Chapter 9 - Just a Friend
(...Dimmsdale High...two days later...)
Trixie stalks the crowded hallways of the school. Usually, the rich girl is careful not to bump into anyone, but today, she's angry enough to knock people down (which she does), and the scowl on her face suggests that she doesn't care who knows it. On her mind is the realization that she's been dumped - twice - by Timmy Turner.
'Who does he think he is?! Doesn't he know what I can give him? Uhhh! He still loves her. Her! Not me! She won't get away with this!'
In her rage, she shoulder bumps Tootie, who walks in the opposite direction. The cheerleader turns and glances at the angry girl, but ultimately, neither brunette acknowledges the other. Tootie shrugs her shoulders and steps into Mr. McKenzie's classroom.
The educator looks over a lesson plan when two sheets of paper (stapled together at the top) drift onto his desk. He looks up at the person giving him the document.
"Tootie! This is a pleasant surprise!"
He takes the paper and looks over it for a minute.
"I must say this is terrific. I love this hand-writing."
The senior blushes. "Thanks."
"Are you feeling better?"
"I'm getting there."
"That's good. I have a strong feeling that the scholarship is in the proverbial bag." He places it in a manila folder under some books on his desk. The teacher grabs the lot of items and straightens them out. Unfortunately, the staple from the paper gets caught on the back of the folder, causing the top of the page to stick out. "That is, if it's better than the other essays."
Tootie goes pale. "Other...essays?"
"Yes. Didn't you know this was a state-wide competition?"
"I must've missed that part."
The brunette shuffles to her seat among the few other students already there.
"Don't worry." Tootie turns around. "I have faith in you and your essay." She smiles nervously.
(...Mr. McKenzie's room...that afternoon...)
A knock at the door alerts the teacher, cleaning off his blackboard.
"Come in."
The door opens, and who should walk in but Trixie. For someone called in to see a teacher after school, her mood is surprisingly upbeat.
"Good afternoon, Mr. McKenzie."
"Would that I could respond in kind."
She sits at a desk in the front. "Pardon?"
"Do you know why you're here?"
"Bad grades?" She knew the answer well enough, but was nervous about sharing.
"Just the tip of the iceberg." Mr. McKenzie walks to his desk and produces a number of sheets dressed in red ink. "Poor test results, incomplete assignments, missing papers."
Trixie bites her lip. The educator sits on his desk.
"I know there are no bad students; only bad teachers. But I've tried my best to get students to understand the material. Are you sure you've been trying to get anything out of this class."
"I have been trying; so very hard, but nothing seems to stick."
"Were you, at least, seeing the tutors?" Trixie gulps a bit. Her grades may have needed the boost, but the thought of wasting her time with geeks was too repulsive.
"Well, what am I supposed to do?"
"Complete the rest of the course, take the final and pray." Mr. McKenzie turns around and goes to his briefcase. He opens it and looks around. "I know you're not dumb. No one who walks in here is. I just feel that when a student gets a failing grade, it's not me failing them. It's the student, because they wouldn't try."
Trixie rolls her eyes a bit at the lecture. It soon becomes a muffled background noise as she notices a piece of paper sticking out of a folder on the desk. She squints a little at the dainty writing at the top. She can barely make out the upside-down name: Tootie Flanagan. Her eyes widen as a couple of thoughts come back to her:
"Vicky Flanagan...he's dating my sister, the worm." "I still love her."
A devious, Grinch-like smile creeps onto the rich girl's face. She notices that Mr. McKenzie is still going through his briefcase. Trixie snatches Tootie's paper and stuffs it into her backpack. The teacher looks up at her.
"Trixie?"
Her head jerks up. "Yes?"
"Have you seen a manila folder somewhere?"
She looks at his desk.
"You mean this one?" She points it out.
"Oh, yes. Thank you." He takes the folder and puts it in his briefcase.
"So...is that all, Mr. McKenzie?"
"Yes. I want you to strongly think about what I said." Trixie gathers her papers together and puts them in her backpack. She heads for the door. "I hope this meeting has helped you."
"Oh, it has." The brunette walks out and glances at the essay in her bag. "In ways you could never imagine." Trixie is too enamored of her scheme to worry about cliche as she walks down the hall and laughs loudly.
(...Dimmsdale High...the next morning...)
The next day brings the usual chatting and trudging from the human cattle. However, there is one bright spot. To look at her today, one would never have known that Tootie was in a down mood. The smile on her face, the spring in her step; she is a changed woman.
She passes by Mr. McKenzie's classroom. The teacher looks up from his papers and rushes into the hall.
"Tootie!"
The brunette stops.
"I'm so glad I found you."
"What's the matter?"
"It's the strangest thing. I seem to have misplaced your paper."
Tootie gasps. "Please tell me you're kidding."
"You have no idea how much I wish I was. It was in my folder, and when I went to turn it in, it was gone."
The senior's legs start to buckle. She collapses into a nearby seat and buries her head in her folded arms.
"I'm thinking it wouldn't help to ask how you're doing."
Tootie offers a groan in response.
"There's still time to turn in another copy."
She raises her head. "But I put so much into it. There was so much I had to say."
"I know you can say it again."
The brunette exhales.
(...the Flanagan's house...that afternoon...)
Tootie sits at the computer. Her mood is distinctly different than it was this morning. For the last hour, she's struggled to remember exactly what she wrote the first time. A grunt escapes her lips.
Vicky walks behind her. "How long are you going to be on there? I need to check on an auction I'm winning."
"I'm kind of busy here on a school project."
