Title: Charmed?
Author: Helene
e-mail: aishiteru@nightmail.ru
Rating: PG13
Teaser: Sailor Moon attends a Valentine Day ball hoping to find her
true love. What if Darien decides to show up... hmm... instead of
Tuxedo Mask? And what if the ball involves ice dancing?
Timeline: First Season
Disclaimer: I do not claim to be a doctor, or to know how to play
piano. Is that not good enough? Well, then, I guess...
Sailor-Moon-does-not-belong-to-me! There, happy?
AN: I'm feeling lonely, forlorn, and forsaken, which is supposed to
mean that I'm in grave need of some encouragement. A few lines from
any of you may prove just what the doctor ordered.
Chapter IV
"This is the way we whip up lists, whip up lists, whip up lists..."
chirped Serena, skipping along her favorite sidewalk. Four more blocks
to the destination, four more blocks to walk, and then the mission would
officially be launched.
"This is the way we whip up lists early in the afternoon," she continued,
nearly choking on the last word of the custom-mangled nursery rhythm due
to a bout of joyous giggling.
Her day had gone right the very moment she had whizzed past Miss H and
flew into the classroom two precious seconds before the muddled teacher.
The following four periods had not brought any pesky pop-quizzes or
embarrassing questionings, and when they had finally been over, no detention
had ensued. But her school achievements were outshone by another wondrous
fact: both that morning and that afternoon her poor face had been spared
banging into the walking obstacle, ever present on her way. Which could
probably be due to the rebuttal Sailor Moon had given him on yesterday Saint
Valentine's ball, she snorted, interrupting her tune.
One block... Half a block... Quarter a block, and let's hear the door
squeak its loudest and the door bells chime their merriest for Serena
Tsukino to welcome in the Crown arcade.
"Hi, Serena."
"Hello, Andrew."
"What can I get you this glorious day?"
"Well, actually, I don't want anything right now. Could we just talk?"
"Talk?"
Andrew could not believe his own ears. The thought of Serena not blurting
out her favorite foods at such suggestion had almost short-circuited his
brain, which went into overload after the initial shock. Why didn't she
want to talk her problem over a sundae or a milkshake? Hmm... Unless she
was on a crash diet again, whatever it was it had to be serious.
"Could we?" he heard her entreat and looked up to encounter a solemnly
earnest gaze that sent a shocking jolt through his system as a horrifying
idea hit his brain.
Gods, oh no, please, oh God, she was going to declare her undying love,
and he was absolutely powerless to stop her, and Rita would kill him if
she ever found out, and his poor heart was going to leave his chest and
jump up through the roof...
"Serena," started Andrew, deciding to try calm reasoning, "I have Rita
now, and I love her very much, so I can't possibly reciprocate your
feelings."
"What feelings?" she demanded, her forehead scrunching up in puzzlement.
"The feelings you wanted to talk about, of course. I can't reciprocate
them."
"But I didn't want to talk about my feelings."
Half expecting Serena to commence one of her patented wails, he was caught
completely off guard by her exasperated retort, and, judging by the girl's
twinkling eyes and smirking mouth, his predicament was more than obvious.
"You didn't?" he echoed, still too fuddled to discuss anything else.
"Of course not, silly. If I had a crush on you, I'd never have owned up.
I'd be waiting for you to notice, but I'd never told you myself. It's totally
against the rules."
"Oh. Then what did you want to talk about?"
"I meant to ask, what do you think of me? Truly, I mean."
And the world stopped spinning. Time seemed to freeze, and all the sounds were
reduced to distant buzzing, as a single thought reverberated through his reeling
mind: "Why me?" Dizzy and disoriented, Andrew rested his head on the counter
and let out a pitiful moan.
That was even worse than having her pine for him. Dealing with an infatuation
was a piece of cake in comparison with muddling through the impromptu 'Truth
or Dare' game without the 'Dare'. What was he supposed to do, tell her the
whole truth or break one of the Ten Commandments and condemn his immortal soul
to the tortures of hell?
"I think you're a very sweet and optimistic girl, and you're pretty, and
considerate, and you're always there for your friends."
There, it should have been close enough to afford a month long vacation
in heaven each millennium, he cheered, giving himself a mental pat on the
back.
"Well, all of these are good things, but how about some flaws?"
"Flaws?"
"Yes, flaws," grunted Serena, barely refraining from gritting her
teeth. "Shortcomings. Weaknesses. Bad points."
