GROWING CYNICAL


(Scene: Cedars of Lawndale, cafeteria. AP is sitting at a table, leafing through a stack of papers. Facial expression -- pure tormented nostalgia. Daria approaches and sits across from him.)

AP: No change. (beat) How're you doing?

Daria: As well as can be expected. What are you reading?

AP: Old e-mails from Purple Peril. Just ... (sigh) I guess I want to keep all this fresh. Just in case. You know?

Daria: (sad) Better than you think. (to AP's look) Another time. What have you got?

AP: (reading aloud) 'Dear Maverick, history repeats. Threat of wacky ward currently being used as bludgeon by Nazi Jackboot. EE and I forced to make deal due to time shortage -- currently trying to put positive spin on Gulag. Am trying not to lose it -- don't want to frighten gang ... yet, anyway. So only 40% chance of shoot-out as yet. However, sleep dep and vast irritation causing percentage to rise. Will let you know. Peril.' (sigh) She never really explained that.

Daria: Oh, that. Mr O'Neill wanted us to write 'a poem that says "I feel".' We did. He crumpled. We went before Ms Li, who said she'd have us committed unless we wrote an essay on the school for some competition in "Waif". (slight smirk) After a few false starts, the spin doctors were in.

AP: (thoughtful) Oh, right. (sigh; miserable) I remember reading this the first time. Thought she'd calmed down. You know - no more doing stupid things in demon-rage fit. I guess I was wrong. I'd call barging in on a mad shooter pretty stupid.

Daria: (not sure how to respond) Um ... what do you mean, 'calmed down'? Somehow, 'calm' is not the first word that comes to mind when thinking about Lynn.

AP: Well, it was worse. (thinking) I know she said she didn't have time to plan something, but we've done shorter-notice things before. Maybe she didn't use a Method on the Jackboot because she didn't want to drag you into it too far. Or get you into trouble.

Daria: A 'Method'.

AP: You've heard about Methods 9 and 10.

Daria: (thinks) That would be ... cement in the wind instruments and furniture on the ceiling, right? (AP nods) Oh. I see your point.

AP: And the funny thing is that we used Method 10 in pretty much the same situation as your...

Daria: (sad nostalgic smile) Operation Faeces Tauri.

AP: (grin) Yeah. (thought) Or not. I mean, she didn't actually pull anything until it really came to the crunch.

Daria: Tell me. (to AP's slightly puzzled look) It might help to share. (thought VO) You and me both.

AP: (sad little grin) Maybe. Well, we got called up for meetings with the guidance counsellor -- and you know how much she hates guidance counsellors...


(Scene: Oakwood High School cafeteria. Doesn't look very different from the Lawndale one -- school cafeterias never look very different. Lynn and AP, age 16 or thereabouts, are sitting across from each other, poking at the ubiquitous pseudo-food.)

AP: (mock pompous) So where do you see yourself in ten years' time, young lady? It's never too early to start thinking of the future.

Lynn: If that man wants the future, he should get himself a crystal ball. I resent the hell out of some bitter, underpaid hack dictating my career path.

AP: Well, you're going to have to tell him something. (beat) Unless you take the 'see-no-moron, hear-no-moron, speak-to-no-moron' line like you did in the psychological evaluations.

Lynn: No -- that's only a stopgap measure. (beat) Now what can I tell him I want to be that won't result in me staggering out of his office under an unendurable weight of college brochures and unwanted advice?

AP: McDonalds counter-person?

Lynn: (shudder) Ugh -- too depressing. Anyway, no guidance counsellor worth beans would leave someone who said that alone.

AP: True. (beat) Why not just tell him that all you really want to be is a freelance writer?

Lynn: (raised eyebrow) You mean be honest with him? I have standards, Maverick.

AP: Rock musician?

Lynn: (mock pompous) But then why did you quit the band? (beat; normal) Anyway, knowing him, he'd probably suggest performing arts schools.

AP: Kinda limits the options, doesn't it?

Lynn: No kidding. What I need is a slightly scary but undeniably necessary career goal that requires only a basic education and a specific sort of personality.

AP: Hmm ... tough call.

(Very brief silence ... then Lynn gets a sly look.)

Lynn: Not really...

(AP looks at Lynn strangely. She returns it with a look that simply says, 'you'll see'.)


(Scene: OHS corridor. AP is waiting outside a door, which opens after a moment. Lynn steps out -- behind her, through the door, a portly, white-haired man can be seen sitting at his desk, stunned and nearly gibbering. Then Lynn shuts the door behind her and, seemingly heedless of AP's confused stare, moves off down the corridor. AP stares at her a second longer, then peers into the glass panel of the door, then looks after Lynn again.)

AP: (frantic) What did you do?

(And he runs off after Lynn.)


(Scene: elsewhere in the OHS corridor. Lynn is casually loading up her backpack. AP is staring at her, nearly as stunned as the man in the earlier shot had been.)

AP: You ... told him... (mild squeak)

Lynn: It fit the criteria. Basic education only, damn scary...

AP: You ... told him you wanted... (mild sputter)

Lynn: And, of course, it had the added bonus of effectively rendering the man speechless. (musing) Of course, I was a bit disappointed that he didn't go fetal -- I obviously underestimated him.

AP: DEATH ROW EXECUTIONER?

(Lynn shrugs and shuts her locker as AP stares at her)

Lynn: (shouldering her backpack) Pizza?

AP: (stunned) Okay...

(Lynn and AP walk away OS.)

AP: (OS) Just ... you don't really want to do that for a living...?

Lynn: (OS) What do you think?

AP: (OS) With you? Who knows?


(Scene: OHS corridor. AP stacking books in his locker. Lynn reading "Do You Want Fries With That?: Career Prospects for the Aspiring Writer or Artist." And a voice is heard over the PA.)

PA: Would Lynn Cullen please report to Dr Myers' office immediately?

(AP looks at Lynn, eyes wide. Lynn raises her eyebrows.)

AP: Uh-oh. The head-shrink. You think it's about what happened yesterday?

Lynn: Either that or my last English essay. I advanced the potentially controversial opinion that Whitman's patriotic themes prove conclusively that he had his head stuck firmly up his backside.

AP: (puzzled) Oh. (beat) So what are you going to do?

(Lynn makes the see-no-evil, hear-no-evil, speak-no-evil [which in her case is see-no-moron, hear-no-moron, speak-to-no-moron] gesture and walks away. AP looks slightly worried, then shrugs and shuts his locker.)


(Scene: Leaning Tower of Pizza. Lynn and AP share a booth. Lynn has gone beyond 'that weird shade of maroon' - something in her eyes suggests imminent random kill-spree. AP looks concerned. There is no food on the table as yet. They seem to have been waiting for some time.)

AP: So ... how'd it go?

Lynn: (dark) It went. (beat; finger-drumming) What the hell happened to 'quick service with a smile'?

AP: (hesitant) Um ... well, they might be busy...

(Lynn raises an eyebrow. Quick pan to half-empty restaurant.)

AP: ...Or maybe it's just the fact that the vibes you're giving off would kill at twenty paces.

(A waitress walks somewhat quickly past in a "I quit before I serve that table" kind of way and Lynn trips her. The waitress hits the floor and Lynn grabs her by the collar of her uniform and hauls her half-upright so they are nearly nose to nose. Waitress is scared witless.)

Lynn: ('pleasant' tone) Excuse me. We'd like to order now? (waitress: spastic head-nod) There should be an order pad in your apron pocket? (waitress: spastic head-nod. Lynn's voice now deadly) Get. It. Out. Then.

(Waitress does so ... then thinks about it and tries to manufacture a smile. It looks ghastly.)

AP: (freaked) Um ... Lynn?

Lynn: (monotone; eyes locked with those of terrified waitress) Place the order, AP.

AP: But...

Lynn: (deadly; still not looking) Now.

AP: (WAY too fast) Pepperoni-and-mushroom-pizza-extra-cheese-two-Cokes-please.

Lynn: (to shaking waitress) Got that? (waitress: spastic head-shake) One medium pepperoni and mushroom pizza. With extra cheese. Two large Cokes.

AP: I said please.

Lynn: I don't care. (to madly scribbling waitress) Got it now? (waitress: spastic head-nod) Good.

(Lynn lets go. Waitress flees for her life. AP stares at Lynn, who resumes deadpan expression. There is silence.)

AP: (concern and exasperation) Vent.

Lynn: (suppressed anger) I don't need to vent.

AP: Bull. Myers kept you in until nearly lunch. Then there was the five-minute speech in English about ritual sacrifice -- man, I bet Ms Gavenny wishes she hadn't started The Crucible. Now you're pulling a total Linda Blair.

Lynn: (raised eyebrow; mildly impressed through demon-rage) Nice culture reference. Not your usual thing.

AP: I've known you for about a decade now. It rubs off. (beat) Now vent or I'll be forced to ... (the words 'beat it out of you' cross his mind but self-preservation instinct rings bells) ... um ... try whipping up sodium pentothal or something.

(There is silence as they face off. The demon-rage holds for a moment ... then fades from Lynn's face, at which point she looks very tired.)

Lynn: (sigh) After nearly two hours of listening to a wide variety of insulting questions about my family life and nearly spraining a face muscle or two trying to keep deadpan, imagine my surprise when he informed me that I have unresolved personal issues and he is going to 'work with me' on them in my study hall time.

AP: (stunned) Can he do that?

Lynn: Apparently. He tracked Mom to Seattle and she gave full permission. She would -- she's wanted me in therapy for years.

AP: I wouldn't, if I were her. I mean, if you ever decided to spill your guts about her... (at Lynn's glare, he gets a 'whoops' expression and rapidly changes the subject.) Anyway, what are you going to do now?

Lynn: I may have to go sit in his office for fifty minutes three times a week, but no one said I had to co-operate with him and there's no way in hell they can make me. I play see-no-moron, hear-no-moron, speak-to-no-moron long enough and he'll have to give me up as a lost cause.

AP: Backup plan?

Lynn: 3, 10 or 19.

AP: Not 21?

Lynn: Definitely not 21. Some things should only be taken so far.

(AP looks a bit disappointed, but gives a grudging nod.)


(Scene: Myers' office. Lynn looks at Myers [a pallid, sandy-haired skeleton of a man with an overabundance of freckles and watery grey eyes] impassively. Myers looks frustrated.)

Myers: I sense a real reluctance to discuss your home life, Lynn. Care to comment?

(Lynn, still impassive, says nothing.)

Myers: You're going to have to address this at some point, Lynn. It'd save you a lot of grief in later life if you began addressing it now.

(Nil response from Lynn.)

Myers: (narrowed eyes) Three weeks, Lynn. Nine sessions. And not a word. You obviously have some severe problems with trusting authority figures.

(Silence.)

Myers: (frustrated) Would you at least satisfy my curiosity as to why you won't even say 'good morning' when you enter this office?

(Lynn continues to look impassively at him.)

Myers: (sigh) All right, Lynn. I'm loath to do this, but it's the only option I have left to help you start helping yourself. I'll keep seeing you for another two weeks and, if you still insist on this ... silent protest nonsense, I will be forced to suggest a more ... formal assessment.

(Nothing.)

Myers: You do understand that, given the uncommunicative tack you are currently taking, the assessment might lead to a suggestion of in-patient psychiatric treatment?

(Still nothing.)

Myers: (sigh) You can go. Just ... think about it.

(In silence, still impassive, Lynn gets up and leaves. Myers looks worried at her lack of reaction.)


(Scene: OHS cafeteria. Lynn, the same deadpan look on her face, is picking at her food. AP is watching, worry for her and fear of her plain on his face.)

AP: (nervous) Look, I... (beat) Can I just... (beat) You just seem... (beat: speed-rant) LookIknowIpromisedIwouldn'taskbutIjustKNOWit'sgotworse'causeyouwouldn'tevenblowMsGavennyoutofthewaterthewayyounormallydoinEnglishclassandyoulooklikesomeonetookyoursoulandI'mscaredoutofmyMIND!

(There is a pause while AP catches his breath. Lynn does not look up.)

Lynn: (deadpan) I have two weeks to start talking or I wind up at Pineland.

(AP's eyes widen and he reaches out and uncertainly pats her hand.)

AP: Oh, Jeez. Um ... I ... don't worry? He's not gonna...

(Lynn looks up and, though her face is neutral, her eyes blaze fury. AP pulls back in fear -- this is way worse than at Leaning Tower.)

Lynn: Damn right he's not gonna. Galileo may have recanted; I'm not going to. (beat; to AP's blank look) He's a scientist? (sigh) Never mind. All I mean is that it's time for the backup plan.

AP: (weak grin) Sure you won't think about 21?

Lynn: That'd get me into Pineland for sure. The only person I want committed is him.

AP: So ... 3, 10 or 19?

Lynn: (looking at the 'food') We'll discuss it after school over something palatable.

(She raises her milk carton. He raises his, and they 'clink' them together. AP is grinning but Lynn is solemn.)


(Scene: OHS exterior. Lynn and AP, both dressed in black, stand on the sidewalk, consulting a sheet of paper.)

Lynn: So we're clear on what we're doing?

AP: Yeah, but ... this is gonna be hard with just the two of us. Nineteen would have been a lot easier...

