A/N: Whoo! Hard work tonight! But I hope it's work that's appreciated, because I do so love writing stories, and I like to think I'm a pretty good tale-spinner. Don't be shy, let me know how I'm doing! And in the meantime, here's chapter 11 for your reading pleasure!
Wolf: Happy National Duck Day to you, as well! Hats off to all you ducks out there!
Skraku: Yeah, I can see a few of their classmates snorting in amusement at the insult, as well. And I might just put that situation in, kudos for coming up with it!
Penny: Continuation-ness! Happiness?
Monica: As always, I'm glad you're enjoying! Monica will get hers, have no fear, it's just going to take a while longer. You know how tough it is to change someone's attitude about something. *wink* Speaking of whom, we have a little more focus on her this chappie, so I hope you like.
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When Monica arrived at school the next day, she was ready for a fresh start. She's cried her way through the funeral, cried her way home, cried her way to sleep. She'd loved her uncle. There was nothing anyone could do or say to change that. He, unlike her parents, had been loving and kind to her. Stern, when he had to be – for example, he'd never tolerated her foul language under his roof – but also gentle. Whenever her parents – particularly her mother, whom she couldn't stand – did something to wrong her, she'd always been able to go to Uncle Marty and sort things out. If not in action, then at least in word. He'd help her see one of two things: either that whatever was being done was for the best, or a way to avoid such a situation again.
Uncle Marty hadn't been able to see why his brother had become so infatuated with the woman, actually. He'd never seen them as a good match. Monica's father had claimed it was "love at first sight", which Marty had scoffed at. Marty had never married, primarily because he'd never found a woman who seemed right for him. Of course he had no children either, and this was something Monica was happy about. She could just go over to his house and not have anyone else interrupt them while she poured her heart out to him.
I'm not a cruel bitch to everyone, she thought. It may seem like it, but I'm not... I hate all the assholes that plague this place, and I'm not too fond of my own family, but Uncle Marty... I loved him.
But she couldn't go to him anymore.
She'd never felt more alone in her life.
The girls who kept following her around did only that: they followed. They had no real interest in Monica's personal life, only an interest in catching whatever glory she decided to let pass her by.
Whatever boys she was with, she went with them purely to piss her mother off. She knew that her mother didn't approve of any male she hung out with, whether it was on a friendly basis – come to think of it, Monica didn't have any of those – or on a boyfriend/girlfriend basis (and this was according to the boy, not Monica, who didn't believe in becoming a girlfriend to any one of those guys, and screw whatever they had to say about the experience).
As much as she hated to admit it, Kyle had been right yesterday. None of them had shown any interest in helping her to her feet. How very ironic that he had offered his hand to her.
She shook her head. No. No way. No way will I ever let that asshole touch me. I don't know what he's playing at, but I'll never let him touch me. He would have just dropped me again. That's all everyone ever does. Try to pick me up, like some damned party favor, and then drop me when they're finished with me. No more of that shit.
Yet, his words still ran rampant in her mind. "If someone offers you help, don't automatically assume it's because they find you sad or piteous."
She scoffed. I sure FEEL sad and piteous right about now.
She made her way to her locker, trying to ignore her environment, which mostly consisted of brick, metal, vapid girls sans brains, and guys doing catcalls at seductively-dressed females – one of which, she was not, today. Some days she was, some days she wasn't. Sometimes she liked the catcalls, other times she hated them.
This was one of those days she just couldn't stand drawing attention to herself. She wasn't sure if this was a first or not.
When she arrived at her locker, however, she found something she hadn't expected at all.
A single yellow rose had been stuck into one of the ventilation slots by its stem. A minuscule segment of card paper was attached to it by a string.
She frowned and gingerly plucked the miniature card from the rose, then opened it. It bore only two words.
My condolences.
She blinked. Yellow roses signify friendship. One of the staff? The principal, maybe? Certainly not a student, no student would give me this. Guys don't have the balls to give me flowers. She harrumphed, a slightly amused sound. Well, at least someone went to the effort.
She pulled the rose out of the slot and quickly stashed it under her coat. She'd been angled in such a way that the girls behind her hadn't seen it yet, and she much preferred to keep it that way.
