Not quite.
"Did Mr. Fernandez approve it yet?"
"Idk, ask Luan Loud."
"Luan" A group mate tagged. "Wya?"
Her stomach flipped over on itself. And that wasn't because of the pizza party.
Shoot. Shoot. Shoot.
She held a tight grin, laughing sheepishly to herself. The script.
Mr. Fernandez was at the awarding earlier, though. They saw each other. They even interacted. He said he was moving it to the day after tomorrow. Luan slouched against her bedframe, pulling the sleeves of her pajamas down. Relax, relax. Relax.
They could just… who was she kidding? She couldn't just have them practice on the morning of their performance!
Tomorrow… it was their only chance of getting the least bit rehearsals. And she hadn't even written anything yet!
She turned her phone off and rolled over until she faced the wall. Light from the window bleeding into their room, barely painting the dark with yellow. Luan buried her face into the pillow and groaned. Lisa could always…nah, she didn't dabble into theater play like that—and even if she asked, begged, willingly volunteered as her guinea pig—she was already asleep! "Creativity takes time, shishter." Grghhh.
Lincoln? Nah, he was a comic book specialist. Not a playwright!
Mom? No, busy.
And either way, if she even picked any of them, they were all under the same status: asleep.
She pushed her face out the cushion to breathe in a strangled gasp. Note to self, don't shove your face into a pillow for too long. Luan turned her phone on and squinted at the familiar adjustment her eyes had to make. The fun's over. Time to go back to suffering.
She opened her notes. Mr. Fernandez already to me them what he wanted… right. Artist. Life. More research. Scrolling through her drafts of plays and random thoughts, aha. Van Gogh went Go.
Luan snickered. Lol.
Better title than Whitney's.
The entire draft Whitney originally wrote was there. Now, all she needed to do was… to refine it. Weave more details, more scenes, more tangible scoops of his life into this 5-minute summary play.
It would only be five minutes, yeah, but take her the rest of her morning to write.
Disapproved.
Directly after the first draft she wrote, missing five hours of sleep that evening. "It needs more detail… blah, blah, blah, words I can't comprehend."
Luan wasn't dumb—no, far from it, but God, Mr. Fern had his way of words that just… Even Lisa or Luna or Lucy—master of mumbo-jumbo linggo would find Chinese-level difficult.
It took her the whole night, yet again, but she managed to come up with the perfect solution. Lisa had made a website of her own, exclusive to her family—and honestly she felt super stupid for forgetting that existed this entire time.
Nobody used it yet but her. She asked about it in the dining table out of impulse. It was still under beta-testing (somehow the term itself rung bells in Lucy's head, why), and she couldn't promise it was completely accurate. All Lisa insisted on was that it was much more effective and factual than the lying, devil-in-a-sheep's-cloak that was ChatPPG. "Even the name sounds fishy." Lincoln once suspected.
So, the girl gave her the IP address after vowing not to snitch. 069.111.895, and boom. Magic. Welcome to the LoudAssistant.
It was like normal AI, with the addition of knowing them personally. Ask it any question about a Loud, you'd get an answer. She fiddled with it for a while, asking stuff like, "Why is Luan the best sister ever?", "Is Lori really lying about her flatulence?", "What kinda books does Lucy read?" And boy, no wonder why Lisa won't let them use this.
Hehe.
She inputted Mr. Fernandez text, all his instructions and her knowledge of the play put into the system, and in a few seconds. A full script was created. Oh. So that's what Mr. Fern meant by parliamentary procedure.
The gears began shifting in her head. She read the script, word for word. This was what Lori used to do during their meetings, too.
The bot changed the entire premise now. The only thing that remained true was… well, the artist himself. But even then, it went from Van Gogh to Duchamp. None of these really happened. Premise had Duchamp propose that his artwork—a toilet with his name marked on it (it's a real thing, look it up)—belonged to a museum. The setting involved one connoisseur—her, hosting a meeting with Duchamp and his supporters asking why he deserved that type of recognition, following the good ole' 'parliamentary procedure', aka, an ordinary sibling meeting in The Loud House.
Yeah, she can deal with this.
