead, it’s just his body didn’t
figure it out right away.
JANE: Since it was Matthew’s, it was very cool. At least
from her perspective. If there’s one thing Daria can’t stand, it’s racist Nazis
that try to kill her sister just because her sister had the temerity to break
up with such a jerk after he showed signs of being a racist Nazi. Being against
hate myself, I say fry those redneck bubbas. But I told Daria, ‘Don’t let him
know you have a gun, because if you do, Matthew will attack you instead so he
can use your own gun against you.’ Would she listen? Of course not. And now
she’s... .oh, wait, Matthew didn’t get it away from her did he? Oh well,
I’m sure it will happen next time.
JANE <slaps her own forehead>: I never thought of
that, but you are 100% right. Gun owners like Daria are such a threat that we
should ignore any supposed rights they have to stop them! It’s not like she’s
Matthew. Thugs like Matthew are actually good for the economy, especially with
all the legal fees they generate for the courts and pay out to officers that
handle their cases, so they’re just a problem we have to put up with
<shrugs>. The young, old, disabled and stuff are just dead weight anyway.
Fuck ’em. That’s why we respect the rights and humanity of people like Matthew
anyway, to weed the weak from our species, thereby assuring a better generation
of stronger humanity.
JANE: Hey, you’re the one who'd rather see a girl dead
than defended with a gun. And besides, the deaths of people like Quinn and
Daria are just the necessary sacrifice we must make in order to not prevent
people like Matthew from weeding out the weak or generating legal revenues.
Guns are just ’way too dangerous for this reason, and so aren’t worth the risks
to society, the way whiskey and motorcycles are. I’m going to try to get Daria
to give up guns and take up drinking and driving when she gets out. Separately,
of course.
JANE: It’s worse than that! Did you hear what that Fillman
guy had to say? ‘Other women dissatisfied with how the law has treated them
might take the law into their own hands if all Daria gets is probation.’ He’s
absolutely right! We can’t have people taking the law into their own hands, or
how would all the lawyers and judges draw a pay check? Sure, they throw people like
Matthew back out into society, but it’s really for our own good. Don’t people
understand how important such a system is? And the place people like Matthew
have within it? Why do people like Daria have to screw it all up for everybody
else? Huh? I hope she fries.
JANE: Of course I care! I LOVE Prohibition! It always
makes things so much more interesting, more profitable, and often easier to
get. We need lots more of it. We need it for guns, ’cause their shooting ranges
are too noisy, and for silencers because they’re too quiet.
While we’re at it, I thought we could take care of
internet porn and cyberstalkers by getting rid of computers, or at least
severely hampering their memory. Oh! And think if we got rid of cars, or at
least lowered the speed limit to 20 miles an hour! BEAUTIFUL! No more
accidents, or road rage, or drive-by shootings. Heck, get rid of gas, too. It’s
used to make Molotov cocktails, as well as by arsonists.
JANE <blinking hard and looking surprised by such a
statement>: I don’t see why not. I mean can you show me where in the
Constitution cars, gas, and computers are specifically protected?
JANE: I’d love to have the money to BUY one..... but could
you imagine the insurance you’d have to get on those things?
JANE <smiles and nods head avidly>: And how often
were things like outhouses mentioned? I always thought they were rare myself,
not ‘assumed to be there’ or anything. I think they wore diapers myself. Oh, wait.
Those don’t get mentioned very much, either. Maybe it’s best if we don’t think
about that one too much. <Jane shudders>
MOORE: Why don’t people feel lucky that they can get black
powder weapons?
JANE: Yep. And if they feel they have to have something
newer, they can join the National Guard, like the Bill of Rights intended. And
while we’re at it, only registered groups with government permits should be
allowed to publish or broadcast anything, that must be what the first amendment
had in mind, right? Well, I guess quill pens for everyone is OK.
JANE: Sure I am! Words are dangerous you know. Why,
ANYBODY could go off and shout fire in a crowded theater, which would, of
course, lead to massive deaths as everyone jumps up screaming and running for
their dear lives in a mad panic. I know ’cause Daria and I have done that at
school more than once. We killed off half the school that way.
MOORE (OS): I had my doubts about Jane Lane’s honesty or
sanity -- and then this wreck of a van, with a big anarchy sign on it, pulled
into the driveway. Some of the strangest looking young men I’ve ever seen
started getting out of it. Jane said they were “Mystik Spiral,” a band. She
didn’t say a band of what, and this seemed like a good time for me to leave and
get into my own van.
<Camera shows rapid progress to a van. From the van,
the camera turns and we see Mystik Spiral glaring at the camera. We hear the
smothered curses of
So who was Daria Morgendorffer? Good question. She got
good grades, but didn’t seem interested in extracurricular activities. She had
a few friends, liked to read, and watch a program called ‘Sick, Sad World.’ Her
mom and dad didn’t have a gun. Her mom had made her dad sell his guns years
before. So where did she learn to use a gun? Was it really from a right wing
hate group, possibly the same one that trained Matthew to be a killer?
Daria wasn’t telling, and her family and friends were
determined to keep her secrets safe. But I knew no secret is safe and so I went
to find answers on my own.
<Cut to office with walls covered with pics of models,
actors, singers. Val sits in chair talking silently to
Val, editor of Val magazine, told me she had spent
a day with Daria. An All American Girl with cutting edge flavor, but there was
still something dark and hidden about Daria Morgendorffer. I wondered if Val was
talking about Daria or about
VAL: ....That’s why I called her the anti-teen.....
VAL: She’s so dark.... so sinister! Such a spiraling-down
drag! And she doesn’t even care about her appearance! Not even lipstick! I
can’t believe how well she fooled me, Val!
VAL: That is so whack! Her sister Quinn is edgy! Good
clothes, takes pride in herself, has an active social life. She rocks! Daria is
a <shudders> brain that only pretends to have these things, and seethes
with hatred and jealousy for Quinn’s coolness. I also think Daria is a lesbian.
She kept trying to get me to bring her back with me to NYC! Can you believe it!
Like that would ever happen. But I get hit on by all kinds of teenagers,
straight and lesbian....
MOORE: If Daria hated her sister, why did she shoot
Matthew before Matthew could shoot Quinn?
VAL: Daria may be a brain, but she’s not very cool.
Because smart is cool and Daria is definitely not cool! I mean, she doesn’t
even wear nail polish. I think she was so, like, eager, that she shot before
she meant to. Maybe he even heard her and was turning around. I guess we’ll
never know. I remember how she would look at me with cold, reptilian eyes
behind those whacked out glasses....brrrr! <Val shakes all over for a moment
before striking her normal pose.>
VAL: Hmmm. Racism is uncool. Daria is uncool. Therefore,
Daria is a racist. Yes. <Val continues talking, smiling and pointing at
herself with a thumb.>
MOORE <off-screen> This was strange. An All American
Boy and an All American Girl with a dark side in an
<Cut to Lawndale High>
In my day, guns were common, but when we got into a fight,
it was exchanging a few punches and everything was okay. Only a few girls would
act that way. But here we had an All American Boy and an All American Girl
packing guns to school. Why? I decided it was time to find out.
<Cut to inside
MR. DEMARTINO: You won’t be thinking ANYTHING ever again
if you don’t leave NOW!
MR. DEMARTINO: If you’re with THE NRA, then why don’t you
know that I HAVE forbidden any and all reporters from school grounds?
MR. DEMARTINO <grumbles a bit, then>: Keep it SHORT!
MR. DEMARTINO: About the ONLY thing students LEARN is how
to SLEEP through class with NO consequences for refusing to put in an honest
day’s work, especially if you’re on the FOOTBALL team or CHEERleading squad!
MR. DEMARTINO: The FEW students who have the brain cells
to wonder about ANYTHING would already know the ANSWER to such a question!
MR. DEMARTINO: Oh for Christ’s sake, you’ve truly reached
a new pinnacle of stupid, so you DO make a believable STUDENT and that’s NOT a
compliment!
MR DEMARTINO <heavy sigh>: Do you have ANY idea what
such a weapon would cost? What your neighbors would likely do to you unless you
had some legitimate purpose....
MR.. DEMARTINO: You CERTAINLY got the ‘stupid’ down PAT! I
mean legitimate as in using them as earth movers in the asteroid belt.
MR.. DEMARTINO <glaring harshly, breathing faster than
he should>: Not only would you have the price, but there would be the
insurance cost. Even in a world with very little to no government, which it
would almost certainly TAKE to allow you to buy such weapons on the open
market, and that would assume a reason for them EXISTS or the costs of making
them for consumers would be PROHIBITIVE all by itself. The COSTS would be
literally astronomical. Happy?
MR. DEMARTINO: DID your MOTHER drop you on your HEAD!?
Even KEVIN has more sense than YOU! And as he’s a KID, he has an EXCUSE! What’s
YOURS!?
MR.. DEMARTINO: There are LIMITS to everything, even
STUPIDITY has limits which I thought I found in KEVIN, but you have expanded my
horizons for how FAR stupidity can go!
MR.. DEMARTINO: SHOULD? Hardly. But you are confusing a
right to with should.
MR.. DEMARTINO: Until there’s a legitimate reason for
them, no. There's a difference between arms and armaments. The
latter is not something you carry with your arms, and on this most people will
agree that the Bill of Rights did not intend to cover nuclear weapons, though
respectable arguments that it does also exist.
