ANYWHERE BUT HERE
By M Man
JUNE 11, 1950, JUST OUTSIDE THE TOWN LIMITS OF LAWNBURG:
"... and so, once gain, the State Forestry Service thanks Horace Sloane for his generous donation of land, and I now officially declare this to be the Horace Sloane State Forest!"
Generous donation, my ass, thought his grandson Nathaniel Sloane, watching the ceremony, anonymously, from the crowd. The old coot's going to be dead in a month and he just can't stand the thought of leaving his family the huge fortune they would come into if old Horace had sold the land to those developers. So he just gives it away! Acres and acres and acres of prime land!
Damn him forever, thought Nathaniel.
-------
Old Horace Sloane sat in his wheelchair, watching the proceedings. He had been asked to say a few words, but his lung cancer was now so advanced that he couldn't even make himself heard with a microphone.
There's my grandson in the crowd, he thought. Damn lazy bastard Nathaniel. The damn kid wants to live off an inheritance created by selling off the best damn stretch of land still left in this part of the state. Damn developers citifying everything and everybody. Well, thought Horace, they won't do it here. They wanted to merge Greendale Township with Lawnburg and call it "Lawn-Dale" or some such nonsense. Build those damn tract homes for miles and miles and miles. Well, they won't do it now. Not with 95% of the prime land turned into a state forest.
I've lived here the whole 86 years of my life, thought Horace, and I just can't stand the thought of this wonderful wilderness turned into a Levittown. I just can't.
No, siree, thought Horace. Lawnburg will remain the small town it always has been and was always meant to be. Those damn developers will have to take their business somewhere else. Anywhere but here.
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PRESENT DAY - SUBURBAN PROVIDENCE, RHODE ISLAND
"Hey, Quinn!"
Quinn stopped as she recognized the voice of Callie. What did that stuck-up bitch want *now*?
"Yeah, Callie, what is it?"
"This is kind of last-minute, but Ms. Heller wants four of us K-Hi Hostesses at this meeting she's having over the weekend. Something about someone from the state board of education coming to visit."
"On the weekend? A three-day weekend? Why? Don't they usually visit when school is going on?"
"Beats me. Anyway, she wants just four of us. Set up the conference room, serve coffee, the usual sort of stuff."
Quinn and Callie had been at odds ever since the Morgendorffers had moved from Highland, Texas three years ago. Callie was the most popular girl at John F. Kennedy High School (K-Hi for short) and seemed to resent Quinn's very existence. Callie was also Head Hostess.
So why is she picking me out of all 15 K-Hi Hostesses, thought Quinn.
"Um, Callie, my family is going away this weekend. I'm afraid you'll have to find someone else."
Callie's slight smirk told Quinn this was welcome news.
"Well, Ms. Heller chose four of us personally. But I'm sure Tish will fill in for you quite nicely."
Yeah, I'll just bet she will, thought Quinn. She's the sort of spineless dishrag good ol' Callie just loves to push around and make miserable. Besides, Tish won't outshine Callie.
Good thing the Morgendorffers were going away for the weekend. Quinn had had enough of Callie, K-Hi, and the Hostesses. She'd just as soon spend a weekend anywhere but here.
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CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
"... and so, fellow students, as we begin the activities of African-American Cultural Awareness Week, let is remember the words of Dr. King, and judge each other not by the color of our skin, but by the content of our character!"
Jodie Landon told herself not to let the applause make her big-headed, but it was hard not to do so in this moment of triumph. Two years earlier she had become president of the school's almost moribund African-American Club and turned it into one of the most influential clubs at Lincoln High.
Getting the school board to devote an entire week to African-American cultural awareness would be the crowning glory of her high-school years.
It was hard to believe that she had almost gone to neighboring Douglas High. Douglas High wasn't in Chicago, but in the adjoining suburb. Her father had wanted desperately to settle in the ritzier school district: "Why do we want to move back to some ghetto?" he had protested.