She craned her head down slightly and smelled the rose. Mmm. Very nice. Strange that someone would do something nice for me. Definitely had to be the principal.
She opened her locker, stuck the rose inside, and prepared herself for the day.
--
Kyle and Chubs walked past Monica's locker row about a minute after they spotted her arrival, and they dared to peek down the row. She was standing there, hastily sticking something inside before pushing her hair away from her face.
As soon as they were past the row, Chubs couldn't help but snicker. "Kyle, if I didn't think you were insane before, I do now. What you're doing is nothing short of crazy."
Kyle shrugged. "Maybe. But I figure she really could use a friendly gesture right about now. She'd never accept it from me personally. You and I both know that. After the funeral yesterday, though..."
Chubs raised an eyebrow. "Don't tell me you actually attended."
"I didn't. But I talked to Mrs. Simons, who did, and she said that Monica was totally broken-hearted. So I decided I'd do something nice for her. Anonymously nice, of course, but nice, nonetheless."
"She's not gonna appreciate you for it, even if she finds out it was you. Besides which, she probably wouldn't believe you even if you told her."
"I don't plan to. That's the fun of it. Maybe, if I try to subtly change Monica's attitude, it'll turn out to be all the best for me. She'll leave me alone, not yell curses at me every time I walk by–"
"Like just now?"
"Yep. Too busy finding out someone's being nice to her."
"This is a strange plan you've got going, Kyle."
"Just follow me on it."
Chubs shrugged. "Like I have anything else to do? I'm having fun watching this."
"Sure, you've got something else to do." Kyle chuckled. "Play Duel Monsters against me until I start winning constantly."
Chubs scoffed, putting on his game face. "No offense, my friend, but you are a long way from that."
"No doubt. Which is why I need to start collecting some cards. The same stuff over and over again isn't cutting it, not with the deck you've got. Show me a good place to do that."
"Will do. I'll take you by the local card shop after school. It's not too far from here."
"Sounds good. Now help me out on this concept. Magic cards can only be played on your own turn?"
"Most magic cards. There are some called quick-play magic cards, and those can be activated anytime after you've placed them face-down on the field, even during your opponent's turn."
"Okay. And trap cards can only be activated after the turn in which you set them?"
"Right."
"And traps have to be set face-down. Can't be played face-up."
"Exactly. I think you're getting it."
"You told me, though," said Kyle, "that there are some traps that are faster than others."
"Right. Like, for example, Waboku. That's a normal trap. But Seven Tools of the Bandit, that's a fast trap. And Seven Tools is designed to stop the activation of a trap card."
"Normal or fast?"
"Either one. Fast traps can be played against each other. I could have a Seven Tools on my field, and you could have one on yours. You activate Waboku, I activate my Seven Tools to stop it, you activate your Seven Tools to stop my Seven Tools. That way, Waboku still works. See?"
"Not really, but I'll go with you on it."
Chubs laughed. "Good lord, boy, start learning something!"
--
One Week Later
--
Half a dozen yellow roses had collected in Monica's locker by now. The cards no longer said "My condolences" on them, though. She wondered if it was because their bearer figured that it would continue reminding her of her loss. Now they said simply, "A friend."
Whoever the staff member is, they're being unnaturally nice to me, she thought. Either it's a really nice teacher, or maybe it is a student after all. But who would...?
She shook her head as she placed the sixth rose alongside her collection. I guess it doesn't matter. They're giving me yellow roses for a reason. Maybe there's someone out there who might actually want to be my friend? Either it's that or one of the girls behind me is trying to play a devilish trick to get me to be nicer to them. She resisted the urge to scowl at the collected vapidity behind her.
I wonder if whoever the rose-bearer is realizes I'm going to be gone for about a week. She snickered. Wouldn't that be something. Another five roses jammed into the vents, whoever-it-is scratching their head, going, "Where the hell did she go?" And then me, walking in, catching them in the act. Oh, how sweet that would be.
She found herself humming a nameless tune as she made her way to her first class.
--
Two Days Later
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"Hmm. She hasn't shown up for two days now. I'm running out of places to put them," said Kyle, well after school hours.