Props, costumes, set. Scripts set. Luan leaned back, ponytail barely brushing over the iconic acorn. Now all that was left were her group mates.
So far, 4 out of 7 were here. "Come on, come on…" Agitated, Luan messaged her group again.
"Again. We will NOT begin until you guys get your butts down here." She sent. "Chop! Chop! Nicholas, Jedd."
The morning was wasted on disappointing reruns of the lines. Mr. Fern approved it earlier at 4 AM. She sent it around 7 when she woke up and announced they'd meet here at 8. What else could see expect? It's not like everyone had her talent for improvising!
Barely an hour. Barely an hour of practice.
Her set of classmates in homeroom were the same for arts, but it's not like their teacher would allow them to practice. "You should've done that sooner," with no room for exceptions.
Unfortunately for them, Mr. Fernandez slipped in with a small bargain from their teacher. With a cardboard cup in his hand, he began yapping.
"We'll have a raffle on which group has to perform," That was all Luan heard before her mind went on shutdown. What? Why? Why!? That wasn't fair, they could've just went with the traditional group 1 first, group 5 last thing!"
He scanned the front row and laid eyes upon the boy sitting directly in front of him. He lowered the cup down. "Pick a paper, kid."
He did. The room was quiet. "What is it?" Mr. Fern murmured, looking at the paper before pulling his head up. "Group Four! Who's group four around here?"
Four? Four?
"Anybody?"
Brent raised his hand. "Sir!"
"Who's your leader?" Mr. Fern asked.
She turned to Brent from across the room as he pointed at her. Dang it.
Luan dropped her head on the table, uncaring of those who saw her. She wasn't even participating in the group until two weeks after this was announced. But of course.
It's always me. It's never gonna be anyone but me.
I could always just… run out of here. Luan peered over to try the hallway outside. She felt sweat under the loose fit of mom's black blazer. Run. Just run. Run from it all.
"Oh, Mr. C… you'd be really useful right about now." She mumbled through gritted teeth, lifting a hand up to play-pretend it was him. That was the closest she could do.
"Of course, I'm here, doll! I'm a part of you, remember? Your mind is mine." Her hand said. "You're gonna wing it! Just pretend like I'm real and secretly judging you from the back like I'd always do!"
From the glassy plastic window, the familiar, short figure of Mr. Fernandez appeared. "Ah! He's coming! Quick—prepare the desks!" Luan demanded, pointing at her group mates.
They did as asked, and she walked to the corner of the room, where the windows were. The grass was covered by snow. It was January after all. And skies were grey unlike yesterday and just calm down, Luan! Calm down! You're never this nervous for a play! You're an expert at this! This is supposed to be your time to shine!
She blew warm gusts of air onto her gloved hands. As if it was the heater, or the sweat making her blood run cold.
The door creaked open and her classmates greeted him. Oh no. Luan's heart dropped. Oh no.
Run before they catch you.
She stayed put. Legs frozen. Hypothermia? Maybe. Can you get hypothermia from anxiety? Lisa?
When yesterday—What even happened yesterday? It felt like a blur. But today, no, time stretched on for an eternity. Mr. Fernandez already had his seat ready in the middle of the aisle. He already had their scripts in hand. And his… firm, dip-set eyes lit up in impatience. "Group four. Ready or not. Begin."
Luan reluctantly glanced at her classmates. One girl at the right had a phone recording. Okay, okay, just like in the Festival.
She gulped. Why did I choose to be the main character?
It started with her pounding the table three times.
Luan stood up.
"Evening, my finest ladies and gentlemen," her voice cracked. "I hereby call this meeting to order. The purpose of today's gathering… is to discuss the inclusion of Marcel Duchamp's artworks in our esteemed museum. Before we get started, may I ask my secretary to do a roll call, to ensure we have a quotum?"
Quorum. Quorum! She mumbled against her mistake, sitting down, making room for Whitney to stand. She stood up and in turn she sat down. "When I call your name, please raise your hand." She held a paper in her hands and mentioned all their real names. 'Kay… going well… going well.