Lynn: Precisely why it has to be Ten. It's nearly impossible to do what we're going to do with two people, and it is impossible to do it alone. So, given that each of us has a total of one friend we actually trust, who's going to suspect us?

AP: Point taken. But if we screw this up...

Lynn: Nineteen is the fallback, okay?

AP: All right! Let's turn the head-shrink's life upside-down!

(Lynn raises an eyebrow at him and they move towards the school.)


(Montage. Music: "Change The World" -- Offspring.

Auto shop. AP enters and shines a flashlight over the room. The beam rests on a bunch of car jacks, which he approaches. He starts shoving car jacks into a large sack.

Wood shop. Lynn is dumping an electric screwdriver into her backpack ... then notes a bunch of half-assembled scaffolding in the corner. She smirks.

OHS corridor. AP waits, carrying a sack over his shoulder [like a young, slim, demented Santa Claus]. Then Lynn comes around a corner wheeling a dolly, upon which rests a tool box and the half-assembled scaffolding. AP grins. Lynn reaches into her backpack and takes out her lock-picking tools.

OHS exterior. Through one of the windows, we can see two flashlight beams and two shadows, moving. Dim thumps and the odd muffled obscenity can be heard.

End montage OHS exterior as Lynn and AP stand outside the side door. Lynn is testing it to make sure it's locked.)

Lynn: Mission accomplished.

AP: Was there ever any doubt?

Lynn: (raised eyebrow) Not from me, Mr 'Let's Use 19 Instead'...

AP: (blush) Well...

Lynn: Come on. I'll save the I told you so's for another time.

(They walk off. Time lapse photography to morning. Bell rings.)


(Scene: OHS corridor, outside Myers' office. Myers approaches the door to his office and unlocks it. Lynn and AP amble very slowly past, their faces carefully blank as Myers opens the door ... and stops with a horrified expression on his face.)

Myers: Wha...

(Lynn and AP look at each other. AP is visibly fighting a grin.)

Myers: AaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!

(Mid-scream, he turns on his heel and runs, the scream trailing off behind him as he leaves. As he vacates the doorway, we see into his office. In all defiance of gravity, the desk, chairs and filing cabinet are standing upside down on the ceiling; all the desktop detritus has been stuck fast to the desk surface. The light fixture has been bolted to the floor. Two paintings on the walls have been rehung upside-down. The general effect is eerie. Cut to Lynn and AP, who smirk and grin respectively.)

Lynn: And yet another authority figure learns the folly of trying mess with the Peril. (beat) But then again, yet another authority figure refuses to go fetal. Maybe we could have used 21.

AP: Yeah, but I was thinking and where were we going to find that many live garter snakes?

Lynn: True enough. Anyway, he's still in no position to recommend committal.

AP: I knew my Crazy Glue fetish would help me out someday!

Lynn: (shrug) Whatever. Well done, Psycho-Maverick.

AP: Hey, Method Ten was your idea, Purple Peril!

(They shake hands briefly and then walk away without so much as a backward glance at the office they altered.)


(Scene: Cedars of Lawndale cafeteria. Daria looks thoroughly blown away.)

Daria: (after a moment of groping for words -- and this is Daria we're talking about) So it was either you two rearranging the man's office in total defiance of gravitational laws or...

AP: In the immortal words of Marcellus Wallace, Purple Peril getting medieval on his ass.

(They fall silent. We hear the cafeteria-noises quite clearly for a moment.)

Daria: You know ... this helps.

AP: (slight smile) Yeah, it does. (beat) But I'll probably talk your ear off if we keep going.

Daria: And how is this different from normal? (they both smile) Seriously, I ... I guess I'm kind of curious about her. I don't know her half as well as I feel I should. (AP gives her a curious look) I'll tell you some other time. (beat; choosing words carefully) So ... Lynn's ... violent by nature?

AP: She had her moments. (mild wince) You never saw her slam some poor sap into a brick wall.

Daria: (sudden memory) The hockey.

AP: (mild surprise) She told you about that?

Daria: Unavoidable, after watching you smash headlong into Upchuck even when not on roller skates. (beat) She said it was your idea ... but that you couldn't roller skate to save your life. (AP nods sheepishly) So why roller hockey?

AP: (sheepish) Well ... Purple Peril wanted archery to improve her aim. I wanted something that would let her vent the demon-rage a little.

(Daria looks at AP, who's blushing madly by this point, with a fair bit of respect.)

Daria: But you didn't tell her that was why.

AP: No, I had better things to do with my summer than spend it in traction. But when I had to, I just sort of ... nudged her in the right direction.

Daria: Had to?

AP: Our parents made us sign up for a sport -- Dad because ... well, you know ... (Daria nods understanding) and Kate ... well, to beat down Purple Peril's deviant streak. She'd kind of flaunted it before school let out.


(Scene: Lynn's room, Oakwood. Music: "Dust and Bones" -- Guns 'N Roses. The furniture is pine stuff seen in any Ikea catalogue, the walls are white and the bedspread is pale violet. It looks dull and very non-Lynn. Lynn, age 11, in black skirt, purple T-shirt and Converse high-topped sneakers [this is pre-boots], is talking on the phone. AP, in black jeans, blue T-shirt and blue Keds, sits on the bed, watching with interest.)

Lynn: (into phone) I don't know why you're getting so upset -- I got an A. (beat) Yes, I know Mrs Rossi and three of my classmates were sick, but it's not my fault they have weak stomachs. (beat) Well, I could have done something on Mrs Rossi's reading list, but I wanted a challenge. (long pause) But Mom... (shorter pause) And if I don't? (beat; sigh) All right. But I get to pick. (beat) Yes, within reason. (beat) No, I can't say whether 'that red-headed freak' will sign up for any sport I do -- I am not his keeper. (beat) Fine. I'll see you in a few days. (beat) No, I do not want an Eiffel Tower snow-globe. But a guillotine might be nice... (beat) Okay, okay, I was kidding. Good bye. (hangs up; heavy sigh)

AP: You got in trouble over the end-of-year book report. (Lynn nods) Maybe Stephen King's "It" wasn't such a good idea.

Lynn: She gave me the option of choosing my favourite book; I took it. (musing) Though maybe I didn't have to go into such graphic detail over the maulings. (beat) But it wouldn't have mattered so much if she hadn't insisted on making us do oral presentations.

AP: So what's Kate doing to slap you down this time?

Lynn: Accurate as that statement is, I'd prefer if you could phrase it such that it doesn't rub salt into the wounds. (beat) She wants me signed up for a sport or something this summer. Said something about the discipline doing me good. And if I don't -- she sends me off to summer camp.

AP: You, at summer camp? That's pathetic! Campfires, kickboards, colour war and sharing a tent with six other people?

Lynn: I know; I could be scarred for life by that sort of thing. Hence "all right, I'll do it" to the sport of my choice.

AP: So what are our options, sports-wise?

Lynn: (raised eyebrow) Our options? I've seen you in gym class, Maverick.

AP: Yeah, well... (blush) Dad's sort of said about the same thing to me as Kate's said to you. Only I'll spend all summer helping him with home improvements if I don't go.

Lynn: (deadpan) The horror. The horror.

AP: So come on; any ideas?

(Lynn goes into a desk drawer and pulls out a Fed Ex envelope. She reaches inside the envelope and pulls out several sheets of paper and brochures etc.)

Lynn: This arrived from Mom's office this morning. She got her secretary to do the research. So I wouldn't be able to 'forget' to pick up registration forms and things.

AP: (slight worry) Kate's serious about this, isn't she?

Lynn: Whatever. At least it saves me having to do it.


(Scene: the same. Music: "Garden of Eden" - Guns 'N Roses [it's on the same album - my way of saying time has passed.] Lynn and AP are sitting on the bed, paper spread all over.)

Lynn: I still say archery.

AP: Look, Purple Peril, even if we did do archery, you wouldn't be able to use your crossbow. Didn't you say it was illegal to have one until you turned 20?

Lynn: But it would still improve my aim a bit. And put a scare into my mother.

AP: (honestly tempted) Hmm. (back on track) Nah; I still say hockey's the best bet.

Lynn: (raised eyebrow) And why do you say that?

AP: Well ... I don't know any other sport where you're cheered on for hurting people!

Lynn: Rugby.

AP: Rugby? What's rugby?

Lynn: Football with less throwing, more tackling and no padding.

AP: (wince) Ouch.

Lynn: Anyway, this is roller hockey. You don't skate.

AP: Well ... do you?

Lynn: I ice skate. How much harder can wheels be? (AP nods, conceding the point. Brief pause) You realise that team sports go against my principles.

AP: You don't have principles.

Lynn: (slight nod conceding his point) And I suppose you make a point about the crossbow. Roller hockey it is, then.

(AP grins. Lynn shrugs.)


(Scene: park bench somewhere. Lynn and AP lacing up roller skates. Lynn has tied her hair into a braid.)

Lynn: (wary) Do you know anything about hockey, Maverick? Or is this another of your sick whims?

AP: I've seen a few games. Dad follows the New Jersey Devils.

Lynn: I commiserate. Highly.

AP: You?

Lynn: A quasi-distant cousin of mine lived in Montreal. She's kind of into hockey as a matter of national loyalty ... particularly since she's moving to England in the fall. I've been to visit her a couple of times and she told me the basics. And something about what she calls "back-alley" style of play.

AP: Come again?

(A fat, miserable-looking woman with a whistle around her neck comes up behind them. This is Mrs Botts. [Reader's note: this woman epitomises the phrase "Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach. Those who can't teach, teach gym." She dislikes everything and everyone indiscriminately and has the grace of a wallowing hippo.])

Botts: Get moving, you two. We're starting practice!

(Lynn and AP nod at the woman, but she stands there, looming over them like the promise of death.)

Lynn: What a sucky way to spend the summer. I still say we should have gone for archery.

AP: Oh, come on, Purple Peril! Just think of the damage you're allowed to do to other people in hockey!

(Lynn raises an eyebrow. AP grins evilly and stands up ... then wobbles on his skates and falls over backwards. Lynn raises an eyebrow again, gets up and skates off.)

AP: (from ground) Help! I've fallen and I can't get up!


(Scene: the 'pitch' [for want of a better word - it's the British term, used in field hockey. In this case, a large patch of clear asphalt with a sagging net at either end, flanked by a brick wall on one side and chain-link fence on the other three]. Lynn is facing off against a fairly bulky blond kid; she keeps her eye on the ball rather than on her opponent. Botts blows the whistle and drops the little orange ball they're using as a puck, and the blond kid smacks it backwards to his own players as he rushes forward, barging into Lynn and knocking her on her ass. She sits there a moment, eyes narrow.)

Lynn: (dark mutter) This means war...

(She gets up and skates off. A moment later, there is a repetitive 'whack' sound, a few screams, and then a whistle blast.)

Botts: (OS) Cullen! Penalty, two minutes, sticking! (dim 'thump') McIntyre...

AP: (OS; muffled [note - he's talking into the asphalt]) Someone help me up, please.


(Scene: Oakwood street. Music: "Happiness in Slavery" - Nine Inch Nails. Lynn and AP are walking home, bearing hockey sticks, skates slung over shoulders by the laces. AP looks concerned and impressed in equal measure.)

AP: I was gonna ask you to explain "back alley" style. (beat) I don't really have to anymore, do I.

Lynn: (slightly smug) Nope. It's basic hockey with more checking, sticking and gouging. (beat) And of course, less interference by the ref. How many times did I get sent to the penalty box anyway? I lost track.

AP: Three times for hooking, twice for sticking, another three for slashing -- way to aim for the shins, by the way (Lynn shrugs) and once for checking Chris Hutchins into a wall.

Lynn: Tell me he didn't deserve it, after all the times he beat you up back in first grade.

AP: Yeah, I know. (beat; sigh) Well, at least you stayed standing for three minutes running. (beat) And what's with Mrs Botts about Lawndale, anyway? I mean, we're playing a game of hockey against them, not starting World War III.

Lynn: I think there's some kind of sports rivalry between Oakwood and Lawndale. Adriana said something about a dodgeball tournament between the two schools every year, and of course there's the high school football thing. (beat; lofty) Two freeholds, both alike in idiocy...

AP: You're not doing Shakespeare again, are you?

Lynn: Paraphrasing, actually. But yes.

AP: I hate it when you do that. I just don't get Shakespeare.

Lynn: Then if I start shouting "Once more into the breach, dear friends, once more!" when we play Lawndale next week, you won't be rallied?

AP: Confused, more like.

Lynn: Philistine.

AP: Come again?

(Lynn sighs. They walk on.)


(Montage sequence. Music: "Mama Said Knock You Out" -- LL Cool J.
Lynn is taking another face-off. When Botts drops the ball, Lynn hits it back towards her own team before whacking the kid she's up against in the shins until he screams. A whistle blows and Lynn raises her hockey stick in mock salute before skating off.

AP half skates, half staggers towards the 'puck', which has rolled fairly near him. His legs go out from under him and he falls flat on his face on the asphalt. The burly blond kid points and laughs as he skates up and takes control of the puck, at which point Lynn body checks him into a brick wall. The whistle sounds again.

AP rolls helplessly towards the goal, in control of the puck but out of control himself. He smashes into the goalie; they both fall over and the net collapses around them. Botts rolls her eyes in disgust.