"I know what flaws are. I just don't know what to say."
"The truth, Andy. I want the truth. I really need to know."
"Serena, don't you see? I am your friend, so I don't want to talk about your
bad points, because, as a good friend, I don't see any," he said, giving her
an encouraging smile and looking her straight in the eye while praying for
her to understand.
She didn't.
Andrew froze, his smile becoming an appalled grimace as he watched his offbeat
companion switch to the mode of a crying spell a la Serena. She hopped down from
her seat to stand in front of him with her hands on her hips, her head thrown
back, her mouth gaping open, and her lips quivering.
"Why are you lying to me?" she bawled, bluntly disregarding the reverberating
windows and the wincing customers. "Do you think I'm stupid enough to just
swallow it up?"
"Serena, please..."
"I thought I could count on you! I thought you would be the best one to start
with!"
"Serena..."
"I thought you are my friend!"
"Sere..."
"No! Don't even bother!"
Swinging on her heel, the wrathful blond stamped towards the exit, miraculously
bypassing three wet spots on the floor, a plastic chair with its business suit
clad occupant, and a certain tall, dark and handsome frog, whose bemused gaze of
lucid blue followed her until she left the establishment.
*********************************************************************
Serena storming off from the arcade BEFORE their argument? The idea was
certainly novel, and immensely curious. What else, short of nuclear disaster
could have chased the Meatball Head away from her favorite hangout? Who else
could have riled her up like that? One of her friends? A guy?
"Hey Andrew, what's up with the Meatball? Who's beat me to her?"
"I did," told Andrew wryly.
"Well, well, well, what do we have here," drawled Darien, taking a seat at the
counter, "the Champion of Meatball Brains getting a rise out of his fair lady?"
"Darien, this isn't funny. She's my friend."
The arcade keeper's only answer was an arched brow, but, instead of responding,
he turned away to compose himself and fix his newly arrived friend a cup of
coffee. The two remained silent, both not knowing how to broach the subject and
ostensibly afraid that anything they would say could and would be used against
them. Of course there was also the matter of human pride, for neither was
willing to concede defeat by resuming the conversation. Not until there was a
suitable pretext.
"Andrew, how about another cup?"
"Coming right up."
"So what happened with Serena?"
"I don't want to talk about that."
"Fine with me," said Darien, seeing his chance to commence his own quest.
Who needed to be privy to Serena's reaction to Andrew's rejection anyway? "I
came because I wanted to ask you something."
Andrew's usually healthy complexion turned greenish, his shoulders stiffened,
his hands gripped the counter, his eyes bulged. Chest was heaving as if he were
choking, head hung limply above his collarbone; the friendly fellow was the
very epitome of petrified misery.
"This isn't happening," he mumbled, his voice actually trembling. "Please
tell me this isn't happening!"
"Cut the dramatics, pal. It's not like I'm asking you to marry me, so what's
the great deal?"
"You're not going to ask me what I think about you, do you?"
"What if I am?"
"I'm not telling you!"
"Come on, Andy, I can take it. We're friends, so it can't be that bad."
"Don't you understand that I don't feel comfortable talking about that!"
exploded Andrew, slamming his fists against the buffed surface and upsetting
Darien's cup. Both watched spellbound as the cup fell onto the counter and
its contents spilled onto Darien's lap. It's still searing contents.
"Aiiiieee," howled the ebony-headed youth, springing from his stool to
bounce around like a madman in an attempt to assuage the pain. "What is
it with you? Have you finally gone bonkers?"
"Look, man, I'm sorry..."
"Damn right you're sorry!"
"Why don't you go to the back room and change into my spare pants?"
"When you're this unreasonable! I'd rather face a youma!"
That said, Darien proceeded to unwittingly mirror Serena's movements from
less than half an hour ago. He turned away from Andrew, and briskly crossed
the space to the door, giving it a mighty shove. His exit, however, was
hindered by a slender leg that tripped him and sent him tumbling onto the
concrete of the sidewalk. Having barely intercepted his fall with his hands
and kept his head from hitting the hard surface, he embarked on thanking
the Savior, but his orisons were interrupted by a familiar whine.
"You're on my leg," it informed plaintively, "and I'm guessing that you've
also knocked me down with that door."
He scrambled to his feet and sighed.
"As cheesy as it sounds, we've got to stop meeting like that, Meatball
Head," he announced wearily, holding out his hand, which she readily
accepted.