Chubs sighed. "Maybe you should ask a teacher about her whereabouts, if you're so worried. For all you know, she got sick and stayed home a couple days."
"I could do that. Probably should ask Mrs. Simons, Monica has a class with her."
"She still in at this point?"
"Could always check."
Kyle and Chubs drifted their way across the school, half of which was dark by now. They made their way to Mrs. Simons' Chemistry classroom, where the teacher was just finished cleaning up a nasty hydrochloric acid spill on one of the science lab tables in the back. She glanced up and blinked at them. "Well, hello, gentlemen! What can I do for you so late after school? Not late for detention, I hope."
Chubs laughed outright, while Kyle merely scoffed. "No, not today. Besides, this isn't the detention room for today. That's Stocker's job, remember?"
"Of course I do." She winked at them. "What brings you by?"
"It may sound like an awkward question," said Kyle, "but do you happen to know where Monica Zocallos disappeared to?"
"Ah. As a matter of fact, I do. She went off on some sort of vacation a couple days ago. She's not going to be back until next Tuesday, from what she told me. Got her work finished ahead of time and everything. No idea where, exactly, she went off to, though."
"A vacation, hm?" Kyle mused. Wonder if she'll have the experience I had. Probably not.
"Something wrong, fellas?" Mrs. Simons' expression was inquisitive.
Chubs shook his head. "No, nothing at all. Just curious."
She raised an eyebrow is response to this. "Curious, eh? Why would Kyle McCraine wonder where Monica Zocallos is? Planning to vandalize her locker door or some such?"
"Hardly. Just wondering, that's all," Kyle said blithely. "Thanks for letting us know."
"Allrighty. Don't hesitate to drop by anytime. Gets lonely after hours, you know." She grinned. "Seeya later."
As they walked out of the school, Chubs smirked at Kyle. "Would roses be considered vandalism?"
Kyle shrugged. "All depends. If you hate roses, then yes. But so far I haven't see any adverse reaction from her. And her mood seemed slightly improved, as opposed to the usual."
"But is it the roses, or could it be something else?" Chubs raised an eyebrow. "And in either case, how long can it last?"
The senior shrugged again. "I guess we'll find out."
--
It would have to happen in the Kremlin.
It seemed very strange to Monica to come all this way for a simple transaction. Especially in the dead of winter, where temperatures were even more abominable here than back on her side of the globe.
The transaction was to take place just beyond Lenin's tomb. The exact location had been detailed to her in the e-mail. She'd stepped onto that precise spot nearly fifteen minutes ago, and now she was standing here in the bitter cold. Luckily she'd brought a burly coat for protection.
She'd already toured the tomb and seen the body of Lenin. To her surprise, except for just the slightest hint of a waxy composure (no doubt, due to the age of the body), Lenin looked pretty good for a dead man.
She glanced off to her right. There was a billboard stationed high above the normal tourist crowds, and atop that billboard had once been the KremlinKam, a camera that sent pictures into the Internet for the whole world to see. She had no idea if it was still in operation or not, but she decided she'd find out once she got home. She giggled to herself. That would be the funniest thing in the world, to have this business go on right under the entire world's nose!
She glanced around. It was nearly midnight. Most people had cleared out of the tomb hours before, once visiting hours were overwith. There still were several late-night tourists hanging around, taking pictures of Red Square. Monica harrumphed in amusement. None of those sights are nearly as interesting as this one will be.
As she glanced about, she became aware of one of the Russian elite guards approaching her from the other side of the chain that guarded the tomb, resplendent in his uniform. She rolled her eyes. Great. Just what I needed. What did I do wrong, and how much money do I have to pay you to stay quiet?
The guard offered her a small smile, but the smile didn't reach his eyes, which had a darkness she suspected even the brightest light would be unable to penetrate. Out of his mouth came a quiet rush of words in heavily accented English.
"The night is unusually dark tonight, is it not?" he said. "It is almost as if there was a ritual of black illusion happening in the evening sky, that even with the coming of the sun will not be relinquished."
Monica's eyes widened, and her brows shot up. THIS is the guy? Wow. She remembered her part of the password. "One wonders if there is not some dance commencing even now, with an earthly performance of swords."
