A/N: This story has been done to death, I know. Hopefully I've brought some originality to this cliché.
Angela Moore
"Oh, come on, Feeny. Let's get festive."
"I don't understand. If this gathering is all just a ruse to lure them in for an unexpected intervention… why do I have to wear a birthday hat?"
"It makes you look adorable, Feeny."
"It makes me look like sixty-seven year old man longing to be six years old again, and I won't stand for it. I might as well frolic in a field of daisies, in overalls, my tennis shoes caked with mud!"
"Purple or yellow? Or—ooh! Polka dots."
"Ms. Moore. I am your elder and I put my foot down at this ridiculousness and demand that you listen to me!"
At Angela's demanding glare, however, Feeny faltered.
"Polka dots, please."
Angela grinned. No, this wasn't a true sixty-seventh birthday party. And, yes, her insistence that Feeny wear a birthday hat and a name tag that read "I Am the Birthday Boy" was partly for her own amusement. But she would also spare no expense, look over no detail to make sure that everything was perfect.
"Would you like a clown at your party, Mr. Feeny? He can make you a balloon-hat. Would you like a balloon hat, Mr. Feeny? Or—ooh! Maybe a SWORD for the big birthday boy!"
Okay. That had been just to see the look on his face. And it had been worth it.
Shawn Hunter
Shawn peered down at the notepad in his hand. It was a list. He was good at lists. This list had been revised several times over, pen and Crayon scratching incessantly as he wrote his life story.
Shawn turned to the little eleven year old girl sitting next to him on the bench. Her mommy was out getting a corn dog for the both of them. He was safe to speak to her without the risk of being named a pedophile.
"Can I try this out on you?" Shawn asked. The girl shrugged which he took as an enthusiastic "Go ahead!" response.
"Ahem," Shawn said. "Upon graduating from Harvard, I was immediately scouted by Time magazine. I was brilliant and witty and they loved me so much that they threw me a party every Wednesday because they couldn't believe their luck at getting the best author in the country. They offered me a book deal on my success story. From Trash to Time, I called it. Why haven't you seen my book in any stores? There's a good answer for that. The book was so gritty, so honest, and so unbelievably brilliant that all the other authors got jealous. They threatened to kill me if my book got published. They offered compensation if I would just throw my book to the bottom of the sea. That's how I got this mansion, right here on top of this glorious hill. Loads of property, acres upon miles all owned by me. See that? That's the Atlantic Ocean. I own that, too. I—"
Shawn stopped and looked inquisitively at the little girl. Her hand was up.
"Erm, yes. Little girl in the yellow poncho. Do you have a question?"
"Is this for school? Are you writing a paper on how to B.S. your way through life or something?"
Shawn's jaw dropped. He stammered. "I—it wasn't good?"
The girl quirked her left eyebrow. "'I own the Atlantic Ocean?' Really?"
Shawn extracted a Crayon from his pocket and crossed out that sentence. "Okay—how about, um… I own the Gulf of Mexico? No one's claimed that yet, have they?"
The girl looked like she was deciding between slapping her own forehead out of frustration, or standing on the bench and strangling Shawn. He was deeply offended.
"How about," the girl suggested, "you just tell the truth?"
Shawn snorted. "The truth?" he asked incredulously. "Babe, you don't want to know the truth."
"I'm betting you that the truth is a lot more believable than you owning the ocean. What can be so bad that you have to make up such an obviously fake future?"
"Having no future at all. Having only present and past. Having reverted back to the same low-grade, poor-class scum that I was in high school."
"Poor old man," the sixth grader said sympathetically. "Having a crappy life and then unable to make up a good lie. It must suck to be you."
Her mother came back, handed her a corn-dog, and with another pitying look (how pathetic is that? Being pitied by a sixth grader!) she left him on the bench. Alone.
Sigh.
Back to the drawing board.
"Upon graduating Pennbrook University, I did absolutely nothing with my life, instead deciding to follow my friends like the third wheel puppy I'd always been. Until they finally decided to kick the puppy out in favor of an actual life, leaving me with nothing but memories to look back on, long for and eventually re-live."
Cory Matthews
"Hello Topanga. I know that you pretty much hate me. I know that I ruined your plan for the rest of your life… But I brought you a cinnamon bun. You love those. Hey! How about a deal? Your love back for a sticky-bun? A Twinkie? Hostess cupcake?"
Bargaining with snack cakes. With Cory's luck, Topanga would take it as Cory saying she's fat or he values her so little that he would trade her life for some Zebra cakes. But, honestly, this is what Cory had been reduced to. Going so low that he would do anything, even give up his precious afternoon snack to get in good favor with Topanga again.
And how was he supposed to greet her, anyway? Act like everything was okay? Or beg for her forgiveness? Beg for forgiveness for a mistake he hadn't known that he'd made.
"Hey, Topanga, I'm sorry that I haven't kept in touch. After you packed your things and left me, I probably should have sent you periodic check-ups on my situation. You know, on Tuesday, the day after you left, I sat on the toilet and cried for the entire day before retiring to my bed to weep until I threw up. How'd you spend the day? The weather was nice; did you go to the park?"
But—wait. Why was it Cory's job to apologize and beg and reveal pride-diminishing facts about his life Post-Topanga? Shouldn't Topanga have some of the responsibility of fixing things?
If she even wanted things to be fixed.
Well there is that.
Cory collected his money from the ATM and got back into his car. He cruised around doing nothing for nothing just trying to prolong the moment before having to face his death. Hey. It could be worse. She could have called. She could have called and said something like, "Hey, Cory Matthews. Jerk. Scum. Pissant. I never want to see you again. I spit on everything that reminds me of you. This guy in the grocery store? His name is Cory. I spit on him too. I hate you."
But she hadn't.
Cory counted that as a victory.
Topanga Lawrence-Matthews
She was dressed impeccably. She was dressed to kill. Her heels were made for strutting around Feeny's home without a semblance of regret for her life. Even if behind her war-painted face she felt like up-chucking at seeing Cory, it wouldn't matter. Topanga knew how to put on a show. She knew how to fake it. Even if she was dying inside, she knew how to fake it.
"Hon, just don't let him see you without a smile," Jasmine instructed over the phone.
"What if I smile through my tears?" Topanga looked at her morose expression in the mirror and concluded that it was a definite possibility.
"As long as they're tears of joy," Jasmine demanded.
"And if they're not?" Topanga asked. "If they're tears because I stupidly left my husband and haven't had the nerve to call him back to tell him why, so everything's gotten all twisted and he probably thinks I'm a horrid she-witch and throws darts at my pictures at night and has bonfires where he creates voodoo dolls and tosses them in?"
Jasmine was speechless, gaping into the phone before asking in incredulity, "What kind of man was your husband?"
"Trust me, Jasmine. That's the kind of thing that Cory would do."
"He sounds schizo."
"But I love him." She left stupidly and never contacted him after that day. But she did still love him.
"Which is why I don't understand why you're going with Plan B and not Plan A. Plan A being stomping in that party with your man-killer boots and reclaiming him for your own. Plan B being taking the easy way out and pretending that nothing's wrong even though you can't even come back to the apartment because you hate being reminded that he's not there with you."
"Because I left him, Jasmine. How can I ask for forgiveness?"
"You can't," Jasmine acquiesced with a sigh. Jasmine didn't agree with Topanga. She only gave in because she knew that any arguments were fruitless and Topanga's mind was made up to completely ignore Plan A.