Chapter 7: Closure
Quinn texted Sandi-sry gotta go, can't make fc mtg, call u 2nite! Somehow it just didn't seem important right now.
Instead she took her bags and walked home, lost in thought. What was she going to do? Now that she'd finally got through to Tom, she felt like she should give his message to Daria. But then Daria would start asking questions about why Quinn was talking to him in the first place. As soon as she did that, the jig was up...but if Daria ever talked to Tom herself, the jig was also up.
She would just have to tell the truth. She thought about the best way to break the news as she walked into the house and up to her room, shutting the door behind her. At least there would be some time to-
"Hello, Quinn."
"Eeeek!" Quinn jumped. There was Daria, sitting on the edge of the bed. "What are you doing in here? If you want wardrobe advice, you could at least ask first."
"Shut up," Daria stood. "I'll make this very simple. By any chance, have you been stopping Tom from talking to me?"
Quinn froze. Her doe-in-the-headlights expression was proof enough of her guilt.
"I thought so," Daria grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her roughly over to the bed. "I'm going to start hitting you now, Quinn, and I may never stop."
Slap. Slap. "Owww! Hey!" Slap. "Daria, quit it!" Slap. "I was just trying to-" Slap. "Owww! Help! Abuse!"
"Keep talking, Quinn. That only makes it easier."
"Get OFF me." Quinn said a few minutes later when the punishment had stopped.
"I'm not done yet, Quinn. Just resting my arms."
She squirmed. "Come on, I know you're not really trying to hurt me."
"Don't tempt me. But as long as we're communicating so well now, try this. Did you do it because you have designs on Tom?" She fixed her with an icy stare.
"Eee-yewww! NO! That's so gross, Daria," Quinn cried. "That guy messed up your life! And have you seen his car?! Oh, wait, you must have since you were in it and everything..."
"What? How do you even know about that?!" Daria looked shocked.
Quinn stared up at her. "I was in the kitchen when you were talking to that Jane. I heard everything."
"Oh," Daria leaned back and put her hands on her knees, taking her weight off of Quinn. "...Oh. Damn."
The beauty finally squirmed out from underneath her and shoved her angrily. "Ugh! My hair..."
"You shouldn't have heard all that."
"Well I did. And then he wouldn't stop calling! I had to get rid of him. I knew you wouldn't want to talk to him after...well, all that." Quinn made a face.
"You don't have the right. And it wasn't all his fault. I kissed him too."
"I know," Quinn said quietly. "But you're my sister."
They sat there for a while, neither speaking.
"All right," Daria said. "So you spied on Jane and I during the conversation of doom. Then what happened?"
Quinn told her everything, leaving out no detail. Unfortunately for Daria this included her thoughts on the cars, clothes, and social status of everyone who was even marginally involved. But in the end, she pieced it all together.
"So that's all of it," Quinn said when they were finished. "You can call him or whatever. He asked me to tell you that."
Daria nodded slowly. "Maybe I will. I guess your holding him off wasn't all bad. I think I'm actually ready now."
The doorbell rang downstairs.
"That's for me!" Quinn jumped up from the bed.
"Are the aliens finally bringing back your brain?"
"No," Quinn winked, "But they're injecting information into it and junk. It's really scary."
"Sounds like it. By the way, if you have any more bombs to drop on me while I'm not in the mood to kill you..."
Quinn paused in the doorway. "Daria, if this wasn't a study night I might have time to begin answering that question. But, um...I don't know why I still call you my cousin. It's not like I'm embarrassed of you anymore. That's just silly, and I would have stopped a while ago if you just asked me. But since you never did, I just kept doing it to get under your skin. 'Cause, let's face it, your skin needs all the help it can get."
"Gee, you always know the right thing to say. Fine...stop calling me your damn cousin, okay?"
"OH-kay, I'll do it, but on one contrition. You have to get out of my room now."
Daria had forgotten she was in enemy territory. "...Oh, yeah."
It was morning once again in Lawndale, but there was little joy in it for the children of the 'OK to Cry Corral' day camp. In lieu of the normal camp activities they were so looking forward to-hiking, swimming in the lake, campfires and such-head counselor Mr. O'Neill was subjecting them to endless arts and crafts, 'self-discovery' exercises that meant nothing to them, and a battery of insipid songs. The fact that they must do it all indoors rather than out in the sun added insult to injury.
Trent, being Trent, did not contemplate this in so many words. But even he didn't miss that everything about this camp was, well, pretty lame.