Lynn sits on the bench -- their makeshift penalty box. As she watches, AP falls on his face again, skidding until he's nearly at Lynn's feet. Lynn winces and offers a hand to help him up.

Lynn rolls up to a skinny, dark-haired boy who's in possession of the puck and hooks his legs out from under him. The whistle blows again, and Lynn skates off towards the 'penalty box'. On her way, she catches AP about two feet shy of hitting the wall. End montage but continue scene, as Lynn drags him towards the bench. They both sit down.)

AP: And we're going to play Lawndale next week.

Lynn: Look on the bright side. Between the two of us, they won't be able to see the puck through tears of laughter.

AP: Or pain.

(Lynn shrugs.)


(Scene: the hockey pitch. Mrs Botts is standing amidst her team, who are dressed in black shorts, red T-shirts, roller skates, safety goggles [Lynn's are prescription, we must assume] and knee and elbow pads. Lynn's hair is braided. No one looks particularly impressed.)

Botts: All right, men... (Lynn and a plump girl towards the back clear their throats loudly.) ...and women. (mutter) God, I hate the nineties. (aloud) We've beaten Lawndale three years running and I don't want our winning streak blown now. So Cullen, I want you to take it easy out there -- no 'incidents' like at our last practice!

Lynn: (shrug) He shouldn't have got in my way.

Botts: (ignoring this with an effort) And McIntyre, just ... try to stay out of harm's way, okay?

AP: Yes'm.

Botts: Now let's get out there and show those Lawndale kids what we're made of!

Lynn: (aside to AP) What, bone, blood and various bits of tubing it's probably best not to contemplate?

AP: (aside to Lynn) Maybe she means at a molecular level. Carbon and hydrogen.

(They shrug at each other and move out of shot.)


(Scene: the fence surrounding the 'pitch'. Andrew and Michelle Landon approach with an 11-year-old Jodie. Michelle is holding Rachel, age 5, by the hand.)

Andrew: I'm telling you, Jodie, sport builds character! I think you'd really enjoy hockey!

Michelle: Andrew, maybe tennis would be better for Jodie. I mean, hockey isn't really a ladylike sport...

Andrew: Exactly my point! She has to learn to get along in a cut-throat, competitive world.

Jodie: (under her breath) I am here, you know.

Michelle: We're not going to push you into this.

Andrew: But we want you to just watch the one game and give it real consider--

(He's cut off mid-word as AP careens into the fence right in front of them and nearly falls over; he drops his hockey stick and grabs the links of the fence to keep vaguely upright as his feet shoot out from under him. He cautiously lets go of the fence with one hand to retrieve his hockey stick, then uses it as a crutch to get himself upright again.)

AP: (to the Landons; sheepish) Sorry.

(With that, he half-skates, half-hobbles away, still using the hockey stick as support. There is a moment of near silence as the Landons look at each other, and then there is a sickening 'thump'. The Landons wince as the sound of a boy whimpering fills the air.)

Botts: (OS) Cullen! Penalty box! Five minutes! Checking! And you don't hit them while they're down! And especially not there!

(Lynn skates into shot and sits down on a bench to the extreme far left of the Landons.)

Lynn: (mutter) No checking, no sticking, no putting the boot in ... there's no point if we're all playing at kindergarten level... (spots the Landons; deadpan) Run. While there's still time.

(Andrew and Michelle look at each other, then at Jodie, who looks a little impressed.)

Michelle: Tennis?

Andrew: Definitely.

(And they take Jodie by the shoulders and lead her away. She looks a bit reluctant.)


(Scene: Cullen house, exterior [it's large. It's made of bricks. Beyond that, I don't care]. Music: "Rooster" -- Alice in Chains. AP is sitting on the stoop, goggles, hockey stick and skates in a careless heap beside him. There are bleeding grazes on both hands and his right arm and cheek. Lynn steps out with a bottle of antiseptic, cotton balls and Band-Aids.)

Lynn: (sitting beside him, unscrewing the cap to the antiseptic) Warning: this stuff stings. (Lynn pours some antiseptic on some of the cotton balls and starts dabbing at the cut on AP's face. He winces.) Well, that was interesting. Any more bright ideas?

AP: Oh, come on, Purple Peril. (wince) OW! (beat) It wasn't so bad... (wince) Well, it wasn't so bad for you, anyway...

Lynn: (applying Band-Aid) No, I just got bored witless sitting in the penalty box the whole game. (pause as Lynn discards the cotton balls and douses more with antiseptic.) Arm. (AP holds out his arm and winces in anticipation. Lynn starts dabbing at the cut.) It can't last.

AP: You mean I'm bound to learn how to stand up on wheels and you'll chill a bit?

Lynn: (raised eyebrow) That will happen when hell freezes over, I think. And before that happy event, Mrs Botts is bound to get sick of us and toss us out.

AP: You really think so?

Lynn: Well, thanks to our combined efforts, the Lawndale Lions Junior League trashed our team this afternoon. How long do you think it will take for Mrs Botts to get fed up with that?

AP: Two weeks?

Lynn: You're an optimist. (beat) Actually, maybe more a pessimist.


(Scene: the pitch. Music: "Hummer" -- Smashing Pumpkins. Lynn and AP, in practice gear, walk towards the team, who are in a huddle talking. As Lynn and AP approach, the entire team just looks at them with reproach and, in the case of Lynn, fear. Mrs Botts walks over.)

Botts: I don't see a need to beat around the bush here. You (points at AP) are the most pathetic player I've ever seen. I don't know why the hell I kept you as long as I did. And as for you... (points at Lynn) You're a liability, Cullen. You'd be a damn good player if you could just control that damned temper of yours. Now I've talked with the team and we all agree there isn't any point in your being here. Not when you spend most of your time on your asses, one way or another. Now out, both of you.

(With that, Mrs Botts points the way off the field with a grim look on her face. AP and Lynn smirk at each other and leave.)


(Scene: Oakwood street. Music plays on. Lynn and AP walking home.)

AP: Two weeks. One real game. And that's it. (beat) Dad's gonna freak.

Lynn: Hey; you tried your best. You failed miserably. He can't argue with that. (beat) And it's too late for Mom to send me to summer camp and she's in Toronto, Calgary and Vancouver for most of the summer, so I'm safe too. (beat) All in all, this didn't work out so badly.

AP: And if we'd gone for archery, we'd still be standing in the hot sun, shooting blunt-tipped arrows at Styrofoam blocks.

Lynn: You're never going to let me live down the archery, are you?

AP: No way! (beat) So what do we do with the rest of our summer?


(Scene: Oakwood street. Music: "Looking Down The Barrel of a Gun" -- Beastie Boys. Mrs Botts is waddling along, walking a small, miserable-looking Yorkshire terrier. She passes under a tree... and *splat* -- hit from above by a water-balloon.)

Botts: (looking up; angry) What the...

(A snicker is heard, and a balloon containing red paint is dropped right into her face. Mrs Botts screams and starts to run; she's hit with several more red paint-bombs before she makes it out of range. Pan up to the tree, where Lynn and AP are sitting in the branches, smirking at each other.)

AP: It was non-toxic paint, wasn't it?

Lynn: You know, I never checked.

AP: (aghast) Lynn!

Lynn: Kidding. Kidding.

(She smirks at him. He rolls his eyes.)


(Scene: Cedars of Lawndale cafeteria. Daria shakes her head slowly, wearing a reluctant little Mona Lisa smile. Then something occurs to her.)

Daria: But why attack the hockey coach? I mean, by kicking you off the team, she was giving you exactly what you wanted.

AP: Yeah, I know. That's why we only did it once.

Daria: Even so...

AP: Botts was a bully. Purple Peril's got a thing about bullies.

Daria: I sort of guessed that.

AP: I always kind of figured it had something to do with ... well, you've met Kate...

Daria: I've had that dubious honour.

AP: Heh. Yeah, I know. (beat) Anyway, she just sort of ... fought back if people made her hurt. (beat; sigh) Or she protected other people -- like Ponytail Barbie when Cyclops was on her case.

Daria: (raised eyebrow) And you?

AP: (little smile) Oh, yeah. That's how we met.

Daria: I wondered about that. (to AP's raised eyebrow) Well, if I had met you separately instead of through Lynn, I would never have pegged you as friends. (beat) Then again, I wouldn't have pegged us that way either.

AP: Yeah ... I can see that. And we weren't first off. I mean, she sat at the front of the room, did all her work really fast, and read grown-up books quietly while waiting for everyone else to finish. I sat a few rows back, did my work really fast and sat around getting bored.

Daria: And, to occupy your mind, you turned straight to mischief-making.

AP: Gah -- you all know me way too well. (beat) For the first month or two we didn't talk and the only thing we had in common was getting picked on by Chris Hutchins, the class bully. I didn't even remember her name after day one. But then one day, we were doing math, I got bored...

Daria: Let me guess; you were into long division while everyone else was counting mittens.

AP: Actually, trig. (beat) And I wanted to make some mischief. But I picked a really bad target. (shakes his head) Really bad.


(Scene: sunny first grade classroom, Oakwood Elementary. [You know the sort of place -- class pet, hamster in this case, in cage by window, colourful learning aid-style posters on the walls, decorated with childish drawings... you've all been to first grade, right?] Twenty-four of the twenty-six students are bent over workbooks. In the front row, a girl with glasses, Stacy-esque pigtails and a purple sweater is reading "Carrie". A stocky, sandy-haired boy who sits a row back on her right looks up at her, reaches out and yanks on one of her pigtails. She winces and pulls away a little. The boy snickers at the girl, who ignores him. A young boy with scruffy red hair, who we identify as AP age 6, is sitting at a desk in the third row, chewing a fairly large mouthful of something unidentified. A moment later, he spits a large spitball of perfect consistency into his hand. Frowning in concentration, he searches the room for a target. His eyes land on the girl with the pigtails, and he grins.)

AP: (thought VO) At least fifty points. Ten bonus if I can make spit run down her neck.

(With that, he winds up for the pitch ... and the girl -- Lynn age 6 -- turns to face him. Her face is rather adult for its age and her eyes, behind her large glasses, clearly say, "If you don't want to spend the rest of your short life in agony, don't bother -- I'm not in the mood." AP, clearly intimidated but unable to check the throw, twists his whole body to change the spitball's trajectory. It hits something with a wet 'thwap' sound and AP's eyes widen in horror.)

AP: (thought VO) Not Chris Hutchins. Oh, no...

(The sandy-haired boy [who sits in the row in front of AP] is pulling spitball bits from his hair. He turns around and gives AP a look that is only slightly less scary than Lynn's was.)

Chris: (menacing whisper) Later for you, Twinkie.

(AP looks towards Lynn, but she has turned back to her book. Someone studying her carefully would detect a hint of a smirk on her face. AP sighs and drops his head onto his desk.)

AP: (low whimper) I'm so dead...

(Mrs Vineberg looks up)

Vineberg: Quiet, Andrew. Some of the students aren't finished their work yet.

(Mrs Vineberg turns back to the blackboard. Lynn's smirk becomes a little more noticeable, and Chris takes the opportunity and yanks one of her pigtails again. Lynn turns around and favours him with what will one day become her 'go to hell' stare. Then she settles back to her book. AP, seeing that Chris feels meaner than usual today, bangs his head on the desk softly.)

Vineberg: Andrew!

(AP sighs)


(Scene: Oakwood Elementary playground. Lynn is sitting cross-legged on the edge of the sandbox/jungle gym set-up, still reading her book. Running feet and shouting can be heard out of shot.)

Chris: (OS) Come on, you chicken! Stand still so I can cream you!

AP: (OS; panting) Nuh-uh!

(The two boys run into shot. AP is breathing hard and flagging badly -- Chris is not very far behind and gaining fairly rapidly. AP runs past quite close to where Lynn sits, and she doesn't appear to look up ... but as Chris passes, Lynn sticks her foot out, tripping him neatly. As Chris topples, Lynn gets to her feet and runs in the opposite direction to AP.)

Chris: OW!

(Meanwhile, AP has risked a look back, noticed that he was no longer being followed, and watched the action while still running. He slams into a chain link fence and grabs hold of it to keep from falling over. He watches as Chris looks at Lynn, who has resumed her cross-legged reading position on a low wall at the back of the playground, then at AP ... then glowers and gets up off the asphalt, hobbling towards the school building. AP looks at where Lynn is sitting and then jogs towards her. She doesn't look up at his approach and, with some trepidation, he sits beside her.)

AP: Um ... thanks. He would have creamed me.

Lynn: (not looking up) I don't like having my hair pulled.

(Uncomfortable silence.)

AP: He's not gonna be happy with you.

Lynn: He never was.

(AP thinks about this, then nods.)

AP: Right. (beat) Um ... sorry?

Lynn: (finally looking up) Well, you didn't actually throw it. So forgiven. (beat) You're AP, right? (AP nods, pleased someone remembered.) What does the AP stand for?

AP: Andrew Philip?

Lynn: (raised eyebrow) Hint: come up with something better if you want to make it stick.

AP: ('Ooo-kay...' look) Yeah. Whatever. (beat) You're...

Lynn: Lynn, last name in transit. (to AP's confused look) My dad's a Smythe -- he doesn't live with us anymore. My mom's a Cullen, and just had both our names changed. I'm not used to Cullen yet. (shrug) But I guess it's better than Smythe. Sounds like a Tolkien monster.