Ghetto? The Lincoln High neighborhood was seventy-percent white and quite upscale by most standards. Ghetto? Finally Michelle had prevailed and Andrew agreed that having children go to Lincoln High wouldn't be a black (ha! ha!) mark on his status as a businessman.
Jodie tried to imagine what it would have been like going to a 99% white school like Douglas. She certainly wouldn't have been involved in the wide range of extracurricular activites she was in now. She probably would have been a non-entity, if not the constant target of racial slurs. Lord knows what sort of grades she would have made in such an environment.
Would there have been an African-American club in such a place? Hah!
She had gone through Douglas High once, accompanying her father on a house- hunting trip. She had gagged at the whole white-bread atmosphere of the place.
Douglas High?, she had thought then. Go to school here? Anywhere but here.
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HARRISBURG, PENNSYLVANIA
I can't believe this is happening to me, thought Stacy Rowe.
She was in a confidential pregnancy clinic in the seedier part of town. She had definitely tested positive. The counselor had asked her several times who the father was, and smiled condescendingly when she told her that she didn't know.
Actually, she did and she didn't. She and her friends had gone to an away football game in York and decided to hook up with some guys they met there. Just a little harmless flirting, and then making out, and then driving to a secluded area to make out more seriously ...
The boy's name was Andy. At least that's what he told her. He also told her he would "pull out" in time. She thought he had. Obviously he hadn't.
God, what am I going to tell my parents? What am I going to do? Abortion? Adoption? Try to be a single mother?
I guess they don't do shotgun weddings anymore, she thought. Stacy chuckled bitterly at the thought. She barely remembered what Andy even looked like.
The counselor was coming back. Whatever the counselor advised, Stacy knew she would do. She always did what anybody told her to do, pressured her to do, or seduced her to do.
Maybe suicide was the answer. Stacy wasn't sure if she believed in heaven or hell, but at least she'd no longer be here. And she'd rather be anywhere but here.
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COLUMBUS, OHIO
Charles "Chaz" Ruttheimer III was lovin' life.
Straight A's. President of his class. President of the Computer Club.
And, of course, boyfriend of Renee Frohman, the head cheerleader.
Chaz sometimes found it difficult to fathom that he had once, not so long ago, been regarded as something of a geek. Then there had been that fateful day in his freshman year. He was annoying the freshman cheerleaders with what he now, with painful memory, thought of as his "Casanova routine" when one of the cheerleaders said in a loud, teasing voice, "Hey, Ruttheimer, Renee has a crush on you."
Poor Renee had almost died of embarrassment. How dare her best friend publicly humiliate her like that, revealing that she had a thing for red-headed guys with freckles and actually saw her geeky classmate as somewhat cute? That was supposed to be a *secret*! But when Chaz asked her "Really?" Renee, though blushing desperately, had bravely looked him in the eye and said "Yeah."
Renee had been a skinny freshman then, and was hardly considered one of the "hot" cheerleaders. Chaz didn't mind. She was still kind of cute, and she liked him. A lot.
Not that Chaz complained when her figure filled out the next year or so. She had gone from cute to drop-dead gorgeous.
Everything always seemed to fall into place for Chaz.
There had been that awful month last summer when his father had been up for a promotion that would have sent him to the West Coast. Chaz couldn't fathom starting over again at a new school. Luckily for Chaz the promotion had fallen through.
With life the way it was, why would Chaz want to live anywhere but here?
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HOUSTON, TEXAS
"Did not!"
"Did too!"
"Did not!"
"Did too!"
Sandi Griffin couldn't stand it anymore.
"Shut *up*!" she screamed at the top of her voice.
"Go ahead and make me!" shouted Chris, as he and Sam ran outside, laughing.
Sandi Griffin was reading her magazine - make that *trying* to read her magazine - for the past hour, but had gotten nowhere with her bratty brothers always underfoot.
This wasn't how she had imagined things would turn out when her parents had divorced two years ago. Linda had moved to Austin with her new boyfriend, the immediate cause of the divorce. Sandi had insisted on living with her father, more to get away from Sam and Chris than for any other reason.
