Good Intentions

A Daria fanfic by E. A. Smith

Timeline: this fictakes place late in the third season

"Oh, Daria, can I speak with you for a minute?"

The halting, effeminate voice stopped Daria dead in hertracks, even as it gave her feet the urge to dash forward. Dammit, I almost made it out. Shelooked to her side and saw O'Neill beckoning to her, even as the rest of theclass rushed out the door. Seeingthe smiling face and vacant eyes, she could feel her shoulders slump as sheresigned herself to the inevitable interaction.

"Hey, Daria," said Jane, standing at her side, "were youmaking paper airplanes in class again? You promised me we would work on the nuclear-tipped ones together."  The jibe gave Daria's spirits a briefuplift.

"Not yet. I'vestill got the uranium purifying. Our clients deserve only the best."

"Well, just remember to use the good stuff.  We don't want those Libyan terroristscoming after us again." Jane hikedher bookbag higher up on her shoulder. "See you after math class. Remember, don't look him directly in the eyes!"  This last was a parting shot as shewalked out the door, leaving Daria alone with their English teacher.  He pulled out a brochure from his deskdrawer as Daria approached.

"Daria, I'm so glad we have the chance to talk," O'Neillbegan, his voice vibrating with what Daria assumed was the closest his hourlydose of lithium would allow him to get to excitement. "I've just found out about a wonderful opportunity for youto further develop your writing skills, a chance for you to travel higher onthe road to literary excellence in both an academic and a collaborativeenvironment." He handed her thebrochure, upon which was printed Young Writers Conference and Seminar,Baltimore, MD. "It's a chance for you to learn from many of the top writersof our area, as well as to meet many of your fellow young writers. You can listen to real publishedauthors talk about their road to success, as well as have your own work heardand critiqued – but not too harshly! – by other authors your own age.  Doesn't it just sound fantastic?!"

Taking a cursory scan of the paper, Daria had to concedethat the idea had potential. Sherecognized many of the listed speakers as actually good authors from in andaround the Baltimore area, some of whom she personally enjoyed.  And she wasn't so arrogant as tobelieve she was the only good student writer around; the idea of having herwork appraised by other talented writers was very appealing, since her work wasusually only appreciated by Jane, and not always by her.  It didn't look like such a bad way tospend a Saturday. Nevertheless,she did her best to hide her interest. No reason to let O'Neill think he might have actually hit upon a goodidea. That will just encourage him.

"I suppose I could borrow Dad's car for a Saturday," shesaid in monotone.

"Oh, no, Daria," O'Neill replied. "This is a school-sponsored event. You have to be accompanied by an approved educationalsponsor." The warm flush ofinterest drained from Daria's body.

"You mean, you would have to take me."  Her voice was now not just monotone,but dead flat.

"Yes, Daria. Isn't it great?! I want totake you, along with my other most promising writer. To join you both in your great journey of inward discoveryand development. Won't that befun? A special experience just forthe three of us!"

Other promising writer? Oh, dear god, don't let it be Quinn! "Don'tmost male teachers get ten to twenty for having special experiences with theirfemale students?" Daria grinnedinwardly as O'Neill's face turned five different shades of red in as manyseconds.

"Oh . . . ah . . . well . . . um . . . that's not really thekind of special experience I mean . . ."

Daria let him stammer on for a few more seconds before herconscience got the better of her.

"It's fine, Mr. O'Neill. I know what you meant." She didn't know whether to feel relieved or even guiltier athis own massive sigh of relief.

"Oh, that's good, because you know I would never make anyunwelcome advances, Daria. I fullyrespect your body and your personhood and your right to define your ownpersonal space and would never think of violating it. But, you know that if anyone else ever disrespected you insuch a fashion, that you could come to me and -- "

"Yes, I know," Daria butted in, hoping that she would neveragain hear the words I fully respect your body come out of any teacher's mouth. "About this -- " she continued, waving the brochure. "I don't know.  I'm usually really busy on Saturdayswith schoolwork."

"Oh, please, think about it. It would be such a great growth opportunity for you."

"I'll think about it," she said. It did still sound like a great idea, if she could manage toditch O'Neill and this other student. O'Neill almost bounced up and down with joy.

"That's so great, Daria, really! I just know you won't regret it if you go.  Maybe we can even make this a yearlyevent for us. The student writerand her mentor, studying annually at the feet of the masters."

"I just hope they've been washed," Daria replied.  The likelihood of her accepting theoffer had taken another big step downward. "I have to be off to my next class now.  DeMartino hates it when we'relate." Daria exited quickly,sliding the brochure into her jacket pocket. I don't know if I could take a day with O'Neill, butstill . . . it might be fun.

*  * * *  *

"I think you should go for it," Jane said as they trudgedhome from school.

"Are you sure?" Daria replied, raising an eyebrow.  "It means a day with O'Neill, not tomention whatever other Lawndale High student he's pegged as having'potential'. Remember, this is thesame man who gave Quinn an 'A' for 'Academic Imprisonment'."

"Just do what I did that time we had to ride home with himfrom the theater – jump in the back seat and pretend you can't hearhim. If you're lucky, the otherstudent will be riding shotgun, and O'Neill will spend the whole time pesteringhim."

"Jane, when am I ever lucky?"

"Then you'll still just have to deal with one nitwit, nottwo. Maybe the other rider will bea cute senior." Jane's grin wasevil.

"Riding with cute boys in the backseat is more Quinn's lifethan mine." A nagging worry in theback of Daria's mind surfaced again. "This other writer had better not be Quinn. That essay still haunts me."

"Why would it be? She hasn't done anything brainy since then." Jane shrugged. "I'd say you scared her back into the fashion fold pretty thoroughly."

"You make it sound like a bad thing."

"You put Quinn in her place, regained your status as thebrain of the school, and all was right with the world.  Works for me. But if you're so worried that it was Quinn, why didn't youjust ask?"

"I should have, but I decided instead to take the perfectopportunity to make him squirm instead."

"Good opportunities should never be wasted."

"Well, it backfired on me a bit, but it was still worthit." Even with the aftermath,though, Daria still relished the memory. "But you're right, it wouldn't be Quinn. Even if he asked her, she would never say yes, and waste anentire Saturday on something as geeky as a writer's conference."

"Whereas you, on the other hand, have nothing better to doon a Saturday. You might as wellspend it at a writer's conference, rather than in your room plotting worlddomination, or watching Sick, Sad Worldat my place."

"Getting tired of my company?"

"Not until something better comes along, which ithasn't. But seriously, I reallythink this would be good for you. I've told you before, I believe in a community of artists, and youaren't going to get that here in Lawndale. In fact, I might be spending this summer at an artist'scolony myself."

"You're going away for the summer? Who's going to hold me back when I finally go after myfamily with an axe?" Daria wasn'tcertain to what extent she was kidding. Now that she had her, the idea of a summer without Jane was appalling.

"I don't know," Jane replied, looking a little guilty.  "Maybe. I haven't been accepted yet. And you're right, a whole summer is a very long time.  But if I do go, it won't be to get awayfrom you, but to bask in the glow of my fellow artists.  A whole summer of talking art withpeople who don't look at me sideways when they see my work."  Jane's lips turned up slightly at thecorners. "It's a great feeling,believe me. This is your chance toget the same thing, even if it's just for a day. You're always saying how you can't wait to get out of thistown and around some people who actually appreciate intelligence.  I can't believe you're not jumping atthis chance."

"You're starting to sound like O'Neill."  Daria smirked, to let Jane no that noreal insult was intended.

"Except that he's excited just on general principles.  I, on the other hand, know what I'mtalking about. Go, mingle,learn. Ditch O'Neill and the otherstudent if you can, and if you can't, have some fun messing with their mindsbetween lectures. Or find someonemore interesting to spend time with. It shouldn't be hard. Youknow you want to."

She's right. I really do want to go. Whyshould I let O'Neill scare me away from doing something I might actuallyenjoy? I've never been taughtwriting by someone who actually knew what he was talking about.  Here's my chance to learn and improvemy craft. I shouldn't pass it up.

"OK, you've convinced me. My plans for world domination will have to wait.  I'll tell him tomorrow that I'm going."

"That's great, Daria," Jane said with genuineenthusiasm. "I don't think you'llregret it."

"But if that other student turns out to be Brittany," Dariasaid, "you're paying my therapy bills."

*  * * *  *

The chilly Saturday morning air rushed Daria from the frontdoor of her home into the back door of O'Neill's car, her face and eyes loweredagainst the wind. She droppedherself into the empty seat and faced forward, quickly noticing that the onlyoccupied place in the front of the car was behind the steering wheel, whereO'Neill was glancing at her through the rear-view mirror, his mouth alreadyassuming a vacuous smile of welcome. She could feel a presence beside her, and knew that she had not been solucky as to be the first on O'Neill's route, to claim the rear forherself. She turned to ascertainthe identity of her so-far silent fellow passenger.

"Stacy?" Dariablinked in surprise. "Stacy Rowe?"

"Oh, hi . . . Daria," Stacy replied hesitantly, eyeswide. She bit her lower lip.  "Um, Quinn's . . . cousin, right?"

"Something like that," Daria said, not able to keep thesneer completely out of her voice. Of all the people . . . I would never have guessed her.  Isn't there some Fashion Club meetingshe's missing, or something? Justhow low are O'Neill's standards, anyway? Do I really want to know? This conference suddenly seems a whole lot less appealing.

