Chaper 1: Homecoming
The scent of incense hung heavy in the air, floral and powdery as an elderly matron's bosomy hug. Daria shifted in her squeaky funeral parlor chair and looked up, despite herself, to scan the room for a familiar black asymmetrical haircut. When she felt the pit of loneliness and regret in her gut threaten to spill over again, she quickly picked up her program with clammy hands to study the life and times of Timothy O'Neill for the seventh or eighth time.
Since Daria's high school graduation five years earlier, the macramé-loving teacher with a startling amount of Karl Marx knowledge had transitioned into a role more suited to his love of open weeping—seventh-grade school counselor. His whimsical office was filled with bean bag chairs, whale songs, and lonely junior high students who really did want to hear that it was "okay to cry." When Mr. O'Neill was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor, heartbroken students filled his small apartment with handmade cards.
Today, Mr. O'Neill's adoring students crept into the room in small, silent groups as a gently lilting Celtic tune flowed from the speakers. Several of O'Neill's orange-robed friends from the local Hare Krishna group hovered on either side of the doorway, smiling at the children and handing each of them a gift bag thoughtfully made by the departed before his passing. Daria watched several visibly confused youngsters sit down with their bags and cautiously pick through them as if expecting a weaponized stress ball or Death itself to pop out. What they found instead were a grief activity booklet complete with stickers; an assortment of calming herbal teas; a book on puberty entitled That's Probably Normal, Right?; and sticky notes with puppies on them, along with instructions to add self-affirming messages and secure them to the bathroom mirror.
Daria allowed herself an affectionate smirk and shrugged off her navy-blue blazer, revealing the light gray button-down beneath. Well Mr. O'Neill, the Misery Chick has arrived. While I wish we were meeting under better circumstances, I'm glad to see you found your place in the world—even if that place was full of bean-bag chairs saturated with the tears of pre-teens. The fact that you invited them in to share their angst instead of quietly closing your office door and buying a one-way boat ticket to Uruguay makes you a better person than I.
"Well, Daria Morgendorffer," remarked a nasally voice behind her. "Nice to see you here."
Daria looked over her shoulder to take in the lavender blouse and semi-permanent scowl of Janet Barch, who stood beside the pant-suited and uncharacteristically silent Ms. Li. The young writer's usual monotone was colored with genuine sorrow as she replied, "Ms. Barch, I was very sorry to hear about Mr. O'Neill."
Janet gave a rueful smile and reached out to squeeze Daria's shoulder before walking several rows up the aisle with Ms. Li, where they took their seats.
Just as Daria was turning her attention to a careful study of her black leather boots, she heard a voice that made her chest feel like birds attempting flight with their wing-tips pinned to the ground.
It was Jane.