You can learn more about WHY all the Bill of Rights came
into being and how all the individual rights depend on each other to exist.
However, I think the consensus is to say guns equals nukes
and so are covered is like saying that because we have cats that roam freely
then lions and tigers should be able to walk freely as well. But that doesn’t
stop people from getting them anyway, especially with the collapse of the now
defunct
MR. DEMARTINO: Why, oh why... no, I must not KILL him,
that’s what those NRA jerks WANT me to do, I’ll find out which ONE of them sent
this moron to me and kill HIM! That’s...
MR.. DEMARTINO: Only a truly MAD man, such as myself,
would even be TEMPTED to use them on one’s own home ground. Nukes wreak HELL on
real estate and your tax base. If a government did use nukes, it would destroy
its host, and it, as a parasite without a host, would die. That’s the simple
answer as SIMPLE is all you could POSSIBLY understand! I urge you to take
remedial SECOND grade, and I will attempt to educate you further, possibly
giving Kevin extra credit for tutoring you!
MR.. DEMARTINO: Have you NEVER taken a HISTORY class
EVER!!??
MR.. DEMARTINO: Look to the American Revolution to see how
guerrilla tactics and simple guns tore down the far superior war machine of the
BRITISH. Does this help, or do you need a more modern example?
MR.. DEMARTINO: Au contraire, I find you VERY painful! Do
you think the Viet CONG had the nukes, the bombing, the air superiority and
superior naval missions to overcome several nations, including the
MR.. DEMARTINO: WHAT!?
MR.. DEMARTINO: MORE than it justifies VICTIM DISarmament.
But I could understand why YOU would be opposed to the people you TALK to
having GUNS!
MR. DEMARTINO: If you don’t LEAVE now, then the very last
thing to happen to you in your life is to learn the answer to that question.
<Reaches slowly behind his back>
MOORE: <OS> Unfortunately, Principal DeMartino was a
member in good standing with the NRA and didn’t seem to want to talk to me.
Even after I showed him my NRA membership card, he ordered me off school
grounds, even though it’s a PUBLIC school. I decided to take a
roundabout way outside and see if I could find anyone brave enough to talk on
the way out. But that’s a tall order, given the power of the NRA.
<Camera shows Timothy O’Neill, holding a book on Karl
Marx, looking uncertainly at camera as cam approaches>
O’NEILL: I’m sorry, but we’re not supposed to talk to the
press. Anthony says it only encourages them.
O’NEILL: Oh, well, I guess that’s different. You’re really
with the World Socialists? <
O’NEILL: Oh, for over 10 years now.
O’ NEILL: Yes, I would. Since Anthony made principal, I’ve
been covering some of his classes, too. I’m so glad the substitutes have
finally been showing up, but I’ve gotten to know even more students even better
because of all the extra classes I’ve been teaching.
O’NEILL: Matt <shakes head sadly> poor Matt. He
never did learn to deal with disappointment. He should’ve been in my self-esteem
class. And Maria? I think I graduated her too early from self-esteem class....
MOORE: You mean Daria had low self-esteem?
O’NEILL: Daria! She did. I’m not sure about now. I think
she was just scared for herself and her sister when she shot Matthew, but
people who get guns are said to be insecure.
O’NEILL: Oh, no. I don’t think so.
O’NEILL: <Laughs disarmingly> Oh, Antonio? Oh, no,
he would never do anything like that... I think.... he’s the only one with the
qualifications that was willing to take the job. And it’s only temporary. Some
say he’s a bit too brash, but many in
O’NEILL: Uh, I don’t know. You’d have to ask him.
O’NEILL: I think he said something regarding that about
‘not opening himself up to temptation,’ so I think he wouldn’t.....
O’ NEILL: I don’t think so. We certainly haven’t had any
more problems. You know, for someone who isn’t trying to scare people, you sure
are making me very nervous.
O’NEILL: But....<sighs> Oh, never mind. It’s hard to
think about. You know..... <O’Neill stiffens, then sobs> It’s.... just
so.....hor-hor-horrible!
<We see
MS. BARCH: Who are you and what are you doing to my
Skinny, you, you MAN!??
MS. BARCH: I comfort him, you disgusting male! God, you
even look like my ex-husband, all sloppy and scraggly and filthy and fat.....
<Ms. Barch reaches for O’Neill and yanks O’Neill away from
MS. BARCH: There are too many men here!!! And look
at the shooters, they were nearly all men! Even in the Old West is was the
same, just like today. Guns were everywhere, but the violence was concentrated
where the young men were, you filthy male. It’s not gun control we need, it’s
testosterone control!!!
MS. BARCH: Daria? One of the better students here not
always trying to please the men around her.
MS. BARCH: Daria? Hmmmm..... doesn’t matter, sleazeball.
So what if she doesn’t cater to you men!? Is that such a threat!? And if so
many men are bigger and more violent than decent folk not tainted with
Y-chromosomes, then it just proves how much foresight Daria had to get a gun. I
wouldn’t expect the male-dominated system to stop that stalker hunting Quinn!
Not when you men stick together when you’re not shooting each other a part!
MS. BARCH: She saved several lives, including her
sister’s. I bet that’s more than you’ve ever done! Stop trying to destroy that
girl, who had sense enough to cap one of you violent males! Why do you have to
come here and upset my Skinny and everyone else, you lying piece of garbage?!
MS. BARCH: You...You... VILE CREATURE!!!! <Punches
Moore who falls over and then Barch runs away as O’Neill falls on floor.
O’Neill sits up and crawls against wall where he continues to cry.>
MS. BARCH: <comes running back with a gun in her
hand> Here, you man, Daria was right, use your own phallic symbols against
you! DIE, FILTHY SCUM!!!!!
MS. BARCH: <sweetly> It’s okay, Skinny, I got rid of
him for you!
O’NEILL: <face expressing horror> But,
Jan-Jane-Janet..... you have a gun!!! <Another brief sob>
MS. BARCH: Oh, this, don’t worry about it, Skinny!
<Barch pulls out a Virginia Slim, puts it in her mouth, uses the gun as a
lighter, and puts it away. She takes a drag off cigarette.>
MR. DEMARTINO: <off-screen, but we soon see bottom part
of Mr. DeMartino standing over Barch and O’ Neill> Mr. O’Neill and Ms.
Barch! I should fire the BOTH of you! But seeing how he should never, EVER come
back under ANY circumstances, I think I will be LENIENT and ignore your
handling of the situation, especially as he was not AUTHORIZED to be here at
ALL!
O’NEILL: Uh, Thank you. I had just finished up making my
lesson plan for the week and was just leaving when he accosted me, Andy!
MS. BARCH: Let’s go, Skinny. You can take me to that Thai
restaurant again.
O’NEILL: <gulps> Sure, Jan, er, Janet. Whatever you
say.
<Anthony turns grumbling and stomps away. Camera
switches off.>
CHAPTER 16
---------------------------------------
03/22/01 THURSDAY 5:30 P.M.
-----------------------------------------
Daria, wearing a sun hat, sun glasses and Jane’s red
jacket, entered Pizza King with her friend. So far, they had managed to ditch
the one reporter that had recognized Daria, though he was no doubt looking for
them if he had recovered from the kick Daria gave his ankle.
The freaking friends were comforted by the normal smells
of baking pizzas, but unnerved by how all conversation stopped. They could
barely make out whispers as everyone pretended not to be watching them.
“I don’t think this is such a good idea, Jane,” said
Daria, her voice shaking just a little.
“Come on, amiga,” said Jane, “That’s just the sound of
respect. We can have any table we want. Want Britney’s table? Just ask her if
she’s willing to die for her table and see how fast she offers it to you.”
“Jane, that’s not funny!” Daria said that with more heat
than she meant to put into her voice. She suddenly found Mrs. Brand’s words
haunting her.
“Relax, Daria. This will all pass, once they get use to
seeing you again.” Jane hoped she was right. She knew that only some students
acted as if they believed the reports that Daria had been trying to start a race
war. More students actually made fun of the news heads on TV, mocking them
mercilessly, sometimes with absurd caricatures.
“Daria!” This was from Jodie, sitting with Mack at a table
not far from them. “Why don’t you sit with Mack and me?”
Jane turned to Daria, smiled reassuringly and walked over
to Jodie’s table. Daria followed.
“How are you two doing?” asked Jodie, when they sat down
across from Jodie and Mack.
“I’m just surprised you’d want a racist like me sitting
with you,” said Daria sullenly. Mack and Jodie seemed a little taken aback.
“Look, Daria,” said Mack, “Unlike many people, we can
judge the facts for ourselves. It’s obvious they’re blackballing you.”
Jodie pulled out a piece of paper. “Here, Daria,” she
said, “My dad asked me to give your sister a copy of a letter to pass on to
you, but she’s been acting a little too strange for me to trust her with it.”
“Thanks,” said Daria taking the offered page. “What’s it
about?”
“Something he sent to one of his newsletters after they
printed a short blurb about you.”
“What did the article say?” asked Daria. She recalled her
mom saying Mr. Landon had promised any support of her defense that he could
manage.
“It barely said anything. But what it did say is not
something I’m going to repeat, as I try not to spread what I know is a lie.”