"You two already know each other?" said O'Neill from thefront. "That's fantastic!  My two favorite writers are alreadysimpatico! Are you ready to beginyour voyage into a whole new world of self-discovery?"

I'm going to be getting it from both sides today, aren'tI? I don't think I can takethis. Rats, the car is alreadymoving; no getting out now.

"I'm sorry, I can't hear you." Daria raised her voice for that extra bit ofverisimilitude. "It's too noisyback here!" Hopefully that willkeep him quiet for the rest of the trip. But what about her .  . .

"I just want to tell you that I loved the story you read atthe coffeehouse last year." Stacy's earnest comment caught Daria off-guard.  Of all the things she had expected tohear from Quinn's pig-tailed friend, that was the lowest on the list.  She was so surprised that, for a fewseconds, she was speechless. Stacylooked at her a little funny.

"Oh . . . ah . . . thank you," she finally stammered out, inher uncertainty going with the safe and expected reply.

"It's too bad that all those jocks rioted and the place gotshut down. Sometimes, jocks canjust be so . . . stupid, you know?"

Should I tell her that was the reaction I was hoping for,and really freak her out? The idea had a sadistic appeal, but she had heardQuinn talk about Stacy in a panic, and she didn't think she was prepared todeal with a hysterical teenage girl. Besides, she was complimenting my work.  How big of a jerk would I be if I tooka potshot at her for that? And shedid say jocks are stupid, so maybe she's not all bad.

"Are you going to read another story today?" Stacy wenton. "They're supposed to haveworkshops where we read our stories to each other. I brought some of mine." She held up the notebook she had been clutching in her lap,it's dark blue cover bejeweled with sequins and little red hearts. Cute. All it needs is a unicorn standing under a rainbow. As amatter of fact, Daria had brought "In the Cards", the story she had written forO'Neill near the end of the last school year. Despite a certain sentimental tone, it was still one of herfavorites; she hoped to get some advice on how to reduce the sentimentalitywhile keeping the kernel of the story alive. "I hope they like them," Stacy went on, her expressiondarkening. "It would be horribleif everyone told me that my stories were awful and I had no talent."  Now tears started to form.  "What if they do, Daria?  What if everybody laughs at me, likeSandi does when I wear sandals with the wrong dress? What if I'm no good, Daria? I really, really want to be good at something .  . ." Her cheeks were nowcoated in salty tracks, and her voice choked. She buried her face in her notebook.

And the decent into hell begins.

*  * * *  *

It took most of the trip to get Stacy calmed down, Dariaawkwardly patting her on the back and offering half-hearted assurances thateverything would be alright, with O'Neill providing what support he could fromthe front seat. Eventually thetears stopped flowing, by which time her mascara was running and her makeupsmeared, leaving Stacy looking like some demented clown.  The only way they could calm her downthen was to pull over and let her in the front, where she could meticulouslyfix herself up by the visor mirror. Finally left blissfully alone in the back, Daria spent the rest of thedrive into Baltimore perusing the schedule of talks in the brochure, mentallychecking off the ones which seemed the most interesting and useful, planningout her day.

When they arrived at the convention center, O'Neill went tosign them in, leaving Daria and Stacy standing briefly alone in the enormous,high-ceilinged room, only partly filled with milling high school students.  Stacy edged slightly closer to Daria, anervous expression on her face as she looked around at the room filled withstrangers. Daria had to fight anurge to edge away; she didn't want to set the girl off again.

"I didn't know there were so many young writers around," shetold Daria in a small voice. "Idon't know anyone else who writes. Well, except for you, of course, and that weird goth girl from thecoffeehouse."

"The rocks we all live under are in the unfashionable partof town," Daria replied. "We onlycome out into the light for conferences, coffeehouses, and alcohol binges.  Don't worry; as soon as this is over,we'll all go scurrying back under cover again."

"You don't really go on drinking binges, do you?"  Stacy's eyes were wide.  "I mean, you're unfashionable, but youalways seemed to be pretty together." Is that actually concern in her voice, or did I just freak herout? Daria sighed.

"No, Stacy. Iwas joking. I don't drink or dodrugs. Nancy Reagan would be soproud." Please don't ask me whothat is.

"I'm glad to hear that," Stacy said, and it seemed to besincere.

O'Neill chose that increasingly uncomfortable moment to makea reappearance, two rectangular pieces of paper stuck to his left hand.

"I've got both of you registered, and here are your nametags. . ." He waved thepieces of paper at them, and peeled one of them off his left hand with hisright. For a split second, he madeas if to place the tag on Daria's chest, but then his hand froze as he realizedwhere it was headed. He swallowedheavily, and looked uncertain. Before she had to deal with yet another breakdown, Daria yanked thesticky square off his fingers and slapped it on her left breast, noticing thatit was emblazoned with the name "Dora". Now, what shall we name the other one? she thought. Stacy did something similar, but with agood bit more grace. Her name, Daria noted, was technically correct, butspelled "Stacie".

"Now, we're all ready!" O'Neill said, waving to his owncartouche. "There's so manyinteresting talks to choose from. It's all so exciting! Oh,look, they've got Honeytree Jones talking on "Finding Your Inner Poet".  I just love her books; they're soinspiring."

"Then go, be inspired," Daria said, not daring to hope thatgetting rid of him could be that easy. O'Neill looked off to the side, then back to Daria and Stacy, andrepeated the motion several times, his face drawn.

"But I don't want either of you to feel abandoned.  The loss of an authority figure can besuch a traumatic event in the life of a young woman. I would hate to be the cause of some later neurosis."

"Don't think of it as abandoning us," Daria replied, feelingthe muscles in her eyes wanting to roll. "Think of it as pushing us out of the nest so we can learn how to fly,like a mother eagle." Daria had tofight hard to keep the sarcasm out of her voice, and she didn't think she wasfully successful.

"Oh, Daria, that was so beautiful!" O'Neill gushed.  "I can see you've already found yourinner poet, so you free me to find mine. I feel much better about it now. I'll see both of you later today." With a cheerful wave, he was off.

"Daria, that was so smart," Stacy said.  "You knew just what to say to make himfeel better."

"Really? Because I was going for just enough to make him leave." One down, one to go.

"So," Stacy said, looking over Daria's shoulder at theschedule, "where are we going first?"

We?! "Uh, Stacy, you know we don't have to sticktogether."

"I know, but I'd like to. You're a great writer. I'm sure you'll pick out some interesting speakers."

What is wrong with this girl? Can't she tell that I don't want her around?  Can't she just decide where she wantsto go on her own? The answer was all too obvious.  She couldn't, or didn't want to,decide. She wanted someone else todecide for her. Oh, god,I've become her new Sandi, at least for now. I'm not Sandi, goddammit! But Daria couldn't thinkof any way to get rid of her without absolutely crushing her, and she knew shecouldn't bring herself to be so deliberately cruel. So I guess I'm stuck with her for the day.  God, I hope she doesn't like to talkduring class.

*  * * *  *

Daria's prediction proved all too true.  At each lecture Daria attended –"Constructing Characters", "Science Fiction and other Fantastic Writing","Getting Published", "Humor and Story", and others – Stacy was rightthere beside her. Daria took everyopportunity she could to suggest that Stacy might find lectures of her ownchoosing to be more interesting, but each time Stacy demurred, stating that shetrusted Daria's choices more than her own, her abdication of responsibilityadding yet another level of discomfort to Daria's situation.  Several times, Daria wondered if Stacyhad ever made a single decision on her own in her entire life, or if she hadalways just attached herself to the nearest stronger personality to do herthinking for her – first Sandi, and now, under these circumstances,Daria. She wondered if Stacy wereever trapped alone on a desert island, if she would do anything at all.  A part of her really wanted to try theexperiment.

Still, it could have been worse. While she harassed Daria between classes with her constantbabbling, during the lectures she was very focused, paying close attention andtaking numerous notes. And thewhole time, she never said a single word about fashion, cuteness, orpopularity, spending all her words instead on the various writers she enjoyed– never had Daria heard so much discourse on Judy Blume – andrequests to Daria to clarify various aspects of the lecture they had justattended. Requests Daria felthonor-bound to answer, though she tried to do so as curtly as possible todiscourage further questions. Daria couldn't deny, though, feeling a certain amount of satisfaction inthe attention; a member of the school's precious Fashion Club was looking to her, the unpopular girl, for guidance.  It was a victory of sorts over theshallow values of Lawndale High life as usual. And once she began to get used to the constant stream ofverbiage, the attention just felt good, though she hated to admit it to herself. That didn't mean that the situation was in any way ideal,but there was a distinct silver lining she would not have predicted, especiallysince they were able to avoid O'Neill for the rest of the day.

Finally, at the end of the day, came the final workshop, thelynchpin of the entire conference. All the students were divided in groups of four and five, and eachstudent was to read a short work to be evaluated and critiqued by the othermembers of their group. Daria hadoriginally been looking forward to this, to both giving and receiving realcriticism with other writers, but as her day with Stacy had wore on, she hadbegun to dread it. She would beforced to listen to some doubtlessly dreadful piece of writing from her –"A Day at Cashman's", perhaps, or "The Day My Boyfriend Broke Up With Me"– and be forced to one of two choices, to either lie to preserve thegirl's feelings and ensure a pleasant ride home, or tell the truth and crushher. This was still Stacy, afterall, and even though she had not proven to be as odious a companion as she hadfeared, this was still the girl who would spend hours talking to Quinn aboutscrunchies and sundresses. So, asDaria and Stacy took their places in the circle of four, Daria felt a twinge ofreal resentment towards her companion, for spoiling an experience Daria hadbeen anticipating, even if Stacy had no idea what she had done.  She noted that Stacy was apparently evenmore nervous about the workshop, though; her face was white and her eyes wideas they took their places. Shelocked her gaze with Daria's in a plea for silent support, making Daria feelabout ten inches tall. How am Isupposed to be honest to that?  But if I just tell her what she wantsto hear, what's the point of all of this? Damn you, Stacy, I never asked for a follower!

