Chapter 1
The last hour of an ordeal was always the longest. This came from the combination of being so very close to the end but notquitethere, the individual minutes inching by as the exhaustion of time already spent weighed down on your shoulders, made all the worse by the suspicion—bordering on certainty—that it'd somehow keep on going after it was supposed to end.
This was true for weddings, reunions, mother-daughter days at the mall, and Quinn's interminable birthday parties. It was also true for Daria's senior year. Each day brought her closer to graduation. Each day likewise reminded her she was still stuck with no way to make things move faster. February had been bad. March unbearable. April—that particular April, anyway—really was the cruelest month.
Daria didn't even want to think about May and June.
If only she could fast-forward through the dwindling remainder of high school's nonsense. But she had miles to go before she busted out of the place and into the dubious future of college.
Until then, she had books. Not as much time for them as she once did, but still enough to occasionally toss off her concerns and read.
She wandered alone among the stacks of the Lawndale High Library, an hour or so after class had let out for the day. Her eyes glanced over the worn spines, not sure if she wanted to bury herself in the pages of something familiar or take a chance with something new.
A compilation of James Thurber's short stories offered the possibility of both. She'd read a lot of his work, but (probably) not all of it. Taking the book off the shelf, she opened it up for a look at the contents.
As she did, she noticed another book pressed flat against the back of the shelf, visible in the gap formerly occupied by the Thurber compilation. Curious, she peered closer, hoping to see a title or author name. But there was nothing, just a worn and rather cheap leather cover almost the same color as the shelf, letting it blend in.
Curious, Daria put the Thurber book under her arm and took out a few of the other books between her and the mystery tome in the back. Once she had enough space, she reached in and pulled it out.
Nothing on the book's exterior hinted at the contents. It was quite slender, the pages arranged in landscape profile like a kid's picture book. And it was old. Bits of the leather had crumbled away, and dust coated the edges of the pages.
This felt like the start of an HP Lovecraft story. Opening the book might summon all kinds of gibbering and poorly described horrors from beyond the stars, unleashing an apocalypse upon the good people of Lawndale.
So clearly, she had to take a look.
Cracking the book open at random, she was greeted with a cartoonish but well-rendered black and white illustration of a football player in mid-throw, his eyes wide in alarm as he looked at the grimacing cheerleader next to him, who seemed to be trying very hard to conceal a pregnancy by pulling a too-small shirt over her swollen belly.
The text above, which looked like it had come straight from a typewriter, offered an explanation.
N: [announcer voice] It's nearing the end of the fourth quarter and the Lawndale Lions are down by two! But our very own King of the Gridiron, Doug Thompson, isn't giving up without a fight!
E: [announcer voice, but more jocular] Those Lawrenceville Locusts won't know what swatted them! Why the hell did they pick "locusts" as a mascot anyway?
N: Anything to encourage bug-like conformity. I'm sure Lawndale's taking notes.
E: Can't argue with that. And Doug is on the go! Look at him dodge and swerve! He's lined up for a pass, but no! He's going to go for the touchdown!
N: I'm on the edge of my seat here.
E: Me too. Damn budget cuts. It's about to happen! Doug's getting ready to throw! The locusts are swarming… will he make it?
N: He throws! Touchdown! Another score for Doug Thompson!
E: And he didn't just score in football either, because if you look over to the cheerleaders, it's obvious that Charlene is pregnant! Shoulda wrapped it up, Dougie!
N: Yeah, but can we really be sure it's Doug's?
E: With the kind of legal help Charlene's dad can pull, Doug's gonna be stuck with the kid either way.
N: Looks like Doug's brought victory to Lawndale, but oof, so much for that college-to-NFL track! Tough break, Dougie, but we're sure you'll find fatherhood its own reward. At least until Charlene divorces you.
E: He can always look back on high school football.
They were talking about Doug and Charlene Thompson. The cheerleader in the picture was pregnant withKevin!
Immediately, she turned the page, wondering what exactly she had found. Next was a Mad Magazine style drawing of Lawndale High, filled with angular black-line caricatures of long-departed students. The only figure she recognized without doubt was Mr. DeMartino, running rampant on the football field as jocks scurried in his wake. Everyone else fought, drank, stole each other's significant others…
The level of detail was incredible. The drawings were simple but bold, filling up every available space. Above it was a caption:
Lawndale High – Where Your Tax Dollars Corrupt Future Generations!
Daria kept flipping through. The whole book was a mix of caustic comments, observations, and short stories, accompanied by drawings mocking the Lawndale faculty and class student body. Let's see, she thought. It was 2002 and Kevin was around eighteen years old. Which meant this was probably from 1984.
She went to the front of the book, hoping to get more information about who'd put this together. The first page behind the cover offered the title:
"The Trials of Lawndale High, or The Woes of Publick Education":
An Account by Two Humble Souls Who Survived Its Travails in the Year of Our Lord Nineteen-Hundred and Eighty Four, and Now Recount Them for the Edification and Enlightenment of Future Generations, so That Our Suffering Will Not Have Been in Vain."
- By N. and E.
"Oh my God," she uttered.
There was no publication information. N and E must've put this together themselves. Nor was there a library slip. Someone, probably one of the creators, must have put the book in the library where it had gone unnoticed for over a decade.
But why? To amuse bored students? Daria supposed she could kind of understand that. The book's contents were crude and unsteady, a pastiche of random sources. But they did kind of feel like some of the conversations she'd had with Jane.
Daria looked up from the book, wondering if anyone had seen her. The library was nearly empty, and no one was paying attention to her. With quick and furtive motions, she put The Trials of Lawndale High into her backpack, and returned the other books to their places on the shelf.
She had to read it. More importantly, she had to show it to Jane.