He sat on the bus and watched O'Neill lead the kids through a halfhearted song about dental hygiene to the tune of 'Row, Row, Row Your Boat' and winced. He didn't really care about the daytime activities; at least they didn't require him to do much or go chasing after kids all day. But bad music was something else altogether. Besides, sitting next to a vibrating Mr. DeMartino was kind of freaking him out.
The song mercifully ended, and Trent stood up before the next one could start. "Hey, Uncle Timothy. That was pretty cool...except, you know, not really. I think I'm gonna take a turn."
The campers cheered and sat up excitedly.
O'Neill looked unsure. "Now, Trent, I'm not sure we need to-"
Too late. Trent hefted his guitar and launched into a rendition of 'I've Been Working on the Railroad' he once played at a kid's birthday party:
I've been working on the railroad
Every pointless day!
I've been working on the railroad
While my life gets pissed away!
Can't you hear the whistle blowing?
Shatter my dreams in the morn!
Can't you hear the captain shouting?
Wish I was never born!
The pint-sizers loved it. O'Neill looked shocked. DeMartino went from homicidal to just confused.
As he dove into the next verse, Trent spied that one angry-looking kid near the back of the bus. He stared out the window as if nothing was happening, but as the music went on, one of his feet began to tap the floor.
Cool.
"GEE, Stacy. Did you, like, say something to completely gross Quinn out yesterday?"
Stacy Rowe cringed. "No, Sandi, I swear! I don't know where she is!"
"I suggest you think about it a little harder. First she terminates yesterday's shopping trip early, then she skips our mandatory Fashion Club meeting, then I can't get her on the phone for 18 hours? This has to be your fault somehow." Sandi Griffin shot her pigtailed friend a death glare.
"O-okay. I'm sure you're right. I-I'll try to remember what I did." Stacy looked down at her shoes.
"You do that," the prez turned sourly to Tiffany Blum-Deckler, who was admiring herself in the mirror in her usual attire...with one glaring exception. "In the meantime, Tiffany, perhaps YOU can tell us how you got Quinn's cousin's boots, and perhaps a clue as to where her body might be buried?"
"I got themmm at the maaaaall," Tiffany smiled vaguely. "A really pretty girllll said they made me look thiiiin."
Sandi rolled her eyes. "Tiffany, horizontal stripes could make you look thin. And they would probably be less offensive. Now will you take those horrible things off already?"
Tiffany ignored her and continued to admire her reflection. Sandi fumed.
"As you can see, Grace, Sloane and Page deals mainly with equity and mutual funds," Angier Sloane gestured to the mess of papers on his desk, as if Tom could focus on any one of them. "Now we've gone over the three types of mutual funds-remind me of those again?" he winked.
Tom leaned over the desk next to him and tried to concentrate. "Open-end funds buy back shares at the end of every business day. Closed-end funds only issue once on an IPO. And exchange-traded funds operate like closed-ends but give you a price closer to net value."
Angier nodded and pulled out a Cuban cigar from his vest pocket. Tom brightened a little. Dad only smoked those when he was in a good mood, so he must be doing something right. "Well said. And the way ETF's can afford to give their investors such a good deal is...?"
"...They sell lemonade on the sidewalk to make up the difference?"
His father sighed. "Should have known that was coming. Strike one."
"Um...by prying even more money from the dying fingers of the oppressed proletariat?"
"Ha ha. Strike two, Tom Marx." Angier slugged him on the back, gently. "I know Fielding is still stuck in the 19th century as far as economics go, but if you're going to help me file earnings reports this summer, you have to know this. Try again. ETF's keep their prices near net-asset value by doing...what?"
"Hmm..."
The antique phone rang in the corner of the study.
"I'll get it," Angier picked up the receiver. "Sloane residence... Oh! Well, you certainly can, Miss. He's right here." He beckoned to Tom. "Sounds like one of your lady friends wants to talk to you."
Tom looked up. There were only three girls who might know his home number, and only one of them would have any reason to call him now. "You mind if I take this one upstairs, Dad?"
"Take it in here if you want. I'll just go bother your mother for a while. Happy hunting." his father chuckled and excused himself from the study.
I wish, Tom thought glumly and put the receiver to his ear. "Hello?"
"Tom?" the girl on the other end said after a few seconds. "It's Daria. We have to talk."
So Quinn had kept her word. Tom grinned. "You're right, we do. I was trying to call you, but-"
"I know." She offered no further explanation.
"...Oh."
"I needed some time. Look. About last week..."
This was it-finally, an answer.
Tom didn't rush her. He just held his breath and waited.
