Simplicity Itself

Act One

"School starts in seven days." Jane Lane opened her closet doors wide and indicated its contents with a sweeping gesture. "And, as you can see, I have made radical adjustments to my wardrobe that I believe indicates my excitement level."

Daria Morgendorffer arched a brow sardonically, surveying the array of identical ensembles. "Jane, all I see is red buttondowns, black T-shirts and black shorts. You’re not rocking my world, here."

"Aha, but you are not looking closely my friend." Extending one long arm into the depths of hangers and fabric, Jane withdrew a black turtleneck and held it up against her chest. "I’m expanding my range, no?"

Daria eyed the shirt suspiciously. "Um...does this have something to do with your indie boyfriend? Because let me tell you right off the bat that I find French cinema to be ponderous and self-mocking."

Rolling her eyes, Jane returned the turtleneck to its place in the closet and flopped down on the bed next to her best friend. "Tom’s not an indie," she huffed, "he’s an independent."

"Funny, and I thought that’s what ‘indie’ stood for. Aren’t you going to show me your matching black beret? And where, might I ask, is your silver tin of unfiltered cigarettes? They’re all the rage among the Postmodern crowd this year." Daria ignored Jane’s irritated glare and propped her chin up on her bent knees. "I don’t know if I can weather this storm alone, Jane. First you begin dating a well-groomed coffee house refugee, and now you’re making drastic changes to your appearance just to please him."

Unruffled by Daria’s dramatic delivery, Jane gave the shorter brunette a sly half-smile. "Like you’re one to talk about changing to please a man, Miss Morgendorffer. If I’m not mistaken, there’s a scar above your navel that speaks to your commitment to Trent’s happiness."

Daria’s eyes narrowed. "Lick me, Lane." At Trent’s suggestion, she had allowed a silver hoop to be inserted into her skin. "It looks hot, Daria." God, if those words didn’t haunt her in the night. Then, of course, seeing as how it was impossible for her not to ruin everything when it came to romance, she had taken the ring out over night and the piercing had closed and healed. Unfortunately, a small pucker where the piercing had been would always remain, serving as a constant reminder to Daria that she could, in the face of a man, be a total ass. Also serving as a constant reminder was Jane, but Daria supposed that was to be expected, since Trent was Jane’s older brother.

"Testy. And besides, ‘indie’ stands for ‘independent record label’. Tom is not a record label." Jane rose and moved over to her easel, where a half-painted canvas was propped. "I’m sorry if I give you too much hell about Trent, Daria." She carefully avoided her friend’s eyes, which appeared slightly smaller than they really were behind the round lenses of her glasses. "To tell you the truth, I think I’d have cardiac arrest if anything ever happened between you two."

Daria leaned back and sighed. "I don’t think you need to worry on that count. I’m in the middle of an arrested development on the romantic aspect of life. The way I’m going, I might as well send my parents formal notification that any and all grandchildren will be courtesy of Quinn."

"Well, this is a day of revelations. I thought you hated kids, Daria."

"I do. But who could pass up the chance to play God with a young mind?" Daria shrugged. "I was kind of looking forward to motherhood as my own Prometheus project."

Jane dipped a sable brush into a thick mix of paints on her palette and began making long strokes across the gessoed canvas. "Somehow I can’t see you and Trent with a gaggle of munchkins happily prancing around some split-level suburban palace."

"I was thinking more along the lines of a New York City loft with two intelligent but misunderstood young iconoclasts."

"Yikes. That image is actually beginning to gel for me." Jane laughed softly. "Welcome to the abandoned warehouse home of Trent and Daria Lane, New York’s premiere underground couple, specializing in napping and dry wit, respectively."

Daria’s eyes narrowed. "Are you trying to make my life worse than it already is? Don’t taunt me this way, Jane, I don’t think I can handle it right now."

"Solitude becoming better in theory than practice?"

"You have no idea. Between you being with Tom all the time and the Fashion Club holding meetings in our living room, I’m really nearing the end here. Color me a martyr, Lane, because I think this particular incarnation is going to end with me burning myself in effigy."

"You’ll never reach Nirvana at the rate you’re going. Maybe you should switch to Hinduism and cash in your karma credits." Jane stabbed her brush into a smear of red. "And I’m sorry if I’ve been out with Tom a lot lately. It’s just that...well, our relationship is...more complicated now."