Jodie handed a piece of paper to Daria. Daria took it,
skimmed the unimportant stuff and then read the content of Mr. Landon’s letter
to the editor:
“I see that you were quick to assume Daria was a hateful
right-wing racist (as if you can’t be one without being the other), but did you
even look into these reports at all? I’ve personally met Daria Morgendorffer
and found her a polite, pleasant, intelligent young lady. Furthermore, she
saved my daughter’s life.
”My daughter is good friends with Daria and confirms my view that such
reactionary claims about Daria are spurious. Even prejudicial. And would you be
so quick to claim racism if the wounded black boy (my daughter’s boyfriend) had
been the one to stop Matthew’s would-be morning of terror?
”False claims of racism hurt the rest of us. Let us not lessen the impact of
our experiences of racists and racism in society by allowing it to be turned
into an ad hominem attack by those who would exploit such claims against those
they oppose for their own political agendas that have nothing to do with
combating racism.”
Daria
blinked a few times and then handed it back. “Thanks.” She didn’t sound
sincere, but she was.
“No problem,” said Jodie, who understood. “He said there’s
a good chance they’ll print it, too. He also said that you did the right thing.
You saved your sister’s life. Matthew is the murderer here, not you. Thanks to
you, no one other than Matthew was killed.”
Daria looked down at the table. Then she looked back up,
deciding to change the subject until she could deal with her feelings. “Oh, by
the way,” she said, “did you hear? Yesterday, some muckracker investigating the
shooting got arrested for sexually harassing Mr. O’Neill AND Ms. Barch, at the
same time.”
“Really?” said Jodie, sounding disturbed. “I can’t imagine
why anyone would harass either.”
Mack laughed. “Barch? Barch!? Oh, man, I would’ve loved to
have seen that!” Mack kept breaking out in snorts and laughter as he thought
about that.
Daria shrugged. “It’s just what my mom said. She heard
this from her District Attorney friend. The guy had stopped at my house a
couple of nights ago to talk to me and Mom had to call the cops on him.” She
shook her head. “Mom didn’t think he was a reporter 'cause he looked like a bum
in need of a haircut and a shave.”
Jane grinned then. “I think I saw him myself the day
before,” she said. “Looked like a bum. Asked me a bunch of dumb questions,
thought Daria was a racist and stuff.”
“Oh! We saw him, too!” said Mack. “He had a beard and wore
a baseball cap?”
“That’s him,” said Jane. “He do get around, don’t he?”
“And he tried molesting Barch and O’Neill?” asked Jodie
shaking her head. “Well, he did put a hand on Mack. I just thought he was being
sickly sweet or something.”
“Way too familiar to someone he had only just met,” added
Mack.
“He counter charged that Ms. Barch assaulted him and even
shot at him,” said Daria casually, “But all Ms. Barch had was a lighter gun,
and he wasn’t supposed to be on the school grounds anyway. Mr. DeMartino even
backed their story.”
“Wow,” said Jodie, “If Mr. DeMartino backed Ms. Barch,
then it really must’ve been his fault.”
“The cops took the camera for evidence,” continued Daria.
“I heard they gave it back to him and charges were dropped when he dropped the
counter charges, paid some fine, and left town.” She smiled. “They don’t know
if he’s gonna keep working on his so-called documentary or not, but no one
doubts he’s going to leave
“He’ll be back,” said Jane. “But what a business. Make
people pay money to leave
“You wouldn’t have to bribe ME to leave
Daria was back in full control of herself, and she smiled
as she remembered her mom telling her, the night after she got out on bail, not
to get any ideas of taking the Lane car and trying to make it to
If any reporters were at Pizza King and had penetrated the
thin disguise, none took photos of such an “unlikely” meeting. It was maybe an
hour later when Jane asked Daria if she wanted to get home first.
“No,” said Daria, “I’m going to catch hell for this, so I
might as well get all I can out of it.”
“That’s the story of my life,” replied Jane.
So it was Casa Lane that Jane and Daria went to, but both
stopped upon entering, wide-eyed, as they heard Trent’s hammering away at his
guitar, wailing away at some new song:
“....No rhyme or reason, Insanity is always in season,
They took you away, using laws so profane, my guitar I’ll play, to ease my
pai-ai-aine!!!”
“Wo,” said Jane, “Trent is reaching new heights
of.....whatever.”
Daria nodded, and they both headed to the basement to get
a closer look.
“Under the gun! Under the gun! I wish you could stay, but
armed men took you away, and you’re under the gun! Under the gun!”
Here,
“Jane! Daria! How long have you been there?”
“We just got here,
“I don’t know. I think this stuff really inspires me.”
“I’m out on bail,” said Daria.
“Cool,” said
“Daria and I are going to watch Sick, Sad World.
Come join us when you’re done,” said Jane turning away, pulling Daria away.
“Okay,” said Trent casually, as he took the guitar off and
finished his cappuccino in one last gulp
After getting some more cappuccino from the kitchen, Jane
grabbed the box of tin foil and they went up to her room.
“What’s with the foil?” asked Daria, as they got
comfortable on the bed
“Making beanies,” replied Jane, turning on the TV with the
remote.
“Why?”
“For what’s coming on Sick, Sad World later.”
The theme music for Sick, Sad World came on and
Jane turned it up with the remote.
A young boy on a farm calls out, “Luuuuuuuckyyyyy!” He
smiles and holds his arms out. His smile is replaced by uncertainty and then
screaming as a rottweiler attacks him.
“Dog days ahead, thanks to the NRA! But bad Luck for Jimmy
next on Sick, Sad World!”
Daria cleared her throat. “I don’t think I’m in the mood
to see anything about the NRA. Not even on Sick, Sad World.”
“Relax, Daria. That’s the National Rottweiler Association.
Remember, we saw a report about them earlier on Animal Maulings?”
“Ohhhhh. All right then.”
Jane handed Daria a beanie. After a moment, Daria shrugged
and put it on.
They continued to watch with serious expressions as
several rottweiler attacked people. Then a few minutes later, Daria began to
see into her friend’s twisted mind. An old but dignified man in the process of
running papers through a shredding machine was talking into the camera. The
caption read “Real Life Cancer Man, the Council on Foreign Relations.”
“Why do people always blame us for what’s going wrong in
the country? Who provides so many jobs, low taxes, accurate media, and good
Republican and Democratic candidates to choose from on election day? The CFR!”
“But don’t those people suck?” said a woman with an
accent.
“What!?” said the old man. “You’re fired!”
“You can’t fire me,” said the woman, “I don’t even live in
America.”
“If I don’t own your company yet, I’ll own it soon just so
I can sack you!”
“Uh, I meant no disrespect. Go on with what you were
saying.... sir.”
“Yes. As I was saying, everybody else seems to think that
if you’re a white person that owns several corporations and politicians, you
must be corrupt. It makes me glad my friend owns the federal agencies and law
makers, or we’d probably be outlawed tomorrow.
“But you people seem to think all we care about is money
and power. It’s not true, I tell you! Don’t we megacorporate power players and
elite politicians who do so much for all you little people deserve a break for
once?”
“I’m convinced,” said Jane, as the show went to
commercial.
“Good,” said Daria, “but which one of his corporations
should we buy stocks in? Or should we just contribute to his presidential campaign?”
“I don’t know,” said Jane. “Maybe if we hadn’t worn these
beanies, we would know.”
“I knew we shouldn’t have worn them,” said Daria as they
both took their foil beanies off and tossed them in a nearby trash can.
Sick, Sad World went to the eye in green, with the
voice going, “No one would stand between him and his girl--except the girl’s
older sister!”
Daria’s eyes went wide as she looked at the screen. Actors
with scarred faces and ominous demeanors were portraying Daria and Matthew as
gunfighters while tumbleweeds blew past them in the hallways of some shack with
a blackboard in the background. Each glared at the other with mean, narrowed
eyes as they waggle their fingers over a six gun at their side in their hip
holster. An actress playing Quinn hid behind Daria in fear; while other actors
portray students and teachers lying face down on the ground.
“School on the
“That’s it!” said Daria, turning off Sick, Sad World.
“But Daria,” said Jane, “Don’t shooters deserve a break
for once?” As Daria harshly glared at Jane, she threw her hands up and quickly
said, “It’s just a joke, Daria!”
Jane’s phone rang then. “Yo,” said Jane. Then she looked
to Daria. “It’s for you, amiga.”
Daria raised a brow as she took the phone. “Hi, Mom,” she
said.
“Daria,” said Helen, “I think you’ve been out long enough,
do you have ANY idea how long I’ve been calling to find out where you are?”
Before Daria could say anything, her mom continued with, “We’ll talk about it
later. Have you talked to any reporters?”
“Um, no,” said Daria. She didn’t think kicking one with
her Docs and running counted as talking. “We just had pizza and came here to
watch Sick, Sad World, just as I said.”
“Like you said to Quinn before you slipped out!” shouted
Helen crossly.
“You were busy,” said Daria, feeling her gut clench at the
tone. She knew there’d be hell to pay, but she had to get out if just for a
little while.
Helen sighed exasperated. “You can save your excuses. I’m
coming over to pick you up right now.”
“No, Mom, that’s....”
“Good bye!” said Helen, hanging up.
“Dammit!” said Daria handing the phone back to Jane.
