DARIA & SON

A "Daria" fanfic

by Brian Taylor and Erin Mills

"Daria" ©2010 MTV Networks



FADE IN:
EXT. LAWNDALE--DAY

The town circa 2026. It's still Little Hell in Suburbia, but it's grown larger in the 26 years since we were last here. There are more subdivisions, more businesses, and the industrial park has sprouted a few small office buildings. Not so much urban sprawl as suburban expansion. Small town in the process of becoming small city.

DISSOLVE TO:
EXT. SUBURBAN ROAD-- DAY

A green crossover vehicle drives down the road. It doesn't look much different from crossover vehicles today, except the edges are more rounded and the overall aesthetic is more streamlined.

CUT TO:
INT. DARIA'S CAR

Behind the wheel is DARIA MORGENDORFFER, age 43. She looks similar to the older Daria we saw in her story in "Write Where It Hurts," however, there's a hint of gray at her temples. She's dressed in a tan suit with a green blouse.

In the passenger seat is her 16-year-old son, Samuel Gregor Davenport - more commonly called MARK. He bears a slight resemblance to Daria, in that he has the same shade of hair and wears glasses. Otherwise he has what could be described as proto-rugged good looks. Strong jaw, pleasant features, and a slightly more expressive face than his mother. He's dressed in a short sleeved white shirt, jeans, sneakers and a black jacket.

He's currently fiddling with the latest iteration of iGadget, which is wirelessly networked into the car's sound system.

DARIA: I know it's a big change, Mark, and I know how hard it is to suddenly pack up and move cross-country--

MARK: Did we--

DARIA: Yes, we moved, smart ass.

She smirks.

DARIA: My point is, even though it's a new school and all, it really isn't going to be much different from California.

MARK: Oh, so I can expect bomb sniffing dogs and security guards with assault rifles at the ready here too?

DARIA: Oh, you wish. Lawndale High had those when I was going there. I shudder to think what got installed after 9/11.

MARK: X-ray scanners at the entrances?

DARIA: Had those.

MARK: Taser-armed security cameras?

DARIA: On back order when I graduated.

MARK: A hulking squad of goons who grab freshmen at random and administer completely unnecessary and humiliating strip searches for contraband?

DARIA: What do you think the football team did in the off season?

MARK: One of these days, I'm going to win one of these quizzes.

DARIA: It's nice that young people still dream.

Off of Daria's satisfied smirk,

CUT TO:
EXT. LAWNDALE HIGH -- DAY

The car pulls into the loop in front of the school. Mark opens the door and gets out, grabbing his backpack.

MARK: You coming or what?

DARIA: You mean you want all the other kids seeing you go to school with Mommy, thus ensuring perpetual ridicule and scorn from your peers for the rest of your high school days? Do you feel mature enough to deal with that concept?

MARK: Not when you put it like that, no.

DARIA: That's my boy. Go ahead. I'm going around to the faculty lot. I'll see you after school.

MARK: See ya.

He closes the door and Daria drives off. Mark turns to face the front of the school, looks around at the other kids, and at the security cameras mounted at the entrance and sighs.

MARK: I miss Santa Cruz already.

Off of his apathetic trudge towards the front doors,

CUT TO:
EXT. LAWNDALE HIGH FACULTY PARKING LOT -- DAY

Daria parks the car, grabs her shoulder bag from behind the passenger seat and her coffee from the cup holder. She gets out of the car and maneuvers the bag strap over her head while holding onto her coffee and trying not to drop her car keys. After a few moments, she puts her keys in her mouth, gets organized and we hear a familiar voice from off screen.

VOICE: (Off screen) Daria? Daria Morgendorffer? Is that you?

DARIA: (keys still in her mouth) Mmm?

She turns to see a pudgy, grey-haired, still recognizably sappy TIMOTHY BARCH O'NEILL. He's wearing, of all things, a brown cardigan sweater and khakis. The overall feel is like Mr. Rogers, although nowhere near as vicious.

Daria takes her keys out of her mouth and looks at her former teacher in surprise.

DARIA: Mr. O'Neill?

O'NEILL: (chuckling) Please, Daria, you can call me "Timothy" or even "Tim" if you like. After all, we're going to be colleagues now.

DARIA (Thought VO): It's official. Lawndale High is the tenth ring of Hell.

DARIA (out loud): Um. it's nice to see you again, I guess. (beat) Still teaching here, I see.

O'NEILL: Oh yes. Janet asked me to retire years ago but… (sighs) Well, after her unfortunate parasailing accident, the house just seemed so...empty.

DARIA: Oh...um, sorry to hear that.

O'NEILL: Oh, it's all right. I mean, I may not be teaching English any longer, but I'm just so much more suited to Communications. Besides, Ms. Sloane has that covered.

DARIA: (quirking an eyebrow) Sloane?

O'NEILL: Elsie Sloane. She's the head of the language arts department nowadays. A little high strung, but she's okay. Oh! But I'm probably keeping you from meeting with Mr. Powell.

Daria looks at her watch and her eyes widen.

DARIA: You're right. I'm late. I'll talk to you later...I guess.

O'NEILL: Have a good day, Daria.

Off of O'Neill's cheerfully oblivious expression,

CUT TO:
INT. PRINCIPAL POWELL'S OFFICE - DAY

Daria is sitting in front of the desk of LHS's current principal, Deacon Powell. Everything about this guy screams "chair warmer." If Ms. Li was overly involved in LHS, Powell seems to have no interest at all. If anything, he seems to find talking with his own latest employee to be a chore.

POWELL: Well, Ms. Morgendorffer, I'm glad to see that your well-documented hatred of this institution hasn't completely jaded you against taking a position here.

