Blown Away


Text ©2003 Roger E. Moore (roger70129@aol.com)
Daria and associated characters are ©2003 MTV Networks

Feedback (good, bad, indifferent, just want to bother me, whatever) is appreciated. Please 
write to: roger70129@aol.com

Synopsis: Daria has her hands full as Jane tries to keep their second day of their summer 
job from becoming their last.

Author's Notes: This was the last story I was actually working on before I dumped doing 
angst/high-stress/melodramatic fanfics. I'd rather not tell you how this story was 
supposed to work out--not because it was bad, necessarily, but because . . . well, just 
because. Enjoy it as it is, what there is of it.



I


	Sitting up on her knees, her head full of paint fumes, Daria Morgendorffer was 
trying to think of a clever word combination that rhymed with "orange" (boar fringe? 
door hinge? gore binge?) when she felt herself become unbalanced. Reflex caused her to 
reach forward and steady herself with a free hand against a still-tacky locker, getting 
orange paint all over her fingers and palm. This caused her to say a very bad word.
	"You called?" said Jane Lane, painting the row of lockers behind her.
	"I just redecorated myself--again," said Daria crossly, putting down her brush and 
reaching for a rag.
	"You look good in orange, you know? You should get one of those prison 
jumpsuits and try it out, ditch the green jacket and black skirt."
	"If I find myself in a prison jumpsuit, it'll be because someone finds you in a 
ditch. This is all your fault."
	"Aw, don't you like repainting school lockers? This is only our second day. Give 
it a chance to turn into . . . fun!" She sang the last word.
	Daria repeated her very bad word from earlier, in a louder and clearer voice.
	"Oh, I don't see what you're complaining about," Jane said, painting with easy, 
broad stokes. "We have steady jobs for our last summer in Lawndale. The pay's good, 
and the high school saves itself big bucks by hiring us instead of real workers, though I 
think Ms. Li's violating some labor laws by doing this. And you don't have to work at the 
Okay To Cry Corral again." She stood up, stretching her long legs and lanky frame, then 
pulled a rag from the back of her stained work pants to wipe off her hands. She looked at 
Daria. "You've got some paint on your face, right by--"
	"I know," Daria grumbled. She tried to be more careful with her paintbrush as she 
finished a long, bright orange stroke up the front of the lower-tier locker she had ruined 
with her handprint, but she accidentally flicked spots of paint all over her face again. She 
swore softly and stuck the brush into the paint can, standing up and wiping her mouth on 
a sleeve. Enamel paint tasted horrible. "Where are the other clean rags?"
	"Behind you, against that door." Jane tossed her own rag aside. "I'm glad the hall 
windows are open. This stuff stinks to heaven. Ms. Li said it wasn't deadly as long--"
	"--as you don't breathe it, I remember." Daria walked to the small pile of rags and 
pulled one out. She took off her plastic goggles and her round owl-eye glasses, and wiped 
off her face. "They'd better have those mouth-and-nose filters tomorrow. And some fans 
to pick up the air circulation. My head's floating away like a kid's balloon. Let's take a 
break before I get a real headache."
	"Sure." Jane pounded down the lids on their paint cans and tossed their brushes 
into the open container of paint cleaner. "Let's go outside."
	"Someone will see us," Daria said. "Let's just go to the window."
	"What do you care if people see us?"
	"They might talk to us."
	"Oh. Good thinking."
	They walked together to the end of the hall and leaned against the window ledge, 
letting the early June breeze blow over their faces and clear their heads. Cars roared by 
on the street in front of the high school. Daria adjusted the protective cloth tied over her 
long brown hair, now damp with sweat. Splatters of orange paint dotted her face, hands, 
and old work clothes. The top of her head barely reached Jane's nose.
	"Only two thousand lockers to go," Jane said, her elbows perched on the ledge, 
her back to the windows. Her outfit was identical to Daria's. Her jet-black bangs peeked 
out from under her head covering, and her safety goggles dangled from her fingers.
	"We should sing to pass the time," said Daria in her deadpan way. "Something 
like, 'Two thousand lockers at Lawndale to paint, two thousand lockers to paint, slap it 
on, then we're gone, one thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine lockers to paint.'" She 
looked at Jane. "It would make the work go faster, don't you think?"