Whitney finished. Luan nodded. "Thank you. With a quorum present, let's move on to the agenda." What was it again…? Ah! "The first item on the agenda is the discussion of" I would like to invite Mr. Duchamp to present the background and rationale for this proposal. Mr. Duchamp—along with his assistants, will present their case. Mr. Duchamp, you have the floor."
Brent stood up, his hands playing with the papers on his desk. She flashed between him and Mr. Fern's face. Stop fidgeting, dang it! "Thank you, sir. Esteemed members of the board, m-my work challenges notions of art. I believe that the museum could benefit from this fresh perspective. My assistants and me will present key pieces and their significance."
"Thank you, Mr. Duchamp. Before we open the floor for discussion, may I have a motion to officially consider this proposal? Assistants?"
Rivera raised his hand. "I move to officially consider Duchamp's idea—er, proposal."
Mr. Fernandez wrote something down. Luan wanted to face palm. Come on, come on, just like Lori. "The motion has been made and seconded. We will now open the floor for discussion. Please raise your hand if you wish to speak. Each speaker will be given five minutes to express their thoughts."
…
"What?" There was a mumble to her side.
What?
This was exactly what she was afraid of.
Luan glanced at the supposed next speaker, one of Duchamp's supporters— and gestured for her to speak. Speak up!
Wait a second. Was she… missing something?
The whole room closed in on her. Mr. Fernandez had a stiff, skeptical look on his face. All her classmates were confused. Her group mates were just as blank as her. She snapped her fingers as the entire script disintegrated from her head. What was she doing? Where were they now? What was going on? Her head was on the table, giving the impression that she was thinking—no, she wasn't. Far from it. Run. Run. Run!
"Where's the second to the motion?" Mr. Fernandez condescended.
From the very left of their long, V-shaped table, a group mate raised her hand. "I second to the motion."
Luan blinked. Oh. Oh! There it was!
She cleared her throat. I'm blowing this! This isn't— "The motion has been made and seconded. We will now open the floor for discussion. Please raise your hand if you wish to speak. Each speaker will be given five minutes to express their thoughts."
Luan repeated, sounding a little more exasperated than the last time.
Since they didn't have the actual thing, her group mate pulled out a picture. "This is "Fountain," a 1917 piece where Duchamp used a ready-made urinal, signed it "R. Mutt," and presented it as art. It questions what art truly is and challenges the viewer's perception."
Museum Board Member kid 1 raised his hand. "Chairperson, may I ask a question?"
Luan nodded. "Go ahead."
He glanced back to Brent. "How does "Fountain" align with our museum's mission to educate and inspire?
Brent clears his throat, but sweat glistened in his dark features. "Fountain" encourages critical thinking and reflection on art's role in society. It has dialogue on what qualifies as art, pushing boundaries and inspiring innovation, which aligns with the museum's mission."
It was only one artwork, unlike what the script promised. She had to cut it out for length, but whatever. Luan stood up, breathless and on the verge of collapse. "Thank you all for your input. It's evident that this is an important topic. Before we proceed to a vote, are there any additional points that need clarification or discussion?"
Pause. Everybody shook their heads.
She casted their votes. All in favor and not thereof. "The motion passes unanimously. Congratulations, Mr. Duchamp. Your works will be a part of our museum's collection. This meeting is now adjourned."
The room clapped as they all bowed. Luan sat back on her chair, not bothering with the set up they had at the front. Ha ha ha. Applause galore. People clapped at anything nowadays.
The world spun as she clutched her chest, turning breathless over the sound of her drumming heart. Calm down. It's over. It's over. It's over.
Even at massacres. Even at failures.
She kept to herself the entire time, steadying the tsunami tides of her panic. She'd been nervous before, but God… never like this! What was that? What was going on with her!?
All four other groups performed, yet she sat in her seat, squandering about in her head, trying to figure out why it happened the way it did. Why did she ever have a mental block? That hadn't happened…in a year! And that was because of a heckler! She didn't have hecklers here! She didn't!
"So, for your scores," She briefly heard him say. The room was a buzz for her. Her head was still reeling from the events… repeating what just happened? Over and over. Both the question and the event itself. That was a murder scene. On my dignity. On my pride. This is the director for the 2nd place in Theater play? For the district's FOT?