(AP looks at Lynn -- he can tell she doesn't really want to talk about this -- and changes the subject)

AP: What'cha reading? (Lynn holds up the book. AP looks impressed.) Wow. Any gory stuff?

Lynn: Well ... the pig slaughter is kind of gross, but mostly not. If you want real gore, go for "It" and "Pet Sematary".

AP: And you can read those?

Lynn: Yeah. I needed a dictionary for "It" but not very often.

(AP raises an eyebrow -- not much to say to that. They sit in silence for awhile.)

AP: Nice move, tripping him like that.

Lynn: (shrug) Eh.

AP: You are a peril. (grins; tugs at her sweater) A Purple Peril.

(Lynn raises an eyebrow at him, then smiles.)

Lynn: Y'know, I kind of like that.


(Montage. Music: "Purple Haze" -- Jimi Hendrix
Mrs Vineberg's classroom. AP working. Suddenly, a hand reaches out and slams his face into the desk. He looks up, rubbing his nose, to see Chris grinning at him. Then an apple flies into shot and hits Chris in the back of the head. He turns. Lynn is tucking a brown paper bag back into her desk innocently. She turns and smiles at AP, who grins back.

Playground. Lynn and AP are rummaging through lunch bags. They each pull out a sandwich, unwrap it and lift the top slice of bread. They peer into their own sandwich ... then into one another's ... and then they drop the top slice of bread and wordlessly swap.

Classroom. Chris reaches out and yanks hard on one of Lynn's pigtails. A moment later, his chair tips forward and he falls, knocking over his desk on the way down. AP grins as he untangles his feet from Chris' chair. Lynn smiles.

Playground. Lynn and AP are rummaging through lunch bags. They each pull out one of those individual pudding cups -- Lynn's is chocolate; AP has butterscotch. They regard their own desserts, then each other's, then trade off.

Classroom. AP is folding a piece of paper into an airplane. He looks up to make sure Mrs Vineberg's still writing on the blackboard, and then tosses it towards the front of the room to see how it flies. It passes fairly close to Lynn, who grabs it out of the air just as Mrs Vineberg turns around. Once Mrs Vineberg is settled at her desk again, Lynn looks back at AP and raises an eyebrow. He grins apologetically.

Playground. Lynn sitting on the low wall, reading. AP walks up shyly and presents her with a nicely made slingshot -- likely his own handiwork. Lynn looks at it, then at him, and smiles. Then she cuts her eyes to the side, pulls an eraser out of her pocket, fits it into the cup of the slingshot and fires it. We hear Chris' scream from out of shot -- he was apparently moving in for another attack. Lynn and AP share a look and then run like hell.

Nurse's office. Lynn and AP, bearing two grazed knees and a badly bruised forearm respectively, sit on chairs and watch as a thin, distracted-looking nurse absently picks bits of gravel out of Chris' hands. Their facial expressions denote a certain cool, sadistic enjoyment. End montage.)


(Scene: Oakwood Elementary, Mrs Vineberg's classroom. Lynn walks over to the windowsill, upon which rests a hamster cage. She looks at the cage, taps the bars a little, then opens the top and reaches in, pulling out a pathetic bundle of orange and white fur. She looks at it, listens to it for a minute, then walks over to Mrs Vineberg.)

Vineberg: Lynn, Fuzz-Wuzz is not a toy. Please put him back in his cage.

Lynn: He doesn't know the difference, Ma'am. He's dead.

Vineberg: Oh, no, he can't be. He's just resting.

Lynn: (slight smirk) Maybe -- I read somewhere that hamsters hibernate sometimes. Then they dig themselves out of their own graves and head for home. But it hasn't been cold enough for that. He's stiff and cold and I think that usually means dead.

(She hands over the bundle of fur to Mrs Vineberg, who holds it for a moment, looking sad.)

Vineberg: Oh dear...

Lynn: This might be a good time to explain the concept of death to the class, Ma'am.

Vineberg: (slightly unnerved) I think you might be taking this a bit too calmly, Lynn...

Lynn: (deadpan) No, I'm devastated. Really. (beat) In fact, I'd really like it if we could give (slight grimace) 'Fuzz-Wuzz' a decent burial. (beat) I'd do the eulogy, if you want.

Vineberg: That sounds like a ... a fine idea, Lynn.

(Lynn walks towards her desk with a smug look on her face. AP looks at her cautiously. Lynn just smirks at him as if to say "you'll see".)


(Scene: the same. Lynn stands at the head of the class, a shoebox in front of her. She looks solemn ... but there is a slight mischievous glint in her eye.)

Lynn: We are gathered here today, not only to count mittens and read about Spot the dog, but to mourn the passing of (slight grimace) Fuzz-Wuzz, the class hamster. Fuzz-Wuzz was ... well, all the things a hamster ought to be, and it's hard to believe that he has died. And so, to help us come to terms with the loss of this ... much loved class pet ... I would like to give the following as a eulogy.

(Most of the students and the teacher look prepared to be bored. AP looks very confused. Lynn takes a breath and then launches into her 'eulogy', passably imitating John Cleese.)

Lynn: "VOOM"?!? Mate, this hamster wouldn't "voom" if you put four million volts through it! 'E's bleedin' demised! 'E's not pinin'! 'E's passed on! This hamster is no more! He has ceased to be! 'E's expired and gone to meet 'is maker! 'E's a stiff! Bereft of life, 'e rests in peace! If you hadn't nailed 'im to the wheel 'e'd be pushing up the daisies! 'Is metabolic processes are now 'istory! 'E's off the twig! 'E's kicked the bucket, 'e's shuffled off 'is mortal coil, run down the curtain and joined the bleedin' choir invisible!! THIS IS AN EX-HAMSTER!!

(There is dead silence for a moment. Everyone is staring at her, mostly in shock and horror ... all bar AP, who is biting his lip to keep from laughing.)

Lynn: (resuming normal tones) Ah, Fuzz-Wuzz, we barely knew ye. Let's have a moment of silence for the class pet.

(The class looks like they couldn't talk if they wanted to. AP has both hands clapped over his mouth to keep the giggles in.)

Lynn: I'll leave the interment to Mrs Vineberg. May Fuzz-Wuzz rest in peace.

(She picks up the shoebox coffin and walks over to her desk, where Mrs Vineberg is sitting. She holds it out to the woman, who hesitates, then takes it. Still staring at Lynn, she gets up and lets Lynn have her chair back. Lynn sits down. Vineberg walks haltingly back to her desk. Lynn raises an eyebrow and smirks at the woman. Pan to AP, who has buried his head in his arms -- his shoulders are hitching with laughter it's nearly killing him to stifle.)


(Scene: Oakwood Elementary exterior. The bell rings and, a very short while later, Lynn and AP go dashing out the front doors, bearing lunch bags. AP is laughing so hard he can barely move. Lynn is giggling softly.)

AP: That was so funny! I thought I was gonna die! How did you think up something like that?

Lynn: I didn't. That whole thing was courtesy of Messrs Cleese, Idle, Palin, Chapman, Gilliam and Jones.

AP: Who?

Lynn: Collectively known as Monty Python. British comedy. Very popular with most British people and a certain brand of sick, sad American. (giggle) You should see the whole skit sometime -- it gets better. (beat) Monty Python also came up with great stuff like The Lumberjack Song, the Whizzo Chocolate sketch and "Sit On My Face".

AP: (makes a face) Eww...

Lynn: (shrug) It makes adults laugh. Yet again, they know something we don't and aren't telling.

AP: My mom would have a fit if she saw me watching stuff like this!

Lynn: My mom would too. And does. All the time. But Dad keeps sending me videos and audio tapes because he knows I like them. (to AP's look) He was born in England -- he lived there when Python was popular. Said something about educating the youth of America, one child at a time. (shrug)

AP: (chuckle) Your family's weird! But I like! (beat) Hey, if you didn't have plans after school, could I come over and see some of this Python stuff?

Lynn: Um ... sure. Mom won't be home -- she works late -- so as long as I get my homework done and don't burn the house down, she doesn't much care what I do. (beat; wry) And it'd be interesting to see the look on her face if she did come home early and found that I'd invited a friend home.

(There is a slightly loaded pause -- neither of them have actually referred to each other as friends before. It's not a term they're used to using. AP, not really comfortable with the serious tone this is taking, makes a face.)

AP: Well, if I'm not allowed to burn the house down, it's not as much fun, but I'll come anyway. So what's for lunch?

(Lynn rolls her eyes and reaches into her lunch bag. She pulls out a sandwich and looks at it.)

Lynn: What is it with my mother and mock chicken? What have you got?

AP: (checking) Cold leftover meatloaf from last night's dinner.

(They look at each other and make slight disgusted faces.)

Lynn & AP: (in unison) Eww...

(With that, they toss the sandwiches into a nearby trash can.)


(Scene: Cedars of Lawndale cafeteria. Daria is looking at AP in slight confusion.)

Daria: Am I missing something here?

AP: (evasive) Don't think so...

Daria: You said she smiled. Not smirked ... smiled. And you used the word 'giggled' at least once. Was that a lapse in your vocabulary skills?

AP: (not meeting Daria's eyes) No ... just telling it like it was...

Daria: (raised eyebrow) So I am missing something here. (seeing AP's consternation but pressing anyway) The image of Lynn at age six giggling and smiling does not gel well with the image of Lynn at age eleven smirking as she slammed her peers into walls.

AP: Why are you pressing this, anyway?

Daria: ('oops') Um ... that's a long and complicated story.

AP: Well, so is mine.

(Face-off. Neither looks ready to give ground. And Kate approaches, slapping two business cards down on the table next to the pile of papers in front of AP. As she goes to take a glance at the top sheet, AP pulls them under the table and out of sight, glaring at her.)

AP: (cold) These are private.

Kate: (scorn evident) I see. (beat; businesslike) These are the numbers in Tokyo where I can be reached as of tomorrow. I assume you'll contact me if there are any developments?

(Daria and AP just look at her. There is a long, deep silence.)

Daria: And if we need to plan a funeral?

(That gives Kate pause. She winces slightly.)

Kate: I'm sure it won't come to that.

(Daria raises an eyebrow at her. More dead silence.)

Daria: And what do we tell her if she wakes up and asks where you are?

Kate: You don't know her very well if you think she'll ask that.

Daria: I've known her less than a year and I know her better than you do. And I wouldn't blame her if she didn't ask for you.

(Kate glares at Daria. Daria glares back.)

Kate: Keep me informed.

(And she exits with all the dignity she can, given. Daria looks after her with that same narrow-eyed expression with which she favoured Tommy Sherman.)

Daria: Maybe I'm not missing anything here. Living with that for a few years would make anyone... (She turns to AP as she says this, and trails off when she sees the terrified, haunted expression on his face.) AP? Are you okay?

AP: (evasive) I just ... hate that woman. (beat; shakes head) Hard to explain. It's like Kate just doesn't like Purple Peril. I think it's 'cause, no matter how hard Kate tries to make her follow in her footsteps, she's just too much like Jerome.

Daria: Oh.

AP: (venting) I mean, she broke up the B.A.N.D. and what did she make Purple Peril do?


(Scene: Cullen living room, Oakwood. [Same Ikea catalogue, money, and lack of imagination decor] Kate is pacing in front of Lynn [as we know her from TLAS], who has her guitar on her knees and looks to be both annoyed and afraid.)

Kate: I just don't believe you. One thing I ask of you -- one thing -- and you can't even do that like a normal person. No, you just have to be different.

Lynn: I'm not different. All teenagers piss off their parents. It's in the handbook.

Kate: Don't get smart with me, young lady!

Lynn: I thought we'd already established that there's nothing ladylike about me...

Kate: Shut up! (Lynn involuntarily cringes backwards) Now hand over the guitar.

Lynn: But...

Kate: I said hand it over! You're done with that stupid band, do you hear me?

Lynn: Well, it's your own money you're wasting...

(Lynn reluctantly hands over the case, only just managing to keep her face impassive.)

Kate: I just don't believe the nerve of you.

Lynn: Well, I don't believe that you spent a fairly large amount of money to let me develop a talent that you now won't allow me to use. Life's funny, isn't it?

Kate: This isn't over. (beat; smirk) You want to be in a band?

(Lynn's face shifts straight to 'uh-oh' mode)


(Scene: OHS music room. Lynn, carrying a case of a very different shape, is shoved into a room. A whole bunch of other students stare at her as she tries not to fall over on the way in. The door shuts behind her. Mr Brunner, a fat man with a pathetic comb-over and O'Neill-esque soppy enthusiasm, looks at her.)

Brunner: Well, hello! You must be our new saxophonist!

Lynn: It would appear so, yes. (thought VO) I could scream "They're all looking at me!" and run away; that would give them pause...

Brunner: Great! Welcome to the team! If you could just take your seat over there with the others...

(With a sigh, Lynn complies and starts assembling the saxophone.)


(Scene: OHS bleachers. Lynn is sitting with the band, next to a scrawny guy with glasses, braces, and everything but the word 'nerd' printed on his forehead. They both wear the uniform of the Oakwood High marching band -- typical marching band attire in red and black, stupid hats included. Lynn is looking at her peers -- and she looks appalled and resigned in equal measure.)

Lynn: (sigh) "You are all individuals."