Since Stacy was on the verge of a breakdown, and Daria wasstill trying to decide how to handle the situation, the other two members ofthe group presented their stories first. A smartly-dressed, bespectacled girl named Bethany read a poem aboutlove of nature, and a geeky-looking, rather scruffy boy whose nametagproclaimed him to be David read a sci-fi story. Neither were bad, though neither were brilliant either, andthe other members of the group spent about half an hour making suggestions forimprovement. Daria made a point oftoning down her usual sarcasm, more for Stacy's sake than for the others, andshe was relieved to see that as the discussion went on, Stacy slowly regainedher usual color, and even gained enough confidence to participate, though shenever said anything that was not positive. Still, Daria was encouraged that she did not react badly tohearing the gentle criticisms offered by the other members of the group. Hearing it about others isn't thesame thing as hearing it about your own work, though.

Next was Daria's turn, and she spent about 10 minutesreading "In the Cards", to a very positive response. David and Bethany thought that the story was touching, whichwas doubly reassuring to Daria, since they had no personal experience with herfamily. Stacy was the mosteffusive of all in her praise, which was coupled with a wistful smile thatDaria thought probably had less to do with the story and more to do with theportrayal of Quinn's future within. The other two agreed with her that the tone of the story was a bitsentimental, and suggested that it may have been better to not portray thefuture as so perfect, but as a whole, it was a success.

It was now Stacy's turn, and all the ease she had gainedover the past 45 minutes or so vanished. She opened up her notebook with trembling hands, thatcolorfully-decorated cover doing nothing to alleviate Daria's fears, and took afew breaths.

"I'd – I'd – I'd like to read a story called . .. um, 'Sisters'." She paused tosteady her voice. "I wrote itabout . . . well, I was going through . . . um, that doesn't really matter, Isuppose." She was clearlyterrified, and Bethany reached out and touched her knee in a soothinggesture. Stacy smiled shyly.  "Anyway, here it is." Here it comes. Dariabraced herself, not reassured by what already sounded like an overly-treaclyintro.

But, as Stacy read, Daria was shocked to discover that herfears were almost completely unjustified. Stacy's style was engaging and personal, drawing the reader in like anold friend, and her vocabulary was surprisingly strong for someone whowillingly spent time with Tiffany Blum-Deckler. Daria had to acknowledge that, in terms of style, Stacymight very well be her superior; she easily drew emotion from the reader thatDaria had to fight for. Even moreimportant, the story itself was powerful, and Daria could feel it tugging atthe heartstrings she thought she had cut long ago. She told of two sisters where the younger was always lookingup to the older, seeking guidance and advice, while the older simply used theyounger for her own ends. Dariacouldn't help but wonder if it wasn't derived from Stacy's own experiences withSandi, and if so, if Stacy knew it. It was a sad, lonely tale.

The story was not without its flaws, however.  In Daria's opinion, it veered too ofteninto melodrama, sacrificing believability for even more emotion.  It also had a tendency to wander andlose focus, diluting some of its emotional power, and the pacing felt a bitoff. Daria knew that these wereareas in which she excelled, so she felt confident in her judgment, if not inhow to let Stacy know. MaybeI'll be lucky, and the others will say it for me. I might still have to deal with a weeping Stacy all the wayhome, but at least my own conscience will be clear of it.

By the time Stacy was finished, Bethany was in tears, thoughDavid seemed a bit bored. Stacyhad gained confidence as she had read, becoming absorbed in her own work, butas soon as she was done she clutched her notebook to her chest and looked ateach of them, her eyes begging for approval.

"Oh, Stacy, that was beautiful," Bethany gushed through hertears. "That's one of the best,saddest things I've ever heard. They should make a movie out of it." Stacy nearly lept out of her seat to embrace the other girl.

"Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!" she said.  "No one's ever told me anything likethat about one of my stories before! I mean, Sandi always laughed at me for trying, and my parents are alwaystelling me that I'll never make any money writing. And O'Neill always told me I was good, but he says that toeverybody. Thank you!"  They broke the embrace after a few moreseconds, and Stacy turned to David and Daria for their opinions, her mouthtwitching between a delighted smile and a worried frown.

"It was OK, I guess," David said, still sounding bored.  Stacy's mouth began to twitch faster,and he quickly amended his statement. "I'm sorry, but it just sounded like a chick story to me.  I don't mean that it's bad; I justdon't feel qualified to comment because I just can't relate.  But I think your writing wasgood." Stacy nodded, seeming toaccept this, and turned to Daria. She was biting her bottom lip and her knuckles were white from clutchingher notebook, even more so than she had been for the others. Oh, great, it's my turn.  And she obviously values myopinion. What to say?  At least I can start with the positive;at least there's positive to start with.

"I think it was good, overall," Daria began, and Stacy'sexpression immediately relaxed. "Your style is easy to hear, and I imagine is probably easy toread. You clearly know how to tella story. I think that, on thewhole, based on what I've heard, you're a good writer, Stacy."  A huge grin split Stacy's face, and shemade to jump up and embrace Daria as well, but Daria held out her hand.  She sat back down, and waitedexpectantly.

So, do I tell her the truth? I think I have to. It wouldn't be right to hold back; that's the reason she's here, afterall. She's already been told bytwo of us that she's a good writer; hopefully, she'll be able to handle alittle criticism now. I have to beas gentle as possible, though.

"That being said, there are a few things that could beimproved upon." Stacy visiblygulped, but otherwise controlled herself. "You know how to tell a story well, but you seem a bit fuzzy on how toput one together." She went on tooutline, as dispassionately as she could, the flaws she had seen, and gave afew off-the-cuff ideas on how to improve them. To her credit, Stacy accepted the criticism in silence, withno hysteria or tears, even jotting down a few notes. Daria went on for a few minutes, and by the time she wasdone, it was time for the workshop – and the conference – to beover. Daria and Stacy said goodbyeto Bethany and David, Stacy and Bethany exchanging email addresses, then walkedout to the main foyer to look for Mr. O'Neill.

*  * * *  *

For much of the ride home, Stacy was uncharacteristicallysilent, looking out her window as Daria sat next to her, going over her notesfrom the various sessions. Shortlybefore reaching Lawndale, she turned her gaze over to Daria.

"Daria, can I ask you something?" Her voice squeaked slightly. Her face was so serious that Daria surpressed her usualsarcastic reply to such an inquiry, and gave a simple affirmative.  "All those things you told me that Icould do better in my stories . . . you're really good at those, I cantell. I've . . . um, always wantedto write a story with someone else. It seems like it would be a really fun thing to do, especially if theother person is a really good writer. Would you write a story with me? You could help me do everything right. I think we could make something really great."

"Stacy, I don't know if that would be such a good idea. . ." One daywith her wasn't that bad, but I don't want to always have to be watching what Isay so I don't freak her out. AndI have the feeling we really don't write the same kind of stories. Still,the idea of being a mentor did have its appeal. And she knew that, if Stacy could learn from her, she couldalso learn a few things from Stacy as well. But that wasn't enough of a reason to put herself through acollaboration.

"Daria, please! I could learn so much from you. I really want to be a good writer. Sandi's always telling me that it's a waste of time, that I should justworry about being cute, and that no cool boys will like a girl who writes, butthere were a lot of cute girls there today and some cute boys too, so that maynot be true. And I'm not reallythat good at fashion, I know, but I think I could be good as a writer.  Please, help me, Daria."

Daria almost turned her down a second time, but thensomething switched in her brain, showing her the situation in a completely newlight. That just may work.

"Sure, Stacy, I'll do it."

*  * * *  *

Daria lay sprawled on Jane's bed, remote in hand, idlyflipping through channels; Jane knelt close by, making a few finishing toucheson a sculpture, electric drill buzzing.

"So, you're writing a story with Stacy Rowe," Jane saidduring a lull in her drilling. Shecraned her neck ostentatiously to glare at Daria's neck.  "Well, I don't see any implants. Turn over, and let me check your other side."

"Just walk out to the sand dune out back and all will beexplained."

"I don't know if that's possible." Jane abandoned her work, and came to sit by Daria on thebed. "Is this the result ofspending too much time with O'Neill? Sudden burst of optimism and a sunny view of fashion drones?"

"It's shocking, I know, but Stacy's not that bad."  Jane cocked an eyebrow.  "She's no Steinbeck or anything, andher tastes are a bit melodramatic for me, but she's much better than I wouldhave ever given her credit for being. And she wants to get better, so she asked me to help her improve.  And, to be painfully honest, thelearning wouldn't be completely one way; there are even some things she couldteach me."

"Wow. Thehidden depths of shallow sycophants. Next on Sick, Sad World. But I'm surprised that you're evenbothering. Why go through thetrouble? Is she really that promising?"

"No," Daria admitted hesitantly. "There is something else."

"A-ha! Thehidden agenda comes out. This isall just a plot to irritate Quinn, isn't it?"