"You're telling me? I'm the one who always gets bruised!"
"Anyway, what are you doing back here? I thought you were royally annoyed
with the idiot I used to call my best buddy."
"I came to apologize," she told, scuffing her tow. "I shouldn't have yelled
at him."
"I beg to differ, but then, you've never been a good judge of character,"
threw Darien, already walking away. The last thing he needed was arguing with
her, seeing as he was severely disadvantaged by the ugly stain on the front
area of his trousers. Who knew what kind of awful nickname she could have
come up with should she have noticed his predicament?
*********************************************************************
Serena entered the arcade to find its dejected manager slumped at his
usual place. Poor Andy, she thought, he must be in need of consolation,
having experienced discomfiture courtesy of the most proficient insult-wielder
in the city. But why would Darien lash out at his best friend? Ah, well,
guys will be guys, she gathered, setting her mind to the immediate task,
albeit, apologizing cheering Andrew up.
"Hi, Andrew," she nearly whispered, afraid he wouldn't talk to her. "I... I'm
really sorry. I had no right to treat you that way."
"Serena," he exclaimed, "boy am I glad to see you. I thought you'd never
forgive me."
"For what? For not upsetting me? For not saying what a klutz and a ditz
I am? I should have thanked you for being gentle with me, not railed at
you. I'm so sorry. It's not your fault that I'm not as good as I'd like
to be."
"Oh, Serena, don't you see? I don't think of you as a klutz and a ditz.
But I won't tell you what exactly I think because I know you'll jump to
all the wrong conclusions. All people tend to do that. You wouldn't have
trusted me even if I were sincere!"
"But I still want to know what people think of me!"
"Hmm, I might just have the recipe."
Andrew's head whipped up to reveal a devilish gleam in his eyes. His
right hand shot to grab an empty ice-cream cone, which he held next to
his lips. Then he tore off his apron, flung it in the direction of a
nearby booth, occupied with several young girls, and climbed to kneel
on the sterile counter.
"Have you ever heard about that American singer, Sher?"
Serena nodded her head indicating she didn't, and then all hell broke
loose.
"If ya wanna know if he loves you so it's in his kiss," sang the newly
initiated pop-star in a high-pitched falsetto, swaying his hips and
gesturing wildly with his free hand. "How 'bout the way he acts, oh, it
can be a way, but you've gotta listen to the words I say, if you wanna
know if he loves you so it's in his kiss. Oh, it's in his..."
The offhanded show would have gone on had Serena not hauled its star off
by his shirt collar, eliciting groans of protest and disappointment from
both Andrew and the arcade patrons.
"What on Earth do you mean?" she snarled, "that I have to kiss you, or
whatever person I want to ask?"
"No, you dope. You were not listening," he accused, discarding the
microphone-hyphen-cone, "that one is the last resort. You may start with
observing their actions towards you and other people."
"Huh?"
"Yea. Try observing their behavior, like a scientist."
"But I'm not smart enough."
"Allow me to demonstrate," enunciated Andrew with a flourish. "How do I
act towards the visitors?"
"Well, you always get their orders ASAP, you help kids play the games when
you're free, and you always joke around."
"And how do I act towards you?"
"You listen to me. You listen, and you help me think my problems
through."
"Which means..."
"That you're my friend, of course, what else could it mean?"
"That I like you as a friend, in spite of the fact that you're a dope."
"Thanks. You're a dope, too, you know."
"I know."
*********************************************************************
Darien's anger had disappeared along with the coffee stains from his tailored
trousers and the drops that had ended up on his cherished jacket. The ensuing
rational consideration of the day's occurrences yielded quite a few interesting
findings.
Number one. Direct interrogation as a means of figuring out his actions
and attitudes, which needed to be adjusted, was not as efficient as his
yesternight ruminations had let him to believe. For some reason people
didn't feel as comfortable discussing others in front of them as dissecting
them behind the their backs, which proved quite a handicap of his quest to
bring about positive changes of his personality. How was he supposed to change
if he wasn't aware of what exactly it was about him that alienated people?
Number two. Direct interrogations tended to vex one's already existing
friends, which posed numerous threats to one's mental and physical
well-being.
Number three. The information he needed could be obtained through other
means, active observation, for instance. According to his sociology
textbooks, the method, while being more involved and time-consuming, might
prove more accurate and objective, for the research population was unaware
of the fact, that they were being studied, and thus unable to affect the
results of the experiment.