But Linda didn't exactly battle Tom over visitation rights. On the contrary, she seemed content to dump the boys in Houston every weekend and holiday. The better to spend more time with her 30-year-old lover-boy. Of course, Tom had his golfing buddies and other things to do on weekends, so Sandi got stuck baby-sitting the two little brats from hell.
Which is where her once-active social life had gone. Weekends were now shot to, well, hell. Or wherever.
Maybe I could go live with my Aunt Vicki instead, thought Sandi. North Dakota may be nowheresville, but as least it's not here. And, Sandi thought as her screaming brothers came running back into the house, she would rather live anywhere but here.
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MINNEAPOLIS, MINNESOTA
"Bend your knees, Tiffany! Bend your knees more!"
Tiffany Blum-Deckler sped across the ice rink, her coach's voice echoing from the walls and rafters. Tatiana Kolkova was a Russian, well actually an American now but Russian-born, and everyone knew those Russians were sticklers for the fundamentals. Tatiana must have told Tiffany to bend her knees ten-thousand times, and would probably do so many thousand more times.
Often Tiffany's mother or father attended the early-morning practice sessions, but today she and her coach were alone in the rented rink.
Tiffany had been barely five years old, skating in a public session, when Tatiana had spotted her. The coach had approached her and her parents, and told them that Tiffany skated with an assurance and balance far beyond her years. Tatiana was amazed to hear that Tiffany had never had formal lessons, but had learned to skate mostly from watching figure-skating on television. Her parents, who had taken up skating because it seemed the thing to do in icy Minnesota after moving from southern California, had no idea that there was anything unusual about their daughter's skating skill.
Tatiana knew Tiffany had the potential to be a good figure-skater, but how good? From the start Tiffany was an apt student, absorbing Tatiana's lessons readily. Tiffany learned best from watching Tatiana demonstrate the various moves. Verbal instruction was often wasted on her.
Well, here they were over ten years later, and Tiffany had just missed a medal in the last Olympics, finishing fourth overall. Tatiana was determined her star pupil would get a medal in the next Olympics, maybe even a gold.
Like most elite skaters, Tiffany did not attend high school with her peers, but had a private tutor. Luckily the tutor had been a bald man when he began to teach Tiffany, or he would have torn his hair out by now. Tiffany, who could skate for hours and never lose concentration, had a short attention span when it came to schoolwork. It was a struggle.
Worse, Tiffany was sometimes the object of snickers for her public interviews. She had a way of speaking that made her seem even duller and more slow-witted than she actually was. A magazine article had been written, castigating the Blum-Decklers and Tatiana for exploiting a talented girl and neglecting her education.
Tatiana shook her head. Tiffany's only chance for success in life was on the ice. If Tiffany won the gold, she'd be set for life.
"Should I practiccce my spinnns?" Tiffany asked Tatiana.
"Not yet. More backward skating first!" shouted Tatiana in her heavy accent.
Tatiana often wondered what would have happened to Tiffany if she had remained in California, or moved somewhere else where there were few ice rinks, or no expert coach to spot Tiffany's talent. Or if she had never even taken up ice-skating. Her talent might have remained undiscovered had she lived, well, almost anywhere but here.
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PORTLAND, OREGON
The memory of that awful night had never left Vivian Taylor. The night that had saved her marriage.
Vivian had been living in that tiny apartment, separated from her husband. Only the formalities remained until they were divorced.
Then came the phone call. Her husband, his voice barely understandable, choked out the news that their daughter Brittany had died in a car wreck.
Brittany was a passenger in the car driven by her boyfriend Biff Raines, quarterback for the Pacific High Rams. It was a post-game party and Biff had gotten drunk. Vivian would never know how strongly Brittany had argued that she should drive Biff's car. But Biff was 17 and had a license. Brittany was 15 and didn't. Brittany gave in. It had cost both of them their lives.
Vivian and Steve decided the next day that the divorce was silly, that they were arguing over nothing, that there was nothing more important to them than their son Brian and his future. Their only child, now.