"That would be a nice side effect, but it wasn't what I wasthinking." Daria paused.  She had yet to speak this idea out loud,and was concerned that it could make her sound like either a nut with amessianic complex or just a complete dick. But if anyone would give her the benefit of the doubt, itwould be Jane. "I think this is mychance to deprogram a member of the Fashion Club." Jane's eyebrow now climbed almost to her hairline.

"I thought you gave up on deprogramming after your secondnight of babysitting for the Guptys?"

"That was a setback, true, but compared to this, the Guptyswere just practice." Daria's voicerose ever so slightly as she began to warm to her subject.  "After spending a day with her, I don'tthink Stacy really fits with the rest of the Fashion Club.  Most likely, she was looking for somegroup to identify with, and Sandi was the strongest personality around.  She's with Sandi because she thinks sheneeds her and that group, but I think she's denying who she really is.  If I can turn her into a good writer, shemight have the confidence to go it alone. Imagine what it would do for Stacy if I could break her away fromSandi's grip, show her all the other things out there besides clothes, make-up,and boys. There might be a realperson down there, hidden underneath the fashion drone.  She might find that she could beherself, and not just a clone." Jane looked suitably impressed, if not entirely convinced.

"I've never known you to be the crusading type.  What's with all the suddenaltruism?" The question took Dariaaback, and she looked a bit guilty.

"What you said about Quinn a few days ago made methink. Quinn's sudden supposedbrainy-ness bothered me because it was fake. My whole identity was just another fad for her.  But Stacy . . . she's not trying to besmart or creative for the sake of an image. She just has the natural potential, which could developunder the right guidance. If I'mgoing to stop Quinn from being a fake brain, it just seems fair that I helpStacy along to being a real one."

"So what you told me about you learning from her was just afront? That's uncharacteristicallysneaky of you, Daria." Jane's tonewas light, but Daria could detect a real disapproval underneath.

"No, there are things I can learn from her," Daria hastenedto reassure her. "But she has muchmore to learn from me."

*  * * *  *

That next Saturday morning, giving Daria the least amount oftime possible to wake and shower and shake off the last few remnants ofunconsciousness, Stacy arrived, cute notebook in hand, eager to begin.  Daria motioned for her to sit on thebed, as she took the desk. Stacysat, but it seemed an impermanent gesture; she looked ready to jump back upagain at a moment's notice, her gleeful energy too great to be satisfied withsuch a stationary condition. Theysat in silent for a few seconds as they looked at each other, Stacy bright-eyedand Daria a little bit wary. Stacy's eyes then dimmed a bit, and she leaned in as close as she couldget.

"Daria, do you think Quinn knows I'm here?"  Her eyes darted quickly to the door,then to the wall that separated Daria's domain from her sister's.  "You didn't tell her anything, didyou?" The eager eyes were nowrimmed with anxiety.

"That would require me to willingly converse with her,"Daria replied wryly. "Don't worry;this will never get back to the Fashion Club. My room is a fashion-free zone. You're still in good standing with Sandi the queenbee." Stacy looked doubtful.

"I'm never really in good standing with Sandi."  Her gaze was now completelydowncast. "There are just so manyways to mess up. Nothing's evergood enough for her."

If I'm good enough, you won't have to worry about thatmuch longer, Daria thought with secretsatisfaction. But we'dbetter get started, before she loses it completely and the whole morning is awaste.

"Did you bring any stories to work on?" Daria asked.  Almost immediately, Stacy brightened upand flipped to the back of her notebook.

"Yes, I've got all sorts of ideas," she said, handing itover. "Whenever I get an idea fora new story, I write it down here. Most of them, I never do anything with, but a few really inspire me."

Daria looked over the list of hastily scribbled storyseeds. As Stacy said, most of themweren't that great, but a few looked promising. I can work with this.

"Do you have an outline for any of these?"  Stacy just blinked in surprise.

"No. Do I needone?" Now it was Daria's turn toreact with amazement.

"Yes. How doyou expect to know where you are going without an outline to follow?"

"I don't. Ijust start writing and see where it takes me. I like to be surprised by where the story goes."

Daria could feel her neck muscles wanting to shake her headback and forth. She has so muchto learn. I came along just intime, it seems.

"That certainly explains a lot," she said, trying not to lether amazement show through too clearly. "Stacy, that's why those stories you gave me to read are sounfocused. When you don't have aclear plan, you can't organize around central themes, you can't foreshadowlater events, you can't tie everything together. You just wander from scene to scene."

"But . . . that story I read at the conference, the oneeveryone said they liked . . . that's how I wrote it."  Stacy's breath quickened.  "Were they lying to me?  Did everybody really hate it?  Were they all laughing at me behind myback?!" Her eyes widened tosaucers, and her breath began to catch.

"No, Stacy!" Daria felt a bit of panic herself, not knowing if she could deal withthis. "That story was good.  Everyone really did like it.  No one was laughing at you."

"Are . . . you . . . sure?"

"I'm sure, and I don't lie. You wrote a good story."

That seemed to do the trick. Stacy's breath slowed and the color diffused back into hercheeks. She took a few moremoments to compose herself.

"So it really was a good story?"

"Yes, Stacy, it was." God, is this what Quinn has to deal with all the time?  I never thought I would feel sympathyfor her.

"But I wrote it without an outline."

"You got lucky," Daria said. "It still wanders a bit, though, and it would probably havebeen better had you thought it out beforehand. A good story is one that has been gone over with afine-toothed comb, all the unnecessary material cut out to emphasize what'simportant. You can't get that byjust going with whatever you feel at the time."

"But . .  ." Stacy's voice was tentative, and she was starting to slouchdown into her seat. "I enjoyseeing where the story is going to take me. I like to be surprised. That's the fun of writing. At least . . . it is for me." This last was barely audible.

"Fun?" Daria said. "Writing isn't about fun." Ifshe doesn't take this seriously, I don't know if I can help her. Stacylooked simply dumbfounded.

"You don't think writing is fun? Why do you do it?"

The question caught Daria off-guard.  She had always just been a writer.  It came naturally to her.  She had to think to disentangle andverbalize her feelings on the matter.

"There's a real satisfaction in the completed work.  I enjoy the feeling of having createdsomething, of having contributed to the world of literature.  I like the idea of something that willlive on after me." Yes, I thinkthat sums it up pretty nicely. "But the actual writing process itself is hardwork. If you treat it as just agame, something to have fun with,then you'll never produce anything great."

"I don't know that I want to write something 'great'," Stacysaid with a demure shrug. "I justwant to be good, and write stories thatpeople will like. I've alwaysthought I could do that and have fun, too."

"Maybe someday you will," Daria said, relying heavily onwhat patience she had. "Maybe,when you are good enough, you'll be able to write good stuff easily enough toenjoy it. I haven't reached thatpoint yet, but I won't deny that it exists. But you'll never reach it if you're concentrating on justhaving fun. Writing is hard, butif you're willing to put the work in, I think you can become 'good', though Iwould hope you wouldn't be content with stopping there." No wonder she's so content to stayin Sandi's shadow. I think there'sstill hope, but I'm going to have to push her. Damn it, she's really going to make me work. "So,are you willing to work, and be serious about it?"

"Yes, I am, Daria," Stacy replied, squaring her shoulderslike a soldier preparing for battle. "I promise I'll try to be more serious." She put on a solemn face so ludicrous that, even in themiddle of her frustration, Daria almost smiled.

Stacy, time for your reformation to begin.

*  * * *  *

In the hall outside, Quinn stood with her ear to the door,listening in to the remarkable event of her sister and Stacy willingly meetingtogether.

*  * * *  *

"So, amiga, I haven'tseen much of you the past few days," Jane said to Daria as the two walked homefrom school. "How goes theemancipation of Stacy Rowe?" Dariajust groaned in response. "Thatbad, huh?"

"It's like the girl has no clue how to construct a realisticstory," Daria said in a strained tone. "Not only did she have some crazy idea that we could just start writingand 'see where it takes us', but she doesn't seem to see the importance ofcharacter or continuity. I keeptrying to steer her towards a straightforward, character-driven plot for thesake of simplicity, so she can learn how to really perfect a basic story beforeshe tries something complex, and she keeps throwing in all these off-the-walldevelopments. She wants people toact out of character for the sake of melodrama, and is always asking me what weare going to do for a plot twist. She puts excitement above all else. I keep having to remind her that stories are about more thanjust cheap thrills, that the ones that really last are those where thecharacters and situations are consistent and believable."

"But weren't you telling me a few days ago about howpromising she is, and how good that one story was?"

"It was, and a lot of her ideas have real potential, if shelearns how to use them correctly. But she has no discretion, no clue as to when an idea will work and whenit needs to be kept out for the sake of the overall story."  Daria shook her head  "She just wants to throw a bunch ofplot elements at the wall and see which ones stick. It's chaotic. So far, I've been pretty patient about it and haven't challenged her onsome of them, but I'm nearing my limits. I think I'm going to have to be tough on her for her own good."

"What are you planning to do?" Jane asked, her voicestrangely monotone.

"I've already started," Daria replied, absorbed in her owndifficulties and oblivious to her friend's changing tone.  "I lent her my copy of Aristotle's Poetics, as a beginning towards teaching her about properstory structure." Jane's eyebrowsclimbed.

"Isn't that a bit heavy for her? Or for anyone?"

"Stacy needs to expand her horizons.  Not just for the sake of her writing,but so she can start to see there's more to the world than Sandi's dictates."

"Maybe that's not what Stacy wants, even deep down," Janereplied. "All she asked you to dowas to help her write a good story."