And the last but not the least, number four. Being irritated at other people
seemed to facilitate being civil with the Meatball Head, which went against
most of the existing theories on the effects of anger.
*********************************************************************
After the traditional family dinner, Serena excused herself from her
parents and headed straight to her bedroom, bounding the stairs in record
time to lock away all possible spies, both human and feline. Her further
course of action required some serious preparation work, and if anybody
were to witness that, her reputation would be ruined.
Andrew had explained that observing several people was unproductive, as
she might miss significant detailed, so she needed to choose the subject
of her scrutiny. It had to be a friend, she decided, since she was well
aware of how her enemies regarded her. But there were so many! First,
there was Molly, but Serena didn't see her often enough to gather a
sufficient amount of data. Then there were the scouts, two of who, Amy
and Lita, spent most of the day with her, which meant they were the perfect
targets. Lastly, there was Raye. The grouchy, scolding, putting-down,
whose opinion seemed the most controversial. The reasons to decide against
choosing her were less amount of available information and the fact that
the priestess-to-be often acted as if she were an enemy.
"Well, Raye it is then," muttered Serena, rising from the bed to open a
new writing-pad and pen the name of her fiery friend on the top of the
first page.
*********************************************************************
Lying in his bed later that night, Darien was still contemplating the idea
to observe the behavior of his friends. Imagining the process, he realized
that watching several people at once would be tricky, and that he needed
to focus his energy on one person. But who would prove an ideal candidate?
There were not many to pick from, Andrew and Raye being his main
alternatives, and a few college acquaintances comprising the rest of the
list. Raye or Andrew, Andrew or Raye, the coffee-spiller or the eyelash-batter,
or would he be forced to spend more time at the campus? The choice was
tough, so Darien elected to resort to the only foolproof means he had at
his disposal. Throwing away the blanket, he got out of the bed to retrieve
a small object from his desk.
"Head for Raye, tails for Andrew," he called out into the darkness of the
room. He tossed the object up and caught it between his palms, then moved
the upper palm away to take a look.
"Well, Raye it is then."
*********************************************************************
So, what adventures are in store for our fav couple when they're openly
stalking the irritable Raye? Alas, you may never find out, unless your
kind words spur me into continuing.
Author: Helene
e-mail: aishiteru@nightmail.ru
Rating: PG13
Teaser: Sailor Moon attends a Valentine Day ball hoping to find her
true love. What if Darien decides to show up... hmm... instead of
Tuxedo Mask? And what if the ball involves ice dancing?
Timeline: First Season
Disclaimer: I do not claim to be a doctor, or to know how to play
piano. Is that not good enough? Well, then, I guess...
Sailor-Moon-does-not-belong-to-me! There, happy?
AN: I'm feeling lonely, forlorn, and forsaken, which is supposed to
mean that I'm in grave need of some encouragement. A few lines from
any of you may prove just what the doctor ordered.
Chapter IV
"This is the way we whip up lists, whip up lists, whip up lists..."
chirped Serena, skipping along her favorite sidewalk. Four more blocks
to the destination, four more blocks to walk, and then the mission would
officially be launched.
"This is the way we whip up lists early in the afternoon," she continued,
nearly choking on the last word of the custom-mangled nursery rhythm due
to a bout of joyous giggling.
Her day had gone right the very moment she had whizzed past Miss H and
flew into the classroom two precious seconds before the muddled teacher.
The following four periods had not brought any pesky pop-quizzes or
embarrassing questionings, and when they had finally been over, no detention
had ensued. But her school achievements were outshone by another wondrous
fact: both that morning and that afternoon her poor face had been spared
banging into the walking obstacle, ever present on her way. Which could
probably be due to the rebuttal Sailor Moon had given him on yesterday Saint
Valentine's ball, she snorted, interrupting her tune.
One block... Half a block... Quarter a block, and let's hear the door
squeak its loudest and the door bells chime their merriest for Serena
Tsukino to welcome in the Crown arcade.
"Hi, Serena."
"Hello, Andrew."
"What can I get you this glorious day?"
"Well, actually, I don't want anything right now. Could we just talk?"
"Talk?"
Andrew could not believe his own ears. The thought of Serena not blurting
out her favorite foods at such suggestion had almost short-circuited his
brain, which went into overload after the initial shock. Why didn't she
want to talk her problem over a sundae or a milkshake? Hmm... Unless she
was on a crash diet again, whatever it was it had to be serious.