Vivian stared at the familiar tombstone and felt Steve's hand squeeze hers.
They both knelt and placed what Brittany would have wanted on the tombstone - not flowers, like every other grave. No, they each placed a red-and-blue Pacific High pom-pom on the plaque which read:
BRITTANY LEIGH TAYLOR B. 1984 D. 1999 GO, RAMS, GO!
And below that a megaphone inscribed "P.H.S."
What an awful place to be thankful for the saving of her marriage - her teenage daughter's burial plot. She wished it could be anywhere else, anywhere but here.
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OGDEN, UTAH
When his father had been transferred to Utah, Michael "Mack" Mackenzie had almost decided to run away from home. From what he had heard, Mormons weren't famous for racial tolerance. Or any other kind of tolerance.
Well, he *was* the only black kid in Ogden Moroni High School. He seemed to be an object of curiousity more than anything else during his first week. But, he had to admit, no one had burned a cross or dropped an n-bomb or asked him to shine their shoes. He had been prepared for the worst.
Then had come his first football game. Three touchdowns, 150 yards rushing. He had been named Most Valuable Player, as a sophomore, on an 8-2 team at a school that had not previously been prominent in football.
Now, in his senior year, he was one of the leading rushers in the state, and Ogden Moroni seemed headed for the state championship. They had won their first nine games, all by four touchdowns or more.
And everybody at Moroni High was his friend. Or claimed to be.
Mack knew he wouldn't have been such a superstar if he went to a larger high school that played in a tougher division. But it had all worked out. And to think that he once thought he'd rather live anywhere but here.
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SUBURBAN DETROIT, MICHIGAN
"Owwwww!!!!"
Kevin Thompson had just hammered his own thumb. Again.
"Kevin! Watch what you're doing!" shouted his father.
Kevin's mind - what there was of it - had been wandering, as usual.
He had flunked out of high school the year before, and gone to work for his father's construction company. Luckily there was plenty of work in the ever-expanding Detroit suburbs.
Kevin might have scraped through high school if things had gone differently. He had been a talented football player, a quarterback, but Walter Kline, who had been Kevin's backup in junior high, had developed into an all-state quarterback after a ninth-grade growth spurt. Kevin was relegated to the bench, and coaches didn't pull academic strings for bench-warmers.
Doug Thompson had considered transferring his son to another school district, but the state education board had been cracking down on athletes' grades, and no other school wanted an athletic transfer who was flunking every subject.
Kevin wondered why Walter Kline couldn't have gone to school somewhere else. Anywhere but here.
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SUBURBAN PROVIDENCE, RHODE ISLAND
"Stop shrugging your shoulders, Miss Dempsey!"
Daria cringed as Lucretia Heller, principal of K-Hi, scolded the girl next to her. The girls were all lined up for a surprise inspection of their skirt lengths. By rule, all skirts or shorts had to be at least as long as their fingertips with their arms fully extended at their sides. Patti Dempsey wasn't quite making it, and was trying to "cheat" by not fully extending her arms.
"Aha! I thought so! Well, unless you have a change of clothes in your locker, you're going to have to go home and change, Miss Dempsey! This *will* go on your permanent record, you understand ... "
Daria fought the urge to shout "Heil Heller!," which so many students at K-Hi thought was an accurate reflection of "Lu" Heller's personality and administrative style.
Daria had never failed the test since her skirts were long and her arms short. But she resented the intrusiveness of it, the pettiness of it.
And she resented the hyprocrisy of it: this was Friday, and students participating in athletics could wear their uniforms to class. The cheerleaders' skirts barely came down to their wrists, let alone their fingertips. Likewise the short uniform kilts the field hockey girls wore to class. But they were exempt from the inspection.
Daria's sister Quinn had been sent home her first week as a freshman for wearing too-short shorts. After that Quinn had dodged the whole issue by wearing jeans every day.