“Well, Mom’s pissed.”
“
“And coming over to pick me up.”
“Oh, bummer,” said Jane with more regret.
“We don’t have much time,” said Daria quickly. “I need you
to get a message to you know who.”
Jane narrowed her eyes and started to refuse, but Daria
quickly laid out what she wanted. Jane felt sadness at what she heard, but
promised to pass along the message her dear friend had given her. She hugged
her fiercely when Daria’s mom knocked loudly on the door of
CHAPTER 17
------------------------------------
03/23/01 FRIDAY 5:45 P.M.
--------------------------------------
Scott and Quinn had just ordered at Chez Pierre. Quinn was
relieved that she could talk her mom into letting her go on this date, after
she promised not to ask her for a gun for another week and that she wouldn’t
talk about the case with anyone. Her mom almost changed her mind over “her
part” in Daria going AWOL yesterday, but she convinced her mom that she had
understood that Daria had already gotten permission to go. And, in the end,
when Helen remained stubborn, she'd threatened to break down into tears.
She was lucky. Her mom didn’t know that Scott had been
friends with Matthew. Quinn was sure her mom wouldn’t let her go if she knew,
even without the incident of Daria making her so mad. Her mom was bad enough as
it was, and had first demanded she be home by 6 P.M. by the absolute latest,
though she finally talked her into making it 7 P.M.
She smiled slightly at Scott; his blue eyes worked well
with his blond hair. His clothes seemed a bit more geared to someone going to a
job interview, but Quinn didn’t mind. She was just trying to give herself, as
well as Scott, a little closure, and maybe to show that Matthew had no control
over her. She would not live in fear because of her dead ex.
Taking a sip of her water, Quinn asked, “Just how well did
you know Matthew, anyway?”
Taking a sip of his own water, he pursed his lips and
thought before answering. “I’m not sure, Quinn,” he finally said. “If you asked
me that a month ago, I would say pretty well. But after all that’s happened,
and everything that came out.... I don’t really know how well I knew him.”
Quinn nodded her head in understanding. “I know what you
mean. I knew so little about him, really, but I didn’t even think about all the
stuff I didn’t know until... recently.” Quinn cleared her throat a little and
took another sip.
Scott smiled shyly. “Did you know Matthew wanted to be a
chemist?”
“No,” said Quinn, surprised.
“He did,” said Scott. “Though he thought about joining the
police, too. He wanted to be a member of a bomb squad.” When he saw Quinn blink
at that, he added, “Matthew loved knowing how things worked. I think that’s why
he liked drugs, too. He liked watching how chemicals affected people,
physically and mentally. And maybe for the sense of power, too.” He shrugged
his shoulders.
“The drugs had power over Matthew, not the other way
around,” said Quinn calmly.
“Maybe,” Scott allowed. “He said taking a little could
help him study and do his, um, job on the side. But I think he started taking
too much.” He shook his head, and his voice wavered just a bit. “He and I were
gonna go to Middleton together, using the money he made from his, uh, hobby. He
said he could pay for himself going through the police course that Middleton
teaches there, or to learn chemistry more and try for a scholarship at a better
school.”
Quinn shook her head. “He never told me any of that,” said
Quinn. “He just bragged about how much money he was getting, what he was
getting away with, and the things he could get me.” Not to mention
threatening me, she added silently.
“Yeah, he could be private sometimes,” Scott allowed. “But
he didn’t want to be trash like his family. I’m sure you heard all that crap on
the news about his dad and all. Matthew wasn’t into that kind of stuff at all.”
He frowned. “I mean, you never caught anything like that from him, did you?”
“Of course not,” said Quinn. She didn’t tell him about the
political forces at work behind the news reports, as she didn’t fully
understand it, and she wasn’t supposed to. In fact, she shouldn’t be talking
about Matthew at all, Quinn suddenly realized with a guilty start. So she tried
changing the subject. “What did... I mean, what do you plan to do after graduation?”
“Me?” asked Scott. “I’ve always wanted to be a mechanic. I
got the touch for it. I can usually tell what’s wrong with a car just listening
to it.” He smiled a little as he added, “I worked on his Pontiac Firebird and
my Ford Mustang both.” He frowned a little. “But you have to be careful about
driving such cars around
“Does Middleton teach about cars and stuff, too?” asked
Quinn, smiling encouragement at him.
“Oh, yeah,” replied Scott. “They got a full automotive
department. I’m in luck there.”
“I’m sure you can still go,” said Quinn in a hopeful tone.
When she saw him staring down at the table, she added, “I mean, can’t you?”
When he nodded his head, she felt uncomfortable as she realized he must be
dealing with Matthew’s death still.
“Quinn,” Scott finally said in a voice that revealed
uncertainty, “I.... could you look at some poems that Matthew left me?” When
Quinn looked uncertain herself, he spoke faster, “I never did make sense out of
them, and ever since.... the incident.... I’ve been going through them over and
over. Something was eating at him. I don’t think it was you, but maybe you
could help me figure out what it was.” He stared down at the table.
Quinn smiled tentatively. She wanted to comfort him a bit,
but she really wasn’t interested in whatever Matthew had left Scott. “Scott,”
said Quinn softly, “Matthew was on crystal. He was an addict and getting worse.
That’s all there is to it.” Quinn couldn’t help but marvel at the seriousness
and clarity in her voice, and she felt both grief at innocence lost and pride
in wisdom and maturity gained.
Scott shook his head, only barely looking up toward her.
“No,” he said firmly, “he wasn’t.” When he saw Quinn’s skeptical look, he
sighed and said, “Okay, he was. But there was a reason he gave himself over to
those drugs, a reason for why he hurt me.... hurt you.... hurt both of us. I
want to know why my friend threatened to kill me!”
Quinn shook her head saying, “It was the crystal, and
maybe his family.....”
“Please, Quinn,” whispered Scott intensely, as he moved a
hand toward her own, touching her fingers, “just look at them. I need to know
what you know so I can... put it all behind
“All right,” said Quinn resignedly, “let me see them.”
Scott perked up a bit. “Well.... um, I didn’t bring them
with me,” he said. When Quinn blinked at him in confusion, he clarified, “I
didn’t even think of having you look at them until I heard you describing a
side of Matthew I didn’t see until the day he... snapped.”
Quinn sighed. “I don’t think there’s any help, Scott.
Neither you and I can do anything to undo what he did except go on with our
lives.”
Scott squeezed her hand slightly. “But I want to know,
Quinn. I want to know why he betrayed me, and betrayed you. I don’t think it
was anything I did. I don’t think it was anything you did. You’re probably
right about the crystal. But I need to know, Quinn, that it wasn’t my
fault. Can’t you please look at what he wrote and tell me that it’s not our
fault?”
Quinn gritted her teeth a bit. She didn’t want to see what
he wrote, see anything that would remind her he was a human being with a heart
of his own. But she didn’t want to leave Scott to the pain of not knowing...
and her own pain at a rejection that came when he had hit her, and then tried
to kill her.
“Bring them to school on Monday and I’ll look at them,”
said Quinn.
Scott shook his head. “I don’t want to bring anything on
school grounds where it can be taken away. Look, it’s short. You can probably
go through it in like five or ten minutes. Okay?”
“I don’t know,” Quinn began, shaking her head no.
“Five or ten minutes, and then you tell me if anything
makes sense. If not... then tell me something later if something becomes clear.
I just need to know, Quinn.”
“Okay,” said Quinn tremulously. She smiled nervously back
at Scott when he grinned at her.
Their dinner arrived shortly after, and they mainly talked
about school while they ate.
“Oh, hi, you’re Quinn Morgendorffer!” A dark hair woman,
probably mid-30s, was standing over them at their table now. No one ever did
this to her before, and she found she didn’t care for it. This woman wasn’t even
fashionably dressed, though she was passable enough for Chez Pierre.
Quinn frowned without realizing it and shrugged her
shoulders. Then she remembered to smile, but she made sure it was a distant
smile. “Yeah.” Go Away, Quinn added silently.
“Quinn, I heard about everything that happened. We all
support you!” Her eyes treated Quinn like she were a celebrity.
“Really?” Quinn smiled a little more warmly, but she still
felt tense.
“Who’s this? Your new boyfriend?” The woman was now sizing
him up, seeming to memorize him for some reason. This bothered Quinn for some
reason she couldn’t put her finger on.
“We’re just friends,” said Quinn. Then considering Scott’s
feelings, she added, “for now, anyway.”
“Well, he is handsome enough!” she said smiling at him
that made Quinn start to feel a little territorial, despite herself. “You
should go for it before someone else picks him up.”
Scott frowned, too. He didn’t like women this forward. It
was disrespectful. “Thank you for your support, but we’re trying to have a
private conversation.”
Quinn hid a smile. That may have been rather direct, but
so was this woman who intruded without invitation. “Yeah. We’re talking about
something personal. But thank you,” said Quinn, allowing the woman a chance to
withdraw gracefully.
The woman lost a little of her smile, but leaned forward
as she said in a confidential tone, “I have experience as a counselor. If you
need to talk to someone, I can help.”
Quinn shook her head no.
“Anytime, then,” said the woman who would not leave. “Let
me give you my number.” She pulled out a pad of paper, scribbled on it, and
then handed it to Quinn. It said, “Mary Bentliff,” with a phone number on it.