Nerd: (answering quote) "We are all individuals!"

(Lynn blinks and looks at him.)

Lynn: Pythoniac?

Nerd: Who isn't?

Lynn: People of poor taste.

Nerd: Most of the school.

Lynn: Lynn Cullen.

Nerd: Matt Templeton.

Brunner: (OS) All right, ladies and gentleman! The Oakwood Eagles fight song!

(Lynn and Matt look at each other and roll their eyes.)


(Scene: Leaning Tower of Pizza. Lynn and AP [again, as we know him] are sitting in a booth. Lynn looks almost animated. AP looks a bit worried.)

Lynn: ...And Matt's got the musical score to "Sit On My Face". We're thinking of using it as a practice piece -- and, if I can talk them into it, fitting it into the half-time show at Homecoming. That's if I can get the mike away from the announcers and... (notes concerned look on AP's face.) What's wrong?

AP: (evasive) Nothing, no, not at all. (Lynn: raised eyebrow) So ... you're really enjoying the marching band, huh?

Lynn: Well, there's ample opportunity for minor havoc and a few Pythoniacs in the ranks. So it's not as bad as I thought it was going to be. Anything else would be overgenerous. (beat) And of course, my mother's convinced that my enforced interaction with other people will put me into contact with someone less ... well, less you. So she's ecstatic.

AP: (mutter) You mentioned Matt to her?

Lynn: (hearing this) Uh, no. I'm looking to flay her for this, not reward her. (beat) What's your problem?

AP: (kind of stuck) Um ... well ... I mean ... I guess...

(Enter Matt, who makes a beeline for their table. Lynn very nearly smiles. AP glares.)

Matt: Hey!

Lynn: Hey, Matt. Matt, this is AP.

Matt: Oh, you're that Andy kid in my history class. Hey.

AP: (grumble) Hi.

Matt: (now completely ignoring AP) Look, I'm glad I caught up with you. Rick's doing roadie work in Lawndale and got a bunch of us on the guest list tonight. Want in?

Lynn: (shrug) Sure. (to AP) You up for this, AP?

AP: I...

Matt: Actually, it'd just be us band people. Keep it small and exclusive. So how about it?

Lynn: (torn) Well, I...

AP: Hey, it's okay. I mean, I ... had something to do anyway.

Lynn: You sure, Maverick?

Matt: (butting in) Of course he's sure -- I'm sure he's got much better things to do than hang around listening to a bunch of bands. Rick and Joe are outside waiting so let's go!

(He takes Lynn's wrist and pulls her upright and out of the restaurant. AP looks angry and miserable all at once.)


(Fade to: Leaning Tower of Pizza, a few hours later. AP is still sitting there, staring at his food. He sighs.)

AP: (mutter) I am not jealous. He's ugly and boring. (beat) And it's not like Purple Peril and I are really a couple. (beat) I am not jealous. Notnotnot. Nothing to be jealous of. (beat) Damn.


(Scene: LHS parking lot. [Writing in Daria font underneath reads "Three days later".] The Oakwood marching band has congregated around one bus, chatting amiably. Lynn stands sort of off to one side, chatting to Matt.)

Matt: Can you believe that quarterback? What a shmuck! I mean, it's a miracle they didn't have to hold up a sign telling him to stop when he reached the end zone!

Lynn: And yet, with such a stupid quarterback, they whipped our sorry excuse for a football team, thirty-five to six. Not that I care.

Matt: Yeah, well ... our quarterback's a prime shmuck too, that's all.

(Cut to the other bus, where Sam Stack is chatting to who we recognise as Brittany. There is obvious flirtation.)

Rick: Man, football players get all the chicks.

Sarah: You sexist male pigs make me sick.

Joe: Come on, Rick -- you're not doing too bad yourself. Heard you were out with Mara Fitzgerald on Thursday.

Rick: (snigger) Yeah, well, I wanted to find out if it was true what they say about Goths.

Joe: (lecherous) And is it?

(Rick leers for a moment, then stops when he sees Sarah staring at him, out for blood if he utters one wrong word.)

Rick: (nervous) Absolutely. Very kind, good conversationalists. And not evil, Satan-worshipping nymphomaniacs in any way, shape or form.

(Sarah raises an eyebrow, but remain silent. Slight shift to Lynn and Matt. Lynn looks over her shoulder and her eyes widen slightly.)

Lynn: Um ... isn't that the Lawndale football team headed this way?

Matt: Ignore 'em, the shmucks.

Lynn: They look a bit ... high-spirited.

Matt: Oh, yeah, what are they gonna do to us?

Lynn: They have cans of silly string and elastic bandages ... so I think it would be dangerous to even speculate.

Kevin: (OS) Woo-hoo! Lions rule! WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS, MY FRIENDS!

Matt: That's that shmuck quarterback.

Lynn: Oh no...

(And she is yanked forcibly out of shot.)


(Scene: the same, some time later. Coach Gibson and the Oakwood coach are yelling at each other as the Oakwood and Lawndale football teams go about beating each other up. The cheerleaders from both sides are cheering on their respective teams in a brainless sort of way. In the middle of it all stands the Oakwood marching band, tied into a huddle with elastic bandages. Someone has liberally sprayed them with blue and yellow silly string.)

Matt: SHMUCKS!

Lynn: Is that the only insult you know? Or just the strongest?

Matt: Well, what would you call them?

Lynn: Pillocks. Wankers. Gits. Misbegotten sons of bitches. A...

Rick: Let's not go there -- you remember what happened last time.

Lynn: You never let me have any fun.

Matt: WANKERS!

Lynn: That's the spirit.

(Brief pause)

Band: (in unison) WANKERS!


(Scene: Lynn's room. Lynn is standing at the foot of the bed, picking silly string out of her hair. She is still in uniform. AP clambers through the window.)

AP: And how's Oakwood's answer to -- whoa what happened to you?

Lynn: (sigh) Lawndale happened. The victory over our ground troops went to what passes for their brains and they tied us up with elastic bandages.

AP: And the blue and yellow silly string?

Lynn: Just don't.

AP: So not fun, then?

Lynn: In the thesaurus, under fun, a description of my marching band career can be found in the listed antonyms. (to AP's blank look) Take that as a no.

AP: Come on, we can get you out of it easy! All we have to do is...

Lynn: (holds up hands) AP ... call the mischievous streak to heel.

AP: But...

Lynn: This is not the fault of the marching band. This is the fault of the nitwits who wear the title of jocks in the next town over. They'll get theirs but I'm not going to pull anything stupid. There are other people involved.

AP: (suspicious) This is about Matt, isn't it.

Lynn: Not exclusively, no. AP, what is with you?

AP: ('whoops') Um ... I just don't like seeing you being a doormat, that's all!

Lynn: (successful distraction) What do you mean, doormat? I'm just not in the habit of dragging people down with me just because I've had a bad day!

AP: You always drag me into these things!

Lynn: You volunteer for these things, you twit! Half of 'these things' are your idea! (beat; calming) Look. If I quit with a bang for a reason like, "I got tied to my band mates and liberally sprayed with silly string", people will not accept that. Either I will not be permitted to resign or my mother will think up something dumber. If you can find me an acceptable, unshakeable reason to quit, then do it, because right now I can't!

(AP looks at her, crestfallen.)

AP: Look, Purple Peril, I...

Lynn: (cold) If you'll excuse me, I need to change out of my 'doormat' costume.

(AP, looking somewhat sad, leaves.)


(Scene: band room. Mr Brunner approaches Lynn, who's unpacking her saxophone.)

Brunner: Lynn ... can I talk to you?

Lynn: ('uh-oh' expression) As you're doing so now, I would assume you're capable of it, yes.

Brunner: I've been thinking about the band's voice.

Lynn: We're doing chorus now?

Brunner: No, the instrumental voice! (beat) I've noticed that there's an awful lot of saxophone sound in the band's collective voice. And to balance it out, I'd like you to switch to a different instrument!

Lynn: (raised eyebrow) Excuse me?

Brunner: You caught on to the saxophone so well, I'm sure you'll have no problem switching to another instrument! Especially the one I have in mind! (he hands her a case) It's an alto clarinet! Has a great sound and uses the same basic fingering as a saxophone!

(Lynn sets down her sax and takes the case as one would a live explosive. She opens it cautiously, then takes out the bits and assembles it, putting on the neck strap and holding it. She looks dubiously at Brunner.)

Brunner: (ecstatic) Go on; give it a try! Scales!

(Lynn sighs and gamely begins. Every other note comes out as a howling, whiny squeak. She finishes and looks at the alto clarinet.)

Lynn: (sliding off the neck strap) I don't think so.

Brunner: Oh, come on; that was your first try! There's no need to be defeatist -- you'll be great in a week or so! I'll let you get to practising.

(He steps away. Lynn tries a few bars of "When the Saints Go Marching In", but stops when the screeching becomes too much for her. She looks at the alto clarinet, then at her fingers, and her eyes narrow. Matt approaches.)

Matt: Hey, nice. Mating call of the wild wood duck?

Lynn: If it was being bitten by fire ants, maybe. (beat) I don't think my finger pads are up to this job.

Matt: Hey, don't worry about it. It takes some practice, that's all.

Lynn: (sigh) I don't think that's going to help. Anyway, I haven't got the time for that kind of practice. What with homework, writing and having what passes for a social life in my philosophy, band takes up too much of my time as it is.

Matt: Hey, we've all been there. You just have to cut back, is all.

Lynn: (mild suspicion) Cut back on what, exactly?

Matt: Well, that Andy shmuck, for one. (Lynn's face goes carefully blank; Matt doesn't notice) I mean, he's ... interesting and all, but he's just not...

Lynn: ...One of the band?

Matt: Exactly! We've gotta stick together! And there usually isn't any room for outsiders, if you know what I mean.

Lynn: (neutral) I know exactly what you mean. (packs up the alto clarinet and gets up)

Matt: Where are you going?

Lynn: First step to exiling the outsider.

(She walks out the door. Matt grins in a triumphant sort of way. Then the following is heard from outside: a rather loud metallic *bang*, an equally metallic but softer *whamwhamwham*, and then the shatter of broken glass. He looks very confused.)


(Scene: OHS cafeteria. AP sits looking at his lunch. Lynn approaches -- she is balancing a tray one-handed because her right hand is bandaged. A book is tucked under her arm. She gently sets the tray down and then sits. Silence for a moment as AP looks at her, wondering how to start.)

AP: Hey. Listen, I'm glad you're here. I wanted to say...

Lynn: I have an acceptable, unshakeable reason. Let's make that man's life hell. (beat) And while we're at it, I have an idea about how to cause some havoc in the ranks of the Lawndale football team.

(AP studies her a moment, then grins.)

AP: So what's the plan?

Lynn: Hmm... (takes the book; opens it) I'm sure I'll think of something. But first I have to get out of the band in the first place.

AP: (reading front cover) "So You Finally Realised You're a Doormat"?

(Lynn ducks further behind her book. You can just about see the blush. AP gives her an indulgent smile that has a wistful note to it.)


(Scene: OHS corridor. Lynn steps up to a fashionably dressed blonde with a superior expression.)

Lynn: Hello, Jenny.

Jenny: (cool) And what do you want? Finally broken down and decided to ask for advice on how to dress?

Lynn: (raised eyebrow) Not as such, no. Care to make a quick twenty bucks?

Jenny: (suspicious) What do I have to do?

Lynn: (shrug) Oh, nothing much. You've got a Fashion Club debate at Lawndale this week, don't you?

Jenny: (ultra-suspicious) Yeah...

Lynn: I need a note placing in the locker of the class perv.

Jenny: (shock) Upchuck? Ewwww... (Lynn waves the money in her face. Jenny looks at it, then at Lynn.) Extra twenty if I have to go anywhere near him.

Lynn: (shrug) Fair enough.

(She hands over the money and the note to Jenny, who pockets both with some disdain.)

Jenny: Now go away before someone finds out I'm talking to you.

(Lynn narrows her eyes a little, but moves on to her own locker. AP joins her after a moment.)

AP: What'd you want to talk to the Ice Queen over there for?

Lynn: Oh, just a little revenge. (to AP's confused look) I tapped into the gossip channel for awhile. From what of the incoherent babble I could make out, Lawndale's quarterback dates their head cheerleader...

AP: You had to listen to gossip to figure that out?

Lynn: (continuing, annoyed) ...And their head cheerleader was recently spotted making sheep's eyes at our own quarterback. And it turns out they've got a rendezvous planned. Now what do you think the Lawndale school pervert would do with information like that?

AP: (prompt reply) Take pictures, probably, but... (he gets it; brief pause) You're evil.

Lynn: (shrug) I do hate not sticking with up-close-and-personal revenge, but I figure this'll cause some havoc somewhere along the way. That's all I'm after.

AP: (raised eyebrow) And the Lawndale quarterback will suffer, probably.

Lynn: Well, someone will, at least. Wish I could be sure, but I'm not going back there if I can avoid it.

AP: So...

Lynn: So?

AP: Come on, Purple Peril! I want in on Brunner's payback!

Lynn: (smirk) Thank you for asking. As you're joined forces with me of your own free will, I can at least avoid a coercion rap.

AP: So what? Six?

Lynn: No; that only works in chemistry classes.