Daria seethed as Ms. Heller looked her over and nodded approvingly. Daria didn't *want* the principal to approve of her. Daria suspected there might be an inspection today, and in science class had mischeviously asked her lab partner, Ginger, if she might trade skirts with her today. Ginger was a field hockey player.
Ginger had giggled at the thought, but said that she'd get in as much trouble as Daria for pulling a stunt like that.
At least the Morgendorffers were going away for the weekend. Not that Grandma Barksdale was so enjoyable to visit, but at least it wasn't Providence and K-Hi.
Daria wondered if all high schools were like this: full of stupid rules, clueless teachers, shallow classmates?
Surely things would have been different had she gone to school somewhere else, anywhere but here.
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HORACE SLOANE STATE FOREST
"Jake, I refuse to go any further until you get that mirror fixed!"
Jake wondered where Helen expected him to get the rear-view mirror fixed out here in the middle of nowhere. The mirror had fallen off an hour earlier, while the Morgendorffers had stopped at a roadside picnic area. Apparently the bolt and nut had become loose, and the mirror had fallen to the floor. Too late they realized they had thrown the bolt and nut into the trash at the picnic area in the process of cleaning out the car.
"Jake, did you hear me? It's dangerous to drive that way ..."
"Helen, do you see any car-repair shops out here? Or any sign of civilization? Gahhhh ... !!"
"Jake, *you're* the one who suggested taking this short-cut to avoid the construction on the interstate!"
"That's right, Helen, blame ol' Jakey for everything ... "
Daria was studying a road map of the region.
"Uh, Dad," said Daria, "we're in a state forest ... "
"State forest? *State forest*? Helen, did you ... "
"Uh, but Dad, it looks like there's a small town right in the middle of it. Lawnburg."
"Lawnburg!" piped up Quinn. "See that sign? Lawnburg - 5 miles!"
"Jake, let's see if we can get the mirror repaired in Lawnburg," said Helen.
----------------
The first sign of Lawnburg was an old brick building: Lawnburg High School. The date on the cornerstone was 1937.
"*That's* a high school?" asked Quinn.
"They could fit that into the auditorium at K-Hi," observed Daria.
"Look, Jake! A hardware store. I think we can get the mirror fixed there!" said Helen.
"Sloane Hardware," said Daria. "I wonder if we'll find Horace Sloane in there."
"Horace Sloane?" said Helen.
"The name of the state forest. Horace Sloane State Forest." said Daria.
"Ha-ha! You're kidding, right?" laughed Jake.
Jake pulled into a parking place in front of the hardware store. The four of them all got out and walked in. Jake carried the rear-view mirror. A middle-aged man greeted them.
"Hello, folks, what can I do for you?"
"Are you Horace Sloane?" asked Quinn.
I can't believe you asked him that, thought Daria, rolling her eyes.
"Uh, no, miss, I'm Angier Sloane, but Horace was my great-grandfather ... "
"Mr. Sloane," said Helen, "we're in a hurry to get back home tonight. That's Providence, Rhode Island ... "
"You folks have a long drive ahead of you ... "
"Our rear-view mirror fell off its mount," said Jake, "and we've lost the nut and bolt. Could you repair it for us?" Jake handed the mirror to Angier Sloane.
"Sure. Let me get a bolt and nut and I'll put it right on myself," said Angier. "Come with me and I'll get you fixed up."
"Daria," whispered Quinn, "look at that boy. He's cute."
A boy about Daria's age was sweeping one of the aisleways, coming toward them. Helen had wandered off to check out the lawn-care aisle.
He *is* cute, thought Daria. Daria rarely bothered to notice such things, since no boys ever seemed to think *she* was cute. To her surprise the boy smiled broadly at her.
"Hi, there," he said, "you girls from out of town?"
"Uh, yeah," said Daria, "Rhode Island." Daria felt herself smiling at him, and blushing slightly as well. What was going on?
"Well, that's definitely from out-of-town," grinned the boy. "I'm Tom."
"Uh, I'm Daria. And this is my sister Quinn. We're getting our rear-view mirror fixed so we can get home tonight."