"Jane, even with all her problems, Stacy really is talented,reasonably intelligent, and an overall decent person. She wants out of the Fashion Club, away from the shallow andself-absorbed. I know that shedoes, even if she doesn't know it yet."

Jane was quiet for a few minutes, and now that she wasthinking about the writing situation, Daria didn't feel like talking.  They walked on innot-quite-companionable silence for a bit, before Jane spoke up again.

"So, when's your next writing session?"

"This afternoon at four, after her Fashion Club meeting." Jane had never before heard Daria put so much scorn into a single name.

"Do you mind if I sit in? I'm curious to watch the deprogramming process atwork." Daria looked at Jane inmild surprise.

"Sure, if you want. I think you'll be bored, though."

"I'll bring along my sketch pad. I've never drawn artists in the process of creationbefore. Maybe I can evenillustrate your story once it's done."

"Come along then. I can always use an ally in the fight against fashion."

*  * * *  *

The hands on Stacy's watch ticked inexorably towards four,but with just a few minutes to spare, Sandi and Quinn were still heavilyinvolved in their debate over strappies and strapless dresses in relation tothe upcoming spring season, with no signs of stopping.  Stacy found herself bouncing in herseat, body torn between jumping up and running off to Daria, or staying putuntil the official end of the meeting, when she could leave without suspicion.

Oh, why can't they just shut up about it, she thought. Daria really doesn't like it when I'm late, and I can alreadytell that I'm getting on her nerves. But Sandi hates it when I leave early, and if she gets too mad at me,she'll make me organize her lip glosses again. Or kick me out of the club altogether, and then no one willlike me anymore. I wish Quinn werepresident. But she would think mewriting with her sister was too brainy, too. Oh, I really need to go. Maybe they'll just think I need to use the little girl's room. Shegiggled, and immediately Sandi turned to her with scorn on her face.

"Stacy," Sandi said in her deep, almost lisping voice, "doyou find something funny about the upcoming spring dress line?"

"Oh, no, Sandi," she replied, the words coming out as asqueak as she hurried to repair whatever additional damage she had caused, "notat all. It's reallyimportant. I was just thinkingabout something else, that was all." She knew as soon as the words were out of her mouth that her explanationwas a mistake.

"Stacy, as Fashion Club Secretary, it is your duty to treatall subjects as serious and record them with the proper gravity.  Also, letting your mind wander duringan important debate is simply unacceptable. If you do not begin to treat your duties with the properamount of respect, then we will be forced to put your membership onprobationary status until such time as you have proven yourself worthy of thedignity of your position. Is thatclear?"

Stacy had to catch her breath before answering, as she hadlost nearly all of it during this diatribe.

"Of course, Sandi, whatever you say."  She nodded jerkily several times toreinforce her acceptance. "Um . .. the thing is . . . um, I really need to go right now." Oh, god, she's going to kill me.  But if I'm much later, Daria will killme.

Indeed, it appeared that Stacy's prediction was about tocome true. Sandi's eyes narrowedand her mouth tightened into the expression that always sent fear straightthrough Stacy's heart and into her very gut. She squeaked again and was about to back down, no matterwhat the later consequences, when help arrived from an unexpected quarter.

"Oh, Sandi, I forgot to tell you," Quinn said breezily.  "There's a sale on moisturizer at themall, and I asked Stacy to run down and get me some before they were all soldout. You know how it gets afterrush hour; all the moisturizer will be gone in an hour or so.  Stacy needs to hurry to make sure shegets there well in advance." Stacyjust stared at Quinn in open-mouthed shock until Quinn nudged her with herfoot; then, Stacy jumped up.

"Oh, yes, that's why I have to go," she said.  "And I need to leave right now."

"Very well, then," Sandi said with an imperious wave.  "As Quinn is your superior Fashion Clubofficer, this can be considered official business. But you will need to get enough for everyone.  And come see me tonight to find outwhat discussion you missed out on."

"OK, great," Stacy said. With one more curious glance at Quinn, she raced out of thedoor, mind already switching to writing mode.

*  * * *  *

In short order, Stacy bounded intoDaria's room, her eyes alight with the creative energy that Daria had quicklylearned to dread.

"Hey, Daria!" she began,nearly breathless. "I hadthis great new idea walking over here. I think we should have Diane turn out to be Angela's long-lostsister! That way, when Jim findsout about them —"

"Stacy!" Dariaexclaimed, cutting her stream-of-consciousness off in mid-thought. That's it, she thought. I can't take any more. Time for a talk. Stacy immediately choked back her words, staring at Dariawith wide, nervous eyes. Dariatook a breath, resisting the urge to massage her aching forehead.  "I think it's time we had a talkabout plot direction."

"Um, sure, Daria," shereplied, considerably subdued. "Whatever you say. So,what do you want to talk about?"

"Stacy, you know as well as Ido that this story just isn't working out right now. Writing a good story takes careful planning, and theself-awareness to know which ideas work and which ones just aren'tbelievable. We agreed to outlinethis from the very beginning, with all of the plot developments laid out wellin advance, because that's the only way to keep things from becomingconfused. But every time we talk,you bring up more and more crazy ideas, ones that don't make any sense in thecontext of the characters or the storyline we already agreed on."

"But," Stacy replied,her lip trembling, "I'm just trying to make the story more fun. People like surprises.  What's the point of writing if it'slike working a math problem?"

"Yeah, Daria," Janebutted in. "What's wrong withbeing a little out-there every now and then? You know, like Melody Powers."

Daria cocked an eyebrow at Jane insurprise. What is she trying todo? I thought she was on my side.

"The problem is that itdoesn't work. My Melody Powersstories are just satire, more exercises than anything else. But the story we're writing now is moreserious. Stacy, remember that wasthe big problem with all of your earlier stories -- they didn't have anyfocus."

"But . . . you told me youthought I was a good writer. I didthe outline like you wanted. I'vetried to be serious. I even triedto read that book you gave me, though I didn't make it very far. What else do you need me to do?"The lip tremor was bigger now.

"I think you show a lot ofpromise, Stacy. But if you don'tlearn some discipline, your stories are never going to be any more than justmelodramatic fluff pieces. Thatmeans more than just making an outline, though that's a start. You have to treat every aspect of thestory with the same gravity and consideration. You asked me to teach you, but I can only do that if you'rewilling to do what I say. Can youdo that, Stacy?"

Stacy looked down for a moment,her eyes perusing the sheets of paper she had brought with her, sheets coveredwith her own handwriting, furious scribbles of all the ideas her fertile mindhad generated in just the last few hours, between classes at school and evenduring the Fashion Club meeting. Her hands tightened, wrinkling the paper slightly, as she bit down onher lip. Jane's eyes, on the otherhand, were boring into Daria.

"Stacy," Jane broke in,"you don't have --"

"Sure, Daria," Stacy said,her voice as resolute as she could make it. "Whatever you say."

Jane shook her head, slowly.

* *  * * *

Daria and Stacy worked togetherfor a couple of more hours. Orrather, Daria worked, outlining plot ideas and sketching out sections of dialogue,while Stacy mainly took notes, jotting down shorthand versions of Daria's ideasfor later reference. Every now andagain, she would speak up, offering her own variations on Daria's themes, butsuch times were few and far between. In the meantime, Jane watched, occasionally sketching in the pad shealways carried with her, her face unreadable. Finally, Stacy said that she had to go; she was already lateto a meeting with Sandi and she had to stop by the mall first.

"Very well, then," Dariareplied, a little short. "Youcan't afford to anger the queen bee, I suppose. But I'll see you back here tomorrow, right after school. Now that we've gotten our kinks workedout, I want to get to actual writing as soon as possible.  We don't want to lose ourmomentum."

"Of course, Daria,"Stacy answered. "But, um, Idon't suppose you could think a bit about some of the things I talkedabout? I really think we could dosomething interesting with Jeremy."

"I'll think about it,Stacy," Daria said, with the air of giving a concession. "Adding anything to the overalloutline will affect the entire work, but it might be possible to make a fewsmall, reasonable changes. I'llsleep on it and let you know my final thoughts tomorrow.  Go on, now, before Sandi makes youalphabetize her lip gloss collection again." Stacy's eyes widened, and she left the room in a hasty walkthat bordered on a sprint. Aftershe left, Daria began to gather up the sheets of paper now scattered all overher desk, when Jane cleared her throat rather forcefully.

"Interesting definition of'instruction' you have there, Morgendorffer. Or was Stacy's position downgraded to gopher when I wasn'tlooking?"

"Jane," Daria said, thesound more an explosive exhalation of breath than a word, "I don't need tohear this from you. Obviously, youthink I should go easier on her, and I wish that I could, but that would doStacy more harm than good in the end."

"Really?" Jane replied,her voice dry. "Because fromwhat I remember, the whole point of this project was to teach Stacy how to beherself, and not to find her identity in some other group. Don't you think that the message mightcome across a little more strongly if you used ideas that Stacy came up with herself?"

"Jane," Daria said in exasperation,"the ultimate goal is for Stacy to find her own individuality, true, but it's aprocess, and we're still in the very early stages. Before Stacy can discover who she really is, she has to havethe confidence to leave the Fashion Club and Sandi behind; and the way for herto get that confidence is to feel she has something to offer outside of thatlittle group. When she's finallylearned how to be a truly good writer, then she will have that confidence, butshe will only learn that if she listens to what I have to say."