AP: Yeah, true. Though it might work just as well with some of the disinfectant they use on the mouthpieces. (Lynn glares) No? Hmm. Seventeen?

Lynn: (smirk) Not even close. Anyway, do you have any idea how much work it would take to make the sound equipment? I'm after quick, nasty and permanent.

AP: (it dawns) Method nine. (to Lynn's smirk) You are evil. That could disable the band for months!

Lynn: (wider smirk) That's what I'm counting on.


(Scene: band room. Lynn is looking at a crestfallen Mr Brunner.)

Lynn: ...So you can understand why I can't stay.

Brunner: Well, I wish there was something I could say to change your mind, but if you feel I'm pressuring you... (sigh) You may go.

(Lynn steps out.)


(Scene: OHS corridor. Lynn and AP standing in front of the band room door. They appear to be waiting for something.)

AP: So how'd he take it?

Lynn: I've had guilt trips in my time, but that one has to have been the most pathetic.

AP: Any pangs?

Lynn: Nope.

(There is an incoherent buzz of conversation, an anguished scream, and then the door opens and Matt steps out. He stares at the duo.)

Matt: Let me guess.

Lynn: Guess what? I don't do band anymore, remember?

Matt: I don't get you. You were playing well...

Lynn: Until someone threw me an insurmountable learning curve...

Matt: You were even making some friends...

Lynn: Who won't even talk to me now that I've quit.

Matt: Damn straight. We're an exclusive group, you know. And you just gave it all up.

Lynn: I wouldn't want to join a club that would have me as a member. Good day.

(Lynn walks off. AP gives him an excrement-eating grin and moves off after her.)


(Scene: Cedars of Lawndale cafeteria. Daria looks at AP, who has a slightly evil satisfied smirk on his face. She seems to be trying to decide which direction she wants the conversation to take.)

Daria: (thought VO) Lull him into a false sense of security, then hit him with the deep questions. (aloud) I guess Matt wasn't a problem after that.

AP: Well, maybe he never was, but... (sigh) never mind.

(Little awkward silence. Daria looks sorry she brought it up.)

Daria: I still don't believe that you were in a band.

AP: The Back Alley Name-Droppers? Oh yeah. (beat) If you call hitting things 'being in a band'.

Daria: Never say that around Max. He thinks hitting things is the height of art.

AP: (chuckle) Nah; as far as art went, Mara was the real whiz. Little Goth-girl Mozart on the keyboards. (beat) And of course, Purple Peril's vocals.

Daria: She seems to have improved a lot.

AP: Hey, she hadn't sung anything more than "Eric the Half-A-Bee" for over a year. She was gonna be rusty when she started with Mystik Spiral.

Daria: (remembering her rendition of "Screamager") That was rusty?

AP: (casual) Uh-huh. Very.

Daria: (changing subject now) But why did you get involved?

AP: (slight chuckle) I'm too pushy for my own good, that's why. (beat; to Daria's raised eyebrow) You've heard her -- tell me she wasn't wasting a damn fine talent.

Daria: (sigh) I'd rather not perjure myself, thanks.

AP: (ignoring what he does not understand) And I kept telling her and telling her she kicked but she wouldn't listen. And so one summer ... I shoved her into it. And then she shoved me into it.


(Scene: Lynn's room. Lynn is sitting on her bed, holding her guitar. She thinks about it for a moment, then starts the opening bars to Metallica's "Enter Sandman". AP clambers in through the window, hears her practising, and grins, drumming along with the music until she gets to the vocal part.)

AP: SING IT, PURPLE PERIL!

(For a reply, Lynn fumbles the guitar, nearly dropping it, and glares at AP.)

Lynn: AP, I thought we agreed you'd try a quieter announcement of your presence.

AP: Sorry. Got carried away. You're getting a lot better at this.

Lynn: (shrug) Practice makes halfway-decent.

AP: I thought that was 'practice makes perfect'.

Lynn: No use giving myself a swelled head.

AP: Hey, Purple Peril -- why don't you join a band?

Lynn: Because my masochistic tendencies don't extend to opening myself to public ridicule. Yet, anyway.

AP: Aw, come on, Purple Peril! You kick and you know it!

Lynn: You would like to see me kick? Feel free to expose your backside.

AP: Oh, very funny. Really -- you rock! Why not show people what you can do?

Lynn: I play a halfway decent riff and you're putting me on par with Dave Gilmour? (to AP's blank look) Pink Floyd? (beat) The Wall? (beat) Another Brick In...? (beat; sigh; singing and playing) "We don't need no education..."

AP: Oh, yeah. (beat) Well, no ... you sing a killer lyric and play a halfway decent riff and if you're not in this Gilmour guy's league, you beat the hell out of Tairrie B.

Lynn: What do you know about Tairrie B anyway? To you, music begins with the Ramones and ends somewhere around Offspring's latest.

AP: Okay ... so you beat the hell out of Sid Vicious, then! (to Lynn's raised eyebrow) Okay, so it's not saying much, but ... oh, come on! What have you got to lose?

Lynn: A vast chunk of my time, what few shreds of self-esteem I have left, a few pints of blood if someone decides to throw bottles at me...

AP: You're a real ray of sunshine, you know that?

(In reply, Lynn proceeds to play Nirvana's "Come As You Are". AP rolls his eyes. Lynn smirks.)


(Scene: Bonner Street, Oakwood [NB: Bonner Street is the Oakwood equivalent of Dega Street]. Lynn is looking in a shop window when Mara Fitzgerald, a small Goth-type, approaches.)

Mara: Hey.

Lynn: (looks over; raised eyebrow) Mara. You don't normally approach the female of the species. Decided you're not getting enough action batting just the one team?

Mara: Heard you were looking for a few good band members. I'm in.

Lynn: Excuse me?

Mara: Word on the street is you're starting up a band.

Lynn: Is it. And you got this word from...

Mara: My source swore me to secrecy. Said you'd kill.

Lynn: Someone who knows me rather well, given the accuracy of that statement.

Mara: Whatever. I play keyboards. Auditions at five, tomorrow, your place?

Lynn: Um ... I take it you know where I live.

Mara: Yep.

Lynn: (sigh of defeat) Bring your own instrument.

Mara: Whatever.

(Mara leaves. Lynn stares in the general direction of the shop window for a moment, tapping her foot. Then she raises a speculative eyebrow.)


(Scene: AP's room. Lynn clambers through his window, leans against the sill and, arms folded, looks at him, tapping her foot again. [The foot tapping is an obvious bad sign.])

AP: (mildly nervous) So... What's new?

Lynn: You and I are going to Bonner Street. Right now. On an errand.

AP: (suspicious) What kind of errand?

Lynn: We're going to find you a drum kit. If I'm going through with this band crap, you're going with me.

AP: ('eep' expression) But I don't know how to play drums!

Lynn: You seem to do all right with drumming along to my playing. So either you learn on the skins or I learn on your skull. With ball peen hammers. (clambers out the window)

AP: (following her) Well, with an offer like that, how can I refuse?


(Scene: Oakwood streets. Lynn and AP are walking along. Lynn looks impatient; AP looks triumphant.)

Lynn: And wipe that stupid grin off your face.

AP: (making no effort to do so) Okay!

Lynn: You know the worst thing about this? Once again, you got your own way. You're getting more manipulative and devious by the day.

AP: I learned from the master!

Lynn: Don't try to flatter your way out of this, Maverick. (beat) How did you get the word out so fast, as a matter of interest?

AP: The Net is a wonderful thing, Purple Peril!

Lynn: So it would appear, since you spend most days glued to it.

AP: Hey, there's not a lot else to do around here!

Lynn: (slightly sad sigh) Well, there is now, geek-boy.


(Montage sequence. Music: "I Love Rock & Roll" -- Joan Jett & the Blackhearts.
Cullen garage. A modest drum set-up sits along the back wall. AP sits behind it; Lynn has her guitar slung over her shoulder. A small Oriental boy with bright orange streaks in his hair is hammering away on a bass guitar. Cut to Lynn and AP, who both have their hands over their ears.

Short time later. Lynn has removed her glasses and has a hand pressed to her eyes; she is shaking her head in total disgust. A guy in his early 30s wearing way too much denim -- a holdover from 'big hair' rock - is thrashing away on his guitar in an obvious orgasmic frenzy of 'wheedly-wheedly-WEEEEOW'. He stops and peers at Lynn and AP through his hair. They both look at him and then shake their heads in disgust and pity.

Mara Fitzgerald has set up a small keyboard and is playing. Lynn and AP exchange a look that clearly says 'not bad'. Mara wraps it up and looks at Lynn, who nods. Mara's look clearly shows that she expected nothing less.

A young woman looking quite a bit like Nadja [Coal Chamber's replacement bassist while Rayna's on maternity leave] raises a hand, strums at her bass once, then looks at her hand -- she has broken a nail. Her lower lip quivers and she turns without a word and walks out. Lynn, AP and Mara look at each other -- "Good riddance".

A chunky blond boy with a sullen expression [Casey Wright] walks in, shoulders his bass and starts to play. Lynn, AP and Mara look at him speculatively. He stops. They nod. End montage but continue scene.)

Lynn: Bass, lead, keyboards and drums. That ought to do.

Mara: We got a name?

Lynn: Not yet. But I'd like some thought to go into it. The last thing I want to do is start whatever gigs we play with the catchphrase, "We're 'such and such a band' but we're thinking of changing the name". So let's leave it until next rehearsal -- say Friday afternoon at three?

Mara: Cool. I don't think I've got a date that night until eight-thirty.

(AP and Casey raise eyebrows. Lynn glares at her.)

Lynn: Look, let's get one thing straight. We don't operate to your date roster. You rehearse when we rehearse, or you're out on your ear.

(Mara looks at her coldly ... then nods with a dark sort of respect and leaves. Casey shrugs and shuffles out as well. AP looks at Lynn.)

AP: (smirk) And you said you didn't want to do this.

Lynn: (cold glare) I don't. But since I've been forced into this, I'm going to do it properly.

(AP grins at her -- he doesn't believe a word of it. Lynn's expression indicates that he's right but that she would rather die than admit it out loud.)


(Scene: Lynn's room. Lynn is sitting cross-legged on her bed, looking at AP, who is perched on the desk with a set look on his face.)

Lynn: AP, that has got to be one of the most ludicrous names for a band I've ever heard. We'd sound like some band that plays Sex Pistols covers at brewpubs.

AP: But ... the initials...

Lynn: I don't believe you spent three days looking for a name that uses the word 'BAND' as an acronym. (beat) And came up with that.

AP: You got a better name?

Lynn: I had better things to do with my eloquence and verbosity, thank you. (to AP's blank look) I was writing some songs. Do you want to be a covers band? (to AP's sheepish head-shake) Good.

AP: So we basically haven't got a better name.

Lynn: (sigh) That's the last time I let you deal with anything to do with words. I mean it -- the last damn time. (beat) The Back Alley Name-Droppers it is, then.

AP: (triumphant grin) All right, Purple Peril!

Lynn: (groan) Don't start. I'm doing this so much against my better judgement.


(Scene: Cullen garage. The Back Alley Name-Droppers are thrashing away at the final chords to Type O Negative's "Love You To Death". Once they stop, they look at each other.)

AP: Okay ... that was cool.

Mara: Huh, yeah. Now all we need is a gig.

Lynn: That's covered. School starts in a few short weeks and every year there's a 'welcome back' dance. We'll audition for that -- might do to get us started.

AP: A school dance? What makes you think they'll hire us?

Mara: You weren't at last year's dance, were you? They hired some band out of Lawndale. They sucked. big time. (beat) Though the rhythm guitarist was fine...

Lynn: I thought only men were allowed to be walking hormones, Mara.

Mara: Whatever. So what's the set list?

AP: How about that one you turned up with last week, Purple Peril?

Lynn: I don't think that would be a good idea. That's the one that compares the soon-to-be sophomore class to barnyard animals. It names names.

AP: (chastened) Oh yeah. (perking up) Or that one ... what'd you call it again? (to Lynn's raised eyebrow) Oh, come on, you know I'm not good at that word crap!

Casey: (barely audible grunt) 'Chalk and Brimstone'.

(They all turn to stare at him.)

AP: He speaks! (beat) And he got the song I was looking for!

(Casey shrugs. Lynn, AP and Mara stare at him a little longer, then turn away.)

Lynn: The chaperones will have kittens.

AP: So? This kind of music is supposed to freak people out!

Lynn: (sigh) All right. It goes on the set list.


(Scene: OHS corridor. Lynn is stacking books in her locker. AP runs over and stands behind her, waiting. Which he does for some tense seconds as Lynn refuses to acknowledge him.)

AP: (exasperated) Well?

Lynn: (unfazed; not looking at him) Well, what?

AP: You're just going to let me suffer, aren't you? (Lynn doesn't reply) Did you even ask if we could audition?

Lynn: Yes.

AP: AND?

Lynn: We're not auditioning. (AP looks downcast) We were hired anyway.

(AP blinks at her for a moment. She shuts her locker and starts walking away. He trails after her.)

AP: (weak) How?

Lynn: (shrug) No clue. Maybe it came down to a choice between us or the unnamed Lawndale band.

(They consider this, shrug, and keep walking.)


(Scene: OHS gymnasium. Onstage, Mara is setting up her keyboards. Casey is helping AP set up the drums, and Lynn is sitting with her legs dangling off the stage, tuning her guitar. AP wanders over and sits down next to her.)