DARIA: Excuse me?

POWELL: Your book,[i] Modern Day High.[/i] It was based on your life as a student here, yes?

DARIA (frowning): It was called[i] My Youth in Exile.[/i]

Powell smiles, with considerable smarm.

POWELL: If you say so.

He slaps his hands on the desk and gets to his feet.

POWELL: Well, let's take a look at your new office, shall we?

DARIA: Sure, why not?

Powell opens the door to the office and the two exit.


CUT TO:
INT. LAWNDALE HIGH HALLWAY

Powell and Daria make their way down the hall. The school hasn't changed much. Same lockers, same hall, but there do seem to more students in the hallways than usual, and a security guard can be seen walking past them in the background.

POWELL: I have to admit, Ms. Morgendorffer, you weren't exactly my first choice for this job. There were many other qualified applicants.

Daria looks around at the milling student body. One kid has two thumbs shoved up his nose, and his face contorted into a weird and creepy shape, while his compadres hoot and laugh approvingly.

DARIA: Really.

POWELL: Oh, yes. But I chose you because of your history here as a student, as well as your professional reputation. You taught English at UCLA, right?

DARIA: UC Santa Cruz.

POWELL: Ah, yes. Slithering Snails, right?

DARIA: Banana Slugs.

POWELL: Mm. Anyway, as I was saying, there were many factors that contributed to my decision to hire you as our new Vice Principal. One element of your teaching style, in particular, made you uniquely qualified for the position...

They come to a stop as they reach the vice principal's office. A huge line of students waits outside the office. The first few are lucky enough to have chairs. The other twenty or so are leaning up against the wall, with a mixture of expressions ranging from boredom to terror.

DARIA: Why is there a line of people waiting to get into my office?

POWELL: Oh, yes, well…

Powell fiddles with his tie, unprepared for the full force of the Morgendorffer Gaze of Disapproval.

POWELL: Administrative backlog.

DARIA: Right.

POWELL: When your predecessor quit two weeks ago, he left behind a lot of unfinished business.

Daria stares at him for a moment in disbelief. She turns to the line. Squares her shoulders, puts her hands on her hips and clears her throat loudly, getting the attention of the crowd.

DARIA: Okay, let's make this fast. I'm Ms. Morgendorffer, your new vice principal. I don't take crap from anybody for anything. Just keep that in mind.

She takes a couple of steps closer to the throng of students, yanking a cigarette out of the mouth of one wiseacre as she draws near.

DARIA: That said, today's your lucky day. Whatever the hell you did, you get a free pass. I see you in my office again and your ass is mine. (beat) Get to class.

The crowd of students looks at each other, not sure whether or not she's serious.

DARIA (frowning again and speaking loudly): VAMANOS!

The students scatter like marbles on a Hungry Hungry Hippos board.

POWELL (smirking): That's why I hired you. You scare them.

DARIA: While you coincidentally continue to look like the good guy and manage to avoid doing anything remotely resembling your job.

POWELL: Well, I do take budget meetings.

DARIA (to herself): Why did I take this job again?

POWELL: Because we were hiring. (beat) And because beggars can't be choosers.

Daria gives him a look, like she's not sure if he's talking about himself or her.

POWELL: Have a good first day. And welcome to the good ship Lawndale High.

He claps her on the shoulder happily and wanders off, whistling. Daria stares after him, wondering what she's gotten herself into.

DARIA (muttering): S.O.S. Woman overboard...

Off of her dark look,

CUT TO:
INT. MS. SLOANE'S CLASSROOM

It appears to be DeMartino’s old room. ELSIE SLOANE, now in her late 30s, stands in front of the chalkboard looking fairly ground down. She's still attractive, but there's an exhaustion to her, a deep bitterness and resentment in her expression.

ELSIE: All right, class. We've got a new slab of meat joining the rest of you zombies today.

Her voice drips with sarcasm on the next line.

ELSIE: Let's all give a big Lawndale High welcome to Samuel Davenport. Raise your hand, please, Samuel.

Mark raises his hand, with some trepidation.

MARK: Um...most people call me Mark.

ELSIE: I beg your pardon?

MARK: I don't really use the Samuel name so much. My parents started calling me Mark a while back and the name just stuck.

ELSIE: I see. (beat) Well, Samuel, while I'm sure we wouldn't want to contradict the ridiculous and arbitrary whims of such a best-selling author of airport DRECK as the great Paul Davenport, the name on my class roster is Samuel and as long as that's the name on the paperwork, that is the name you will answer to in my class. Do we have an understanding...Samuel?

MARK: (sighs) Yes, Ms. Sloane.

ELSIE: Good. (smirking) Now that we've established who's in charge, let's see how well the diminished mass of neurons you call a brain functions, Mr. Davenport...

The smirk turns to an evil grin.

ELSIE: In The Count of Monte Cristo, why exactly was Edmond Dantes sent to prison?

Mark blinks and looks up at

THE BLACKBOARD

It's covered with notes and terms from Shakespeare's Macbeth, as well as a disturbingly accurate drawing of Macbeth's severed head. It's clearly what the class has been studying.

RETURN TO:
THE CLASSROOM

ELSIE: I'm waiting, Mr. Davenport.

MARK (deadpan): Edmond Dantes was sent to prison because his gutless friend stabbed him in the back and accused him anonymously of being a Bonapartist, and because the lead investigator in the case was too busy covering his own political career to do the right thing.

Elsie stares at him, looking almost impressed despite her hostile air.

MARK: Oh, and because he had the rotten luck to be the delivery boy for his Captain, who actually WAS a Bonapartist sympathizer.