	"It would have me wearing a prison jumpsuit for your murder, is what it would 
do. That song reminds me too much of Kevin."
	"I'm offended that anything I could say or do would remind you of Kevin. I 
thought you were my best friend."
	"Hey, I got you this job, right?"
	"Friends don't let friends paint high-school lockers all summer."
	Jane smiled down at Daria. "C'mon, work like this is good for you. It builds 
character. You could use loads more character. Everyone says so."
	"You could use my right boot in your ass about now."
	Jane sighed. "Here I'm trying to make a better person out of you, and what thanks 
do I get? All you ever do is complain, Morgendorffer."
	Daria sniffed and rubbed her nose. "Tom used to say that."
	"About me or you?"
	"Me. That used to piss me off so much about him."
	Jane stifled a laugh. "Want to get a soda?"
	"God, no, I'm so sick of Ultra-Cola I could puke just seeing the can colors. I 
thought they were going to take these machines out of the halls after this year."
	"Jodie told me the contract was extended for two more years. Something about 
Ms. Li planning to add an indoor pool off the main gym."
	"For the swim club or her secret nuclear reactor?"
	"She's from South Korea, I keep telling you." Jane stood up away from the ledge 
and looked at the paint. "May as well get going. We can check out through Security in an 
hour and get lunch."
	"Assuming I'm not brain dead by then."
	"That never stopped Kevin."
	"You're doing it again."
	"What?"
	Daria started off for the paint cans and drop cloths. "How do you think you would 
look in orange enamel? Two, maybe three coats?"
	"You should ask Quinn. She knows fashion, I don't."
	Daria accidentally stuck her fingers in some paint as she picked up her brush. She 
was too tired to wipe her hands, so she ignored it and walked over to the upper-tier locker 
she was about to paint. She glanced up at the number: 169. "You know, with Brittany 
heading off to Great Prairie State, maybe you could be Kevin's new babe this fall. Before 
your classes start at Boston Fine Arts, you could start cheerleading like you almost did 
once, and--ouch!" Daria jumped and grabbed at her butt where Jane had snapped her with 
a long, rolled up rag.
	"Sorry," said Jane with a straight face, tucking the rag into a back pocket again. "I 
was cleaning it, and it went off."
	Daria rubbed her backside with a dark glare at Jane. "You're going to have to kiss 
my owie to make it better."
	"With your case of gas? You're just setting me up."
	"The thought never crossed my mind." Daria turned back to the upper-tier locker, 
number 169. On impulse, she opened it and looked inside. "No treasure here."
	"If you find money, we're buying lunch with it."
	Daria looked the inside of the locker over and was about to close it when she 
looked up and stopped, one hand on the locker door. "Huh," she said. She opened the 
locker wider and squinted at the top of the locker. After a moment, she opened the locker 
next to it, number 171, and checked the top of that locker, too. "That's odd."
	"What? Enamel going to your head? Richard Nixon calling to you from Saturn 
again?"
	Instead of answering, Daria left the lockers open and looked around for one of the 
two little three-step stepladders they used to paint upper-tier lockers.
	"Hey, what's up?" Jane called, pausing in her work to watch.
	"I wanna check something," Daria called back. She dragged her stepladder over 
and opened it in front of number 169, climbing up until the top of her head was only a 
few inches below the inside ceiling of the locker. She peered into the locker from there.
	"We're never going to finish this," Jane said, putting her brush aside. She walked 
over and stood behind Daria. "Don't let me make you nervous. I won't snap you on the 
tush. Cross my heart."
	"I ought to kick you," said Daria absently. She pointed. "Look. See here? The top 
of this locker is lower than the others around it by about two, three inches. It's even with 
the top of the locker door, instead of above it."
	"Uh-huh. So?"
	"Well . . ." Daria hesitated. "It looks like a false ceiling." She looked into the two 
lockers on either side of 169, opening the left one with care to avoid smudging the fresh 
paint. "This is weird. See, here in 167, there should be screw ends and nuts coming out 
from here and here, from the screw heads in 169, supporting the locket's top--but there 
aren't." She opened the locker on the right side. "Hey, same in 171 over here. This is a 
false ceiling."