"Could we?" he heard her entreat and looked up to encounter a solemnly
earnest gaze that sent a shocking jolt through his system as a horrifying
idea hit his brain.
Gods, oh no, please, oh God, she was going to declare her undying love,
and he was absolutely powerless to stop her, and Rita would kill him if
she ever found out, and his poor heart was going to leave his chest and
jump up through the roof...
"Serena," started Andrew, deciding to try calm reasoning, "I have Rita
now, and I love her very much, so I can't possibly reciprocate your
feelings."
"What feelings?" she demanded, her forehead scrunching up in puzzlement.
"The feelings you wanted to talk about, of course. I can't reciprocate
them."
"But I didn't want to talk about my feelings."
Half expecting Serena to commence one of her patented wails, he was caught
completely off guard by her exasperated retort, and, judging by the girl's
twinkling eyes and smirking mouth, his predicament was more than obvious.
"You didn't?" he echoed, still too fuddled to discuss anything else.
"Of course not, silly. If I had a crush on you, I'd never have owned up.
I'd be waiting for you to notice, but I'd never told you myself. It's totally
against the rules."
"Oh. Then what did you want to talk about?"
"I meant to ask, what do you think of me? Truly, I mean."
And the world stopped spinning. Time seemed to freeze, and all the sounds were
reduced to distant buzzing, as a single thought reverberated through his reeling
mind: "Why me?" Dizzy and disoriented, Andrew rested his head on the counter
and let out a pitiful moan.
That was even worse than having her pine for him. Dealing with an infatuation
was a piece of cake in comparison with muddling through the impromptu 'Truth
or Dare' game without the 'Dare'. What was he supposed to do, tell her the
whole truth or break one of the Ten Commandments and condemn his immortal soul
to the tortures of hell?
"I think you're a very sweet and optimistic girl, and you're pretty, and
considerate, and you're always there for your friends."
There, it should have been close enough to afford a month long vacation
in heaven each millennium, he cheered, giving himself a mental pat on the
back.
"Well, all of these are good things, but how about some flaws?"
"Flaws?"
"Yes, flaws," grunted Serena, barely refraining from gritting her
teeth. "Shortcomings. Weaknesses. Bad points."
"I know what flaws are. I just don't know what to say."
"The truth, Andy. I want the truth. I really need to know."
"Serena, don't you see? I am your friend, so I don't want to talk about your
bad points, because, as a good friend, I don't see any," he said, giving her
an encouraging smile and looking her straight in the eye while praying for
her to understand.
She didn't.
Andrew froze, his smile becoming an appalled grimace as he watched his offbeat
companion switch to the mode of a crying spell a la Serena. She hopped down from
her seat to stand in front of him with her hands on her hips, her head thrown
back, her mouth gaping open, and her lips quivering.
"Why are you lying to me?" she bawled, bluntly disregarding the reverberating
windows and the wincing customers. "Do you think I'm stupid enough to just
swallow it up?"
"Serena, please..."
"I thought I could count on you! I thought you would be the best one to start
with!"
"Serena..."
"I thought you are my friend!"
"Sere..."
"No! Don't even bother!"
Swinging on her heel, the wrathful blond stamped towards the exit, miraculously
bypassing three wet spots on the floor, a plastic chair with its business suit
clad occupant, and a certain tall, dark and handsome frog, whose bemused gaze of
lucid blue followed her until she left the establishment.
*********************************************************************
Serena storming off from the arcade BEFORE their argument? The idea was
certainly novel, and immensely curious. What else, short of nuclear disaster
could have chased the Meatball Head away from her favorite hangout? Who else
could have riled her up like that? One of her friends? A guy?
"Hey Andrew, what's up with the Meatball? Who's beat me to her?"
"I did," told Andrew wryly.
"Well, well, well, what do we have here," drawled Darien, taking a seat at the
counter, "the Champion of Meatball Brains getting a rise out of his fair lady?"
"Darien, this isn't funny. She's my friend."
The arcade keeper's only answer was an arched brow, but, instead of responding,
he turned away to compose himself and fix his newly arrived friend a cup of
coffee. The two remained silent, both not knowing how to broach the subject and
ostensibly afraid that anything they would say could and would be used against
them. Of course there was also the matter of human pride, for neither was
willing to concede defeat by resuming the conversation. Not until there was a
suitable pretext.
"Andrew, how about another cup?"
"Coming right up."