Mark's eyes narrow and his voice takes on a slightly venomous edge.

MARK: From this we learn that it's a bad idea to publicly show support for the whims of short, ill-tempered dictators -- no matter their station -- because, in the end, somebody innocent always ends up shoved down a hole.

CLOSE ON:
ELSIE

Her eyelid twitches like a bull's flaring nostril.

MARK: Does that answer your question?

CUT TO:
INT. DARIA'S OFFICE

Mark is sitting in front of Daria's desk. Daria has a displeased expression on her face.

DARIA: Mind telling me how you got sent to my office on our first day here?

She holds up a piece of paper from her desk.

DARIA: Oh, wait. I've got it right here.

She gives it a quick glance then looks back at her son.

DARIA: If you were at any other school in the world, I'd be proud that you called out one of your teachers for being a short, ill-tempered dictator because she asked you unfairly difficult questions about The Count of Monte Cristo while your class is studying Macbeth.

MARK: But...

DARIA: But if I let you off, I have to let everybody else off for doing the same thing, and pretty soon this place is going to be an even bigger monkey house than it already is.

MARK: I find that impossible to believe.

DARIA: Remind me to show you the security footage from the Ultra Cola fiasco.

She puts the complaint down and assumes a serious expression.

DARIA: In the meantime, two weeks.

MARK: Two weeks?

DARIA: Starting tomorrow. Every day. After school. You'll be doing Ms. Sloane's grunt work.

MARK: Seriously?

DARIA: Yes, seriously. On the upside, I'm not going to ground you...and we're going out to dinner tonight to celebrate.

MARK: To celebrate? Or because Grandma Helen doesn't have anything to eat aside from frozen bagels and microwave lasagna?

DARIA: What's the difference? Are you saying that's what you want to eat?

MARK: Not...really?

DARIA: Okay, then. Two weeks. Out of my office.

Mark sighs and gets up to leave. As he reaches the door and opens it, Daria looks back up at him.

DARIA: Oh, and Mark?

MARK: Yeah?

DARIA: If, during your time in the hole, you happen to meet a deranged old man who points you in the direction of a massive hidden treasure? I get half.

The two of them smirk and Mark leaves Daria to her paperwork.

CUT TO:
EXT. CHEZ MORGENDORFFER -- NIGHT

The same old house.

CUT TO:
INT. MORGENDORFFER KITCHEN -- NIGHT.

Daria and Mark are sitting at the kitchen table, having dinner. Tonight's entree: frozen microwave lasagna. Mark is moodily picking at it with his fork. Helen is nowhere to be seen.

MARK: I thought we were going out.

DARIA: We were. And then I remembered we're flat ass broke.

MARK: Couldn't we just run out on the check?

DARIA: You want to spend the next month washing dishes to pay for it when we get caught trying?

MARK: It couldn't be any worse than this.

He pokes the lasagna with his fork.

MARK: I don't even know what this is.

DARIA: One of Grandma Helen’s long-running culinary traditions. Tuck in.

MARK: And why isn't she here suffering with us?

DARIA: I think it's street luge in San Francisco this week.

MARK: Kind of dangerous for a seventy-year-old isn't it?

DARIA: Do YOU want to tell her that?

MARK: Point taken.

Mark looks at the lasagna forlornly then up at Daria.

MARK: But we can go out sometime before the next Ice Age, right?

Daria smiles reassuringly.

DARIA: As soon as I get paid, I promise.

Another awkward pause. Neither sure quite what to say to the other.

MARK: I don't want to sound like a whiny bitch or anything, but...I miss Santa Cruz.

DARIA (sighs): I know. I do, too. But, even though I've told you a bunch of horror stories about this place, there is one thing that can make it all worthwhile.

MARK: Yeah? What?

DARIA: A really good friend. And once you find one...well...

At that point Daria's watch beeps. She looks at it, then up at Mark. Both of them smile at each other.

DARIA: Tell you what, let's let Aunt Jane tell you what I mean.

MARK: Sounds good.

CUT TO:
INT. MORGENDORFFER LIVING ROOM

Nothing's really changed in the place. The old TV's been replaced by a wide flat-panel which Daria and Mark are staring into while seated on one of the clean, modular couches.

JANE stares back at them from the TV set, wearing a paint-stained smock and looking fundamentally unchanged except for the basic accumulation of time.

DARIA: So, where the hell are you calling from this week?

JANE: Reykjavik? Stockholm?

She shrugs on the TV set.

JANE: There's a K in there somewhere. I know that much.

DARIA: And so fifteen years of pursuing Carmen Sandiego goes right down the toilet.

JANE: Hey, she's a tricky bitch to find!

MARK: I found her under my bed once.

Jane pauses and looks at Mark for a long second.

JANE: Geez, kiddo, and I thought your mom had weird sex dreams.

MARK: (shocked) Aunt Jane! Ewwwww!

DARIA: Jane...

JANE: What? He's got to learn about deviant cartoon sex fantasies some time! For God's sake, Daria, do some parenting and load up Rule 34 for him on the Internet or something.

MARK: Oh GOD...

DARIA: One more word on the subject and I tell him about the dream you had about Captain Planet and the bottle of chocolate syrup.

MARK: (placing his hands over his ears) I'm not LISTENING!

JANE: And so the Morgendorffer family tradition of unbearable mental trauma continues.

DARIA: Two for two, so far, and we've only been in Lawndale for three days.

MARK: (still with his hands over his ears) la la LA la la...

Daria pulls his hands off his head.

DARIA: Mark, honey, quit being an idiot.

Mark glares at her and sits back on the couch, arms folded.

JANE: (deciding to let Mark off the hook) Settling in okay, kiddo?