	Jane's gaze fell on the locker number. "That's 169?"
	"Yeah."
	Jane looked thoughtful. "I've heard that number before." She was quiet for a 
moment. "Trent. Trent was telling me something about this number once, about this 
locker. Someone he knew had it."
	Daria turned to stare at her friend. "Why would Trent remember anything at all 
about a locker? He graduated from here years ago."
	"I dunno. I think one of his stranger friends had this locker. Maybe not a friend, 
really. I think it was a guy who was supposed to be a brain, like you only not as sweet 
tempered. I don't remember anything else about it. Hey, let me use your ladder and have 
a look, too."
	"Get your own."
	"I'll have a little friend with me, Mister Buttsnapper, who'd like to talk to you."
	"Jane, give me a break. No, not that kind of break. Stop it, Jane."
	"Oh, all right." Jane put her rag away again and wandered off. "I'm going to the 
restroom. Wait until I get back before you find all the gold. Dibs on half."
	"Half? You're abusing your best-friend position, I think." Daria peered into 
locker 169. The ceiling plate did indeed appear to be held in by screws on the sides, like 
all the other lockers. The screws had to be fake. Why would anyone do this?
	Daria examined the locker again. She had used upper-tier lockers throughout her 
three years at Lawndale High School, since her family had moved here from Texas. Even 
with her five-foot-two-inch height, it had not been a terrible pain to use a higher locker. 
She was an expert at hanging up her overcoat when it was required.
	Daria blinked in surprise. Coat hooks--both of the coat hooks in number 169 were 
missing. Once welded on, they appeared to have been pried off at some point in the past. 
Taking off the high coat hooks would allow someone to remove the top plate of the 
locker with greater ease.
	Daria felt an electric tingle run down her spine. "I wonder if Sherlock Holmes felt 
like this," she muttered. It was exciting and completely unexpected. Someone went 
through a lot of trouble to put in a false ceiling on a locker, someone who had something 
worth hiding. But . . . at Lawndale High? Who would do a thing like this?
	Daria turned and looked for the little toolbox they had been given by the school 
custodian when they'd started work the previous morning. She got down from the 
stepladder, opened the box, and took out a flathead screwdriver. She immediately made 
the unpleasant discovery that the screwdriver had been lying in a small pool of gunk 
leaking from an unmarked tube that looked like it could have held toothpaste. The janitor 
wasn't being careful with his tools, obviously. The stuff was worse than drying paint for 
sheer stickiness. She tried wiping her hand on her pants, but instead managed to get the 
gunk on her left hand as well. Figures, she thought.
	Climbing back up the ladder, Daria carefully began to unscrew one of the screw 
heads. With the first turn of the screwdriver, the screw head broke off and fell, bouncing 
around the bottom of the locker. Daria jumped, trying and failing to catch it. She looked 
up and noticed that the metal plate forming the top of the locker was now tilting. She 
quickly put down the screwdriver--which was difficult to remove from her fingers--and 
reached up with both hands, pushing the plate back into place. Something heavy was on 
top of the plate, above the locker. She strained, adjusting her finger positions with 
difficulty. Her fingertips adhered to everything, between the orange paint and the gummy 
crap she now suspected was epoxy.
	What could be sitting on the plate that was so ridiculously heavy? Jane's parting 
comment about finding gold came back, though Daria quickly (if reluctantly) dismissed 
it. Drugs? Paper money from a robbery? Stolen watches? It had to be something weird.
	"Hey, what's happening?" Jane's footsteps drew nearer up the corridor.
	"Get your ladder and give me a hand here. There's something on top of the locker 
ceiling plate in here."
	"Really? Cool-oh!" Jane was over in seconds. She carefully climbed up beside 
Daria and inspected the inside of the locker. "Spanish doubloons, piles of them, all for 
me--and a few for you, too, of course. You want me to unscrew the rest of these?"
	"They're fake screws," said Daria, keeping the locker top steady. "Just pop them 
out, and let's see what we've got. The ceiling plate must have been stuck on with old glue 
or something. I can't imagine why it didn't fall before now."
	Jane retrieved the screwdriver and stuck it into a screw head. She made only the 
slightest twist before the screw head broke loose and fell. "Damn," she whispered, "I 
don't know my own strength."