Daria sat up, eyes wide. "Don’t tell me that Jane Lane has answered the call to mate?"

Jane kept her attention firmly riveted to her painting. "Something like that."

"Holy Mother of God. How long have you been a member of the Stolen Innocence Society? And if it’s been weeks, I swear by all that’s holy..."

"Two nights ago." Jane laid down her brush and gave Daria a challenging look, as though daring her to say something. "On that very bed, I became a woman."

Daria swallowed. "I suppose that jumping up and vowing to soak myself in lye for laying on this bed might be bit childish. But I think I might do it anyway."

"Histrionics aside, you can’t tell me that this surprises you. We are sixteen, Daria, not living in the sixteen hundreds. There were condoms in attendance, and afterwards we smoked a joint, so I believe that all modern requirements for sex were met."

"Were you drunk?"

"No."

"Then all of the requirements were not met." Daria felt a surge of bitter jealousy rise in her throat, but fought it back, hating herself for being so petty. "I mean...well, I guess I don’t know what I mean. I don’t know how I feel about this."

Jane smiled gently. "You don’t have to feel any way about it, baby. I just wanted you to know because we’re friends, not because I expect you to get a thrill out of my sudden interest in the erotic."

"Erotic? You and Tom?" Daria managed a small grin, but Jane wasn’t fooled. "I’ll concede that it’s normal for us to be having sex at this point, but I think we’re supposed to wait for that college exchange program to the Far East before ‘erotic’ enters the picture."

Jane gave her friend a hooded glance. "You’d be surprised, Daria. Not only are people like you and me above simple drinking games, but I think you’ll discover that intelligence, creativity, and an interest in the perverse pays off when the lights are low."

"And you know this after two days of sex."

"Two days of sex and two months of foreplay, yes."

"Good God." Daria collapsed backwards onto the mattress and squeezed her eyes shut. "The part that really gets me is that I’ve made it so hard for myself to take most people seriously that I can’t stomach the thought of even kissing someone who isn’t..."

"Trent?"

"Halfway intelligent," Daria finished. "I think I’ve pretty much given up on Trent as a reality. I mean, look at me and then look at Monique."

Dropping her brush into a cup of cleaning fluid, Jane grunted at the thought of his brother’s lean, trendy ex-girlfriend. "Monique has come and gone, Daria. You’re still here."

"Of course I am! I’m your friend, not his. And I’m in high school, so my presence in this town in mandatory for at least another two years." Daria struggled valiantly to keep her voice steady. "I’m only going to say this once, Jane, because I loathe self-pity and I’m staunchly against fascist beauty standards propagated by the likes of my sister, but...it’s not just Trent. I don’t think that guys our age are into plain, caustic girls like me. I have nothing to offer the hormone-driven male, so I honestly am not expecting anything like sweet lovin’ until I’m around thirty-five. Maybe if I were lissome and beautiful I could attract some older guy like Trent, or even some depraved college professor, but I don’t even have looks going for me. I’ll never have guys pining over me like they pine over you, and most of the time I’m okay with that. But even I’m not immune to the insecurities of youth, Jane. And I’ve always prided myself on being a realist." Daria quickly wiped away the single fat, salty tear that had snuck its way out from behind her glasses. "And now back to our regularly scheduled stoicism."

Jane was speechless. Unlike most of the town of Lawndale, Jane was under no illusions that Daria was some kind of unfeeling robot, but she did know that wallowing in emotions was somewhere on the order of being covered with leeches on Daria’s list of favorite things. When it came to Trent, Daria had shone the one major flaw in logic since Jane had known her. As much as she loved her brother, Jane had a strong suspicion that if Daria and Trent ever did get together, she would tire of him in a matter of months. He was attractive and introspective, yes, but Trent Lane wasn’t smart enough for Daria. Or was he?

"I’ve got to tell you, Morgendorffer, you never cease to amaze me."

Daria blushed, two bright stains of pink appearing under those heavy lenses. "I hate this, Jane. The more I think about how unhappy I am about me and guys, the more I can’t help thinking about how unhappy I am about me and everything."

Sinking down onto the carpet beside the bed, Jane hesitantly put one hand on Daria’s knee. "You got me, kid."