MARK: No.

DARIA: He's already got two weeks after school with his English teacher.

JANE (drawing the word out): Really. How'd you manage that?

MARK: I suggested that Ms. Sloane might maybe, possibly, be a short, mean-tempered little tyrant who's going to send a horde of unstoppable armies out to invade Russia.

JANE: And on your first day there, too. (beat) I am so proud of you, kiddo.

Her eyebrows narrow.

JANE: Now, when you say Ms. Sloane -

DARIA: It's Elsie.

JANE: Teaching English?

DARIA: Yes.

JANE: At Lawndale High?

MARK: Uh-huh.

JANE: Elsie Sloane, teaching English at Lawndale High?

DARIA: Yes.

Jane whistles as shakes her head.

JANE: I have got to start paying attention when I'm back in Lawndale. So many opportunities for emotional blackmail wasted, and for what?

MARK: So you can sell meticulously hand-crafted hooks to ice-fishermen in Greenland?

JANE: So that's where I am.

MARK (playing along): You didn't know?

JANE: I'd figure it out sooner or later. Now I don't have to.

She smiles - a happy but twisted grin. Which is when a low, panicked female voice begins to shout at Jane from a room just off-camera in some kind of Saga-tongue. After a beat, Jane twists her neck and shouts back in the same language.

JANE: Okay, one of my special little butterflies has apparently managed to get one of these hooks jammed into his -

DARIA: Like the kid in Japan?

JANE: Apparently this kid got it shoved through both sides.

Mark winces. Daria looks pale.

JANE: Yeah. So, look, I'm gonna have to run. (beat) Mark, so long as they're keeping you out of the self-esteem classes, you're already having a better first week than your mother.

DARIA: Bite me.

JANE: Bite yourself.

MARK: Talk to you later, Aunt Jane.

JANE: Toodles.

Jane presses a button on her end; the image on the TV screen goes dead.

DARIA: Well, that was productive.

MARK: Yes, I feel our net worth soaring. Now what?

Daria gets an evil little smirk on her face.

DARIA: Well, back in high school your Aunt Jane had this really kinky dream involving Captain Planet and a bottle of--

Mark runs from the room, screaming.

MARK: GAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!

DARIA: (calling after him) Grandpa Jake would be so proud of you!

Off of Daria's twisted amusement,

CUT TO:
INT. LAWNDALE HIGH OFFICE - DAY

Daria stands at the mail boxes, checking her messages. A SECRETARY sits at the desk, playing a hand of solitaire on her computer.

DARIA: (to the secretary) Morning.

SECRETARY: (not looking at her) Morning, Ms. Morgendorffer.

Daria flips through a stack of papers.

DARIA: Is Principal Chairwarmer in yet?

The secretary mumbles something incoherent. Daria looks up.

DARIA: Excuse me?

SECRETARY: (a little too quickly) He called in sick, Ms. Morgendorffer.

Daria quirks an eyebrow.

DARIA: Really?

SECRETARY: Yes, ma'am.

DARIA: And what's he sick with? Imalazybastarditis?

SECRETARY: No, he, uh... he said it was the flu, Ms.Morgendorffer.

DARIA: Flu.

SECRETARY: Uh-huh. Flu.

DARIA: And “flu” would be a euphemism for “I don't know where he actually is?”

SECRETARY (still too quick): He's out sick!

Beat.

DARIA: A word of advice. If you're going to survive in this school, learn how to lie better.

She puts her messages down and leans over the secretary's desk, getting up close and personal.

DARIA: Now, let me make this clear: I need to talk to him. I want you to kick over whatever rock he's hiding under and get him on the phone.

SECRETARY: But he's sick...I can't...

DARIA: Look, i just want him on the phone. Find him and get him on it. He doesn't even have to put on pants.

SECRETARY: That's good! (beat) I mean...um--

She shuts up abruptly. Daria smirks.

DARIA: You're going to quit digging now? If you keep going, you might still hit the septic tank. There’s brown gold in them there hills.

SECRETARY: Ewwww...

DARIA: By the end of the day, okay? Thanks.

Off of the secretary's pained expression,

CUT TO:
INT. O'NEILL'S CLASSROOM - MORNING

The man himself is standing in front of a whiteboard with a lot of junk-science phrases written in faded black market. One saying “Realize your actuality” may be more visible than others.

Mark, sitting in the second row, doodles idly in a notebook and tries to block out the sound of O'Neill's soothingly loopy attempts to guide his pupils in communication.

O’NEILL: So you see, when you're really talking about you, you're talking about “I,” and “I” is -

MARK (under his breath): I've heard better communication from houseplants.

GIRL (from behind him): I don't know about that. Ficuses are total jerks.

Mark looks behind him at a freckled, dark-haired GIRL wearing alarmingly fastidious clothing. A sweater vest over a button-down blouse. If Dean Venture was a girl, he'd dress like this.

MARK: What?

GIRL: Devious little bastards, ficuses. Always scheming amongst themselves about what they'll do once they break free from their terra-cotta confinement. (beat; confidentially) I've heard them say things. Terrible, unspeakable things. That's why I only keep Venus Fly-traps in my house.

MARK: Pardon?

GIRL: Are you saying you haven't heard them murmuring their insidious plots?

MARK: No, but that's because I live in the real world, where plants don't talk. Or have vocal cords.

The girl snorts.

GIRL: Says you.

O’NEILL: What are you two talking about over there?

MARK: Well, uh -

GIRL: We're just in the process of communicating about the possibility of new and previously unimagined biological theories, Mr. O'Neill.

O’NEILL: Is that true, um -

He consults a seating chart.