The guard nodded once and carefully slipped a gloved hand inside his coat. "You have the payment, yes?"
"Only if you have the item," she whispered. "Show it to me."
He produced the item she spoke of. Her eyes gleamed with delight, but then she trained her gaze on the guard once again. "Move it around. Just a little. I must know if it is real, as you say."
"It is real, I assure you," he responded, but nevertheless he tilted it this way and that, casting light on it from all directions, giving Monica the reassurance she needed. "And now I must see the payment."
"Of course." Monica reached into an inner coat pocket and removed a colossal wad of Russian money. "But you may not have it until I have the item."
The Russian growled, but he had few options. He had a family to feed, and the guard job was abominable. He handed the item to Monica; a mere moment later, the bills were in his hand.
Monica gave one more glance to the billboard and the KremlinKam that was supposedly still atop it. Yeah... screw you, world. I'm doing this all by myself. Watch me as I screw you over!
She looked back to the guard. "Do you know where the others are?"
"They are already purchased," he answered. "That was the last of them. You must seek them out yourself."
She nodded. "Thank you."
Without responding, he walked briskly back to his post.
She stashed the item in question in her inner pocket and quickly made her way back to her hotel. I'm not out of it yet. Now I need to get back home without anyone knowing.
--
Kyle stepped into Dr. Dawson's office and promptly sat down in the most comfortable chair there – the one to the right of the desk. "Allrighty, Doc, what can you do to fix me up?"
Dawson laughed. "Listen. It's what I do best, or at least that's what I like to think. You need 'fixing up'?"
"My parents seem to think so," Kyle responded. "Though I wonder if they're starting to think this service has suddenly become a waste."
"Oh? How so?"
"Well, look at me!" Kyle jumped up to his feet and paced back and forth. "Suddenly, I'm getting active! Involved! And you may have noticed that my vocabulary has improved a bit since our first meeting."
"Well, yes, I would have to agree on that point," Dawson conceded with a chuckle. "But only in part. The vocabulary you actively display is much improved from that first day. But I'm willing to believe you've had the vocabulary all along, just not the willingness to use it."
"Okay, so I guess you're wondering what my problems are now, right?" Kyle leaned down over the back of the comfy chair.
"The thought had crossed my mind."
"All right, then, I'll tell you about this one thing I've got going." Kyle racked his brain, trying to get his thoughts together into something cohesive. "No more stream-of-consciousness from me, you're going to hear something that's worth hearing."
"It doesn't matter how you speak to me, Kyle, I'll listen to you no matter how you choose to present the information," Dawson answered. He leaned back in his seat and patiently waited for Kyle to gather his thoughts.
"Whew. Okay. So I've told you about my troubles with Monica, right?"
"Monica Zocallos."
"Yeah. Well, I dunno if you heard, but her uncle died a couple weeks ago, and she was all teary-eyed about it."
Dawson nodded. "I read about the funeral in the paper. This isn't a big town, so deaths of rich people, or relatives of rich people, are big news."
"Yeah. And I told you what happened the day of the funeral, right?"
"Yes, I believe so... you were in here that day, as I recall. You said she stepped on your toe. I trust it hasn't given you any trouble since then."
"Oh, no, no, not at all. But I told you what I did, right?"
Dawson nodded again. "You told me that she tripped, and that you offered to help her get back to her feet. And she didn't take it, and instead set upon you with a stream of particularly foul language."
"Something like that. Then she attended the funeral that afternoon, and I thought to myself, 'Why don't I try to do something nice for her for a change?'" Kyle sat down in the chair again. "Problem is, Monica and I, we've never been nice to each other. Never ever. Not a single thought of being nice had ever crossed our minds, as long as we'd known each other. When I offered to help her up, maybe she couldn't accept it because she couldn't accept the thought of me, of all people, trying to be nice to her."
"Hmm. So you, the most unlikely of helpers, come along to offer her a hand, and she refuses because she can't stand to see you doing something to her benefit?"
"Maybe that's it. I dunno." Kyle scratched his head.
"What provoked you to be nice to her?"