AP: Nervous?

Lynn: Would I admit it if I were?

AP: Well, I am.

Lynn: About screwing up the music, or about being onstage in front of your peers?

AP: Both.

Lynn: Well, the first one you don't have to worry about. You have a pretty good sense of rhythm. And as to the other thing, the only two living drummers that in any way stick in the mind are Phil Collins and Lars Ulrich. And the only reason those two come to mind is because Phil Collins sings and Lars Ulrich makes an ass of himself for the media. So no one is looking at you.

AP: (mulling this over) I guess that makes sense. (beat; shy) Thanks.

Lynn: (shrug) Happy to be of service.

(Slight pause. AP looks sidelong at Lynn, then screws up his courage.)

AP: And you'll be fine too. You got stage presence and you can sing damn well.

(With that, he gets up and goes back to helping Casey with the drums. Lynn blinks, then looks back over her shoulder at him ... then smiles a little.)


(Scene: the same, some time later. A group of preppy kids are dancing to Underworld's "Born Slippy" on the floor. Onstage, Mara looks disgusted.)

Mara: They're opening with this crap?

Lynn: It could be worse.

Mara: How?

Lynn: Robbie Williams.

Mara: (wince) Oh yeah.

(The song draws to its close; as it fades out, Lynn strikes a chord on her guitar. The preppy-dressed kids turn towards the stage and stare at them for a moment.)

Lynn: Welcome back to your incarceration, students of Oakwood High.

(With that, the band starts playing [note to reader: their sound could best be described as the bastard child of early Metallica and the Deftones, with a little Type O tossed in].)

Lynn: (singing) In your wash of facts and figures will I drown
If I dare to speak my mind you slap me down
Every rule you give me says that life's unfair
And then you wonder why I just don't bloody care
Nonconformist and you've got no future
That's your lesson plan; you teach it well
And your teaching tools are chalk and brimstone
Why not go and call the roll in hell

(A few notes into the bridge between the above chorus and the second verse, the power on the stage dies. As the band looks at their instruments and the preppy students stare, Mrs Williamson, the principal, a formal-looking woman in a suit whose bearing, if not her features [grey hair in a bun, pinched Caucasian features], resemble Ms Li, comes onstage.)

Williamson: (shaking her head) That is not acceptable music for a school function! (beat) I will see all four of you in my office first thing tomorrow morning. Now get off this stage right now!

Lynn: Um ... isn't there an amendment that says you can't do this sort of thing...?

Williamson: OFF!

(The B.A.N.D. look at each other warily for a moment, then starts packing up. Williamson gestures to the DJ, who starts flipping hastily through CDs.)


(Scene: Oakwood street. Lynn and AP walking home.)

AP: What did you say to her, anyway?

Lynn: (evasive) To who?

AP: Don't play the slippery eel with me! Mrs Williamson was gonna haul all of us up on the carpet; she called us up one at a time -- alphabetically. So you go in and she never calls the rest of us! What gives?

Lynn: (sigh) I told her outright who wrote the song and, as leader of the band, took full responsibility.

(AP stares at her. Lynn's face clearly indicates that there is going to be no discussion of this.)

AP: So ... what's she going to do to you?

Lynn: Nothing overt. Since the dance was after school hours, she couldn't really justify detention. (beat) But she did say she was going to call my mother and discuss the matter further. So we'll have to see.

AP: And what part of the country is your mom in this time?

Lynn: Actually, she's in town for the week. (dry) Much joy. (beat; to AP's worried look) Don't look like that. What's the worst they can do to me?

(AP raises a dubious eyebrow but drops the subject.)

AP: We were damn cool, though. We just had the wrong audience. (beat) So you ever going to be in a band again?

Lynn: Sure ... right after I join the Fashion Club. (beat) Seriously, I'm not going through that fiasco again. Not a snowflake's chance in hell.

(AP looks at her sceptically. Lynn's face is set, but anyone who knows her really well can see that she's rather depressed about the whole thing, so he shrugs.)

AP: C'mon. We'll grab a pizza. My treat. (beat) And you can pick the toppings this time.

(Lynn shrugs assent. When she thinks he's not looking, she smiles a little.)


(Scene: hospital cafeteria. Daria is looking at a large sheaf of papers written in Lynn's handwriting.)

AP: I guess she kinda scares me like that, thinking about it. I mean, she did join the band ... just after that freakiness with Fashion Victims R Us...

Daria: (holding up the papers) Actual letters? BC, I take it.

AP: Come again?

Daria: BC. In your parlance, it would mean "Before Computer".

AP: 'Parlance'? Isn't that the thing like they had on the Simpsons once where the jokes sucked, the dancing ladies weren't wearing a lot of clothes and Madge ran a bulldozer through the house?

Daria: I think you meant Marge, and that's burlesque. Parlance means ... oh, never mind. (beat) So why was she writing you letters?

AP: It wasn't before I had a computer. It wasn't even before she had a computer. Well, she had a piece of crap her mom got from the office...

Daria: (genuinely stunned) Kate Cullen has an office?

AP: (shrug) Guess so. S'what she said, anyway. Just ... well, she didn't have one handy that summer.

Daria: Will I regret asking why not?


(Scene: Oakwood High School, ext. Music: "Ode to Summer" -- Lostprophets. Lynn and AP, age about 14, sitting on the grass out front, watching students pile out of the building with usual end-of-year cheer. Lynn looks stoic; AP is tugging at her jacket sleeve a little desperately.)

AP: So come on, Purple Peril! Tell already!

Lynn: AP, not yet, okay?

AP: Look, Purple Peril. I asked back in April if you had to do anything over the summer; you said yes but you also said you wouldn't tell me yet. Then I waited and asked in May. You said you wouldn't tell me yet. When Dad said Mom'd said something about letting you have the spare room in the attic at that stupid cabin upstate I asked you if you were sure you had plans for the summer that couldn't be fit around that. You said you weren't sure but you still wouldn't tell me yet! Now it's summer vacation and I *still* dunno what you're up to! It's gotta be yet now, right?

Lynn: (sigh) I was trying to ignore it. I'm being sent down. (beat) Tent inspection, colour war and sharing a tent with six other people.

(After a moment, the memory kicks in.)

AP: S...s...summer camp?

(Lynn heaves a sigh, stands up and walks away. AP looks after her for a minute, stunned.)

AP: But ... you ... I ... geez ... Purple Peril, wait up!

(He tries to leap to his feet, staggers to his knees, then gets up and runs after her.)


(Scene: Oakwood street. Music plays on. AP is jabbering a mile a minute at Lynn.)

AP: When'd that happen? I mean, your mom's sometimes pretty crappy but she wouldn't do that to you, would she? I mean, why would she do that to you? I mean, when are you going? I mean, where are you going? I mean...

Lynn: April, yes, to force me to interact with people who aren't you, three days, Camp Juniper upstate somewhere. Anything else?

AP: But I wanted you to come to that stupid cabin, Purple Peril!

Lynn: You'd wish that on me? I thought you were my friend.

AP: Not like that. It's the outdoors. You always think of stuff to do in the outdoors! And if you're there, I won't get stuck sitting on the lake in a boat with my dad, watching him drink beer and listening to him complain that all the fish I catch are good for are bait!

Lynn: Just stuff one of the smaller ones into his open beer can next time he says that. Then explain that you heard somewhere that hops-fed sushi is a delicacy in some countries.

AP: (chuckle; sigh) See? I need you there to help me come up with stuff like that. I can do the stuff, but the words ... they never come out right.

Lynn: Well, you never know. They kick people out of summer camps, same as everyplace else. And part of the reason Mom's sending me off this time is that she's on a three-month sojourn to Sydney.

AP: How long d'you think it'll take? I'm gonna ... uh ... I mean ... it's gonna suck without you.

(They've stopped in front of the Cullen house.)

Lynn: Yeah. Well. I'd better go pack. Any suggestions?

AP: Aerosol cans, Black Cats, that glowing paint stuff we used for the Malloy sleepover last month, and 20 packets of pineapple Jell-O mix.

Lynn: (small smirk) And that's just for starters. Later.

(Lynn starts up the walk towards her house. AP stands on the sidewalk, watching her go in.)

AP: Two months? (moan) Ohhhh, maaaaaaan...


(Scene: OHS parking lot. Music: "Ready To Go" -- Republica. Lynn, carrying her guitar and wearing a rucksack with a sleeping bag strapped to the top of it, is sitting on the kerb. AP sits beside her, looking miserable. A black duffel bag sits at their feet. They're silent for awhile, with kids about their age milling around them, chatting with their peers or hugging their parents. After a long moment, AP turns to Lynn.)

AP: You got everything?

Lynn: The Jell-O mix, the firecrackers -- thanks for the special blend, by the way.

AP: (big grin) Those kids'll think they're in a Rimbo movie!

Lynn: I think you mean 'Rambo'. Anyway, the face paint, a few other bits -- I'll let you know how all that goes -- and ... for the coup de grace...

AP: Coo duh grass? What does grass have to do with anything? (beat) You're not gonna get anyone stoned, are you?

Lynn: Never miiiiiiiiind... Just take a look at this.

(She digs through the duffel at her feet and pulls out a can of hair spray. AP looks at it, reads the label, and his eyes go wide with awe.)

AP: I've heard of this stuff! It's supposed to be real flammable! Like, light a match within three feet of it and whoosh kinda flammable! Where'd you get this stuff? I thought it was only in England!

Lynn: It is. I have connections in England, or don't you remember? Jan Fed-Exed me this stuff when I told her you recommended the aerosol -- something about this stuff being "the dog's bollocks as a replacement for a flamethrower".

(With that, Lynn stuffs the hair spray back into the bag and gets up, hauling the duffel with her. She walks over to the luggage truck and tosses the duffel in as AP gets up and follows her over. Then she shrugs off her rucksack and sends it sailing in after the duffel. The guitar she keeps as she turns back to AP.)

Lynn: Okay. Commencing Operation Hemlock. (beat) How many songs about suicide do you think I can get through before the driver has to stop the bus to break down and cry?

AP: How many do you know?

Lynn: Between the Smiths, "All The Umbrellas in London", Bowie's "Rock 'n Roll Suicide", that "Komm, Susser Tod" thing that sounds so cheerful until you listen to the words...

AP: I get the idea! I get the idea! I dunno about the driver, but I'm scared now!

(People are piling on the buses. Lynn and AP turn that way, looking trepidatious.)

Lynn: That's me, I guess.

AP: You got the cabin address? (to Lynn's nod) You are gonna write, right?

Lynn: If you promise to do the same. There are advantages to being the only person alive who can read your handwriting.

(AP looks around nervously, then grabs Lynn in an impulsive hug. Lynn's eyes go very wide but after a moment, she hugs him back.)

AP: Be strong, Purple Peril...

(AP pulls away. Lynn smirks.)

Lynn: Oh, never mind strong. I'm going to be evil.

(With that, she gets on the bus. AP grins a little sickly as the doors shut and the buses pull away.)


(Scene: hospital cafeteria. Daria shakes her head wryly.)

AP: She was better at it -- the letters, I mean -- than me. First letter got to me just a bit before we left for the stupid cabin.

(He picks a letter off the top of the pile, smiles sadly at it)

Daria: (quiet) Read it?

AP: Uh ... 'kay. (beat; looking at the paper) "Salutations, Maverick..."


(Scene: largish canvas tent. Music: "Polly" -- Nirvana. Four bunk beds line the walls; any wall space not taken up by beds is dominated by overflowing trunks and milk cartons full of cosmetic items and insect repellent. Lynn is in one of the two bunks by the far wall [bottom bunk], wearing ratty black cut-off jeans and a purple T-shirt, chewing on a pen. Before her is a pad of paper. After a moment, she starts writing.)

Lynn: (writing VO) Well, Camp Hemlock's about how I pictured it. It's like high school, only the busywork is even more boring and pointless and they don't let you have your life back at three-thirty.


(Scene: the bus. Lynn is sitting at one of the seats in the back, playing and singing "Asleep" by the Smiths. All the other girls look at her like she's crazy in the dangerous way. A few are openly crying. The driver's seat is empty.)

Lynn: (writing VO) I started the bus trip with "Virgin Suicide" -- though I'm not sure how appropriate it was for the girls I was sharing the bus with. Two songs later, we pulled over at some grubby bar, where the driver stopped for a half-hour. I knew the Smiths would get 'em.


(Scene: the open road. Music: back to "Polly". The bus is halfway on the shoulder of the wrong lane. A black Beemer has crashed into the side of the bus; the bus is dented a little but the Beemer has taken the worst of it. All the girls are off the bus; half of them are crying, most of the rest are glaring at Lynn. Lynn, her guitar slung over her shoulder by its strap, watches with interest as the bus driver and Mr Beemer yell at each other.)

Lynn: (writing VO) When I started on "Komm, Susser Tod", the bus driver veered onto the wrong side of the road and right into the path an ageing yuppie and we had to stop again. I learned a lot about the legal system from the yuppie. I learned a lot about how to use profanity from the bus driver.

(The driver steps away from Mr Beemer and approaches Lynn; he starts yelling. Lynn looks at him, completely deadpan. The driver starts crying. Lynn raises an eyebrow.)

