DISCLAIMER: I do not own Harvest Moon DS Cute.
This is a oneshot about Daryl and the daughter of the main character. Brownie points to those who can guess who the dad is.
It's Not Monday
"Hey, Claire!"
I clench my fists and ignore the voice.
"Hey, blondie! Think you're too good for us?"
My teeth grit. I can feel my nails digging into my gloves, and the skin underneath, and I have to tell myself to stop. Mom won't be happy if she has to stitch up another pair.
"Yo, star light, star bright!"
I bite my tongue until I taste blood and try not to break into a run.
I hate them. I hate them and their stupid nicknames and their stupid assumptions their stupid, stupid need to make fun of me for something I can't help.
And I hate my mom for making it be like this.
I end up hiding in the brush by Turtle Pond. They run past, screaming and calling my name and other words that serve not to flatter, and they're gone, because they've lost interest. I slide to the base of the tree and hug my knees.
I wish it were Monday. Mary comes to the valley on Mondays. Mary makes Mondays bearable.
But every other day of the week… I'm left to my own devices. I've sorta gotten good at it, I guess, but it'd still be nice. To not be alone.
Hiding from Kate's the hardest, when she really wants to find me. Hugh loses interest too quickly. The others… alone, they're okay. Together, the mob mentality sets in, like Mary's explained, and they're near-relentless.
"You look nothing like her," a voice decides suddenly.
I glance over my shoulder, and nearly fall into the pond as I try to escape Daryl's scrutinizing gaze.
He backs away slowly, but one eye still looks bigger than the other. He looks like he's been electrocuted recently. "Claire, isn't it?" I nod hesitantly. "Hmph. Fits, I suppose, as well as any name can."
I nod, edging backwards slightly.
Suddenly, he crooks a single finger, says, "Come," turns away, and walks back towards his Lab.
Mom says his Lab is weird. She said I should be nice to Daryl, though, because he's a social outcast and everyone thinks he's weird. I can see why they would think that, but it's the social outcast part that really hits home.
That's why I get up and jog to follow him.
There's metal everywhere. Even the bookcases are metal, and the desk is metal. There's a grate on the floor towards the back, which I think leads to a basement. Daryl only gives me a minute to check everything out—the bubbling and steaming substances in glass containers that are in weird shapes and tools on a platter that I could never name.
"I'm doing this as a favor," he says slowly, not looking at me as he bends to work at the lock that holds the grate shut. "For Goddess's sake, don't touch anything—and you're damn lucky I am, kid—Don't even think about messing with anything down here," he adds, standing up and kicking the grate open. "Look at me," he demands, and I do, even though he's sort of scaring me.
"Your Mommy and Daddy don't know you're here right now," he tells me, slowly, as if he thinks I won't understand otherwise. It's like he thinks I'm stupid. It surprises me, but I'm okay with that, because he doesn't know me very well, and it's easy to make assumptions about people you don't know.
Just like they never bothered to get to know you. They hate you because their parents don't approve of your dad.
"It's your decision whether you want to tell them or not." I think we both know I won't, whatever's down there. "And I don't want you coming here in the middle of the night or when I'm asleep or something." I nod. "And don't you touch anything unless I say you can. Got that?"
He looks like he'll explode if I don't obey.
So I nod.
He nods back to me, eyeing me for a long, long moment. Then he nods again, and makes his way down the stairs that disappear into the darkness, shoes clunking on the metal, sounding an echo.
The downstairs is much more impressive than the upstairs. There are books everywhere, except for a bed, and a giant bathtub. I don't really care about those. I'm looking around, trying to read titles and follow Daryl, and not doing too well. Most of the books are on genetics and biology and stuff like that, but he has a few science fiction books in the one corner, and some tech stuff in another. There's a single shelf devoted to family history, tucked away near the bed.
"Listen, kid, you can read anything here, except the stuff that's not on the shelves," He throws at me. "And if it's got a bookmark or a note in it, you better not remove it. You so much as doggy ear a page I swear I will have you eating your own liver."
I swallow. He frightens me enough that I believe him.
He stares at me again. He has that weird stare that makes me feel like he's seeing right through me. My mom's never been able to do that. My dad's never gotten the chance.
Suddenly, he throws me something small, gold—I catch it. It's two keys, on a tiny ring.
I look up at him, but he's gone over to the bathtub, and is rubbing the side, like he's nervous. It makes me want to be sure he won't ever have a reason to be. It's sort of like wanting to make a parent proud, except he's too far removed from anything like that. More like the crazy uncle.
That was always my favorite character in the books anyway. Besides, maybe he's more eccentric than he is crazy.
It takes only a few days before I find that he has a collection of dried grasses stashed away by the bathtub, and decide to bring him some. I have to help out with the farm a little bit anyhow, so I agreed with my mom I'll collect grass and stuff in that general area, maybe fish.
I've never been good at fishing. She's never surprised when I come home empty-handed after three, four hours out of the house.
She'll never guess what I'm actually doing.