"So what happened with Serena?"
"I don't want to talk about that."
"Fine with me," said Darien, seeing his chance to commence his own quest.
Who needed to be privy to Serena's reaction to Andrew's rejection anyway? "I
came because I wanted to ask you something."
Andrew's usually healthy complexion turned greenish, his shoulders stiffened,
his hands gripped the counter, his eyes bulged. Chest was heaving as if he were
choking, head hung limply above his collarbone; the friendly fellow was the
very epitome of petrified misery.
"This isn't happening," he mumbled, his voice actually trembling. "Please
tell me this isn't happening!"
"Cut the dramatics, pal. It's not like I'm asking you to marry me, so what's
the great deal?"
"You're not going to ask me what I think about you, do you?"
"What if I am?"
"I'm not telling you!"
"Come on, Andy, I can take it. We're friends, so it can't be that bad."
"Don't you understand that I don't feel comfortable talking about that!"
exploded Andrew, slamming his fists against the buffed surface and upsetting
Darien's cup. Both watched spellbound as the cup fell onto the counter and
its contents spilled onto Darien's lap. It's still searing contents.
"Aiiiieee," howled the ebony-headed youth, springing from his stool to
bounce around like a madman in an attempt to assuage the pain. "What is
it with you? Have you finally gone bonkers?"
"Look, man, I'm sorry..."
"Damn right you're sorry!"
"Why don't you go to the back room and change into my spare pants?"
"When you're this unreasonable! I'd rather face a youma!"
That said, Darien proceeded to unwittingly mirror Serena's movements from
less than half an hour ago. He turned away from Andrew, and briskly crossed
the space to the door, giving it a mighty shove. His exit, however, was
hindered by a slender leg that tripped him and sent him tumbling onto the
concrete of the sidewalk. Having barely intercepted his fall with his hands
and kept his head from hitting the hard surface, he embarked on thanking
the Savior, but his orisons were interrupted by a familiar whine.
"You're on my leg," it informed plaintively, "and I'm guessing that you've
also knocked me down with that door."
He scrambled to his feet and sighed.
"As cheesy as it sounds, we've got to stop meeting like that, Meatball
Head," he announced wearily, holding out his hand, which she readily
accepted.
"You're telling me? I'm the one who always gets bruised!"
"Anyway, what are you doing back here? I thought you were royally annoyed
with the idiot I used to call my best buddy."
"I came to apologize," she told, scuffing her tow. "I shouldn't have yelled
at him."
"I beg to differ, but then, you've never been a good judge of character,"
threw Darien, already walking away. The last thing he needed was arguing with
her, seeing as he was severely disadvantaged by the ugly stain on the front
area of his trousers. Who knew what kind of awful nickname she could have
come up with should she have noticed his predicament?
*********************************************************************
Serena entered the arcade to find its dejected manager slumped at his
usual place. Poor Andy, she thought, he must be in need of consolation,
having experienced discomfiture courtesy of the most proficient insult-wielder
in the city. But why would Darien lash out at his best friend? Ah, well,
guys will be guys, she gathered, setting her mind to the immediate task,
albeit, apologizing cheering Andrew up.
"Hi, Andrew," she nearly whispered, afraid he wouldn't talk to her. "I... I'm
really sorry. I had no right to treat you that way."
"Serena," he exclaimed, "boy am I glad to see you. I thought you'd never
forgive me."
"For what? For not upsetting me? For not saying what a klutz and a ditz
I am? I should have thanked you for being gentle with me, not railed at
you. I'm so sorry. It's not your fault that I'm not as good as I'd like
to be."
"Oh, Serena, don't you see? I don't think of you as a klutz and a ditz.
But I won't tell you what exactly I think because I know you'll jump to
all the wrong conclusions. All people tend to do that. You wouldn't have
trusted me even if I were sincere!"
"But I still want to know what people think of me!"
"Hmm, I might just have the recipe."
Andrew's head whipped up to reveal a devilish gleam in his eyes. His
right hand shot to grab an empty ice-cream cone, which he held next to
his lips. Then he tore off his apron, flung it in the direction of a
nearby booth, occupied with several young girls, and climbed to kneel
on the sterile counter.
"Have you ever heard about that American singer, Sher?"
Serena nodded her head indicating she didn't, and then all hell broke
loose.