"And you think the best way togive her confidence is to toss aside all her ideas and dictate to her what herown story should be?" Jane setdown her pencil and crossed her arms, pad held to her chest. "And what about all that you said aboutlearning from her? Is she nolonger worthy of instructing the great Morgendorffer?"

"I know what you're implying,Jane, and it's not true." Daria'svoice was hard, and she met Jane's crossed arms with her own. "I plan to give Stacy a lot more freerein once we're actually writing and not just planning.  Stacy's strength is in her prose, whichcan be very . . . evocative. Butgood prose is nothing without a good story, and that's where my strength comesin. She needs to learn to rely onmy guidance in the areas where we both know I am her superior."

Jane's eyebrows rose as far as herforehead would let them. "Youknow, Daria, I've heard you be sarcastic plenty of times. I've heard you be a smartass.  I've even heard you be incredibly perceptive,on occasion. But until now, Idon't think I've ever heard you be out-and-out arrogant.  Despite what some may think, it reallydoesn't suit you."

Daria's lips tightened, and sheglanced down at the papers on her desk as she gathered her thoughts. "Jane," she said slowly, hertone indistinguishable from both anger and hurt, "I really do have the best ofintentions here. I'm not off onsome ego trip. I think I canreally help Stacy, both as a writer and as a person. And if I have to be a little tough on her now for thegreater good in the long run, that's what I'll do."

Jane tapped her pad on her palm asshe gazed at Daria a few moments longer. "Alright, then, amiga,"she finally replied. "There'sa well-known saying about good intentions, but you do what you think isbest. But I want you to thinkabout one more question: do you want to deprogram Stacy, or to reprogramher?" Dropping her pad on Daria's bed, she stood and left without anotherword.

For a few moments, Daria juststared at the door, caught off-guard by this unexpected withdrawal. Then, remembering Jane's sketching pad,she picked it up off the bed, intending to stow it away somewhere safe untilshe could return it.

On the pad was a drawing ofher. Her and Stacy. Daria was the queen bee, and Stacy adrone. Daria dropped the pad backonto her bed and sat back down at her desk with a frustrated drop.

* *  * * *

Stacy walked home slowly, heart and mind in turmoil. She doesn't have to trash all of myideas, she thought. I mean, is her way so muchbetter? It's just like she putscharacters and situations into a computer program and lets it run.  No surprises at all.  She doesn't even believe in having funwhen she's writing. Maybe she doesmake all these great serious works of art, but I don't know that.  I've only heard two stories from her,and one was just as silly as anything I've ever thought of.  What makes her so sure she's right andI'm wrong?

But she is really smart. She's the smartest person in our school, even smarter thanJodie. She's even smarter than theteachers. Who am I to say that shedoesn't know what she's doing? I'mlucky she even agreed to work with me at all. She could be using all her time to hang out with her friendJane, but instead, she's spending it helping me. And I know I'm annoying and silly. Sandi tells me that all the time. I should just be glad for whatever help she gives me and notcomplain about a few hurt feelings here and there. After all, she's trying to help me.  Isn't that the most important thing?

*  * * *  *

Daria joined up with Jane on her walk to school the nextmorning, and handed over the sketch pad without comment, face unreadable.  Jane cocked an eyebrow, her mouth setin a mischievous grin as she flipped through the pages, her motions broad,trying to provoke a reaction.

"So, amiga, anythingin here in particular catch your eye?" Daria rolled her eyes.

"Jane, you're about as subtle as Vegas neon.  Yes, I saw it.  You know I saw it.  You made it impossible to miss.  Your message came through loud andclear."

"The pen is mightier than the sword," Jane intoned, "thoughsometimes you have to swing it like a sledgehammer."

"What exactly does that mean?"

"I don't know," Jane shrugged. "It sounded good as I was saying it.  But the real question is, what are yougoing to do about it?" Dariasighed.

"Jane," she began with exasperation, "I know you think Ishould go easier on her. I didn'tneed a Jane Lane original to tell me that."

"So that's all you got out of it?" Jane sounded surprised.

"Yes, of course. What else was there?"

"Oh, nothing." The tone of Jane's voice clearly said otherwise, but Daria didn't muchfeel like pressing the issue. IfJane was trying to tell her something else, she could just come out and say itin the open. "So," Jane continued,"what are you going to do about it?"

"Nothing," Daria said, maybe a bit harsher than sheintended. She tried to tone downher frustration as she continued. "Just because you want me to do something doesn't mean I amautomatically going to follow. Itdoesn't mean you're automatically right. I'm sorry if you think I'm a harsh taskmaster, but I'm doing things thebest way I know how."

"If you won't do it for Stacy's sake, do it for mine," Janereplied. "I really hate to see youact this way, Daria. I don't likethis side of you. As a favor for afriend, go easy on her." Darialooked sidelong at Jane, the corners of her mouth turned down.

"You're really pulling out the big guns on this one, aren'tyou?" A part of Daria resentedJane for the guilt trip, even though she knew that Jane also believed she wasdoing the right thing. "Is itreally that important to you?"

"Yes, it is," Jane said simply.

"Then how exactly would you have me handle the situation?"Daria asked, not convinced but sincerely wanting to hear the answer.

"If you really want Stacy to have the confidence to beherself, to be an individual, you have to treat her as an individual."

"What are you talking about? I know Stacy's an individual. I'm trying to get her to the point where she has enough of aspine to show it."

"By insisting that she do everything just like you?"

"I'm not insisting that she be just like me," Dariaprotested with a scowl. "I'mtrying to teach her the proper principles of writing. Then she can write whatever stories she wants, and they'llbe good ones."

"Is it really all-important that her stories be absolutelyperfect? If you want to give herconfidence, isn't it more important that she be comfortable with herstories? If she's always worryingabout whether or not she's living up to your standards, she'll never have anyconfidence of her own."

"Jane, I can't believe you said that.  That's the worst touchy-feely new agebullshit. 'It doesn't matter ifit's good, as long as we feel good about it.' Have you been listening to Mr. O'Neill?  Should I tell her to stand up andproudly proclaim 'I am'?"

"Them's fighting words, Daria," Jane replied with asmirk. "Fortunately, challengingyou to a duel just wouldn't be worth it. I'm just saying that you're shooting yourself in the foot by missing theforest for the trees."

"Would you care to unravel that tangled metaphor for me?"

"I'm saying that if your ultimate goal is to give Stacy theconfidence to express her individuality, you're not doing yourself any favorsby undermining what individuality she already has. Don't insist that she write just like another Daria.  Let Stacy be herself, and give herconfidence in that. Figure out how she can produce a good storyusing her own methods, not yours. Who knows, maybe you'll learn something as well."

"Jane, there's a difference between different writingtechniques and just plain bad habits."

"Daria, maybe you're right. I'm not a writer. Maybe, despite the fact that she managed to produce a story that youliked, Stacy really is filled with bad habits. But I heard what you said yesterday, and I saw how Stacyreacted, and I do know that it really bothered me. I hate to think of it happening again.  Please, Daria, as a favor, try it myway."

"Oh, fine, then," Daria said, more out of exasperation thanagreement. "For your sake, I'llsee what I can do, though I don't know exactly how I'm going to handle it.  I'll try to be more lenient, but shestill wants me to help her improve. I'm supposed to be guiding her. What if she's adamant about an idea that I think is horrible?"

"You'll just have to use some discretion.  Plus, there's always a certain unbiasedthird party that can be consulted . . ."  Jane preened.

"Jane, I've seen that pile of Harlequins under yourbed." The edges of Daria's lipscurled ever-so-slightly upwards. "You're not getting anywhere near this story."

"Daria, you really have no sense of romance whatsoever,"Jane retorted, as they turned the corner towards Lawndale High.  "And I thought we swore a blood oath tonever speak of those again . . ."

* * * * *

"Stacy, sit down. I have something I need to say to you."

Stacy took her usual place on Daria's bed, as Daria satacross from her at the desk. Asshe sat there, ever-present notebook in lap, Daria thought she looked eager toplease, but she couldn't help but wonder if there was an undercurrent ofanxiety there. Stacy wouldn'tquite meet her gaze, keeping her eyes down in what Daria could not shake thefeeling was a submissive posture. The thought made her intensely uncomfortable. Maybe there was something in what Jane was saying.  Not a lot, but something.

"What do you want, Daria?" Stacy asked placidly.

Daria took a deep breath and plunged in.

"Stacy, I think I might have been a bit too hard on youyesterday. Maybe since beforeyesterday. I don't think I've beentreating you with the same respect I would treat a friend.  I may have even been a littlerude. I'm . . . I'm sorry.  I promise that, from now on, I willtreat your ideas and feelings with more respect. I . . . want to hear all your thoughts on the story, even ifI don't agree with them, and I won't insist that my way be the only way."

Is that enough? Daria thought. Apparently it was, for Stacyimmediately brightened and met her eyes once more.

"Thank you, Daria," she said emphatically.  "That was very nice of you to say.  I promise that I'll do my best to thinkup good ideas, too."

"Ok, then."

"Great."

"So, I guess we should get to work now."

They did, and for a while, Daria felt good about it.  She had kept her promise to Jane, andit didn't look as though it would be a disaster. The first few suggestions Stacy had were pretty good, andwith a little adaptation, Daria felt certain that they would work with thestory. Stacy listened carefully toDaria's advice, and they were able to resolve her objections to thesatisfaction of both. She even hadStacy give her a few pointers on punching up her writing, giving her style alittle oomph without resorting to sarcasm. To Daria, this was what she had wanted when she had firstagreed to this arrangement in the first place. She felt her lingering resentment towards Jane fade.

