Social Intercourse
A fan-fiction story written by Marie Hodgkinson.
Chapter One: The Self-Titled Chapter in which Nothing Much Happens.
Dorothea Danella Danielle Smith sniffed wetly and leant further back, as if trying to squish the concrete wall into a more comfortable shape. It wasn't as if she was homesick or anything. Of course not. She was probably just suffering culture shock from the water in the bathrooms going down the sink the wrong way. Duh.
Refusing to believe that she had just thought such a- such a (stupid-annoying-petite-blonde-younger-sister) word, Dorothea dog-eared the 42nd page of Douglas Adams's The Hitch-hiker's Guide to the Galaxy and, plagued by that sinking feeling you get when you are sure something has gone wrong and that you are stuck, alone, in a foreign country where everyone speaks with Irish accents, got out a stack of letters and started to read them for the umpteenth time. Or rather, she started to. First she pondered the word 'umpteenth'. What kind of a number is 'ump', anyway? Sounded like imp. Frustrated by the apparent insanity of the person who invented the word 'umpteenth', Dorothea shifted her attention to the first sheet of paper.
It was thick, luxurious paper- the word 'plush' comes to mind, although Dorothea rather thought that 'plush' meant soft and fuzzy, like a teddy bear or a kitten.
13 June
Dear Miss Smith, the letter began, words flowing across the page like honey beneath an imprinted logo bearing the legend aurum potestas est.
We received your communications on the subject of school exchange students earlier this year. Unfortunately we were at that time a little preoccupied with family matters, and so did not reply. Nevertheless we would greatly appreciate your considering spending some time around Christmas with our family. Please do not take this the wrong way- I do not wish you to feel in any way that you will be obliged on your stay with us to spend every minute of the day with my son Artemis, but his father and I have been rather perturbed to discover recently that Artemis has little or no social interactions with people his own age. We think it would be nice for him to have someone around to talk to, and from the profile your school sent us, you seem perfect! Dorothea remembered that profile with a shudder. It described her as 'A quiet, studious young woman who is friendly with everyone and a joy to be around'. Sure she was a joy to be around- teachers were always overjoyed to be around students who aren't trying to blow up the school and sow the rubble with peanuts. She didn't even want to think about the accompanying photo (school I.D. – the photographer had a great talent for making the prettiest and soberest teenagers look like stoned eighty-year-olds).
Please RSVP soon, Miss Smith. Oh, and before I forget- congratulations on your success in your Shakespeare Festival!
Yours sincerely,
Angeline Fowl
That had been the start of it, Dorothea supposed. Well, almost the start. The real start had been back in February, when her new English teacher had struck upon the ingenious idea of having her students improve their formal letter-writing skills by applying for short student exchanges to foreign countries. It hadn't ended well; until Dorothea received her reply in June, the only successful applicant had been Mike, whose aunt had agreed to let him stay at her house in Auckland for a few weeks of term time. Mrs Wilson had not been impressed, and Mike had been saddled with so much homework that he had to pay $20 for the extra luggage weight. After that, Mrs Wilson had given up on enterprising ways of emptying her classroom while students learnt culture in a foreign country, and the class was set a long list of dusty old books to read over the year.
Until the letter had arrived for Dorothea. Mrs Wilson almost died of shocked delight- her model student, going off to stay with a load of Irish bigwigs on the other side of the world! The honour of it! The joy! The once-in-a-lifetime opportunities!
The convincing Dorothea's parents to let her go.
Once that strenuous ordeal was accomplished, chaos reigned. Letters were written, rewritten, attacked by viruses, handwritten, used to mop up coffee spills, re-handwritten, laminated and eventually a reply was sent to Mrs Angeline Fowl. Fundraising, that nemesis of all respectably lazy teenagers, provided Dorothea with enough money for the trip and the acquaintance of a friend of a mother of a step-sister of an ex-boyfriend of another friend of her father's supplied her with a discount on her plane fares. Dorothea had replied another beautifully scripted letter telling her how absolutely delighted Mrs Fowl was that Dorothea could stay with them for a few weeks. Lengthy telephone conversations between Mrs Fowl and Mrs Smith ensued- none, thankfully, paid for by the latter. Toll calls to friends in Canterbury cost enough, let alone halfway across the world!
And then it had happened.
And now she was here. Two weeks and three days before Christmas, and she was sitting in some Dublin airport surrounded by luggage and being leered at by spotty porters who, unfortunately, weren't put off by her dripping nose. What fun.
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24.04.06 Well, there we go. All pretty and properly formatted. Have not yet dared to reread it. Tra la la. . .