Kyle shrugged. "Originally, it was just a plot to scare her away from me. But now it's turned into something else. It's like... I'm trying to get her into a better mood or something."
"A better mood?" Dawson leaned forward and laced his fingers on top of his desk. "And how did you plan to do this?"
"Well, the day after her uncle died, I talked to one of the teachers, who told me how broken up Monica was over the entire thing. So I thought, 'Maybe what Monica needs isn't a scare tactic, but maybe just a genuinely nice action. Anonymous, maybe, so that she can accept it more easily.' Of course, it was too early to call up a florist, what with school hours–"
"A florist? You thought of giving Monica flowers?" Dawson asked, intrigued.
"Well... yeah. I figure if anything can help improve a girl's mood, it's flowers, especially when she doesn't ask for them. That or chocolates, and I can't fit chocolates into the vent slots on her locker. Except for maybe Hershey bars."
Dawson guffawed. "Please, do continue. I'm fascinated by this story. What did you do?"
"Well, actually, I, um... kinda dug into someone's garden." Kyle grinned sheepishly. "Neighbor to the school. Had a huge garden, dozens of flowers, you couldn't keep track of them all, and the yellow roses were most abundant, and seemed most appropriate, so I..." Kyle made a motion of uprooting a flower, although both of them knew that certainly wasn't how one plucked a rose.
Dawson tsked. "Naughty, naughty. I certainly hope you compensated for the loss of a flower, in some way."
"Sure did, but I lied to the poor woman. Told her some juveniles were out raiding her yard and I chased them away, then gave her some money to get a bunch more bulbs."
The psychologist shook his head, grinning. "You've got a strange method about things, Kyle. But you gave her money to buy more bulbs, so your heart was in the right place somewhere. What did you do with the rose? Stuck it in the vent slot of Monica's locker, I presume."
"Yep. And she never knew it was me. After that I called the florist, just so that poor neighbor woman wouldn't have to suffer any more losses. And my hands, too, I caught a couple of those thorns." Kyle grinned. "Anyway, it just kinda turned into a habit. A yellow rose for each day after her uncle's death. I put a note on all of them. The first one said 'my condolences' and the ones after that said 'a friend'. Now, though, she's gone off on some vacation and won't be back until next week."
Dawson cocked his head to one side. "So what's the problem? You can't leave her roses every day?"
"I guess the problem is I don't know what I should do if she ends up finding out it was me all along." Kyle sighed. "She hates my guts. And I've hated hers for a long time, too. But she needs a friend, I think. I've never seen her hang out with any real friends."
"So she needs a friend. A friend like yourself?"
"Maybe. Or maybe a friend like Chubs. I dunno. Probably would do better to befriend Chubs than me, for starters." Kyle scratched the back of his neck. "Look, I've been through some messed up stuff. And I know what it's like to lose someone unexpectedly. The kid wasn't family, but still... his death kinda broke apart this clique we had set up. After that, everything changed. I'm just hoping Monica won't go the same way I did." He offered a wry grin. "If she does, she might end up worse than me."
Dawson leaned back and crossed his arms. "Then maybe what Monica needs is something to focus her attention away from the sadness. If the roses don't do it, do you know of anything that might?"
Kyle rummaged through several possibilities, all far too extreme for his tastes.
And then the answer hit him.
"Duel Monsters. She loves proving she's better than everyone else." He grinned, the solution unfolding before him. "I'll train up and, when the time is right, challenge her to a duel."
"A tall order, isn't it?" Dawson arched an eyebrow. "You told me that Monica's got a reputation as a duelist."
"Yeah, she does. So I'll make myself a challenge first. No point in challenging someone if you're not going to be a challenge. If nothing else, it'll be a distraction... and might just bring her some satisfaction, too."
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Wow, I didn't know where the heck I was going to stop writing for this chapter! Long one, eh? I hope you enjoyed it. And now... *shamelessly begs for reviews* Please tell me how I'm doing, what you like and don't like! I'm eager to know what you think, my fellow authors! Just hit the little Go button down there! Up next, Kyle and Chubs attend a Duel Monsters underground tourney, and Kyle stumbles across an unexpected former acquaintance. Stay tuned!