Then Stacy made a suggestion that didn't sound quite so goodto Daria. They talked about it,but in the end, it wasn't quite how she wanted it. Some of her objections were not answered to her satisfaction.  Feeling as though Jane were lookingover her shoulder, Daria didn't press the issue. She felt a twinge of annoyance, but pushed it down. This is what Jane was talking about,after all. I can't always havethings my own way. Try to producea good story using Stacy's methods, not mine. But for all her effortsto convince herself that Stacy's methods could be just as valid as her own, thedissatisfaction remained. Then, afew minutes later, it happened again. Another substandard idea, another unsatisfactory turnout. The annoyance was a little bit biggerthis time, but Daria once again shoved it to the back of her mind.  She didn't notice how her grip on herpen was a little tighter, her posture a little stiffer.  Every few minutes, the process wouldrepeat itself, and the knot of irritation grew. Daria began to feel restless, and an ache began behind hereyes. She pushed back thatrestlessness as well, concentrating on her promise to Jane as a guard againstthe temptation to object too vigorously to Stacy's ideas.  Then, Stacy proposed an idea that Dariafound truly egregious, and Daria's control slipped just a little.

"Writing for Michael Bay now, are we?" she saidsnidely. It felt good, likelancing the boil of her frustration, but Stacy looked at her in bewilderment,then lowered her eyes again. Damn, Daria thought. She may not have understood it, but she knew whatI was getting at, I think. I can'tsay things like that if I'm going to keep my promise. But afew minutes later, another sarcastic remark spilled out, almost like a reflexto her annoyance. This one was abit more obvious, and Stacy's head dipped lower. Daria once again reprimanded herself, but it was becomingharder and harder to suppress her sarcasm. How can I have respect for ideas that I findridiculous? I told Jane that Iwouldn't outright dismiss her ideas, so it's either stuff it all in and get aheadache, or let it out with sarcasm. Well, maybe I can be a bitmore subtle about it.

For about half an hour, Stacy made no more frustratingsuggestions, and Daria began to believe that the worst was over with.  Then, out of the blue, she had what toDaria was her worst idea yet, which caught her completely off-guard.

"You should really send that one in to Dan Brown," Dariasnipped, almost without thinking. "He could always use fodder for his next bestseller."  For a second or two, Stacy just staredat Daria, making Daria think that she had gotten away with it.  Then Stacy started to sniff, and Dariaremembered that just a couple of days ago, she had held up Brown as the worstexample of popular but bad writing that she could think of.  She had forgotten that conversation,but Stacy obviously had not. Stacy's sniffles grew, and Daria had a sinking feeling in the pit of herstomach.

"I'm . . . I'm sorry, Daria," Stacy said in between wheezingbreaths that grew larger and larger. "I'm such a failure. I'vewasted your time. I can't everwrite as good as you. I'mhopeless. Sandi was right allalong. I can't do anythingright. I don't know why I everthought I could."

Her breath quickened and her hands shook.  Then, as though a switch had beenturned on, an anguished howl shrieked from her mouth, and her eyes spattears. Her nose ran.  She gulped in great gasps of air in betweenwails that would shame a banshee, and buried her head in her hands.  Daria sat in shock for a few moments,appalled at herself for what she had done, completely at a loss for what to doto make it better. She made anabortive attempt to place a hand on Stacy's shoulder, but before her hesitantmotion could reach its destination, Stacy bolted up from the bed and out of thedoor, the sound of her cries reverberating down the hall.  Daria just sat in her chair, trapped byremorse and astonishment.

"Stacy! Stacy!" Quinn's voicesounded from out in the hall, right before Daria heard the front door slamshut. In the ringing silence thatfollowed, Quinn appeared in the entrance to Daria's room, face like athundercloud before a hurricane.

"Daria, what did you do?"Quinn said, her voice an accusation, not a question. Daria had to gather her thoughts to respond.

"Well, um, Stacy and I were working together on .  . ." Daria's heard her voice,small and breathless. She pausedto gather herself again, but Quinn interrupted.

"Yes, I know what you were working on."

"You . . . knew?" Shocking information was coming at Daria too fast for her to process,her mind still playing Stacy's reaction over and over in her head.

"I've known all along, Daria. I overheard the two of you the first day you were here.  I've even been covering for her withthe rest of the Fashion Club."

"What?" Dariawondered if the world could become any more bizarre. "Why?"

"You may think you know Stacy, Daria," Quinn said, her voicesurprisingly solemn, "but I'm the one who sees how Sandi treats her everyday. Sandi's my friend, and she'sreally good with fashion tips and being president and all, but I know she's notperfect, and I know she's not good for Stacy. I do my best to help Stacy feel better when I can, and I thoughtworking with you would be good for her. You know, something a little bit different, something to get her awayfrom Sandi a bit, even if you were doing brain stuff."  She advanced into Daria's room, finallystanding before her, towering over her seated sister. Daria felt an urge to dive underneath the desk.  "But I've been listening in to you whenI can, to see how she was doing, and I've heard what you've been saying toher. And now she's running away crying."  To Daria's shock, Quinn looked lessangry than hurt. "I know you canbe annoying, and you're way too brainy, and you can be stuck-up, but I've neverthought you were outright cruel. Ithought you would be better for her than Sandi. But I was wrong. You're no better for her at all. In fact, you're just like Sandi. Now I have to go find my friend and make her feel better.  Again." With that, Quinn pivoted and walked out.

Daria just sat there, stunned. She couldn't believe what had just happened.  Stacy's wails echoed in her ears.  She wanted to sink deep into the floorbelow her. She had failedeveryone, most of all the one she had hoped to save, and she hadn't even seenit coming.

How did this happen?

*  * * *  *

The hive was abuzz with activity,little yellow-and-black-striped drones flying to and fro, each one with its brownhair in two cute braids, each one with an earnestly friendly face, each onepounding away on a typewriter, their ephemeral wings beating furiously to holdthe heavy tool afloat. In thecenter of the fluttery cloud sat a fat queen, whip in hand and thick glasses onhead, barking out orders.

"Write! Write! Write! Haven'tI told you enough? Are you notlistening to me? Our honey willtaste foul if you don't follow my recipe exactly! You're just drones; you don't have minds of your own!  I'm the brains of this operation!  I'm the queen, dammit!  Write what I tell you, you empty-headedslaves! That's all you're good for!"

And every drone that protested shestung, and with the sting, a bizarre transformation took place. The braids unwound, the face becamesolemn, and thick glasses appeared. The drones flew on as carbon copies of the queen.

"But, my queen, I thoughtthat if we --"

"You thought?! I didn'tlay your egg so you could think! Icreated you, and you have to do what I say!" Sting!

"But it might work better if--"

"Another question? None of you have time forquestions! Get busy doing what Isay!" Sting!

"If I could please just makea suggestion –" Sting!

Finally came one drone that didnot transform with the sting. Enraged, the queen kept stinging her over and over, as the drone's cutelittle face screamed and screamed and screamed and --

* *  * * *

Daria bolted upright in bed,sucking in air as though her lungs had become a vacuum, her heart thudding, herears still ringing with the cries of the poor Stacy-drone. Her hand pounced on her glasses, andnearly dropped them twice before she managed to set the frames on her ears andnose, placing them gently with weak, trembling fingers.  Her bedroom snapped into focus, but inthe dark she could still see the hive and the drones and the grotesque queenruling over all. As the cries ofthe tortured insect faded back into her subconscious, a more civilized but noless accusing voice rose up to take its place.

The queen bee . . . Her derisive term for Sandi to Stacy a couple of daysbefore. It had been just anoff-the-cuff comment, quickly forgotten, but Jane had picked up on it and drawna piece of art whose full meaning was only now becoming apparent to Daria,reawakened by Quinn's disturbing accusation. Still, her mind recoiled in protest.

I'm not like Sandi, no matterwhat Quinn may say. Sandi doesn'tcare for Stacy. She just uses herto boost her own ego. I screwedup, I admit that, but I never meant anything but the best. I really did want to help Stacy.

Her own voice seemed to answerback at her, echoing through her head and out into the dark.

Who's to say that Sandi doesn'tfeel the same way? You can't readher mind. All you can do is seeher actions, and how are they any different than yours?

They're different. They have to be.  I'm not like that.  I respect individuality.  I encourage it.  I'm always fighting againstconformity. Sandi wants to makeeveryone like her. She's the onewho sees people as drones, not me.

Individuality? Like the freedom to choose sports overacademics, popularity over isolation, fashion over apathy?  That kind of individuality?

But . . . but . . . but thoseare bad choices! I just want tohelp them see that. Daria shook her head, trying to clearout the cobwebs, trying to silence the doubts her nightmare and exhaustion hadbrought on. God, I can'tbelieve I'm having this argument with myself like this.  Shouldn't I at least have a mirror tolook into, or something? Though Imake it a point not to keep a mirror in here.

You don't have a mirror. That's your choice.  Others do have a mirror.  That's their choice.  You want to write a logical,well-planned story. Stacy wants togo where her muse takes her and have some fun. What gives you the final say on which choice is the betterone?

Because I know my way isbetter! I've read books, studiedup on how the greats have done their work. Daria really wishedthis nagging voice of uncertainty would just go away and leave her in peacealready. Most of them agreewith me. I'm sure I'm right. Mostly sure. Well, it works for me, and Stacy wanted me to teach her howto write like I do. But the argument felt weak, to set a simple story, and herown certainty of correctness, against another's emotional well-being. After all, isn't that what Sandidoes every day? Puts her arbitrarystandards above the happiness of her friends, and just about everyone else shemeets? From hearing Quinn talk,they even believe they're doing everyone a favor, helping them out to be betterpeople. They want to remakeeveryone in their own image because they believe everyone will be better offthat way. Oh, God, that sounds waytoo familiar.