Daria inhaled deeply, feeling the inner calm she depended upon overtake her once again. "I’m glad you’re here, Jane. With you around, I feel like I really can be myself. I just wish...well, sometimes I wish ‘myself’ was something a little more attractive."

"To hell with what other people think, Daria. That’s always been you’re motto."

"Yeah, well, much like solitude, that particular motto is better in theory than practice." Daria rolled over onto her stomach and gave Jane a wan smile. "Now don’t start feeling all sorry for me, Jane. When the end comes, I will make all my enemies feel the razor sharp whip of my vengeance. Especially the enemies who wouldn’t ask me out."

Jane laughed; she had to. One of the best things about having a friend in Daria Morgendorffer was that you were never bored, even when absolutely nothing was going your way. "Look, I’m supposed to be meeting Tom out front in half an hour, but I’m going to call him and cancel," seeing Daria shake her head, the raven-haired artist held up a hand, "and you and I are going to watch the six hour version of ‘Dune’. Trent stole it from Evil Eye Video on Dega."

"Nothing doing, Lane." Daria sat up and attempted to shake off her melancholy. "How am I going to live vicariously through you if you’re here with me? Go on your sordid little date. I’ll se you later." She stood and had taken a few steps for the door before Jane stopped her.

"Why don’t you stay here and wait for me? I’ll only be gone a few hours, and I know you don’t want to go back home and risk being ambushed and forcibly made over."

"Gee, that sounds great. While your’re gone, I can count the tiles in your bathroom."

"Shut your trap, Morgendorffer. Besides, I have someone I think you should meet."

"Jane, I’m shocked." Daria gave her a stern look. "I told you that dead is dead, and there’s no talking to them after that."

"I’m not talking about a body stashed in my room, I’m talking about good old Mr. Jack Daniel."

Act Two

Daria sat alone on the battered green couch in the Lane basement, surrounded by the hastily stored instruments of Trent’s band, Mystik Spiral, and cradling a nearly full bottle of Jack Daniel’s Old No. 9 Tennessee whiskey. At first, she’d doubted Jane’s rationale. How would getting blasted all by herself accomplish anything but early tendencies towards alcoholism? But then she’d given in. What she needed, Jane argued, was a good, long venting session, complete with cussing, crying, and scapegoating. And since Daria was emotionally retentive, liquor was the perfect catalyst. Not to mention the fact that Jane and Tom were going to a bar in Warrington to see some singer friend of his, and Jane herself would very likely be lit when she returned to the house in Lawndale.

Daria held up the bottle of caramel-colored liquid. "Four shots," she muttered. "I’ve had four shots in," she squinted at the digital clock resting on one of Trent’s amps, "An hour and three minutes." She considered this. Jane would be back in another two hours, and she was already feeling more than a bit tingly. Maybe she should slow down. "I haven’t really done any venting yet," she mused aloud.

"Venting about what?"

Daria cocked her head to one side and smiled. "You know. Boys and things."

"Having a problem with boys and things?"

"Well..." Wait a minute. Wasn’t she supposed to be the only one here? Half turning around so that she could see the steps that led from upstairs, she gasped, then coughed, then felt like dying. "Trent?" Ah, her old friend humiliation had returned.

Trent Lane, in the flesh, was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, looking like some beautiful gypsy prince. Gypsy prince? "Jesus," Daria whispered. She really was coming apart at the seams.

"Hey Daria." He had those eyes. That’s what it was. Those dark eyes that never really seemed to be completely open. They were bedroom eyes, she thought wistfully. Very erotic.

"Even without the Far East." Had she said that aloud? Well, screw it if she had. She was drunk, and couldn’t be expected to be rational.

"Where’s Jane?" A crease formed between Trent’s angular black brows. "Are you drinking?"

"Yup!" Daria held up the bottle for him to see. "I’ve had four shots in one hour and seven minutes. I’m gonna have even more. You want some?"

Trent smiled; Daria melted. "You’re drinking because of boys and things?"

"How did you know?" Daria blinked. "You’re so good at this!"