O’NEILL: Samuel?

Mark sighs.

MARK: I prefer to be called Mark.

O’NEILL: Oh, but of course you do. I'm so sorry.

MARK: And yes, I suppose we were communicating.

O’NEILL: Fantastic!

MARK: In the most rudimentary sense of the world.

O’NEILL: Well, this is the introductory class. (beat), Oh, but where was I?

The girl taps Mark on the shoulder.

GIRL: That was the best you could come up with?

MARK: It worked, didn't it?

GIRL: O-kay.

MARK: Listen, uh -

GIRL: Charlene.

MARK: Charlene? Seriously?

CHARLENE (defensive): It's a family thing.

MARK: So's fratricide, but you don't see anybody doing that, do you?

CHARLENE: Maybe not where you're from, sailor.

Off of Mark’s curious look,

CUT TO:
INT. LAWNDALE HIGH TEACHER'S LOUNGE

Various members of the faculty are seated, eating assorted things. Many of them are peering out the corner of their eyes at Daria, seated alone and munching idly on a peanut butter sandwich while skimming an imposing stack of paperwork.

VOICE: Mind if I join you in the consumption of a vaguely food-like substance?

Daria looks up to find Elsie standing over her. In the sanctity of the teacher's lounge, she looks less bitter than in class. There's still a heavy-browed expression of sarcasm, but it's much more genial. Almost sociable.

DARIA: Have a seat.

Elsie sits down across from Daria, setting down a plastic tupperware container filled with some kind of pasta. She eyeballs Daria's sandwich with a raised eyebrow.

ELSIE: Brown-bagging it today, are we?

DARIA: I hate ramen.

ELSIE: Jesus. Are things that bad?

DARIA: No. I just felt like putting myself through hell by taking a job at the last place on Earth I ever wanted to go back to.

ELSIE: It's nice to see you're still the same outgoing people person you used to be.

DARIA: Nice to see that being forced to work for a living hasn't ruined your faux-jadedness.

Elsie frowns for a second at the mention, then relaxes.

ELSIE: It's not so faux anymore. So, what happened to Powell? We've got a pool going among faculty, and there's real money on the line. Spill.

DARIA: What's the smart money say?

ELSIE: Claire's got $50 on him changing his name to Valentine, subjecting his worldly possessions to the cleansing power of fire, and starting a self-love cult out in the Mojave. I've got two hundred on underground slug-fighting ring, myself. And O'Neill, well -

The two women glance over to another table, where O'Neill is powering through a veggie sandwich while humming something that sounds like it came from Schoolhouse Rocks!

DARIA: Yeah?

ELSIE: -- doesn't know a thing about any underground gambling, and I want to keep it that way.

Daria smirks.

DARIA: Wish I had something to tell you. I haven't heard anything.

ELSIE: Damn.

Beat.

DARIA: Tell you what. Why don't you just move the money over into the “How Long Until the New Second-in-Command Cracks” pool? And then give me fifty on six months.

She looks at Elsie intensely for a long second…

ELSIE: Moving on. How soon can I expect you taking my head for giving your kid a hard time in class?

DARIA: So you saw through our cunning disguise.

ELSIE: Daria. Paul Davenport's divorce was on page six of People. Besides, how common could the name Morgendorffer possibly be in California? Or anywhere else?

DARIA: A little less common than it used to be?

She sighs.

DARIA: Okay, look. It's not that I disapprove of you going full DeMartino on new students. Christ knows, I sometimes wanted to grab those little bastards and choke the English-mangling life out of their stubby necks, but…

ELSIE: But?

DARIA: Springing completely irrelevant questions on them out of left field two minutes into their first class? Don't you think that's kind of unfair?

ELSIE (grinning): Yeah.

DARIA: Let me guess. That's the point?

ELSIE: They don't want to learn any other way, and you can't underestimate the value of a little public humiliation.

DARIA: You don't have to tell me.

ELSIE: Yeah, but college kids can just skip class until the final.

Her smile takes on a predatory cast.

ELSIE: They can't escape from me.

DARIA: How are you still employed here?

ELSIE: Highest English scores in the county. Second place isn't even close.

DARIA: That would explain it.

ELSIE: It is pretty great having something to hold over the school board's head at contract negotiation time, let me tell you.

Beat.

ELSIE: Look, if you want me to go easy on him…

DARIA: I don't. We both agree it's morally wrong for him to get any preferential treatment because I happen to be in a position of power. It's why we tried this futile excuse for a charade in the first place.

ELSIE: Good. Because I was gonna say you could kiss my ass if that was the case.

DARIA: Not that he's going to be my problem.

ELSIE: Hm?

DARIA: Starting this afternoon, I gave him two weeks after school with you.

Daria smirks.

ELSIE: Me? What am I gonna do with him?

DARIA: You'll think of something. Probably.

She gets up, crumpling her bag.

DARIA: Just don't ask him any more questions about The Count of Monte Cristo and you'll be fine.

She gathers up her stack of papers and heads for the door. Elsie twists in her chair and calls after Daria.

ELSIE: They don't pay us overtime for detention, you know! (beat; quieter) Well played.

Off of Elsie's bemused look,

CUT TO:
INT. LAWNDALE HIGH HALLWAY

We hear the sound of the bell ringing, and we jump ahead to the end of the school day. Mark and Charlene are walking down the hall.

MARK: (sighs) Be honest with me. On a scale of one to Tsar Bomba, how screwed am I?


CHARLENE: About a four. Sloane’s tough but fair.


MARK: So was Stalin.