Daria put her head in herhands. The cobwebs were gone now,driven away by this unhappy revelation. She had no desire left to sleep -- she was even a little frightened ofit -- but being awake was no better, if this problem was still hanging over herhead.

What can I do now? Stacy already ran out of here in tears.  I doubt she'll ever want to work withme now, no matter how much I promise to give her an equal voice.  Fool me twice, shame on me, and allthat. Of course, the first time,my heart wasn't really in it; I just wanted to keep my word to Jane.  But even if I did promise her that Iwould be better, and really mean it this time, I can't guarantee it.  I lost my temper once.  I could do it again.  So, what is there left to do?

The answer came to her in a flashof desperation. She knew the onlyoption left to her to make things right with Stacy. It would be hard, a sacrifice of her ego, and maybe even anoffense against literature, if Daria's writing instincts really weretrustworthy. But that didn't seemquite so important as it had before, and there was one shining hope. It would be something that, as far asshe knew, Sandi had never done. That thought gave Daria enough peace to lie back and fall to sleep oncemore.

* *  * * *

Once again, Daria caught Stacy outside of Math class.  Her hands were sweating, moistening thesheaf of papers in her hands; absurdly, she hoped Stacy wouldn't mind.  She felt short of breath, nervous, notsure of how this conversation would go. Stacy might just throw it back in my face; well, maybe not, but shecould just give me the cold shoulder and walk away. Daria felt a brief flashof indignation at the thought -- how dare Stacy refuse her sincereapology! -- but she couldn't denythat Stacy would be within her rights to do so. I have to make the effort, whatever Stacydoes. This is just as much for meas for her.

"Um, Stacy . . . can I talk to you?" There was aslight quiver in her voice, and she despised it.

Stacy's eyes widened, and she drew her books up to herchest. Daria thought she was goingto turn and run, but instead she merely nodded silently and followed Daria offto the side. They both stood therefor a couple of minutes without a word, shifting their weight from side toside, neither one quite attempting eye contact. After a bit, Daria started to feel absurd, and her doubtscrowded in, whispering to her that this would do no good, that nothing shecould do would make things right so why try, that she didn't really need to doanything at all since the sentiment is the point anyway right?  Daria realized that, if she didn't dosomething soon, nothing would ever get done -- the bell would ring for classes,and her chance would be gone, and she didn't know if she would get up thecourage for this again. She hadnever realized that admitting you were wrong could be so hard.  She didn't know how to begin, so shesimply held out the papers in her hand, pushing them in Stacy's direction.

"Here, take them." She hadn't intended to be so blunt -- it certainly didn'tfit her conciliatory intent -- but that was how it came out.  Slowly, Stacy reached out to take thecrumpled sheets of notebook paper and flipped through them.

"Daria," she said, her voice rising in surprise,"these are all our story notes. Everything we talked about." For the first time, she caught Daria's gaze with her own.  "I don't understand."

"I want you to take all the ideas we discussed, yoursand mine," Daria replied. Nowthat the first gesture was made, the words came easier.  "They're yours.  Rightfully, they always were.  I'm sorry that I tried to takeover. Do whatever you want withthem, with my blessing. I'mdone."

"Daria, please!" Stacy exclaimed.  "I know that I'm hard to workwith, and that I'm not as smart as you, and I know that I get on your nervessometimes. I'm sorry.  I'll try to do better.  I want us to work together."

"And so do I, maybe one day. But not now. I'm not ready."

"But a lot of these ideas are yours," Stacyprotested, once again flipping through the sheets. "I can't just take credit for them."

"Then put my name on it along with yours.  Whatever you think is best.  I don't care." But I do care!  They're my ideas!  I don't want them used in a bad story! Dariasquelched the selfish cry from inside her. Let go! "I would really like to see thisstory written, but I don't think I'm ready to help you with it.  I'm sorry I acted like it was 'my wayor the highway'. Just because youwork differently than I do doesn't make your way wrong.  I'm still learning that, and I don'tknow how to practice it yet. Ithink I showed that yesterday. Myfault, not yours. I shouldn't havetreated you like a piece of clay to be molded to my will.  And no one else should either."  She wanted to say more, to be moreblunt, but she felt she had abrogated her right to advise her about Sandi.  "Please, use whichever of my ideas youwant, along with yours. I reallywant to see what you'll do with them. I look forward to reading the final product."

Stacy's eyes were shining now.

"Do you really mean that, Daria?"

A part of Daria rose up in protest. You can't do this!  She'll ruin it!  And if she puts your name on it,everyone who reads it will think all her bad ideas are yours!  She isn't ready! Butshe beat it back into submission. She knew she had to do this. She had to let it go, let Stacy be herself with her own story. It was the only thing her consciencewould allow. She even had to letStacy be herself within the Fashion Club; if she ever left it, it had to be herdecision, not Daria's. She took adeep breath.

"Yes, Stacy, I really mean that.  The story is all yours.  I trust you with it."

Stacy's wide grin lit up the hallway.

"I'll make you proud, Daria! I promise! You'll see. I'll write thebest story ever! Thank you thankyou thank you!" Daria stiffened as Stacy threw her arms around her, butthe embrace was fortunately cut short as the warning bell rang.

As Stacy ran off to class, Daria felt curiously light.  Light and free.

Maybe there really is something to that butterfly sayingafter all.

*  * * *  *

A few weeks later, Daria wasclosing her locker door as Jane walked up, Lawndale Lowdown in hand.

"So did you see Stacy's story inthe paper?" Jane inquired with a sly grin. Daria gave her one in return.

"Yeah. It's not the way I wouldhave written it . . . but it's not that bad." The admission didn't even sting. In fact, it felt pretty good.

"Our fellow students certainlyseem to be enjoying it."

"Enjoying it?" Dariaresponded with a snort. "Ihaven't heard this much commotion over a piece of fiction since 'AcademicImprisonment'."

"I especially like the little noteStacy put at the beginning."

"The one thanking me for all myhelp and 'inspiration'?" Dariashook her head in astonishment. "It's amazing. She even stillwanted to work with me after all I put her through. Stacy never holds a grudge." Her shoulders slumped. "Not even against Sandi."

"You're not Sandi."

"I'm not?" Even after a few weeks,the memory of that nightmare -- and Jane's drawing, and Quinn's accusation --still stung. The uncertainty ofthe whole question still kept her awake some nights. She hadn't even had the courage to discuss it with Jane,afraid of what she might say.

"No. You were just acting like her."

"Thanks a lot, Jane." Daria's growl was teasing, but shecouldn't keep a real edge of annoyance, and fear, out of it.  She couldn't just shrug it off as ajoke. Jane just shrugged broadly.

"Hey, I call 'em as I see'em. But seriously, youapologized, and did what you could to make up for it. That already puts you one huge step ahead of Sandi."

"Maybe so, but I want there to bemore differences between her and me than just my own delayed guilt. I don't want to be that rigid, so surethat my way is the only way. Idon't like the way that looks in her, and I sure as hell don't like it inme. I don't want the onlydifference between me and the Fashion Club to be the amount of time we spend onour hair."

"Y'know, I learned something today. . ." Jane began.

"Thank you, Stan."

"Hey, if I'm Stan, does that makeyou Kyle? Or Cartman?" Jane grinned mischievously.

"Screw you, Jane, I'm going home."

"Or you could come with me to hearthe Spiral at the Zen tonight. They're debuting a new song, something about Mr. Normal. I've been hearing them working on itall week."

"Was what I did really that bad?"

"So much for being lessjudgmental."

"There are limits toeverything, Jane."

"And the Spiral not onlypushes those limits, they fly right over them! So, tonight at 8? We can stay for both sets."

"Eight it is."

The End

Legal Blather: Daria and all associated characters belong to MTV. Thisstory is my own.

Author's Note: This fic started out as an entry in Angelboy's"Fandemonium" project on the PPMB. The idea was that, if we'rewriting fanfic about Daria, what kindof show might Daria and Co. be watching and writing about? In a way, it was theultimate in-joke, in that various Dariafans were to be used as characters in the show. Most entries revolved aroundthe show Fandemonium itself, but somewere about the Daria characterswatching it or talking about it. atimnie made a post about Daria and Stacycollaborating on a Fandemonium fanfic,which sparked my imagination, leading to the first version of this fic. It wasoriginally intended as a satire of the various arguments on the PPMB concerningthe writing and direction of fanfic, but took on a life of its own when Irealized how it could be used to explore the idea of "Daria asSandi", which has been brought up by several fanfic writers. When I finishedthe "Fandemonium" story, I decided to adapt it into a standalone work, and takethe opportunity to add a bit more depth to the story and improve some thingsthat hadn't worked as well the first time. The result is the fic you've justread. I hope you enjoyed it.

Thanks to Angelboy for the"Fandemonium" project that first housed this story, and to atimnie for makingthe post that inspired it. Thanksalso to RLobinske, who pointed out a major out-of-character moment for Daria inthe first draft, leading to revisions which (I hope) vastly improved thestory. Finally, a big thanks tothe creators of Daria, for giving uscharacters complex enough to dig deep into, and that we can love even if wedon't always like what we find.