“Call me if you need to talk, Quinn. I’ve been in some rough places and tight spots
myself.”
“Um, sure,” said Quinn. She sagged somewhat in relief when
the woman finally retreated. Then she looked at Scott who was staring at her
smiling mischievously and she smiled back.
“I wanted to ask her,” said Scott calmly, “if she was standing
in for my grandma. She acted so much like her.”
Quinn laughed politely. “I’m just glad she’s gone.”
“Speaking of gone,” said Scott, “you ready to leave?”
Quinn nodded and Scott took the ticket to figure out the
tip. Quinn felt uncomfortable as she noticed several people were sending
guarded looks their way that seemed to question and speculate. She wondered how
many were talking about her and Daria.
Scott came around and held a hand out. Quinn got up
herself, but did grab his hand before she did it. This was the expected
response, and she was glad that Scott seemed to have better class than Matthew
did. Unless Matthew taught him everything I showed him, thought Quinn a
bit nervously.
She was glad they were leaving. Once outside, she noticed
it was starting to get dark, and a few cars on the road were already using
their lights.
Back in Scott’s Mustang, Scott asked, “Hey Quinn, can I
see that number that woman gave you?”
Quinn shrugged and handed it to him.
“Thanks,” he said, and dropped it out his window. “I hate
her perfume, and that paper smells like it. That’s better.”
Quinn laughed politely again, but was a bit uncomfortable.
Then she noticed the woman who had given her the number coming out of Chez
Pierre. She didn’t seem to see them at all as she went to wherever her car was.
“They probably kicked the bitch out for smelling the place
up,” said Scott with some dark, possibly even cruel, amusement.
“I wonder if she got stood up?” said Quinn out loud. The
idea of going to Chez Pierre to eat alone was very strange to her. Chez
“I’d stand her up,” said Scott as he started up the
Mustang.
“You’d tell her you’d go on a date with her?” asked Quinn
teasingly.
“If it were the only way to get rid of her, sure,” said
Scott as he pulled out. Once on the street, he turned on his radio and turned
it up when one of his favorite bands came on with Greed..
Two faced!
I feel you crawling under my skin
Sickened by your face
By the way, to think that you're so fucking kind?
You ain't!
Hard to find how I feel, especially when you're smothering
me
Hard to find how I feel, please someone help me!
I knew when an angel whispered into my ear,
You gotta get him away, yeah
Hey little bitch!
Be glad you finally walked away or you may have not lived
another day
Quinn was finding the song was messing with her mind. “Um,
Scott?”
“The music bothering you?” asked Scott loudly to be heard
over the music. Seeing Quinn nod her head, he flipped it off and didn’t seem to
mind. “That was just a little Godsmack is all.”
A few minutes later they were pulling into the driveway at
his house. A one story house Quinn noted critically to herself as Scott came
around to her door, and there was another car in the driveway that didn't look
so good. So how was able to afford the Mustang? Quinn frowned momentarily
before she dismissed it as something unimportant for the moment. It was unimportant
at the moment, and the other car might look a lot better in some real light.
She let him open the door for her and help her out. Scott
knew what Quinn liked. Maybe she would consider him for a boyfriend. She
frowned momentarily when she remembered Matthew knew she liked this treatment,
too, and wondered what secrets about her that Matthew had shared with Scott. Or
if he had exaggerated his “sexploits” with her as guys were said to do.
They went in. The house was silent. Scott turned on some
lights and went over to a countertop in the kitchen and picked up a note card
of some kind under a light already turned on over the sink.
“Dear Scott,” he read, sounding oddly amused, “Will be out
for the night. Don’t wait up for me.” He threw it into the trash and then
turned to Quinn who stood in the doorway to the kitchen. “Mom’s gone. Want some
wine?”
Quinn shook her head no. “Nothing, thanks. You wanted to
show me some poems?”
“Just one drink, Quinn,” said Scott. “I need it.” He
opened the fridge. He pulled out a can of beer that said Budweiser on it. “I
love cold beer. Do you?”
Quinn shook her head no again, and Scott remembered
Matthew said Quinn was hard to get to drink. When she did drink, it had to be
something fruit flavored. For some reason, she thought wine coolers were
nonalcoholic like root beer. Scott dug out a strawberry wine cooler. His mom
would be pissed at his taking that, but so what?
“Here, Quinn, have a wine cooler. I want to make a toast
or two. Or three.” He seemed to find the comment he made to be funny and
laughed a bit.
“Wine coolers have alcohol in them,” said Quinn. “My
mom.....”
“You mom will never know,” said Scott, letting the
refrigerator door close and walking up to her. Quinn apparently knew they had
alcohol in them now. Oh, well. “Look, just a drink. You don’t have to have it
all. Just a sip when we toast. Okay?”
Quinn shook her head no again. Scott rolled the cap off
and handed it to her again. Quinn put up her hand to stop him, but he pressed
the cold bottle into her hand. Finally, she clasped her hand around it. She
thought she could use a drink anyway. When Scott smiled, she asked, “What do
you want to make a toast to?” She forced a little laugh out herself.
“To us,” said Scott. “We were hurt by our mutual friend,
but we survived, and will continue to survive!”
Quinn clanked her wine cooler against his can of Bud and
took a drink. She licked her lips to get the bit that didn’t make it in her
mouth. She wondered if alcohol counted as illegal drugs since she was underage.
She normally didn’t like feeling of being out of control when she had these,
though. She was prone to crying jags that messed up her makeup.
But half a bottle won’t hurt me, thought Quinn as
she took another sip. She did like the taste. She frowned again remembering
that Matthew knew she liked Strawberry wine coolers until she found out they
were alcoholic. How much did Scott know?
“To new hopes, new days, new experiences,” said Scott
holding his can toward her.
Quinn tapped her bottle to his can and drank again. She
smiled slightly and held her bottle up. When Scott raised his brows, Quinn
said, “To the phoenix that rises from her ashes, may we find new strength and
hope!”
Scott seemed to like her toast, for he clanked his can to
her bottle a little more forcefully and took a longer drink. So did Quinn.
“To good memories rising out of the bad, like spring out
of winter!” said Scott. Another clink and a drink. Then Quinn realized she had
drank half the bottle and suddenly got a little nervous.
“Oh, Scott,” said Quinn as she realized she had drank
nearly half the bottle. “I’d better stop. If I drink the whole bottle, I’ll
feel it!”
“That’s the point,” said Scott, before holding up his can
again. “To not living in fear!”
Quinn smiled tolerantly at him and completed the toast.
But before he could declare another one, she turned around and asked, “So
where’s your bathroom?”
Scott quickly passed her. “This way,” he said. Quinn
followed him through the front room into a hallway. A bathroom was right in
sight once you went in. It was better quality than she expected, even having
two door in it. She closed the door behind her and freshened herself up and
checked herself in the mirror. She even took a minute to reapply a bit of her
makeup before she went back out, remembering to pick up her wine cooler just as
she went to leave.
When Quinn turned off the light on leaving, she noticed
nightfall had fully come and suddenly found herself hoping she would be going
home soon. She took another drink without thinking as she opened the door to
the hallway.
She saw a red and black light on in one room down the
hallway. Looking down the other way a moment, she saw one room looked like a
home office right by the bathroom and a room with a closed door was way down to
the other end of the hall.
Heading towards Scott’s room, she saw there was a dark
bedroom opposite of his, but she didn’t even look in it as she entered Scott’s
room.
Like Matthew’s room, he had posters of sports cars and
naked centerfolds, one with twins that suggested a lesbian theme, on the wall
that she studiously ignored, except to hate how much thinner than her they
appeared. There was a bed by a chest of drawers, and a desk in front of the
window looking out into the front yard. His room wasn’t entirely tidy, but not
as bad as Daria’s.
“So, um, where are the poems?” asked Quinn.
“One last toast,” said Scott holding up the beer can. “You
might be glad for it before you see them.”
“Um, okay,” said Quinn nervously, raising her wine cooler.
“To us,” said Scott. “Now, big drink.” He finished off his
can and tossed it in a can with the pic of a football player on it. Quinn just
took a single swallow and he frowned when he saw that. “Come on, Quinn, finish
it off. It’s a good toast.”
“No thanks,” said Quinn. “I’ve had enough. I really don’t
handle alcohol well.”
“The reason,” said Scott coming closer, “that you don’t
handle alcohol very well is because you almost never drink any.” Scott was
right by her looking down into her eyes and he smiled. “How are you going to
handle all those college parties and socialite dinners if you can’t even finish
a single drink?”
Quinn smiled back nervously again and took another
swallow. “I’ll have the rest of it just before I go,” lied Quinn as she put it
on Scott’s desk.
Scott took another step to be right by Quinn. He leaned
down to kiss her and Quinn dodged out of the way. “I’m sorry, Scott,” said
Quinn, “it’s just.... I’m not ready for anything yet, you know what I mean?”
She hoped she wasn’t hurting his feelings, but she really wanted to go home
now.
"You were ready enough to go out with me, so soon
after your sister shot Matthew." There was an edge to his voice.
"Um....yeah," said Quinn, feeling a prick of
fear. "And I think I was wrong on that. I mean I had a nice time and all,
but I would like to go home now."