He laughed, one of the rare full bodied Trent Lane laughs that didn’t end in a fit of coughing. "You’re a real lightweight, you know that?" Crossing the room he sat down beside her and took the bottle, deftly unscrewing the cap and turning up the bottle. Daria watched in awe as he swallowed three large mouthfuls before slamming the bottle back down on the coffee table. "Holy shit," he rasped, eyes tearing up, "I didn’t realize how much I needed that."

"Lemme try." Daria dove for the bottle and imitated his flourishing swig, which she pulled off rather nicely.

"Not bad, Daria." She was totally distracted by his gently curling black hair. It looked so soft...she wondered if he’s let her touch it. Wait...he said something...

"Wha?"

"I said, what is it about boys that’s driving you to the bottle?" His eyes were crinkled a little at the corners from smiling. Beautiful, beautiful boy.

"Oh, you know, the fact that they don’t like me. Not that I want some male harem like Quinn has or anything. Actually, I’d settle for just one guy. But I think my destiny is to die an old maid."

Trent took another pull of the whiskey. "Oh, come on Daria. You can’t base your opinion of guys on the men of Lawndale. This town is a hole."

"A hole filled with whiskey," Daria said sagely.

"A hole filled with stupid guys like me," Trent replied, giving her a lopsided smile that she found, well, goddamn charming. "You’re gonna break out of this town and go somewhere where girls like you get the kind of respect they deserve."

"Respect? But I don’t want respect." Daria tipped the bottle back and passed it to Trent. "I want nookie."

Whiskey exploded from Trent’s mouth as he gagged on the fiery drink. "Nookie?" He coughed, eyes and throat burning. "You’re just sixteen!"

"So? I’m like...what’s that song? Ready for love, that’s me. But nobody wants me. And I’m drinking because Jane thinks I need to purge these feelings."

Something in the air was changing, and Trent was besieged by several biological reactions that seemed to be happening at once. First, and most pressing, were the warning sirens going off in his head. He was perilously close to something, but he wasn’t sure what it was. Second, he was getting drunk very quickly, as was attested to be the feeling that his leg and arm muscles were liquefying. Thirdly and most alarmingly, his groin was twisting in a way he was all too familiar with. But there was no way in hell. She was just a kid! True, she didn’t act or think like a kid...and in this light, she didn’t really look like a kid either...but...but...but dammit, there was some reason he had been thinking of just a minute ago...and besides, she was too smart for him. She probably thought he was a total idiot.

And he didn’t find her attractive, really. Or did he? He hadn’t really thought about it before...

"Huh?"

"I said, I think maybe I should just put on a short skirt and go to a frat party. That ought to take care of it."

"Take care of what?" What the hell was she talking about?

"My flower." She gave him a wise nod. "My forbidden blossom, you see."

"Ah." He really didn’t need her...forbidden blossom called to his attention. He took another swig of whiskey to drown out the one he’s regurgitated. "I hope you’re kidding. Your first time is pretty much synonymous with your worst time. I don’t think you need to add to the experience by having it be with some drunken frat bastard."

Daria shook her head and tried not to stare openly at the faint golden cast of his skin. "Why can’t you just ask people? Like wear a sign or something that says, ‘Would Like to Lose Virginity. Inquire Within.’ Interview people for it, you know? Everything between men and women is too complicated. It really should be simplicity itself."

"You mean..." Boy, those warning sirens were getting pretty intense. So was everything else, for that matter. "You mean people should just come right out and ask for what they want from other people?"

"Yup." She took a dainty sip of the whiskey. "Wouldn’t that be wonderful? And then, you could be okay with it if someone turned you down, and people wouldn’t have to be all weird about everything."

"Uh...well, it doesn’t really work that way, Daria."

"Why not?" Her lower lip sticking out petulantly, Daria fixed him with an accusing glare. "Why can’t I just say, ‘Trent, how’s about you take off those clothes and get in my bed’?"

The twisting in his groin took a sharp turn for the worse, and Trent Lane was momentarily blinded by the immensity of the mistake he was now tempted to make. "Would you say that?"

"What do you mean?" Oblivious to what she had done, Daria took another drink of whiskey and paused to admire their handiwork. Over half the bottle was now gone.

Keep calm man, keep calm. She’s just a kid, she’s just a kid. "I mean, what you just said about...going to your bed and all. If this were the simple world, would you say that to me?"

