Garden Party

Anyone in possession of the power of sight realized, right off, that she wasn't happy to be there.

Her shoulders were stiff and her breath, drawn in even but jerky motions, told of a heavily repressed but completely unrelated fear. Her face was implacable, as always, wearing a smile that showed neither pleasure nor the length of good humor suffered, but of a quiet air of nonchalance.

Time had grown to suit her; her dark hair, fashionably cut, was attractively fringed; the sweater set matched and yet thrown together without a sense of uniform appeal; the jagged cut of the sweater not matching the gentle, well-tailored line of the skirt.

She leaned against the outer wall of the gym as though she owned it; the spectacle-encased eyes roaming every face in the room, her expression unreadable. Each fellow former Highland inmate ignored the watchful eyes; to them, she was still Daria, the social nobody. Worse, a kid who hadn't made it through the totality of the torture known as high school with them and had instead transferred to some new berg in some upper-middle-class berg called Lawndale. This had not changed, no matter how many articles, novels, books, and talk show appearances had taken place between the last day of junior high and the ten following years.

Daria did not care. She hadn't sought their approval in the first place and, on some level, she had a good chuckle at the premature balding of their quarterback heroes. On another level, she noticed her old associates on the school paper and shared a bittersweet smile with them; perhaps their lives were not going as well as they had planned, either.

A prime example shuffled up to her. Already losing his hair, a little bit of a gut rolling over the top of his belt, lazy, glassy expression upon his face; she honestly couldn't recognize the person in front of her.

"Heh heh heh...Diaria."

Her Mona Lisa smile never wavered. The person before her was blond, slightly stockier than she remembered, with a sharp chin and nose. "Beavis, how are you?" she summed up.

"I dunno. I work at this place where there's, like, a bunch of phones and stuff, and they ring all day, and I yell 'WHAT DO YOU WANT' and then I can, like, buy nachos and stuff."

"Oh, you're a telemarketer."

"Heh heh heh he heh heh. So, did you, like, score?"

Every finger on her left hand spread out to create shadows to cover the tan line on her ring finger. "No, Beavis; my husband and I had a very platonic relationship."

"That sucks. Did you, like, have to water him and stuff?"

Daria felt her temples throb to life, but her shell did not crack. "What about you? Did you 'score'?"

"Heh heh heh heh..."

"That's not an answer..."

"Heh ehh eheh heheheh..." The laughter increased in pitch and cadence.

"You're never going to score," Daria snorted. Some small part of her was ashamed at her childish attitude, but her amusement forced her to press on. "And that's why.'

"How can you tell I didn't, like, score?"

Daria shook her head. "Never mind," she held up her spread palm. "I give up,"

"Heh heh. Quitter."

"Damn it, Beavis, I told you I wanted to score with Daria!"

Daria barely had time to consider the portly form of Butthead as he barged into the half-conversation she'd had with Beavis.

"No way, Butthead! I was totally here first!"

"Beavis, if you don't shut up and get me a sandwich, I'm going to kick your ass."

"Hehehehhe. She let me see her boobs, and they were, like, hot!"

"Damn it, Beavis!"

Daria intervened, mostly in the desire of avoiding a riot. "No one's going to be doing any scoring here."

"Heh heh heh; she said..."

"I know what I said," Daria retorted. "God, this has been a huge mistake!"

She walked away from the squabbling pair, seeking fresh punch. There, on the table, lay a booklet that laid out the accomplishments of the Highland Class of '94.

Standing in the middle of a dance, with its cheap ornaments, white, Kleenex-thin tablecloths, unnatural, hazy blue light and corny soundtrack of saccharine 90's pop ballads, Daria read in disbelief of Beavis and Butthead's successful chain of video stores. Not only were these two meatheads successful, they were also both married!

Had been married. She noticed that Beavis was a widower, and a tragic one at that; his wife had died in a car accident and, according to the booklet, Butthead now lived in another state.

That had not changed him fundamentally. On the dance floor, they rolled, yelling and cursing at one another, trying to slap-fight each other into oblivion. As Daria watched them, she realized that these old nemeses were not enemies in the end, but real people who could be just as normal as anyone else. The thought was startling. She didn't want to develop empathy for Beavis, but who would avoid doing so?

They were actually happy with themselves. She, meanwhile, was thirty years old, divorced, and trying to keep afloat in a world of competitive deadlines.

As Daria resumed her Mona Lisa pose, she studied the starfish fruit floating through the bright red punch. Ice cubes danced to the mingled sounds of Dave Matthews and the boys' yelling. Randomly, she wondered how high her therapy bills would become once she got back to Lawndale. It was her last sane thought before she charged onto the makeshift dance floor.

"Beavis!" She intervened, pulling him away from Butthead, to her side of the gym. He stared at her for a moment; vulnerability flickered behind those mischievous eyes for a moment. "If you need someone to talk to, about your wife, I can recommend an excellent therapist."

He seemed stunned by the mention of his wife's existence. In the end, he could but come up with one word. "Cool."

She released him and resumed her communion with the punch.





The End