CHARLENE: You insulted her in class, so you can bet your ass she’s going to take every day of the next two weeks publicly humiliating you every way she knows how. And trust me – she knows a lot. But you answered her question correctly, so she’ll probably ease up in the long run because you proved you’re not a total zombie.


Beat.


MARK: I don't even know what you're supposed to do in detention.


CHARLENE: Seriously?


MARK: It never came up before.


CHARLENE: Wow, you must have really ticked off the new V.P.


MARK: (mutters) After 14 hours of labor, you bet your ass I did...


CHARLENE: Pardon?


MARK: Nothing.


They reach Elsie's classroom.


MARK: All right, I guess this is me. Thanks for sticking around.


CHARLENE: No problem. My meeting of the Ant Polo Club was canceled anyway.


MARK: The school has an Ant Polo Club?


CHARLENE: No.


beat.


MARK: Oookay then. (sighs again) God, I wish I could get out of this. See you around.


CHARLENE: See ya.


Mark enters the classroom. Off of Charlene’s expression changing from concerned to devious,


CUT TO:
INT. ELSIE'S CLASSROOM—DAY


Elsie sits at her desk, looking through papers, while Mark sits at a desk, doing nothing. They've apparently been like this for a while.


MARK: Sooooo...should I be doing something?

ELSIE: Not talking would be a good start.

MARK: Yeah, I get that. But, I mean, I haven't done this before...so...kind of at a loss here.

Elsie snorts.

MARK: Very attractive.

ELSIE: You know, if you're really hard-up for something to do, I think there's a toothbrush in the teacher's lounge you can use to scrub the floors.

MARK: That seems a little excessive for back sassing you in class. (beat) I don't suppose it'd help if I apologized?

ELSIE: You could try it and find out.

MARK: Okay...I'm sorry I decided to offer a backhanded insult rather than simply answering your question in class.

ELSIE: Well done. Apology accepted. (beat) Anything different? No?

She looks around facetiously.

ELSIE: Well, all right, then. The mop is in the custodial closet.

MARK: Damn.

ELSIE: What are you waiting for?

She claps her hands expectantly.

MARK: I am so going to kill Mom for this.

ELSIE: Not if I beat you to it, kid. March.

Off of Mark pulling himself up from his desk,

CUT TO:
INT. DARIA'S OFFICE

Daria's in her office, sorting through another stack of omnipresent paperwork. Waiting for Mark to get done with detention.

DARIA: Screw it.

She pulls up a file on her computer with the contact info of the faculty. Then dials a number.

VOICE ON PHONE: Hello?

DARIA: Deacon Powell please.

VOICE: Who is this?

DARIA: Daria Morgendorffer, his new Vice Principal.

VOICE: Please hold.

Daria looks at the phone.

DARIA: "Please hold?" Who says that in their own house?

Off of her confusion,

CUT TO:
INT. LAWNDALE HIGH HALLWAY - LATER

Mark and Elsie come out of the classroom.

ELSIE: Now, what have we learned?

MARK: Your classroom, your rules.

ELSIE: Good. And?

MARK: Bring homework for the next two weeks.

ELSIE: Doubleplusgood. (beat) You any good at grading papers?

MARK: Mom had me help her grade her Creative Writing class assignments back in Santa Cruz.

ELSIE: What was the criteria?

MARK: If I winced less than twice, they got an A.

ELSIE: Sounds good. I'll have you doing that tomorrow. Now get the hell home, I've wasted enough time with you today.

Off of her walking down the hall,

CUT TO:
INT. DARIA’S OFFICE

Daria looks at the phone with curiosity.

DARIA: Muzak? Why the hell do I have the muzak version of "Welcome to the Jungle" on here? What the hell's going on?

She continues to wait on the phone for a moment, then:

ELSIE: (O/S) DAVENPORT! I AM GOING TO BURY YOUR ASS UNDER THE BIGGEST ANTHILL I CAN FIND!

DARIA: What the f—

Off of her dropping the receiver and standing up,

CUT TO:
INT. LAWNDALE HIGH HALLWAY

MARK: -- HELL was that?

Charlene comes running from off screen and grabs Mark's hand.

MARK: Don't you have ants playing polo, or something?

CHARLENE: Start running! They'll never take us alive! Viva La Resistance!

MARK: What did you do?

CHARLENE: Well, you know, it turns out that Nutella has all kinds of practical applications.

ELSIE

Appears further down the hallway, looking she’s out for blood. She spots Mark and Charlene.

ELSIE: DAVENPORT!

MARK AND CHARLENE
exchange a quick look, then speed down the hallway like the frightened rabbits they are. They round a corner at high speed...

CUT TO
INT--LAWNDALE HIGH HALLWAY INTERSECTION.

... and plow directly into Daria, who's poked her head out of her office to figure out why the hell all of these people are screaming and running around.

Daria disentangles herself from the pile-up and looks at the kids. They look back with a mix of fear and relief.

AT THE OPPOSITE END OF THE HALLWAY.

Elsie turns up looking like she's about ready to tear people limb from limb...

CUT TO:
DARIA, MARK AND CHARLENE

Mark assumes a forced smile and tries to act casual. He fails.

MARK: So, uh...how’s your day going, Mom?

CHARLENE: "Mom?"

Mark winces. Daria frowns. Elsie appears from off screen, rolling up her sleeves.

ELSIE: Daria, I'm sorry, but you’re about to lose the child support.

Daria turns on the full Morgendorffer Gaze of Disapproval. Elsie stops in her tracks.

DARIA: My office. All of you.

Beat. The other three look at each other. Cut back to Daria. She quite clearly looks like she's had enough of this shit.

DARIA:[i] Now.[/i]

CUT TO:
THE DOOR OF DARIA'S OFFICE

An establishing shot. It simply says "Vice Principal."