Scott shrugged and said, “Okay. But before I show you the
poems, I wanted to ask you. Is it true that you and Daria plotted to kill him?”
“What!?” asked Quinn in stupefied shock. “Of course not!
We’re not drug dealers or racists or Nazis or anything else the news keeps
saying! Please believe me, Scott!”
Scott nodded his head. “I believe you.” Then Scott’s face
scrunched up as if he didn’t fully believe her. “Except I don’t know how Daria
knew to have a gun the day he went to kill the two of you. That doesn’t make
any sense. And a lot of people are acting like you and Daria really do have
connections. I really don’t know what to think, Quinn. So what’s the deal with
you and your sister?”
“Nothing, Scott,” said Quinn with some exasperation.
“Daria won’t talk at all.” When Scott kept looking at her, Quinn crossed her
arms and said, “Look, can you just show me the poems or take me home, please?
I’m supposed to be home already.”
Scott nodded and went to the head of his bed. Reaching
between the mattresses, he pulled something out and pointed it at Quinn.
Quinn looked closely at what he had and then her eyes
widened.
A gun! Not as big as Matthew’s, and a caliber of some kind
instead of a revolver, but Quinn was suddenly groaning, terrified, her mouth
dry.
“Why?” she stammered.
Why what, she didn’t know. Why was this happening to her
over and over again, why was everyone pointing guns at her, trying to make her
do things she didn’t want to do, even make her die.... why everything. But all
she could verbalize was why.
“Why?” said Scott, “because I don’t see how his bitch
of a girlfriend and her sister could stab him in the back, turn him in, and
then shoot him dead in the hallways when he tried to get you back. But too many
think there’s more to it than that. A guy was asking me about you, too. So even
though I know most of what I hear is bullshit, I’m sure there’s something going
on. You and Daria rip him off? Huh?”
Quinn shook her head no, saying, “N-no! Why, why.....”
“Why, Quinn?” Scott repeated, “’Because Matthew was my
friend. And my partner. And I know you held drugs for him, and I think you and
Daria were a part of something bigger. And I want to know about it, Quinn.
Dealer to dealer, or whatever you and your sister are.”
Quinn thought fast. This time, she wasn’t cry like a baby.
Not like in the hallways of Lawndale High. She had learned how to defend
herself. But WSD Class hadn’t taught her how to handle a gun pointed at her.
Why couldn’t Mom let me have a gun!? shrieked Quinn
silently, not thinking about the problem she’d have at getting to it right now
if she had one on her. Quinn shook her head. “No,” she said in a tiny voice
that pleaded for mercy, “it was nothing like that.”
She screamed as Scott lashed out at her with the gun in
his hand. Pain blossomed on the side of her head and she fell down crying. Even
so, she fought the urge to beg him not to shoot her.
“Don’t you fucking lie to me, bitch. I swear to god I’ll
blow your fucking head off!”
“Please,” begged Quinn. Damn, she already lost, but she
didn’t say it all.
As Scott reached for her, Quinn shrieked and tried to jump
up to run, but before she got up, she was knocked back against the wall as
Scott kicked her in the head. She fell on her hands and knees, with the room
jumping about her. Then Scott kicked her again, this time in the abs, and Quinn
suddenly knew terror as she realized she couldn’t breathe.
What she now realized with utter despair as she fought to
take a breath is that her self-defense class never taught her how to make your
muscles stop shaking in fear, how much more force and experience a violent male
could put into his own attacks, and just how unthinkable it was for her to do
the same acts of violence.
She couldn’t even breathe! She just gasped, and she felt
her angel coming for her. She knew she was going to die here tonight, if she
could feel Buffy coming for her. But she still tried to suck in air as Scott
grabbed her hair and dragged her to the bed, while she clasped at Scott’s arm
clumsily.
Scott slung her on the bed and Quinn finally realized she
was breathing again. She gasped over and over again, sucking in air. The room
still wobbled slightly and she feared she might throw up before she caught her
breath again. She was pathetically grateful that she had already peed in the
bathroom just moments ago, because if she hadn’t, it would’ve been one more
humiliation now. She wondered how many more humiliations she would endure
before he finally killed her.
She knew she was going to die. Otherwise, why would her
angel be here waiting for her? And she knew her angel was here, because it was
a feeling she could feel down to the very core of her being. She was comforted
by her angel’s presence, though still very scared of what else she would face
before she died.
Where are you, Buffy!?, Quinn mentally shrieked, I’m
so scared!
I’m here Quinn, replied Buffy’s alto in her mind, I
will help you with what you need to do.
But her sense of hopelessness began to be nudged aside by
growing rage as she saw the utter contempt Scott had in his eyes as he looked
down at her. At the moment, he was even pointing the gun to the floor as his
face was twisted in disgust. Then Quinn realized she had been sobbing
uncontrollably, blubbering wordlessly, even saying Buffy’s name out loud once,
with tears and snot running down her face, and the taste of blood in her mouth.
Scott pulled open a drawer and threw down a stained shirt.
“Here,” he muttered, “wipe off your face and shut the fuck up before I just put
you out of your fucking misery.”
He couldn’t believe he'd heard a story about how she beat
up Upchuck. Granted, Upchuck was a pussy that was probably trying to hide his
homosexuality, but he knew now the stories were greatly exaggerated. Like
many others probably are, thought Scott with contempt in his eyes as he
watched Quinn clean herself off. But he had to know, and then he had to have
his revenge.
She'd seemed as shell shocked as the rest of the school
after he threw those fireworks in the hall, too. A little message from him that
just because Matthew was dead didn't mean they could live without fear of
retaliation from his friend. It was perhaps the most eloquent funeral speech that
would be made on Matthew's behalf, directed at the rest of the world that had
stolen his best friend away. His loathing of Quinn and Lawndalians in general
now oozed out of him, and he savored Quinn's terror.
Quinn finished by using part of the shirt to blow her
nose. She hiccupped at Scott, “Can’t I please go home, now? I really don’t
know.....”
“Shut the fuck up!” Scott was pointing the gun at her
again. This felt so much like her nightmares that she wondered briefly if this
were a dream. But, no, the gun was different enough and the pain was very real.
This was really happening to her. Again.
He grabbed her hair again and shoved his gun to the side
of her head. She felt the barrel pressed against her temple. She instinctively
grabbed at the hand holding the gun, muttering, “Please, Scott...don’t.”
“Do you want do die, Quinn?” Scott said that so calmly.
“N-no, Scott, please....” Quinn’s tears began in earnest
again, her voice pleading once again.
“Then let go of my hand.” Scott was still very calm.
That’s when Quinn recognized she could feel where Scott’s
index finger went into the trigger. Before she allowed herself to think of it,
she stuck her index and middle finger (middle catching momentarily) behind the
trigger. Then completely focused on Scott, she screamed and brought the heel of
her hand to the side of his nose with crashing force.
Scott jerked away, barely saving his nose, and tried to
pull his pistol with him. But Quinn twisted the gun against his thumb, the way
she had learned how to break out of an assailant’s grip in WSD Class. The gun
was suddenly in her hand and for a moment Scott, who was grabbing at his nose
and face with both hands, and Quinn, who now held the gun, were equally stunned
by this sudden change of events.
Scott lunged back towards Quinn, but he felt too much fear
to go as fast as he should. Quinn adjusted her grip and pulled the trigger. A
huge report filled the room, ringing in both of their ears. Scott ducked, but
he also came close enough to hitting Quinn that she pulled back a little,
missing Scott only by a small margin.
Scott kept low as he turned, and took off for the door.
Quinn felt heat and liquid on her hand. She realized her finger was bleeding,
and she didn’t know why. But she saw Scott up and running and she pointed the
gun in his general direction. Screaming, she pulled the trigger again and again
and again, the reports echoing loudly off the walls. She was still half
sprawled on Scott’s bed and she got herself up.
This wasn’t another nightmare. This was real, and the gun
worked! She was through running and crying and depending on someone else to
save her. She went to the door, ready to shoot in case Scott was going to try
to jump her. She shut his door and found there was a lock on it. Another thing
about the real world is that locks worked so much better than in nightmares.
She turned the lock and then went to the window, the gun still in one hand.
My purse, thought Quinn. She moaned when she
remembered it was in the bathroom! Her phone was in her damned purse! She
looked around and didn’t see a phone and she didn’t have time to ransack the
room. She had to act, now!
She went to the window and shrieked when she saw there
were clamps screwed in, locking it shut. She didn’t have a screwdriver on her
and she wasn’t about to look for one in his room. She briefly thought about
shooting the window out but didn’t know if it would work.
Quinn shivered at the thought of having to face Scott
without a loaded gun. She knew he was way too strong and capable for her to
take on with nothing more than her fists and her fearful fury. The gun in her
hand was now her most precious personal possession because it turned the odds
in her favor.
She went back to the door and listened. Then she shut the
lights out and gave her eyes a minute to adjust to the dark. She was going to
have to run and she wanted to be able to see. Finally, she slowly unlocked the
door and opened it slightly.
When no explosive force came, she stepped back and let the
door come open. Quinn was on one knee with the gun pointed in front of her. She
listened and heard him in a distant part of the house, but she couldn’t tell
what he was doing. She took several deep breaths and prepared to run.