	"Don't poke me with that thing," Daria murmured, eyeing the screwdriver.
	"I bet you say that to all your boyfriends."
	"I bet you've never said that to any guy you ever met."
	"You gotta reach for all the gusto you can. Hey, can you move your hands? 
They're sort of in the way for me to get to the other screws."
	Daria tried to move her fingers--and failed. "Wait . . . uh-oh."
	"What?"
	"My fingers are stuck."
	"What? Oh, Daria, you've got paint all over your hands."
	Daria tried again to move them. "Ouch! Don't--no, don't try that. I think it's 
epoxy. Don't pull my fingers off! I'm really stuck! Get the paint thinner or--"
	With a loud snap, the other two screw heads came off and fell, rattling around 
when they hit the floor. Daria caught the full, free weight of the ceiling plate on her 
fingers and flinched, almost dropping it. It was far heavier than she had imagined. She 
strained to keep it steady and level, though it fell about two or three inches.
	"Damn," she said, grimacing. "This thing weighs ten pounds at least."
	"Lower it down. Be careful, keep it steady."
	Daria tried to do just that--but the plate came down only a few inches before 
something tugged back on it. She tried twice more, but the plate descended no farther. It 
was half a foot above her eye level. She still couldn't see what was on it.
	"Jane, can you climb up another step and look in there and see what's snagged? 
The plate won't come down any more."
	"I'll get a flashlight. I'm not going to have a black widow bite me."
	"You let everyone else bite you. What's the difference?"
	Jane found a flashlight in the toolbox, making sure the device was free of the 
leaking epoxy. She then climbed to the top step of the little ladder and maneuvered so 
that her head was directly above Daria's. She snapped the light on and peered into the 
space above the top of the ceiling plate, her nose only inches away. "That looks like--" 
Jane began.
	Daria heard Jane gasp. A silence followed. "Are we rich?" she finally asked. "Or 
is it just--"
	"Hold still!" Jane whispered, her voice high. "Don't move!" She pulled her face 
back from the opening.
	Daria looked up, frowning. "What? Black widows?"
	"Shhh!" Jane stared into the space with an intense, shocked expression, moving 
the light slowly back and forth. "Don't move," she whispered. "I'm not kidding. Don't 
move a muscle." She blinked, her mouth falling open. "Oh, no," she whispered.
	Daria stopped breathing. She waited.
	"Did you bring your cell phone?" Jane whispered.
	"No," Daria whispered back. "I hate getting called."
	"Shhh! Hold still." Jane aimed her flashlight upward, into the area above the 
plate. Daria again heard a sharp intake of breath. "Oh, no. Oh, no." Jane glanced down at 
Daria, then looked back into the dark space. "Don't lower the plate anymore! Can you lift 
it back up? Move it back up about two inches. Now, please do it now, very slowly."
	"Why are you whisp--"
	"Shhh!"  Jane's face was turning gray. Beads of sweat formed across her 
forehead. "Lift the plate up, please," she said, as if speaking to a child. "I want to take it 
from you. Let me hold it, and you can get down."
	"I can't," said Daria, now getting nervous. "My fingers are stuck to it."
	"Hold still. Hold on, wait." Jane carefully turned off the flashlight and dropped it 
into a large pocket in her work suit. She then put her hands under the plate, between 
Daria's, her fingers pushing up. "Daria," she said softly, "very carefully, as carefully as 
you can, I swear to God, try to get your fingers off that plate. Let me hold it instead. 
Come on, try it now."
	"Jane, what's going on?"
	"Do it, Daria, for the love of God, just do it. Don't move fast. Just move slowly, 
very slowly. Please. Pull your fingers off the plate."
	Daria looked up at the ceiling plate. She then looked down at Jane's hands next to 
her own. Jane's fingers trembled.
	"It's not good, is it?" said Daria. Her voice sounded like someone else's.
	Jane said nothing for several seconds. "Just give me the plate," she whispered 
urgently. "Get your fingers off it. Be very careful."
	Daria was suddenly aware of how close Jane was to her. She could hear Jane's 
heavy breathing, could feel the gentle pressure of Jane's body next to hers, and smell the 
perfume Jane had put on this morning before she went off to work with Daria. Why did 
she put perfume on? It's such a Jane thing to do. Daria looked at Jane's sweating face, 
fixated on the space above the metal plate Daria held, and was afraid.