When I hand the grass to Daryl on my way in, he blinks at the orange mass in his hands for a moment, like he can't decide what to do with it. Then he looks at me with his freaky glare, because he knows he doesn't know what to do with me. Then, he smiles, just a tiny bit, and walks back to his desk.
I bring him grass every day that week, the weeks following.
I come in one Saturday to find him on his knees, rifling through papers, down in the basement, like he's looking for something important. He keeps saying, "Where is it? Where is it? Why isn't it here?"
"Uhhh… Daryl… What exactly are you looking for?" I wonder, staying by the stairs so I don't get in his way.
"There is a book—it was here just yesterday—did you take it? I told you not to take books off my desk!" He speaks quickly, like he's too busy to care that I might know where it is.
Except he hasn't told me much. "What kinda book? There's a million here."
"You obviously can't count, child," He admonishes, looking up at me for a long moment, trying to be patient although he's horrible at it. "There's exactly 3 thousand—and 4 hundred—and 56 books here—and I'm looking for just the one. Now, tell me, do you have any clue where it might be?"
He's got that crazy look in his eye. So I look back at him. For the first time, I don't feel intimidated by him.
Then, I reach over to a chair that has a stack of books on it, displace the top two, and hand the third one to him. He accepts it, startled, as I put back the first two.
I put my daily gift of orange grass on top of them.
And then I hear him gasp. "How could she have known?"
Maybe it's because I understand him better than he thinks. I make my way up the stairs, and he doesn't stop me. I didn't expect him to. But the next day, he smiles at me, and he thanks me, and he gives me a piece of chocolate cake so old it's gotten hard, but it still tastes sort of like chocolate. He has a piece, too, and we sit on the floor in the basement—because there's clutter everywhere from his frantic searching yesterday—and I swear it's the best piece of cake I've ever had.
"Where have you been?"
Those are the first words out of Mom's mouth as I get home that day, after frantically wiping any remains of chocolate cake from my mouth, and I realize I have absolutely nothing to show for the time I was supposed to spend looking for stuff.
"I was helping out Daryl with a project," I say quickly. It's not a lie exactly, but if it were, it wouldn't have been the first time.
Her purple eyes focus on me intently, and she looks like she's just about to yell at me some more before Dad jumps in, "Don't pester the little star, Jill."
I don't look at my Dad. I know what I'll see, and I still resent the sight. The teasing's not been around as much lately, but that's because I've been hiding out at Daryl's.
But Mom agrees with him. She stays silent for the rest of dinner, until, just as I'm cleaning the dishes, she asks, "Kate came looking for you today. Said she hasn't seen you in ages."
I shrug.
"I told her to look down south, near Turtle Pond, but she says you haven't been there."
"I like to make them play hide and seek," I grump, scalding myself with the hot water on accident. I know she wants to say more, but I shut off the sink and fake a yawn. "I'm tired. I think I'll head to bed early, maybe read a while before I knock out. Night."
She doesn't ask about it again. By morning, she's forgotten.
Kate shows up the next day under the pretense that she wants to help me out, and no matter what I say, we end up walking together. Halfway there, Hugh joins us. The others get there about the time we pass the twins' place.
They circle me the second we're all alone.
"I think we're overdue," someone says. A sharp jab to my stomach follows a line of pain I expected but couldn't have stopped.
Daryl stares at me the whole next day. More specifically, he stares at my black eye, the one I managed to hide from my mom because of my bangs. But I can't hide behind my bangs now, because then I can't read. But unlike my mom, Daryl doesn't say anything, doesn't ask.
Instead, he gets up after a few minutes, and goes upstairs. I let him. I don't know why I would've stopped him.
By the time he comes back downstairs with a little ceramic bowl, I've completely forgotten that I even have a black eye, because I'm engrossed in a book about peacocks and their evolution, one he recommended to me a few days ago. The print is fine, but there are a lot of pictures, and it's interesting.
Daryl taps me on the shoulder, and as I look up, he holds out the bowl. "Once an hour, for eight hours, just on the bruised skin," he says. "Your mother won't notice."
She doesn't. The kids are shocked, when they ambush me on my way home late that evening, but they just throw stones at me instead of doing anything else. Only one hits, but I barely notice.
I bring Daryl some fresh bread and more grass the next day, as a thank you.
It's Monday. Monday is the one day I don't visit Daryl's basement, Daryl's library, or Daryl himself. I dare to say we've become friends. And now I know who to thank for that.
I approach Mary just before she leaves and give her one of Daryl's books, along with some homemade tea packets. She doesn't know what they're for, but she smiles and she's happy. It takes her a moment, and when I hug her, she says, "You're welcome."
Then she goes back to Mineral Town. And it's Tuesday. And I'm fine with that.
They're running after me again. But that's okay. Today I let myself actually break into a sprint.
Because I have somewhere to run to.
It isn't Monday.
Monday isn't really my favorite day of the week anymore.
Ever other day is. Because I love running where I'm running to.
FIN