Lynn: (writing VO) I would have finished the song when we got back on the way, but he said he'd make like El Kabong with my guitar if I kept it up and I thought I could get more use out of the thing if it wasn't shattered over my own head. So the rest of the ride was spent in silence. Well, nearly.


(Scene: the bus, moving. The majority of the girls are singing in total unison with the fervency of total desperation.)

Girls: Hey Mr Bus Driver / Speed up a little bit / Speed up a little bit / Speed up a little bit / Hey Mr Bus Driver / Speed up a little bit / Cos we want away from this main-ee-ac!

(Lynn, at the back of the bus, just smirks a little.)


(Scene: the tent. Music plays on. Lynn is chewing on the end of her pen again. She takes the pen out of her mouth, allows herself a smirk, then sets to writing again.)

Lynn: (writing VO) Needless to say, I'm a legend in my own time ... the kind of legend whose hook-replacing-a-hand is found hanging from car doors of unsuspecting teenagers making out on deserted back roads. And frankly, I'm proud of it. From the looks of most of my tentmates, I think I'd rather be maligned and feared by them than the alternative. So how're things with you? Ready for the foray into the great outdoors? I checked a local map -- if your cabin's anywhere near Lake Charchattac, we'll be neighbours when you finally arrive. Let me know, because having someplace to hide might come in handy sooner than I thought.


(Scene: hospital cafeteria. AP still reading, with a smile. Daria has a small smile too.)

AP: "Next time I write, I'll tell you about the people who may soon be forming my lynch mob, but for now, be grateful for where you are. Yes, I know we're talking about Oakwood, but it's better than here. Peril."

(thoughtful pause)

Daria: That's ... very, very her.

AP: Yeah. I was worried for a little that they'd brainwash her or something -- and that was before I saw that "Addams Family Values" movie -- but I should've known a whole lot better.

Daria: Something like that. If brainwashing is going to be done, it's probably her that's doing it.

AP: (groan) I gotta get some food. I didn't think I'd be able to eat again until ... well ... but...

Daria: Well, if you need to eat but feel bad about taking any enjoyment out of it, a hospital cafeteria's probably the right place to go.

AP: Uh ... yeah. You want anything?

Daria: I'm okay, thanks.

(AP wanders off. Daria looks at the next sheet of paper -- this one's typed. She picks it up and starts reading.)

AP: (writing VO) Hey ho, Purple Peril!


(Scene: AP's room, Oakwood. Music: "Can U Dig It?" -- Pop Will Eat Itself. There's a small desk, a chest of drawers and a card table, all covered in bits of paper, various bottles of odd substances and a computer. There's actually a bed frame, as well -- wood, painted off-white and plastered with Star Wars stickers. The bedding is done in "The Empire Strikes Back" pattern to complete the motif. Young AP runs in, clutching a bit of paper, and flings himself onto the bed -- it creaks alarmingly, then falls apart entirely. AP looks at it in some shock.)

AP: (writing VO) The bed-thing finally fell apart. No biggie -- I'm gonna turn the wood scraps into shelves and stick the mattress in my closet. Hey, I got more space now! Maybe I'll be able to see the top of my dresser again! Yeah, and helium's gonna turn solid at room temp.


(Scene: Oakwood Heights mall. Music plays on. Fred walks into shot, leading a typically glazed Carol with one arm and dragging a very reluctant AP with the other.)

AP: (writing VO) Dad said he wanted the back-to-school stuff done before we went to the stupid cabin so we took a trip to the Heights.

(The family enters the mall. Fifteen seconds later, they are led out again by very annoyed-looking security guards. Fred glares at AP, who grins sickly at his father and waves at the guards. One of them gives him the finger as the pair go back inside.)

AP: (writing VO) Let's just say we're still persons non gratis ... au gratin ... aw, hell, they just don't like us very much. So we went to that Cranberry place in Lawndale instead.


(Scene: Cashman's. Music plays on. AP digging around a T-shirt display. He's selected five T-shirts -- three are black, two are blue. Young versions of Sandi, Tiffany and Stacy walk past him, look at him, then take a second look and start giggling. AP stares at them, utterly perplexed. The trio just giggle harder.)

AP: (writing VO) You're kind of a girl -- maybe you can tell me why girls look at a guy, start getting all red and then giggle. One of the three girls who did that looked like the type -- braids, sappy smile -- but the Asian girl seemed too dumb and the other one ... well, I think she's gotta have eyes in her nostrils to be able to see where she's going with her nose that high in the air. Anyway, it freaked me out, so...

(AP digs into the pocket of his jeans and pulls out a realistic-looking rubber spider; he then throws it at young Sandi, who steps back in shock before looking at him in that "bitch-queen" way she perfects in later years. Stacy screams and ducks behind a rack of shirts. Tiffany stops giggling but otherwise doesn't seem to get what's going on.)

Sandi: Ewww! That is so rude! And to think I thought he might be cute.

Stacy: Ewewewew! That ... that isn't real, is it, Sandi? (starts hyperventilating)

Sandi: Of course it isn't, Stacy! It's just, like, some geek's rubber toy. Come on; let's go see if there's anything in Junior Five that'll make us look sixteen.

(Sandi stalks off, with Stacy scurrying after. Tiffany just stares at AP for a minute, then picks up the rubber spider by one leg and throws it back at him with a very small sly smirk.)

Tiffany: (typically slow) The look on her face ... that was soooo cool.

(Tiffany walks away. AP looks after her with a very puzzled expression.)

AP: (writing VO) Do you understand girls? 'Cos I sure don't.


(Scene: hospital cafeteria. Daria still reading.)

AP: (writing VO) Anyway, we leave in the morning so I guess I better pack. Man, it's gonna suck without you. I'm gonna send some junk food cos I heard stories of what camps feed campers. Hope you don't starve. Later! Maverick.

(AP approaches and sees her with the paper.)

AP: Aw, you read that?

Daria: You realise who the three giggling fiends might well be, from your description?

AP: What, braids, dumb Asian and the... (it hits him. HARD.) Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh jeez.

Daria: You were flirted with by the pre-pubescent Fashion Victims R Us, pre-Morgendorffer edition.

AP: Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh jeez. I think I'm gonna forget it. That's too damn freaky.

Daria: Seconded. (picks up the next letter in the series, starts to read aloud) "Salutations, Maverick." (AP winces; Daria notices) Maybe I shouldn't read this.

AP: No, go on and do it.


(Scene: the tent again. Music: "Witches' Song" -- Juliana Hatfield. An attractive blond girl is doing her nails on a bottom bunk by the door. An equally attractive brunette is sitting on the trunk at the foot of said bed, looking at herself in a compact mirror. Lynn's sprawled on her own bunk, reading and not paying them a damn bit of notice.)

Lynn: (writing VO) I promised I'd tell you about the people who I have to share space with. Most of them, I have to dub the "Y-Bothers". When you're in close quarters with Becky, Sally, Toby, Shelly and, believe it or not, Mindy, that's what you keep asking yourself.

Blonde: Jeez, Becky, maybe we should ask Miranda to set us up for one of those do-it-yourself facials or something. I mean, this air does nothing for your complexion.

Becky: God, yeah. I haven't seen my nose this shiny since I tried that face glitter! But probably a bad idea, Mindy. I heard that all it is is -- get this, right -- you slather your face in cold oatmeal...

Mindy: Oh, God, Becky, that's gross! That's, like, the stuff we wouldn't eat at breakfast, all lumpy and grey...

Becky: Or worse ... mud. And I'm not talking that nice spa-grade purified stuff either. I'm talking that stuff you get by the banks of the lake, that God-knows-what's peed in...

Lynn: (not looking up) I dunno. I hear that ureic acid does wonders for the pores.

Voice: (from the bunk above Lynn) Hey, people put lemon goop on their faces and stuff; maybe it's better the more acidic it is.

(Lynn quirks an eyebrow, but plays along.)

Lynn: That may be true. Hey, I know where you can get some sulphuric acid wholesale. Might even take care of that root problem, Mindy.

Mindy: Shut up, you freak! I do not have a root problem!

Voice: Sure ya do! Hell, you've got that "photo negative of skunk" look going on. And I know the carpet doesn't match the drapes, Ms Skinny-Dipping '96...

Becky: Come on, Mindy. Let's go somewhere ... normal.

(Becky gets up and goes over to Mindy, whose lower lip is trembling.)

Mindy: I am a natural blonde, you know, really!

Becky: Don't listen to them, honey; they're just rejects.

(The duo leave the tent; Lynn casts her eyes up and sees a very pale face set with bright blue eyes peering down at her. Said face is crowned with a shock of candy-apple red hair. The girl gives a thread-thin smile. Lynn smirks at her.)

Lynn: (writing VO) Not everyone here is friendly and popular. There's this one girl named Rose who is snide, antisocial and resentful. Finally, a friend.


(Smash cut to the hospital cafeteria. Daria is staring at the paper in some shock.)

Daria: She didn't write that. She just didn't. (reading on; carefully) "Rose is an artist, which means she spends a lot of her time drawing the world as she wishes it was, which in turn involves a lot of drawings of rabid foxes chewing Mindy's face off or a psycho attacking Shelly with her own eyelash curlers. She gets the most mail of any of us -- her family, consisting of three brothers and a sister as well as the parents, seems to wander around the world not doing very much except being artistic and..." (beat; looking at AP) This is bizarre. (to AP's quizzical look) You haven't seen it yet.

AP: Hey, I haven't read these in nearly five years! Is it my fault that I'm blanking on why you're so freaked that Purple Peril was once friends with some artist chick with a bad attitude who likes red and has a family that ... travels... (*ping*; his eyes go big)


(Scene: the tent again. Lynn, Rose, Becky, Mindy and a girl of obvious Japanese descent with her hair in a long braid down her back are sitting in a circle. All but Rose are holding cards. A large stack of assorted junk food items sits in the circle between them.)

Lynn: (writing VO) Thanks for the junk food. Not only is it going to keep me from starving -- everything you've heard about the food at summer camp is a vast understatement -- but it was also useful as a stake. You know how they say you have to spend money to make money?

Mindy: (sigh) I have two threes. Toby?

Toby: (the Japanese girl) I have a queen, if that counts for anything... Becky?

Becky: Pair of fives.

Rose: Don't look at me; I folded five minutes ago.

Lynn: Three kings. (rakes in the pot) Pleasure doing business with you, ladies. Care for another hand?

Toby: You cleaned me out.

Becky: She cleaned all of us out. But I guess freaks have to be good at something...

(The trio get up and walk out. Rose looks at Lynn and offers the thread-thin smile again.)

Rose: Hey, it's their own fault. They should have known better than to gamble with someone with your poker face...

(Lynn throws a Snickers bar at Rose, smirking slightly.)


(Scene: the hospital cafeteria. Daria puts the letter down.)

Daria: I could have used a Rose -- or a Jane -- at Camp Dragonfly. (beat) Or Camp Grizzly, come to think of it.

AP: Camp where and Camp what?

Daria: It doesn't matter. (beat; looks at the next letter in the series) Didn't get a chance to reply to this one?

AP: Well, not really. Dad took me out on some hunting thing and we were outta the cabin for about three days while he tried to show me how to use a gun. (to Daria's "oh dear GOD" look) Yeah, I know, I know, I know. Give me a gun and there're only two safe places to be -- wherever I'm actually aiming or behind me. Not even so much behind me cos I keep getting knocked over by the kick and I kind of smacked Dad in the mouth with the rifle butt when I went over.

Daria: (wince) Anyway. By the time you got back from that...

(AP waves the letter.)


(Scene: dining hall [large, battered wooden building with school cafeteria-style tables set up throughout; two doors leading to the kitchen labelled "In" and "Out", small, scarred piano in the centre of the room]. Music: "Livin' in the Fridge" -- Weird Al Yankovic. Lynn, Rose, Toby, Becky, Mindy, a short, frail-looking girl with white-blonde curls and an innocent expression [Sally], and a snub-nosed brunette with freckles [Shelly] sit at a table. At the head of the table is a tall woman with caramel-coloured skin and long dark hair [Miranda, the counsellor]. They are all looking at their plates, upon which lies slabs of brown stuff that looks a bit like slices of mud-brick.)

Lynn: (writing VO) Salutations, Maverick. I've finally found something more unappetising than your pizza.

Mindy: (scowling at the "food") What is this stuff?

Rose: Well, I'd say what it looks like, but...

Lynn: It's meatloaf. (beat) But I hear the kitchen staff call it "Roadkill Surprise".

Sally: Uh ... do I want to know why they'd call it something that gross?

Becky: Advance-ew on whatever the Misery Chick's gonna say next...

Shelly: ... "Misery Chick", Becky?

Becky: Well, she is! She's ... like the weather outside!

(She gestures to the window -- we see it's pouring with rain.)

Rose: And they say goldfish have short attention spans.

Lynn: Maybe they shouldn't hear this. I mean, aren't the popular known for frail constitutions to match their learning skills?

Mindy: Okay, fine, Misery Chick. Why do they call it Roadkill Surprise?

Lynn: Simple, really. Just because the meat in it's whatever the milk truck hit on the way in that morning.

(Dead silence for a moment.)

Rose: (casual interest) Y'mean there could be racoon in here?

Lynn: If we're lucky -- according to this nation's redneck population, them's good