Aly

July 20th, 1984

The doorbell rang. Josh finished buttoning his shirt and ran to the door with a bouquet of flowers in his hand. He put on a black coat, like the one you might see on a businessman or something.

"She's here, Aly," he called out.

I got of the couch and went to the door as Josh opened it. In front of us was a girl with red hair so curly, it looked like she never combed it. Her skin was light, and a spray of freckles spread across her face. She had a huge smile, and bright blue eyes that put the sky to shame.

"Ashley," Josh began, clearing his throat. "I'm Josh Black. I believe we'll be going to Boston Pizza right now."

Josh held out his hand. Ashley took it, and glanced over my brother's shoulder to see me.

"Is that Alyssa?" she asked, her eyes widening a little.

"Yeah," Josh said, looking over his shoulder. "We call her Aly for short. Be safe, kid. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Ash and I will be back at eight. Be safe."

Ashley and Josh only knew each other for a few seconds, and he was already calling her Ash like he knew her for three years. I found it interesting how quickly Josh could give someone a nickname after meeting them. I still do.

Daria

July 22nd, 1984

I pound on Nico's door. It's noon, and as always, Nico sleeps in. Actually, he does that a lot. After he eats, he goes straight back to sleep...if you even call hardly eating a bite or two of food each meal eating. Even though it's summer and he's supposed to be hanging out with us and his friends, I feel like he's not ever there. He is there, except it's like he's dead and he's now a ghost.

Not that I can imagine Nico dead.

I sigh and open the door. Nico's snoring, and his blanket is on the floor, along with sugar and brown powder. Cocaine and heroin.

I keep thinking I should tell Dad about it, but I'm scared of what Nico might do to me if Dad knows. I haven't even talked to Nico about it since what, February or March?

I walk into the room and shake Nico. He stirs and groans, but his eyes aren't opening.

"Wake up!" I shout, shaking him again. This time, he sits up and rubs the grit out of his eyes, moaning. Even thought this is a habit now, it always scares me how skinny Nico is. Dad even says if someone were to compare me and Nico, I'd like I was overweight because he's so skinny. Not to mention I never see him wear short-sleeved shirts anymore. Even in summer, he wears full sleeved shirts. It's like he doesn't feel warm.

"It's noon!" I yell. "Get out of bed and go out for a walk! Eat something."

"Fine!" Nico snaps. "Just...wait."

He continues rubbing grit. I put my hands on my hips.

"It's like you're a ghost, Nico," I say, "You're always there, but never around."

What a poetic expression. I always liked poetry. That's something I really don't get about myself.

Nico looks up at me. "I sometimes feel like you'll be happier without me," he says.

What? Why would he think I'm happier without him?

"What's that supposed to mean?" I ask.

"We never get along. You always seem to want to fight."

"No I don't. Besides, I can't imagine a world without you."

"Even when I went to uni, you couldn't imagine a world without me."

"Yeah," I say. Wait, what? Come to think about it, even though he was hardly around when he was in uni, I really never thought what it would be like for him to never be around. I guess that's because there were visits from him and letters on the weekends.

But what if there were no letters? No visits? It would be like he was dead.

After a long silence, Nico says, "You'll be rid of me soon, Daria. Then you'll be very happy."

"What do you mean by you'll be rid of me soon?" I'm full on yelling now. Something feels wrong. I've had this feeling something was wrong since Christmas. The heroin and cocaine I found in his bedroom doesn't help. Neither does the fact that lately, he hates stuff he normally likes. Even back in October, he still liked reading, going out for walks, and sometimes even snowboarding. He also isn't eating a lot, and he sleeps so much. Now he's saying stuff like how I'll be happier without him. He's been saying that stuff for about three days. Something's not right.

"You'll see," he says, "now get out."

I stare at the plate of uneaten food Nico just left at the table. It's food from McDonald's: French fries, a burger, and Coke. I'm feeling hungry, so I take a fry and begin eating it. Not that it's going to matter if I do, because Nico only ate three fries. Literally. I don't know why he's eating so little.

The doorbell rings, and I run to it. I open the door and find Eddie, Nico's friend, standing there. Like most of Nico's friends, I don't really know Eddie that well. He and Nico were always at his house or outside.

"Can I see Nico?" Eddie asks, "I feel like I never see him."

"I never see him either," I say. "He hardly eats, and he's always sleeping." I look at Eddie. "You know Nico. Do you think something's wrong with him?"

"Naw. Don't think so."

I stop for a moment. If I let Eddie in, maybe Nico will start eating more and sleeping less.

"You can see Nico." I move away and let him come in. For a moment, I think of asking Eddie if he knows anything about Nico using heroin and cocaine, but I decide not to. It's not my problem.