Eyes wide, Daria desperately scrambled for cognitive thought. Stupid liquor had her all hot and bothered, and stupid Trent was looking so pretty and asking her hard questions. "Oh sure. You’re my dream man. You know how sometimes you get so locked on to an idea that you just can’t shake it, even though you know it can’t happen? Well, that’s you to me, Trent Lane. You’re like...my Waterloo. Ugh, I hate Abba. I shouldn’t have said that, should I?"

"Um..." Keep calm, she’s just a kid. "About Abba or about me?"

"About you, I think. What are we talking about? I’m so wasted..." She glanced up at him through her lashes. Could he tell that her whole body was singing? "Would you want me to...you know...order you to my bed?"

He tried to laugh, but it sounded pretty hollow, even to him. "Uh...I’ve never been ordered to someone’s bed before...but, I guess it would be..." Calm, calm, kid, kid..."cool." No, no, you moron! It’s illegal! Cling to that!

"You would?" Was it his imagination, or was Daria looking kind of sultry? "Hey, Trent?"

Don’t do this, man. Don’t do it. "Yeah, Daria?"

They call it liquid courage for a reason. There’s no fear now, none at all. "Take off your clothes."

Her eyes, he noticed for the first time, were blue. Like the ocean, like the sky. "On one condition." Fuck the warning sirens. Fuck the law.

Strange how the world seemed to be tilting on its axis towards the sun, so that everything was suddenly filled with light. "What’s that?" So quietly, as if afraid to scare him away.

He leaned over towards her, so close that she could smell the soap on his skin from that morning’s shower. His lips were very close to hers. She had perfect, wonderful lips. "Get in my bed, Daria."

Act Three

Jane unlocked the front door as quietly as she could, hoping that Daria would be asleep and wouldn’t give her the tongue lashing she so richly deserved. The foyer was dim and quiet, the kitchen lights were off. Good sign. Jane glanced at her battered Timex. 3:45 am. She had told Daria she would be home, oh, about four hours ago.

A glance around the living room yielded no Daria. Down the stairs through to the basement. The TV was off, and on the coffee table...

"Christ, Morgendorffer." Jane picked up the bottle of Jack Daniel’s, which now held less than half of its original contents. "I hope you invited three or four friends over and didn’t drink this all by yourself." The couch looked rumpled, but cradled no teenaged girl, although Daria’s signature green zipperfront jacket was in a heap wedged between two seat cushions.

"Hmm. A clue." She was probably in the bedroom, Jane reasoned, passed out cold if the bottle was any indication. Folding the jacket over one arm, she went back up into the kitchen and filled two glasses with tap water. One was for herself, since she’d had one too many beers with Tom and had nearly gone over a cliff when heavy petting in the Gremlin had released the parking brake. The other was for Daria when she woke up. "Dehydration, the curse of the Gods."

Taking the stairs two at a time, she was unconcerned about waking Trent, whom she was pretty sure would be dead asleep by now. Maybe he had helped Daria drown her sorrows. "Not to mention my whiskey," she grumbled, opening her door.

No Daria. The bed was unmade, as always, but not even the clever play of shadows across the sheets could disguise the fact that there was no one under them. "What the hell?"

Jane set the full glasses down on the end table and hung Daria’s jacket over the back of her desk chair. Where could she have gone? Maybe she had gone home after all, and it had been Trent and Jesse who’s attacked the Jack. Or...

"No way." But then again, stranger things had happened. She could’ve been talking to Trent and fallen asleep on his bed. Maybe he was on the floor. Maybe she was. "Maybe I’d better check."

Tiptoeing across the hall, suddenly apprehensive about what she might find, Jane eased the door to Trent’s room open as slowly as she could. It took her eyes a few moments to adjust to the almost total darkness. Trent was there, in bed with his back to her, one arm slung over...someone. Feeling as though she was violating her brother’s privacy, but unwilling to not be sure, Jane crept around the clothes-littered floor to the other side of the bed.

No mystery there. It was, without a doubt, Daria Morgendorffer, buck naked and asleep on her back, Trent’s arm over her breasts, giving her the look of a woman protected. Frozen, Jane gaped at the sight before her for a full minute before the smile spread over her reddened lips.

The outcasts of Lawndale High had secrets to keep.