CUT TO:
INT--DARIA'S OFFICE

Elsie, Mark, and Charlene are sitting in chairs in front of Daria's desk, all looking like they wish they could be somewhere else. Daria is standing up behind her desk.

DARIA: All right. First off, Elsie, NEVER threaten my child. That's MY job.

Beat.

DARIA: Now, somebody tell me what the hell is going on in my school.

ELSIE: That little Bas--

Cut to a disapproving look form Daria.

ELSIE: (snorts) He did something to my car.

DARIA: Did you do something to her car?

MARK: Your honor, I'd like to enter a plea of not guilty on account of the fact I was in prison at the time the offense was committed.

DARIA: Mm-hm.

She glares at Charlene, who swallows involuntarily.

DARIA: And how about you?

CHARLENE: Um...I plead the fifth?

Elsie and Daria both glare at her.

MARK: I don't think it's going to work.

Daria sighs.

DARIA: Look, Miss--?

CHARLENE:(reluctantly) Ruttheimer.

DARIA: Rutt-- (beat) You wouldn't happen to be related to Charles Ruttheimer the Third, would you?

CHARLENE: That's Dad.

DARIA: Ah.

It's clear she wants to commiserate but can't, given the situation. So she plows forward. She turns to Elsie.

DARIA: What happened to the car?

ELSIE: Somebody took a bunch of Nutella -- or something -- and smeared the word "Bonapartist" on both sides.

DARIA: (looking back at Charlene) Really.

CHARLENE: (shrugs) Figured somebody had to stand up for the rights of Edmond Dantes.

Daria rubs the bridge of her nose under her glasses.

DARIA: Elsie, does the car run?

ELSIE: Yeah, it does. Paint job is going to be ruined though.

DARIA: Okay, here's what's going to happen.

She points at Mark.

DARIA: You are going to serve out the rest of the sentence I gave you.

Then at Charlene.

DARIA: You are going to spend the next two weeks washing and detailing Ms. Sloane's car after school while she deals with him.

Then to Elsie.

DARIA: And you are going to have a few minutes with me after I tell these two to get out of my office.

(beat)

DARIA: (to Mark and Charlene) Out of my office.

Mark and Charlene look apprehensive as they get up and leave the office. Once they’re gone, Daria sits down and looks at Elsie.

DARIA: Drink?

ELSIE: What?

DARIA: There’s a mini-fridge in the closet. I've got soda. Want one?

ELSIE: Um...sure.

Daria gets up and goes to the fridge, gets the sodas, and hands one to Elsie. They drink, sizing each other up.

DARIA: Right. I'm only going to say this once.

She leans forward, looking Elsie right in the eyes.

DARIA: You can run your class however you want. You can even scream your head off if you like. But if you threaten physical harm to ANY student ever again, the highest test scores sanctioned by God Almighty will not be enough to save you. I have enough to deal with since Powell's decided to disappear and the last thing I need is a loose cannon teacher with a chip on her shoulder deciding to make everybody else as miserable as she is, just because a couple of snot nosed kids managed to wing a good one on her ego. Have I made myself clear?

Elsie looks at Daria for a moment. A small, rueful smile comes across her face.

ELSIE: Crystal clear,[i] mon capitan.[/i]

DARIA: Good. (beat) I expected more of a fight.

ELSIE: The car still works. Plus I'm getting free auto detailing for the next two weeks.

DARIA: (smiles) Detention: the educator's answer to slave labor.

ELSIE: Damn straight.

After a moment, they become aware of faint muzak playing. Daria reaches down and pulls up the phone receiver from the floor, where she’d dropped it. The two of them listen for a moment.

ELSIE: Is that “Enter Sandman?”

Off of their considering looks,

CUT TO:
INT. LAWNDALE HIGH – THE NEXT MORNING

Daria is walking down the hall to her office where a man in a suit is tapping his foot impatiently against the floor. Daria walks up behind him.


DARIA: Excuse me.


The man wheels around. This is SUPERINTENDENT GREENE, tall, balding, wearing the rumpled suit of a reluctant bachelor with a secure public-sector job.


GREENE: Ms. Morgendorffer?


DARIA (to herself): Why is there always a line?


GREENE: Beg your pardon?


DARIA: Never mind.


GREENE: Superintendent Greene.


He extends a hand to be shaken. She looks at it for a long second before reluctantly taking it.


GREENE: Have you seen the news this morning?


DARIA: Well, I thought about it, but I decided I’d rather be here on time instead.


GREENE: I see. Well, would you mind if we discussed something in your office?


DARIA (to herself): Two whole days. New record.


She sighs and unlocks the door.


DARIA: Abandon all hope.


And she holds it open for the Superintendent, who steps inside. She sighs once, then steps through and closes it behind her.


CUT TO:

INT. DARIA’S OFFICE


DARIA: Have a seat, Superintendent.


GREENE: Thank you.


Greene sits, Daria puts up her bag and takes her own seat.


DARIA: Now, what can I do for you?


GREENE: Principal Powell is going to be late to work today.


DARIA: How late?


GREENE: Five to ten.


DARIA: I’m guessing that’s not in minutes.


GREENE: It might be longer than that.


DARIA: He’s been embezzling from the school budget and got caught, didn’t he? Let me ask you: has there ever been a principal of this school who didn’t misappropriate funds?


GREENE: This is nothing to do with school finances. Deke, God love ‘im, has apparently been refusing to file his federal income taxes for the last –


He rifles through the papers in his lap and pops his lips.


GREENE: Twenty years.


DARIA: Excuse me?