"I have to say," Everyone hushed at the sound of Mr. Fern's voice. "Class, remember, just because you're good at the subject, that doesn't mean you can throw away the projects they give you. You're good, then go ahead, prove it."
Her brows furrowed in contemplation. Was that a dig at her?
Mr. Fernandez stayed out in his seat, his actions conceited and disappointed. He was standing in front of the class now, arms crossed. Did he mention anybody? She didn't hear, but their eyes were on her. "Being a good leader means standing up for your group, not acting cocky like a certain someone just did. It's about taking initiative. Something that I haven't seen from this group."
It's not us, it's not us. There has to be a group just as bad.
He pulled a script out. "Loud." Her stomach hurt now. Just make it stop. "Who wrote this script?"
She didn't respond right away.
"Stand up."
Someone pushed her back and she stood up, her knees buckling underneath her weight. "M-me. Why?"
"I expected so much more." Mr. Fernandez clicked his tongue. "Honestly, I like the script—it's the best out of all five groups. It's unfortunate your performance put no justice into it."
She glanced at her group mates, twisting glares back at her. They don't have the rights to even react!
"In terms of punctuality, I'm rating this a five out of ten. You submitted this to me at two in the morning—and even then, it still had its mistakes. It's still lacking a certain factor." Mr. Fernandez yelled. It was all crumbling before her, the scores falling into flakes like half-made pastry. Like pies without the milk. "You forgot to add in a significant part of the rubrics—the parts of the parliamentary procedure. And for that, I'm not giving your group any points for this one. That's a waste of twenty."
Only, she poured in all of the ingredients she had. The same story she'd sent through every night, trying to bake up something good enough, only to find the measurements lacking upon getting a taste. Finding out that no matter how much sugar she added, it always turned sour. Bitter. Whatever it was!
"I didn't know!" Luan' s blood spiked. Why do I get blamed for this!? "My group mates never told me that was included, you never corrected me when I submitted the script for approval!"
"I approved the theme in itself, not the play." Mr. Fernandez retorted pointedly. He cleared his throat and glanced at his sheet. "Now… performance wise, 6 out of 10. Class, remember, stage fright does not discriminate. Its biggest conductor is being unprepared."
She glanced back at her group, found them scoffing. Almost like they blamed her?
The world isn't fair, yes she knew. But this? What was she to them? What was she to all of them!? Just some sorta doormat they could humiliate because she chose to laugh it off and never acknowledge it again!? Is that it!?
"Are you done with the humiliation-party?" Luan barked, and the room fell quiet.
Mr. Fernandez froze, slowly turning back to her. "Can you repeat that, Loud?"
Realizing what she just did, Luan sat back down. "Sorry. Sorry."
"No." Mr. Fernandez' tone hardened. "Say that again."
The character slip, what about—screw that. Screw it all, actually!
"I said, are you done!?" Luan yelled, shooting up from her seat. "I'm done! I'm the only one who actually worked to save this group! This… This deadbeat group that I didn't even know I was added into because I was busy practicing for the fest!" Her group mates burnt betrayed glares at her. Screw them. "And all you have to say is that I'm the one who had no initiative!? I'm the one who's being abad leader!? Wow, sir! Wow! You really have the audacity to say that!"
"Luan Loud!" Her ears rung as he slammed the desk, hard. Almost to the point of snapping the wood in two. "Sit down or I'm calling your parents!"
Sit down or I'm calling your parents, hahaha! "No! I'm out!" She huffed, grabbing her backpack and rushing out the room, ignoring the distant calls of her classmates behind her.
"Where are you going, Loud!?" He yelled and her heart lurched.
Don't hurt me. Her fists were clenched tight, sharp nails digging into her skin. Almost bleeding.
Out of pure spite, she went back to their room, punched the door open and found Mr. Fern rubbing his temples.
Her vision blackened at the edges; whoever said what she did, it wasn't her. It didn't feel like her. "Fuck you!"
And suddenly, she was off.
The whole world spun before her, knees buckled, legs numbed as she rushed down the empty corridor. Run. Run. Run. Someone might fetch you if you're not fast enough.