	"Okay," Daria whispered. "Here I go." Daria tried to remove her fingers, letting 
the plate rest on Jane's hands instead.
	It didn't work. Seven of Daria's fingers were stuck to the metal. Pulling down on 
her fingers caused her to wince. "I can't," she whispered. "It hurts. I can't get free of it."
	"You have to try." The words came out as a command.
	Daria did try. Her face screwed up in pain. The plate quivered. "No," she said, her 
mouth dry. "It'll tear my skin off. My fingers are stuck. I can't get them off." She 
swallowed before whispering, "What's up there? Do we need the police? Should you go 
get them?"
	A pause drew out. "I'm not leaving you," Jane whispered, not looking at Daria.
	"I'm fine here, really," Daria said, not believing what she said. "I can hold this. 
Go get the police if you have to do that."
	"You can't set it down," Jane said, her voice still high. "You can't even move it 
much. There are wires going up somewhere into the wall. You can't go on holding it. 
Give it to me, and then run. Get out of the building. You get the police. Get the Security 
people out, too."
	Wires. Run.
	Bomb.
	Oh, shit. Oh, shit, shit, shit, shit, SHIT.
	"Daria, please."
	"I can't." Daria could barely speak. "I just can't."
	They stood beside each other, Jane towering over Daria as they held the plate up 
together. Daria felt very small and not at all like herself.
	"I can't leave you," Jane whispered.
	"You have to leave me."
	"No."
	A long pause. They listened to each other take short, trembling breaths. Neither 
looked at each other.
	"Jane."
	A pause. "What?"
	"What's up there?"
	Jane hesitated. "I don't know," she said, and it sounded like the comforting lie it 
was. "It . . . just don't move, okay, Daria?"
	"Then go get someone."
	Jane didn't reply. She stared into the space above the plate.
	Daria took a breath. "The longer you wait, the worse it gets for me," she 
whispered. "I can hold this up, perfectly still, long enough for you to call the police. But 
you have to go now. Right now."
	Jane closed her eyes. She was still for a moment, except for her lips, which moved 
the tiniest bit for several seconds, saying words Daria could not hear. Her eyes opened 
again. "There's a phone in the teachers' lounge, around the corner," Jane said. "I'll call 
from there. Then I'll come back."
	"Okay." A pause. "Jane?"
	"What?"
	"If this is a joke, I swear I will kill you."
	Daria looked up at Jane's face. Jane was as bloodless as a corpse.
	"No," whispered Jane. "It's not. It's really not. Just stay still. For me, okay?"
	"Sure." Daria tried to smile. "I took P.E. with Ms. Morris, too, you know. I am 
woman, hear me roar."
	Jane did not smile. She swallowed, then looked down at Daria for an instant with 
her large blue eyes.
	Daria looked back. The instant stretched out to forever.
	"I'll be back," said Jane softly. "Be very careful. I will come back to you as fast 
as I can."
	Daria nodded.
	Jane looked like she was about to speak again, her face filled with the urgency of 
the moment, and Daria suddenly knew what Jane was about to say.
	"Go," said Daria. "Please go."
	For an infinite moment, Jane did not move. When she did, she looked away and 
very carefully released her hold on the locker ceiling plate. Daria strained to take up the 
weight by herself. Jane withdrew her hands from the locker, not daring to breathe. She 
then eased herself down from her own stepladder, not daring to touch Daria. Her feet on 
the floor, Jane stood by Daria, looking at her, those words coming back. Daria sensed it.
	"Hurry," said Daria, not looking at her friend.
	Moving as if in a bad dream, Jane maneuvered through the paint cans and drop 
cloths, then she broke into a fast walk that turned into a sprint. Her footsteps echoed 
down the hall. In moments, she was gone.
	Daria looked up and focused her attention on the ceiling plate.
	What was on it? If this was a joke, Jane would pay. But given the alternative, that 
it wasn't a joke, maybe it wasn't worth getting upset about. Sure, let Jane have her joke. 