"Yeah, my dad will have you back on the road in no time."
"Your dad?" Quinn butted in. "So you're related to the state forest, too?"
Daria smirked. She knew what Quinn wasn't used to being ignored by a cute boy, especially one paying more attention to Daria.
"Uh, well," said Tom, "I guess you could say that. Horace Sloane was my great-great-grandfather. He owned lots of land around here and donated it to the state. My grandfather always said we could have been rich if Horace had sold it to developers. But my dad owns his own business, so we're not doing too bad. At least Dad doesn't work for the mill. They keep laying people off."
"But if too many people are layed off," asked Daria, "aren't you afraid that your dad's store won't have enough business?"
"Afraid?" said Tom, a smile forming on his face, "Nothing is to be feared; it is only to be understood."
Daria hesitated a moment and smiled back. "That's from Marie Curie!" she said.
"Who's *she*? An actress?" asked Quinn. Tom and Daria didn't even notice Quinn.
"Yeah, Marie Curie," said Tom. "how did you know that?"
"Who is John Galt?" Daria fired back, grinning.
"Ayn Rand! Atlas Shrugged!" said Tom.
They both laughed.
"Ahem!!" came a voice from behind Daria.
Daria turned to see a black-haired girl about her own age.
"Oh, hi, Jane," said Tom, a bit guiltily.
The black-haired girl stepped up beside Tom and took him by one arm.
"Tom's my boyfriend," said the girl, "and you city girls can just ... "
"Jane, these are *customers*," pleaded Tom.
"Excuse me?" said Daria, beginning to anger, "Are you saying that we've come here all the way from Rhode Island to steal your boyfriend?"
"I don't care if you're from Fantasy Island," said Jane. "Just leave Tom alone."
"Gawd, you're scare-a-noid!" said Quinn.
"That's 'paranoid'," said Daria.
"What-*ever*!" said Quinn.
Helen came up and interrupted them. "Girls, the mirror's fixed and your father's paying Mr. Sloane right now. We're going to get back on the road."
"OK, Mom," said Daria. "Good to meet you, Tom." She deliberately ignored Jane, who was staring bullets at her.
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"The unbelievable *nerve* of that girl!" said Quinn. They were pulling away from the hardware store. "Like we were going to take her boyfriend back home to Providence or whatever!"
"You *did* say he was cute, Quinn," said Daria.
"And you were *thinking* it!" said Quinn. "When did *you* learn how to flirt?"
"I *wasn't* flirting!" said Daria.
"Yeah, yeah, whatever," said Quinn. "For a minute there I thought you were going to kiss him ..."
"Kiss him!? *Kiss* him?! Me?! You're as bad as that crazy girlfriend of his ... "
They were now passing out of Lawnburg, re-entering the Horace Sloane State Forest. Quinn and Daria were too busy arguing to notice the last cluster of buildings on the outskirts of Lawnburg, or the sign which read "Lawnburg Artist's Colony - Amanda Lane, Director."
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Later that night, Tom Sloane stared out of his bedroom window at the Horace Sloane State Forest, barely visible now in the twilight. What if old Horace had sold the land to the developers? Would the Sloanes now be rich, or would the family fortune have been dissipated by now? What would the view from his bedroom look like? Houses and businesses and office buildings, all with their lights on by this time of evening? Maybe even skyscrapers?
Unanswerable questions, all. One might as well ask what would have happened if he had met that intriguing girl from Rhode Island - what was her name? Daria? - under different circumstances. Like if she lived here.
Lived *here*? Small towns bred people with small minds, and that included the girls in his class at Lawnburg High. Jane was the only girl around with any wit or intelligence, and he'd already managed to hook up with her. He should be thankful for that.
No, girls like Daria don't live around here.
Anywhere but here.
**************
Much thanks to Firah for beta-reading several versions of this.
Please e-mail (mman37x@cs.com) your reactions to this fanfic.
As always, fan-artists are strongly encouraged to draw pictures based on this fanfic.