Quinn hopped out of Scott’s room, back on one knee, the
gun pointed out in front of her. Quinn heard an ominous KER-KLATCH and she
instinctively ducked and rolled into the other bedroom as a huge explosion and
flame came from the dark room at the end of the hallway, the door now opened.
The report was deafening, louder than even the gun Matthew used at Lawndale
High.
What the hell was THAT!?, Quinn thought, even as
she knew: Another gun, probably a shotgun! Quinn wondered what would’ve
happened if she hadn’t rolled out of the way and shivered.
Making a keening noise, she quickly shut the door of this
room with both hands and again twisted the lock on the doorknob. She went to
the window without turning the lights on. Again, through the streetlights
shining in, she saw the damned clamps keeping it shut and bit back a scream of
frustration.
“Please, Buffy!” whispered Quinn, “help me!”
She moved back towards the door but stopped as she heard
Scott right outside.
“Open up the door, Quinn, or I blow you the fuck away!”
Quinn said nothing, but went prone on the ground, leaning
on her side, and kept the gun pointed roughly at the door. Her tears began
again, but she made no noise this time.
The door made a splintering noise as Scott hit it with
something heavy and Quinn barely kept herself from crying out.
“QUINN, GODDAMIT, OPEN THE GODDAMN DOOR OR I’LL BLOW IT
AND YOU THE FUCK AWAY!” His voice was almost guttural, ringing with power.
Quinn almost obeyed it in the mad hope for his mercy, but instantly stopped
herself.
Quinn was so terrified. But she crept forward a bit, and
hoping, she fired a shot at the door. Would it go through?
Scott was cussing, and it sounded as if he ran.
It was a bluff. It had to be. Why would Scott run when he
had her cornered? Did she dare wait him out?
Quinn crawled up the door and looked under it. No sign of
him. She could definitely hear him back wherever he was when he had first shot
at her.
Maybe he had run out of bullets? If she had run
immediately the first time, she might’ve made it out. She wasn’t going to wait
again.
Taking deep breaths and fighting the instinct to hide, she
opened the door and came out shooting in the direction of the bedroom,
screaming after the first shot was out of her gun. She saw some kind of closet
light was on in the room down at the end of the hall, but no Scott. She kept
firing in a mad panic as she made it to the bathroom at the opening into the
front room.
Then just as she was by the bathroom, she heard an ominous
silence from the gun. Her ears were still ringing from the shotgun blast and
her own screams, and she hoped that silence didn't mean what she think it
meant--that the gun in her hand was now an inert piece of metal, just like in
her nightmares. She never knew how horrible silence could be.
She remembered the bathroom had a small window that she
couldn’t possibly squeeze through. Could she yell for help or use her phone?
What if the battery in her phone was dead again? Did she dare depend on someone
else to save her again?
Quinn heard Buffy in mind say, Run, Quinn, run away
now!
Then she saw Scott standing in the far bedroom, aiming a
long gun at her. “Drop it, Quinn! NOW!”
Quinn held up her hands and let the gun drop from her
hands. Then she ran into the front room for the first door she saw: A door that
went into a fenced back yard, but there was no furniture between her and it.
She heard Scott yelling and running after her and Quinn started screaming
herself.
She heard him behind her, closing in, as she unlocked the
door and ran out to the gate. As she undid the gate she heard Scott making it
outside, or maybe Matthew’s ghost, running behind her to catch up. Would he
shoot her? Quinn would just keep running if he did.
She only made it a few steps out of the gate when Scott
ran into her, knocking her down. Scott fell and rolled past her himself, but
Quinn didn’t have a lot of options at this point. She was pretty much cornered,
and if she tried making it back into the house, he’d catch her.
They both got to their feet staring at each other, his
face full of rage, her own full of terror. The look on his face said he would
kill her. That’s when she noticed he no longer had a gun.
Where’s his gun!? thought Quinn, a little confused.
Did Buffy take it from him? It was a small blessing, however, whatever
the reason for it. His mass and fury and willingness to use violence made sure
he still had the definite advantage here.
Quinn crazily thought Scott looked vaguely like a Velociraptor
from that movie Jurassic Park as he continued to slowly move in close to
her. A car drove by and she opened her mouth to scream, but it passed too
quickly. Scott leaped at her. She turned to run and he quickly caught her,
throwing an arm around her neck.
Without thinking (which would have undone her), Quinn
threw her head back as hard as she could and felt violent contact with his nose
and mouth. Scott screamed. His grip loosened. She reached up and grabbed one
the fingers around her throat, and yanked it backward. Scott screamed again.
Quinn twisted out of his grip.
“YAH!” Quinn screamed herself as she kicked at Scott’s
knee before letting his finger go. She didn’t connect in the way she wanted to,
but he still lost his balance, falling to one foot with a scream, a puff of
mist coming out of his mouth in the chill night air of March. Again, Quinn was
off running, trying to get around the car.
She made it around the front of the car and took off with
a new burst of speed. Scott moved to catch her, not by going around but by
cutting Quinn off as she passed his mom’s car. As long as Scott could hold both
sides off, Quinn was effectively trapped, unless she wanted to climb a fence or
run back into the house.
Quinn felt Scott grab at her as she made it by the hood of
the Mustang, but she mostly shook him off. Mostly. He did get a grip on her
left arm. She instantly turned and brought the heel of her hand against his
face, using another scream, and then kicked at his knee again.
Before her foot could connect, she felt Scott’s fist
connect to her face and she went with the blow, turning away. Unfortunately,
Scott still held her arm, and that blow cost her as she momentarily tried
getting her balance and fighting posture back. Too late, she tried twisting her
arm against his thumb to escape. Scott closed in on her again.
She dodged the next blow, but he closed in, fearing her
escape. She felt her back crash into the Mustang as Scott shoved. Quinn’s knee
jerked up to Scott’s groin, enough to make him cry out in pain and he bent over
some. Then Quinn brought both elbows down on Scott’s arms and he lost what
little grip he had. Quinn brought one arm back and then lashed out at Scott’s
throat with the heel of her hand. She got more chin than neck, but it knocked
him back enough for Quinn to get away.
Quinn had only taken a few steps when Scott’s bulk
collided into her again, sending Quinn crashing into the Mustang’s trunk and
then falling to the ground. Screaming, Quinn brought her exposed side up into
the elbow-hip-knee triangle that she'd practiced in WSD.
Scott, who was already pouncing on her, quickly tried
guarding all his sensitive spots instinctively, having made the shocking
realization that Quinn knew how to hurt people. The result was that he crashed
to his knees, only to be kicked in the face by her (a good blow, but he’d been
hit just as hard by a guy’s fist once before) just before she rolled away from
him and started to get back up.
Scott desperately grabbed at her to keep her on the ground
and out of the direct light of the street light so his superior strength could
have the desired effect and he could proceed to knock every damn tooth out of
her mouth before killing her.
His clumsily grabbed her, but he couldn't get a firm hold.
Scott finally grabbed her hair and pulled just as Quinn grabbed one of his
fingers (unknowingly, the same one she had grabbed before) and twisted it back.
Both screamed as Scott pulled Quinn’s hair and Quinn bent
Scott’s finger backward.
Quinn’s vicious scream echoed off the walls. Two neighbors
inside their home had no idea what they heard, only it sounded scary. “LET GO
OF MY HAIR, FUCKER, BEFORE I BREAK YOUR FUCKING FINGER!”
Scott had never imagined Quinn could talk like that. But
then he'd never known she had any idea how to fight, either.
“Let go of my finger,” shouted Scott, real pleading in his
voice, “and I will!” Then he screamed again as Quinn bent it back more. He
released her hair and started begging in a sobbing, high-pitched voice, “Leggo,
leggo, leggo!” Over and over, sounding almost like a child.
Quinn was now on her feet with Scott’s finger locked in
her merciless grip. Scott, on his knees before her, mewled pitifully as tears
and snot ran down his face, with a bit of blood from his nose and mouth, turned
an odd color by the street lights. Both of them exhaled large, fast puffs of
mist.
Quinn remembered when their positions had been reversed,
and the fury she had felt at the contempt in his eyes. He'd tricked her,
betrayed her, played on her sympathy, tried to get her drunk, made her disobey
her mom, mocked her good nature, and had tried to kill her AGAIN. Remembering,
she almost rammed his finger back to break it. Almost. But even now, she
couldn't be that much like him. She wasn't Matthew, dammit. She made sure he
couldn’t hurt her, and held on.
As if waking from a dream, Quinn’s familiar thought
processes slowly began to resume, and she marveled at what she had done. She
had defended herself! Part of her was exuberant, but another part of her was
still scared. She knew this wasn’t over.
Can I run now?, Quinn wondered. She didn’t dare go
back into the house to get her purse all by herself. And then as she thought of
running for the nearest pay phone, she imagined him going back to get the gun
and then coming after her in his Mustang. She tried to imagine where the
nearest phone would be, but she didn’t know this neighborhood at all.
Quinn was thinking about going door to door until she
found someone who would hide her and call her mom and the police when she heard
another car behind her. Unlike the first car, this one stopped.
Then red and blue lights began flickering behind her, but
she kept her eyes on Scott who was on his knees sobbing in a wordless shriek
now, helpless in her grip. She heard a car door open, and a ker-klatch like she
heard before. Strangely, the sound just made Quinn more angry instead of
afraid.