Why get upset? Which was worse, Jane having a joke, or there being a real bomb up 
there? And why would Jane play a joke on Daria like this? Still mad about Tom? That 
didn't make sense. It couldn't be a joke. Jane would never do a thing like that to Daria.
	So, maybe Jane was just wrong. It wasn't a bomb--it was a thermostat. Maybe 
Jane had never seen a thermostat like this one. Maybe the locker had been built with a 
low ceiling because some mechanical fixture in the wall was in the way. That was 
probably it. Jane just didn't know beans about thermostats or whatever, plumbing 
fixtures, security alarms, whatever. Sure. She wouldn't kid around about a bomb, but she 
could be fooled. She was an artist, not an electrician. Silly Jane. That was it. It was a 
thermostat.
	Daria felt her left arm quiver. She carefully pushed her elbow against the side of 
the locker for support. She was doing well, holding the ceiling plate as steady as a rock. 
When this was over, they would go out for pizza tonight, and they would laugh. Maybe 
not a lot, but they would laugh. It would be funny. Eventually.
	I miss you, Jane.
	Daria winced. This was not the time for being sentimental. Just play along, hold 
up your end--ha, that was funny. Daria almost smiled. I made a funny. Jane will love it. 
Jane will love to hear my funny.
	I miss you, Jane. I do. It is lonely without you, but--
	You should not come back, if this is for real, if this really is a bomb. Not that it's 
at all likely, it makes no sense that anyone would do this, but if it is, you should go away, 
far away, and don't come back. Better me than you. You will go on, just like what's her 
name in Titanic--oh, man, this is getting stupid. Just shut up, Daria, and hold up the 
ceiling plate until the police come and have a good laugh at your thermostat.
	It was quiet in the hallway of Lawndale High School. Even Daria's breathing 
made no sound.
	No one would put a thermostat on top of a locker ceiling like this. You know that, 
don't you, Daria?
	Daria stared at the plate to which her fingers were stuck.
	Thermostats belong on walls where people can adjust them.
	Then it must be something else. Something with wires that would frighten Jane 
and make her try to get me to give it to her, so I could run for help.
	Something really bad.
	Something like a bomb.
	But that makes no sense. Why would anyone do that? Maybe there's part of a 
dead body up there, like a skull. Then why don't I smell it? In fact, if it's a bomb, why 
didn't any of those drug-sniffing dogs Ms. Li's brought through this damn school ever 
smell this? Can't they smell explosives, too? Or were they just drug-sniffing dogs? Wait, 
she did bring bomb dogs into the school once, I think. In any case, they should have 
smelled a dead body up there if there is one.
	I have to see this for myself.
	I'd better not move.
	But I have to see it for myself. I have to. I do.
	Daria looked at her position carefully, taking her time. She was one step below 
the top step on the stepladder. If she took that step, she could see into the space over the 
locker ceiling plate. If she braced her arms against the sides of the locker, really hard, she 
could avoid dropping whatever was on the plate, keeping the plate perfectly level.
	She looked down at her feet. She could not afford to stumble or step on a 
bootlace. Good thing she was wearing old work boots instead of her good ones. She liked 
her boots, and a bomb would mess them up something fierce.
	After making sure her arms and hands were secure, she slowly raised her right 
foot to the top step on the stepladder. This accomplished, she began putting weight on her 
right foot, easing her body upward.
	About twenty seconds later, she had done it. She secured both her feet on the top 
step of the stepladder, waited for the trembling to leave her knees, then raised her gaze to 
the space over the plate.
	As Jane had said earlier, the lighting was not very good. Still, her eyes adjusted in 
a few moments, and she could make out some details.
	Like the dusty timer and gray wires going from it to the dusty, corroded battery 
behind the timer.
	And the one-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine dusty, plastic-wrapped 
cylinders, each about two inches in diameter, stacked in a rough pyramid behind the timer 
and battery.
	And the wires running into the ends of the cylinders from a dusty black box next 
to the timer. And wires running from the black box up into the space over the plate, to 
something hidden in the darkness.
	And a few cobwebs here and there. No black widow spiders, though.
	I am dead, Daria thought, as surprised as she could be. I am so dead. I am deader 
than dead, they could bury me right now with my own granite tombstone. I am gone.


[AUTHOR'S NOTE: That's all there is of it.]

FINIS