The redhead storms off to the front door. She looks down at a small stack of letters at her feet. Vicky picks the stack up and thumbs through it. She stops at a particular letter addressed to her. Her eyes widen at seeing the return address:
Donna Winters
473 Thackeray Road
Baltimore, MD 35764
At least, that's how it looked to her; the zip code was quite smudged, and Donna's handwriting was never the neatest.
Without a word, Vicky drops the remaining parcel and rushes up to her room.
(...Vicky's room...)
It was just as she left it years ago. She jumps on the bed and rips open the envelope. The redhead takes out the letter and reads:
Vicky,
What's up? I hope this letter finds you well. I checked the Dimmsdale Times website every day, and since I never saw your obituary, I figured 'She has to be alive.' I'm pretty mad at you, though, I haven't heard a damn word from you in years. Haven't you been getting my letters?
Vicky looks at the envelope and sees her address: 349 Garrison Ave.
(...another house...some time ago...)
A man flips through his letters, all addressed to the same man: Louis Dinkleberg, 375 Garrison Ave. He stops at a letter for a Vicky Flanagan.
"Honey, do we know a 'Donna' or a 'Vicky'?"
"You know we don't. Toss it."
(...Vicky's room...)
The young woman lays on her bed staring at the letter.
Anyway, my life's going great. I've been promoted at my job. It's nothing, though: let me tell you, it is wicked easy to get ahead here. All you really have to do is show up and do the work. That puts me way ahead of the game.
I miss you so much. We may not have gotten to go to high school together like we wanted, but I just know our paths will cross again. You were a good friend and the nicest person I've ever met. I sure hope your attitude hasn't changed any over the years.
At this moment, a couple of tears drip onto the letter. Vicky puts the letter down and allows her mind to wander over the many times she and Donna hung out: going to the movies, playing in each other's yards, running in the park.
Her mind then goes to the nastiness she's inflicted on the citizens of Dimmsdale. She starts to quiver, almost on the verge of blubbering.
I also miss seeing your little sister, Tootie. She was so adorable. I remember how we'd look after her. Being an only child, it was so wonderful spending time with the two of you.
Amazingly, she wills herself to finish reading.
But listen to me go on and on. I really hope to hear from you soon.
Donna
P.S. Here's hoping that you haven't been giving anyone grief, especially people wearing pink.
Vicky looks away.
(...in front of Donna's house...ten years ago...)
The newly teenage redhead looks mournfully into an empty house. A sign on the front lawn reads 'Sold'. Vicky wipes away the tears welling up in her eyes and runs down the street. She turns a corner and knocks down a little brown-haired boy walking in the opposite direction. He dusts himself off and stands to his feet. Looking to the ground, he sees a few teardrops next to his pink hat.
He picks it up and calls after the girl, who hadn't stopped to help him up.
"Lady, are you all right?"
Vicky stops and walks toward him.
"Are you all right?"
With a rage that was never there before, Vicky lifts the lad up by his shirt and snarls.
"What's it to you, twerp?!"
She tosses him away.
(...Vicky's room...moments later...)
The letter is on the floor and Vicky's head is buried in her hands. A sound of sadness (and remorse) that people were convinced would never return emanated from her; she was actually sobbing.
After about a minute, her phone rings. She picks it up.
"Hey. It's Trixie. Meet me at the mall in twenty."
Vicky puts down the phone.
(...Dimmsdale Mall...25 minutes later...)
Trixie and Vicky sit on a bench. The brunette has her backpack on her lap.
"Why are we here?"
"You never know when you might see something you like."
The rich girl opens her backpack and produces a bunch of papers. They seem like the ones given to her by Mr. McKenzie (among other teachers), but they have nothing but accolades written on them.
"I wanted to show you these." She hands Vicky the documents. "They look the same, but aren't. Computers are amazing, aren't they?"
The redhead looks through the pile, boasting such superlatives as 'Excellent Work!' and 'Much Improved!'. "Incredible. You did these?"
"Oh, no. I paid off a couple of geeks to do it for me."
(...a computer lab...yesterday afternoon...)
With $50 bills sticking out of their pockets, Elmer and Sanjay anxiously type away at the terminals.
"I told you taking this computer course was a good idea", replied the once boil-ridden, now acne-ridden teen.
"Yes. This class was surprisingly lucrative."
(...Dimmsdale Mall...)
"I'm amazed."
"I was hoping you would be."
Vicky notices some papers in Trixie's bag.
"What are those?"
"The real McCoys. I couldn't do the new ones without the originals."
Trixie closes the flap of her backpack.
"Even more, I couldn't have done it without you. You inspired me to take control of my life, no matter what."
Vicky hands back the papers. "Thanks...I think."
Trixie exhales. "What a week it's been. Between these new papers and destroying that essay..."
"Wait. What essay?"
"This essay your sister was writing."
Vicky stares a bit, then shakes her head. "Not that it matters too much, but she was working pretty hard on that."
"Well, maybe she should've worked harder on that and not on screwing with my plans."
"Plans?"
"Is there an echo in here? Plans, all right?" The brunette isn't too keen on telling Vicky that she still loves Timmy, in spite of their history.
Trixie turns around. Her face lights up.
"Oh, wow. A sale on scarves! I'll be right back."
The senior runs into a store: Shawls and Stuff. Vicky scoffs at her friend. She looks over at where Trixie was sitting and notices that she left her backpack on the bench.
Vicky glances at the forged documents. She clutches them in her hand and rips them up. The redhead stuffs the remnants into a nearby trash can.
As Trixie walks back with a bag full of scarves, Vicky thinks to herself: 'Don't say I never did anything for you, Tootie'.