"If ya wanna know if he loves you so it's in his kiss," sang the newly
initiated pop-star in a high-pitched falsetto, swaying his hips and
gesturing wildly with his free hand. "How 'bout the way he acts, oh, it
can be a way, but you've gotta listen to the words I say, if you wanna
know if he loves you so it's in his kiss. Oh, it's in his..."
The offhanded show would have gone on had Serena not hauled its star off
by his shirt collar, eliciting groans of protest and disappointment from
both Andrew and the arcade patrons.
"What on Earth do you mean?" she snarled, "that I have to kiss you, or
whatever person I want to ask?"
"No, you dope. You were not listening," he accused, discarding the
microphone-hyphen-cone, "that one is the last resort. You may start with
observing their actions towards you and other people."
"Huh?"
"Yea. Try observing their behavior, like a scientist."
"But I'm not smart enough."
"Allow me to demonstrate," enunciated Andrew with a flourish. "How do I
act towards the visitors?"
"Well, you always get their orders ASAP, you help kids play the games when
you're free, and you always joke around."
"And how do I act towards you?"
"You listen to me. You listen, and you help me think my problems
through."
"Which means..."
"That you're my friend, of course, what else could it mean?"
"That I like you as a friend, in spite of the fact that you're a dope."
"Thanks. You're a dope, too, you know."
"I know."
*********************************************************************
Darien's anger had disappeared along with the coffee stains from his tailored
trousers and the drops that had ended up on his cherished jacket. The ensuing
rational consideration of the day's occurrences yielded quite a few interesting
findings.
Number one. Direct interrogation as a means of figuring out his actions
and attitudes, which needed to be adjusted, was not as efficient as his
yesternight ruminations had let him to believe. For some reason people
didn't feel as comfortable discussing others in front of them as dissecting
them behind the their backs, which proved quite a handicap of his quest to
bring about positive changes of his personality. How was he supposed to change
if he wasn't aware of what exactly it was about him that alienated people?
Number two. Direct interrogations tended to vex one's already existing
friends, which posed numerous threats to one's mental and physical
well-being.
Number three. The information he needed could be obtained through other
means, active observation, for instance. According to his sociology
textbooks, the method, while being more involved and time-consuming, might
prove more accurate and objective, for the research population was unaware
of the fact, that they were being studied, and thus unable to affect the
results of the experiment.
And the last but not the least, number four. Being irritated at other people
seemed to facilitate being civil with the Meatball Head, which went against
most of the existing theories on the effects of anger.
*********************************************************************
After the traditional family dinner, Serena excused herself from her
parents and headed straight to her bedroom, bounding the stairs in record
time to lock away all possible spies, both human and feline. Her further
course of action required some serious preparation work, and if anybody
were to witness that, her reputation would be ruined.
Andrew had explained that observing several people was unproductive, as
she might miss significant detailed, so she needed to choose the subject
of her scrutiny. It had to be a friend, she decided, since she was well
aware of how her enemies regarded her. But there were so many! First,
there was Molly, but Serena didn't see her often enough to gather a
sufficient amount of data. Then there were the scouts, two of who, Amy
and Lita, spent most of the day with her, which meant they were the perfect
targets. Lastly, there was Raye. The grouchy, scolding, putting-down,
whose opinion seemed the most controversial. The reasons to decide against
choosing her were less amount of available information and the fact that
the priestess-to-be often acted as if she were an enemy.
"Well, Raye it is then," muttered Serena, rising from the bed to open a
new writing-pad and pen the name of her fiery friend on the top of the
first page.
*********************************************************************
Lying in his bed later that night, Darien was still contemplating the idea
to observe the behavior of his friends. Imagining the process, he realized
that watching several people at once would be tricky, and that he needed
to focus his energy on one person. But who would prove an ideal candidate?
There were not many to pick from, Andrew and Raye being his main
alternatives, and a few college acquaintances comprising the rest of the
list. Raye or Andrew, Andrew or Raye, the coffee-spiller or the eyelash-batter,
or would he be forced to spend more time at the campus? The choice was
tough, so Darien elected to resort to the only foolproof means he had at
his disposal. Throwing away the blanket, he got out of the bed to retrieve
a small object from his desk.
"Head for Raye, tails for Andrew," he called out into the darkness of the
room. He tossed the object up and caught it between his palms, then moved
the upper palm away to take a look.
"Well, Raye it is then."
*********************************************************************
So, what adventures are in store for our fav couple when they're openly
stalking the irritable Raye? Alas, you may never find out, unless your
kind words spur me into continuing.