GREENE: Right now, he’s holed up in his house with a cabinet full of antique guns, a pantry full of canned peaches, and a field office’s worth of Federal Marshals standing around on his front lawn. Until this situation resolves itself, we need an acting principal, and since you’re --


Daria begins opening and closing the drawers of her desk.


GREENE: Miss Morgendorffer?


DARIA (to herself): Got to be a bottle of Excedrin in here somewhere.


GREENE: Normally, we’d ask somebody with more experience to fill in until we could find somebody more permanent, but I’m sure you understand that things are a little desperate at the moment.


DARIA: Look, I don’t know how to do [i]this [/i]job yet, and you want to put me in charge of everything else, too?


GREENE (rueful): Beggars can’t be choosers. Look, I realize this is an unfair position to put you in on your second day on the job, so I’m willing to offer you a modest bonus to accommodate you for the extra work load and the steeper learning curve.


DARIA: How modest?


GREENE: $500 more per paycheck.


DARIA: And how much were you paying Powell?


GREENE: That’s what he was getting, too.


Daria puts her hands down on her desk and looks the Superintendent directly in his beady eyes.


DARIA: Mr. Greene. I am broke. I am hungry. And until I have enough money to buy my own place, I’m living with my mother, who used to be the top litigator at Vitale Davis. If you try to con me, I will crawl across this table and I will chew through your brain stem.


GREENE (ahem): Well, with the cost overruns on the new football stadium at Oakwood, the district budget has precious little headroom left…


Daria growls.


GREENE: But I suppose we could squeeze a little more blood out of the stone. How’s $750 more per check plus full benefits sound?


Daria opens her mouth.


GREENE:And I’ll have the distract draw up a contract securing your formal promotion to principal of Lawndale High at the end of this school year provided that the building doesn’t collapse into a sinkhole, get torn apart by rioting football players, or burn down in a mysterious incident involving matches and a gas leak in the meantime.


DARIA: Those are awfully specific concerns. Is there something you’re not telling me?


GREENE: Oh, probably all kinds of things. As you might guess, things are a little hectic in the ol’ district today.


DARIA: Things were hectic in the ol’ district back when I was a student here, too.


GREENE: Yes, but your school district wasn’t in the process of becoming live coast-to-coast news when you were here.


DARIA: Did you know anything about this district when you took this job?


GREENE: Not really. Look, don’t worry about it, Miss Morgendoffer. You have no real authority here. You can’t set the budget or hire anybody without my approval. The lesson plans all come pre-approved by the school board. I’ve seen your resume. You’ll do just fine.


DARIA: Thank you. You really have a way of making this job sound attractive.


GREENE: Just think of it like babysitting. Four hundred babies at the same time, all of them crying and whining and begging for scraps like hungry feral dogs until you just want to pick them up and shake them to shut them up…


DARIA: Do you suppose this is why every other principal in this school’s history has turned out to be dangerously insane?


Greene shrugs.


DARIA: Throw in mental health care benefits and we’ll do business.


GREENE: Fine. I’ll have the lawyers get the contract to you tomorrow. You’ll have to find the notary yourself.[i] I [/i]have to go issue a statement to the press.


DARIA: You do that.


GREENE: You have a[i] nice [/i]day.


He stands and moves to the door, muttering.


DARIA (low): And you watch out for the drug-sniffing dogs on the way out.


After the door closes. Daria goes back to riffling through her desk drawers for painkillers. Off of her failing search,


CUT TO:

INT. O’NEILL’S CLASSROOM


In front of the whiteboard, O’Neill’s finishing up what looks to be a truly profound treatise on the nature of communication that seems derived almost exclusively from watching the movie Crash twenty times in a row.


O'NEILL: And you see, it is only because we move our mouths that we’re able to talk.


CHARLENE: Open mouth. Words come out. Why didn’t I think of that?


MARK: Suddenly, it all makes perfect sense.


The intercom buzzes.


DARIA (flat; V/O): Attention students and faculty of Lawndale High. This is your new Fearless Leader speaking. Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair.


Mark pales.


MARK: Oh, God, no. She’s quoting Shelly.


CHARLENE: Is that bad?


MARK: It’s not good.


DARIA (v.o.): Due to a series of events too stupid to go into right now, Mr. Powell is no longer your principal. So you’re stuck with me until such time as the pressures of the job stack up and I descend into a dictatorial madness from which there is no escape.


MARK: (under his breath) Too late for that, Mom...


DARIA: So consider this your official warning; annoy your teachers and there will be no mercy. That is all.


There's a brief moment of awkward silence as the class tries to wrap their heads around this.


CHARLENE: O-kay.


MARK: Charlene? Do me a favor. Pick up your textbook and just… bash my brains right in.


CHARLENE: Because your mom’s the principal now? You think this is something to get stressed about? Ha.


MARK: This is high school.


CHARLENE: You want to know stress? You should see my folks sometime. We Ruttheimers are a hardy breed, half-lecherous, half-leprous, usually shunned in polite company.


Mark blinks.


MARK: Is that true?


CHARLENE: It used to be true. What’s the difference? Look, it's no big deal. It's not like she announced she was your mother to the whole school.


And at that point...


O’NEILL (cheerfully oblivious): Well, isn't THAT exciting news! I think we should all congratulate Mark on his mother’s new promotion!


He applauds enthusiastically. The rest of the class mostly stares at Mark; one or two of them clap almost as loudly as O’Neill, apparently for no other reason than that O’Neill is clapping and they feel liking joining in.


MARK: Oh,God! Why?!


He begins banging his head on the desk.


CHARLENE: Apparently, because God hates you. Sorry about that.


FADE OUT.
ROLL CREDITS.