“I’m an officer and I’m armed!” shouted an imperious
voice. “Let him go!”
Scott continued screaming, irritating her ears. Slowly,
Quinn turned her head. She had to squint to see a policeman behind a patrol
car, pointing a shotgun at her. She heard sirens approaching.
Quinn let Scott go and jumped away from him as he fell
prone, still screaming.
“DON’T MOVE!!!” shouted the cop, his threatening tone full
of dire implications.
As Scott just lay on the driveway, now sobbing instead of
screaming, fully illuminated by the flashing red and blue lights, Quinn turned
around, put both hands on her hips and demanded, “Just whose side are you on
anyway!?”
“Don’t Move!” repeated the cop, “and put your hands where
I can see them!”
Quinn imperiously stuck her nose in the air in a gesture
of contempt, while keeping her hands on her hips, and stared down the barrel of
the third gun pointed at her in the last few minutes. “You can see my hands
just fine where they’re at!” she said, contempt dripping from her voice.
“I’m not fucking kidding! Put your hands up or I’ll
shoot!” The flashing red and blue lights, mixed with the adrenaline in her
system, made Quinn feel almost as if she were in a dream.
“Ooooh!” shouted Quinn, “join the club!” There was real
rage in her voice, and her hands stayed defiantly on her hips. This was THE
worst date she had ever been on!
“Goddammit!” shouted the cop, obviously taking real aim
down his shotgun at her.
She looked over her shoulder at Scott. He was in a fetal
position on the cold driveway in the flashing lights, the hand with the finger
she bent held up in the air like a claw and his other hand holding his crotch,
and still crying audibly. She glanced back uncertainly at the cop.
Another cop car showed up then, lights and sirens blazing,
and another police officer exited the vehicle, pointing a service pistol in her
direction. A spotlight from that car was quickly aimed at her, making her turn
her face from that glare. She could tell others were very near from the sirens.
Grudgingly, Quinn raised her hands. She noticed then that
her finger was still bleeding, from the first time she had fired Scott’s gun at
him. “My finger’s bleeding,” said Quinn loudly, “Do you have a Band-Aid?”
The search and arrest happened soon after. The one
searching her did look at her hand and asked her what happened.
“I don’t know,” said Quinn. “It started bleeding the first
time I shot the gun at Scott.”
“Finger was probably too close to the ejection port,” he
said. “The casing cut you.”
“Oh,” said Quinn. “I never shot a gun before. My mom’s
going to let me learn to use one, though.”
For some reason, the three cops nearest her, including the
one looking at her finger, broke out laughing. Then the one looking at her hand
put a bit of gauze and a sticky strip around it. But then she had her hands
cuffed behind her and she was put in the back seat of a squad car. As she
relaxed, a huge lethargy came over her. She leaned her head against the car
window, only partially looking at the police going in and out of Scott’s house
and Mustang, while other were around Scott. The places where she had been hit
and kicked were starting to throb with a painful vengeance.
She vaguely wondered how badly her makeup was messed up. Is
there blood in my hair?, Quinn wondered as she recalled hitting Scott's
face with the back of her head. She could taste a little blood in her mouth
from when Scott hit her in the face with his gun, but she didn't think she bled
outside of her mouth. She could definitely feel herself swelling up in many
places. With my light complexion, she thought, I'm going to look
REALLY bad.
Then she frowned in renewed interest as she recognized the
woman that had interrupted her date with Scott earlier. Here she was with a
camera around her neck, and what appeared to be a tape recorder in her hand. A
damn reporter. Quinn felt a sense of betrayal over this, but she realized it
was unimportant.
She saw another car drive up and a man looking vaguely
familiar got out. He went inside the house. Moments later, he returned with a
couple of cops and got Quinn out of the back seat. A female officer said she
needed a “breathing sample” and had her blow into a device. Quinn had to do it
twice. Then she left.
The man turned to the reporter who was taking pictures of
the test Quinn was just taking. “Excuse me, ma’am,” he said polite but crisp,
“you need to distance yourself from the scene of the crime.”
“Just one question, Detective Warner,” she said quickly,
“is the arrest of Quinn Morgendorffer related in any way to Jim or Matthew
Foster?”
“I said you need to distance yourself,” Detective Warner
repeated. The woman finally backed off, but only a little. Quinn was glad to
see she was almost as stubborn with detectives as she had been with her and
Scott.
Quinn loudly asked, “May I have my purse, please? I want
to call my mom!”
Detective Warner turned back to her, and she noticed the
familiar guy smiled coldly at her. Then she placed him. He was the one who'd
talked to her and Mom at Lawndale High on the morning of the shooting. He
simply shook his head now and said, “It’s being entered as evidence.”
“Evidence!?” shouted Quinn shocked. “For what!?”
“For what happened here,” he said gruffly.
“What.... Scott tried to kill me, that’s what happened!”
“Why would he do that?”
“Because Daria shot Matthew!”
“And you just tried to shoot Scott, didn’t you?”
“Yeah,” said Quinn indignantly, “after he beat the crap
out of me and tried shooting me first.”
“He shot first?” His brows raised unbelieving
“No,” said Quinn, “but he pointed a gun at me and beat me
up before I tried shooting him.”
“Why didn’t he shoot you when you got your own gun?”
“Because I took his gun away from him!” Quinn was getting
really sick of this.
“So he was unarmed when you fired upon him?”
Quinn suddenly knew fear again and swallowed. “He was
still attacking me,” she said, leaving out that he was running away for most of
the shots. “I’d like to call my mom now, please.”
He nodded. “I’m sure you would. Care to explain the booze
and drugs to me first, or to her?”
Quinn blinked in confusion. Her mom said not to say
anything about holding Matthew’s drugs under any circumstances. “There were no
drugs,” she said firmly.
Detective Warner smiled in genuine amusement, and then he
chuckled.
Quinn blushed and then remembered her mom said she was not
to talk to any adults about Matthew, especially cops, without her present.
Remembering that now, she blushed harder. She was going to be in big trouble.
“I want a lawyer,” she said in a much more subdued voice.
Detective Warner laughed out loud at that. “I see you took
lessons from your older sister, but you ain’t her.” Warner, shook his head in
genuine amusement, knowing he’d crack this meth whore in no time.
Quinn suddenly remembered Scott claiming to be “partners”
with Matthew, and her eyes bulged open as the implications became clear to her.
She swallowed as her gut clenched in panic as she repeated in a weak voice, “I
want to call my mom now.”
Detective Warner frowned as he remembered Mrs.
Morgendorffer and that she had to be allowed to be present during interrogation
of Quinn, since she was still a minor. He gritted his teeth as he wondered if
Quinn’s admission to attempted murder (or at least attempted voluntary
manslaughter) would be inadmissible in court.
I can still have Scott Rhodes testify against her. Have
them both testify against each other, unless they do what I want, decided
Detective Warner.
Deciding on a course of action, he casually pointed at
Quinn and told another officer, “Take her down to the station and give her the
breathalyzer test. Get a urine sample, too. And I’ll want to talk to her within
the hour, or as soon as Mr. or Mrs. Morgendorffer can make it down there! Try
to get the father down there without the mother if you can. And I want the
suspect here scheduled to take a lie detector test, ASAP!”
Lie detectors were useless except for detecting stress,
but with Mrs. Morgendorffer watching for anything she could use against him,
the bitch, he’d have to use such desperate measures to attain a conviction.
Then he walked over to where Scott was now sitting up but
obviously in worse shape than Quinn. He knew Scott was supposed to be under
surveillance. They knew he had helped Matthew get the gun into Lawndale High.
This suggested a possible involvement with Matthew’s other illegal activities.
The drug and narcotic field tests just done within the
The more important reason that Scott Rhodes was under
surveillance was that they had knowingly watched Matthew Foster go into
Lawndale High with a gun. A gun he’d smuggled in with the aid of Scott Rhodes.
Now they needed a legitimate reason to get a warrant without revealing their
other information.
The
They could still get him on purely circumstantial
evidence, but it was just too risky in terms of losing the case. That could
lead to their mistake coming to the attention of the public, which would then
lead to mass firings, law suits, disbarment for Fillman, and possibly even
criminal charges and disgrace for himself.
Especially when it came to light that he and two other
officers on the scene had watched the two boys enter the school and then
refused to go in to stop Matthew until after a tac team had shown up. And that
they'd sent the tac team in while they waited safely outside.
Roger Fillman had agreed it was too risky. Better to wait
for
At least Roger Fillman will be happy to learn we not
only caught Scott Rhodes with the drugs without anything coming to light about
our connection to the incident at Lawndale High, but that we busted Quinn
Morgendorffer with him after she took part in another drug related shooting,
he thought happily.
What Detective Warner did NOT know was where the officers
assigned to watch Scott tonight were. There’s going to be hell to pay over
that, he told himself.
What really disgusted him was that it was the damn
reporter on the scene now who had followed Quinn and Scott to the
But Quinn knew nothing of this as she was finally placed
back in the squad car. She wondered why Detective Warner seemed so pleased to
be arresting her. She couldn't understand why the reporter was focusing on
taking more pictures of her being put in the car before she went to get a clear
shot of the police with Scott.
Quinn didn’t know what was going on exactly, but she had a
strong feeling that she, like Daria, was now totally screwed.